Ligacheva blinked at him. “What?”
”Radiation,” Sobchak said. “Radioactivity.”
Ligacheva stared. “What are you talking about?” she demanded.
”This,” Sobchak said, pointing. “This, Lieutenant. I don’t know what it is. What I do know is that something happened that made the ground shake about twenty kilometers northeast of here, and that when it did there came this burst of radioactivity. Ever since then the background radiation has been four times what it should be.”
”Four times, you say,” Ligacheva said, fingering the paper chart.
”Yes,” Sobchak said. “Four times.”
”And you want me and my men to go find out what this thing is, that’s radiating like this.”
”Yes,” Sobchak repeated.
Ligacheva stared at the chart.
It might be dangerous, whatever was out there. She didn’t know what it was, and all her guesses seemed wild-an American attack? A fallen satellite?
Whatever it was, it was not any part of the established routine.
Perhaps she should report it to Moscow and await orders, but to report it when it was still just readings from old equipment that the authorities would say could not be trusted would be asking to be ignored. Sobchak’s pay still came through, but Ligacheva knew that no one in power thought much of the little geologist, and as for Moscow’s opinion of herself-well, if you were a general in Moscow, you didn’t send a young officer out to the middle of the Yamal Peninsula because you wanted to pay close attention to her and encourage her career. General Ponomarenko, who had assigned her here, had never done anything to make her believe he respected her opinions.
If she took her men out there and they saw whatever it was with their own eyes, though, that would be harder to ignore. No one could say that the phenomenon was the result of Sobchak’s imagination or of poorly maintained monitoring equipment if she had half a dozen eyewitnesses confirming… whatever it was out there.
She knew that no one advanced quickly in any army, let alone in the new, post-Soviet Russian Army, by staying timidly in the barracks waiting for her superiors to tell her what to do.
”Right,” she said. “Where is this mysterious radioactive disturbance, exactly?”
Chapter 3
“The temperature out there is thirty-four degrees below zero, and it’s snowing again,” Salnikov said as he straightened his gunbelt and reached for his hat. “That weather is just right for a pleasant little twenty-kilometer stroll, don’t you think so, Dmitri?”
Dolzhikov snorted. “Oh, yes, Pyotr, just delightful,” he said as he yanked on his second boot. “I’m so pleased we’re all being sent out on this little errand!” He stamped the boot into place. “I wonder, though, Pyotr, if perhaps our beloved Sobchak’s instruments would be just ever so slightly less sensitive if he were the one sent to investigate every little knock and tumble.”
”That’s not fair, Dmitri,” Utkin said mildly, looking up from checking the action on his AK-47. “How many times before has Sobchak sent us out now? Two, maybe three, in the past year?”
”And how many times have we found anything?” Dolzhikov retorted as he rose from his bunk and reached for his overcoat. “Last time, as I recall, a reindeer had tripped over one of Sobchak’s seismographs. How very important it must have been to investigate that and report every detail to Moscow at once!”
”Now, Dmitri,” Salnikov said, grinning. “That might have been an American reindeer, spying on us!” He clapped his gloved hands together. “Besides, is it Sobchak who sends us out, or is it the bold Lieutenant Ligacheva?”
”At least the lieutenant comes with us,” Dolzhikov muttered, fumbling with his buttons, “while Sobchak stays huddled in his little laboratory, watching all the gauges on his precious machines.”
”Watching the gauges is Sobchak’s job,” Lieutenant Ligacheva barked from the doorway. “Sometimes finding out what the readings mean is yours. Now stop your griping and move! Get out to the truck! “
Utkin and Salnikov charged out the door to the waiting snow truck while the other men hurried to get the last few straps and buttons fastened; Ligacheva watched them from the doorway, settling her snow goggles into place so the others could not read her eyes.
The men had no idea why they were going out on the ice, what made this particular tremor any more worthy of investigation than any other. They could hardly be expected not to grumble, under the circumstances.
Ligacheva knew that, and saw no reason to change the circumstances. She could live with grumbling. She hadn’t told the men anything about the radioactivity because she saw no need to frighten them. These were not experienced warriors who could put fear aside or who would be hardened by it; they were mostly children, boys of eighteen or nineteen with only a few weeks of arctic weather training among them all and with no knowledge of science at all. Better, she thought, to let them grumble than to panic them.
Just children-with the bold Lieutenant Ligacheva to lead them across the ice, she thought bitterly. She was no child, yet she was out here, too, her career as frozen as the ground around her.
She could still remember what General Ponomarenko had said the day he assigned her to the Assyma oil field. “This is an important duty, Ligacheva,” he said. “Do well and there may be a place for you on my staff.”
She could still remember his condescending smirk as he said it. A place on his staff, indeed. And perhaps she could grow oranges in her spare time here.
Ponomarenko had known where he was sending her-out of the way, where failure could be hidden or ignored. Such faith he had in her, sending her somewhere no one would blame him if she fouled up! And all the while he was undoubtedly patting himself on the back for his enlightened policies, for not openly trying to ruin her just because she was a woman and an outspoken democrat.
”Come on,” she called to the men. “The snow won’t let up for hours, and the temperature’s still dropping. The longer you wait the worse it’ll be, and the sooner we get this over with the sooner you’ll get back to your cards and liquor.”
The men came and clambered onto the “truck”-an oversized tractor on snow treads, hauling a personnel carrier. Salnikov was in the driver’s seat, with the engine running; as soon as the last boot left the ice he put the tractor in gear, and the ungainly vehicle lurched forward.
Ligacheva sat silently beside him as they headed out of the pumping station complex, out to the pipeline. As they approached the immense pipe Salnikov looked at her for confirmation of their direction. She pointed. He nodded, and turned the vehicle northward. From that point on the tractor chugged steadily along the service road beside the pipeline-not the shortest route to their intended destination, but the path that would be least likely to get them lost in the arctic night.
There were just the two of them in the cab; the others all rode in the trailer, no doubt exchanging jokes and bawdy stories. Ligacheva would be surprised if no one had managed to smuggle in a liter of vodka; she imagined they’d be passing that around, giving no thought to their commander and the driver up front.
Ligacheva looked out at the swirling snow and the cold darkness beyond, at the looming concrete and steel barrier of the pipeline that blocked out half the world, all of it white and gray, devoid of color, just shapes picked out in the glare of the tractor’s headlights. She felt the fierce cold beginning to seep into the cab with her and Salnikov, despite the desperate blowing of the heater.
Out here on the ice the grandstanding and maneuvers of generals and bureaucrats and politicians back in Moscow all seemed a distant, stupid, pointless game. Reputation didn’t matter. Power didn’t matter. Staying warm, staying alive, that was what mattered.
”Here,” she said as the eighteen-kilometer marker came into view, the sign on the pipeline a sudden spot of red in the black, white, and gray wilderness outside. “Turn east. Four kilometers.” She tapped the map she held on her knee, then pointed to the dashboard compass. “Four kilome
ters,” she repeated.
Salnikov looked at the map, then at the external thermometer. He hesitated, peering out into the empty darkness to the east.
”It… it’s getting colder, Lieutenant,” he said uncertainly. “Forty below zero, and the snow is heavier. Perhaps we should head back, try again later…”
”It’s just four kilometers farther, Salnikov,” Ligacheva said, keeping her annoyance out of her voice. “That’s nothing. Enjoy the fresh air.”
Salnikov bit back a reply and turned the tractor, away from the comforting solidity of the pipeline and into the unrelieved gloom of the Siberian wilderness. When he had, Ligacheva reached down into her pack and pulled out something she would have preferred not to have needed.
”What’s that?” Salnikov asked, glancing at the device she held.
”Just drive,” Ligacheva said. There was no need to tell him yet that it was a Geiger counter.
It buzzed briefly when she directed the probe ahead, but the radiation level was not dangerous yet. In fact, Ligacheva judged it was only a little higher than normal. Perhaps whatever had caused that spike on Sobchak’s graph was gone now.
She glanced at the thermometer outside Salnikov’s window. Forty-two below.
In extreme cold, she had heard engine steel turned brittle and could snap like balsa wood. More than eighteen kilometers from the station, in snow and darkness and extreme cold-if they lost the tractor out here, most of them, maybe all of them, would die before they could get back to shelter.
She frowned at the thought, but said nothing. The engine temperature gauge was still in the normal operating range, despite the cold outside.
A few minutes later she glanced at the outside thermometer again. What she saw caught her gaze, and she stared intently, trying to understand it.
Twenty-eight below. But just a kilometer or two back it had been forty-two below.
How could it be so much warmer here?
She lifted the Geiger counter and aimed the probe. The machine crackled, the needle on its gauge jumping slightly before settling down. There was radioactivity here, more than normal-but far below dangerous levels. The stolen cigarettes she had smoked as a girl had probably been more of a long-term risk.
Still, why was there anything more than the usual background radiation?
”Lieutenant!” Salnikov cried, and his voice sounded strained and unnatural. Ligacheva looked up, through the windshield, as the wiper cleared away the latest smear of snow, and saw what had triggered Salnikov’s exclamation.
”Bozhe moi,” she said. “Oh, my God.”
They were nearing the top of a low ridge. Ahead of them in the headlight beams, on the ridgetop, a broad patch of snow shone a vivid red; a sprinkle of snowflakes had powdered it with white, but the red still showed up, shockingly bright. Above the red patch dangled a dark shape, swaying in the wind, speckled white with snow.
”Stop the truck!” Ligacheva ordered-unnecessarily; Salnikov had already shifted into neutral. “Keep the engine running,” she said. If the engine were shut down, they might never get it started again out here.
The cold hit her like a gigantic wave, sucking the warmth and life out of her, as she unlatched the door of the tractor and climbed out. She shivered involuntarily as her body struggled to adjust. The wind howled in her ears, as loud as the steady rumble of the tractor’s engine-no, she corrected herself, louder.
Behind her the men were jumping down from the trailer, guns in their hands.
”Wait,” she called, holding up a hand. She drew her own side arm-the heft of the 9mm was comforting.
Salnikov had climbed out the other side of the cab, inching forward into the pool of light from the headlights, his AK-47 in his hands. Ligacheva didn’t stop him; when he glanced over at her she motioned him forward.
A splintered pole rose from the ice at a steep angle, reaching a height of maybe three meters above the very peak of the rise; the dark, swaying shape was tied near the top of the pole, dangling there in the night.
The shape was a man’s body, suspended by a rope lashed around both ankles; his outstretched arms hung straight down, fingertips brushing the snow.
His head was gone. Where his head should have been was a thin, dark icicle of frozen blood. Below him lay a broad pool of the same substance.
Salnikov stared at the corpse for a moment, then down at the frozen pool, then at the snow around it.
”Footprints,” he said. “Footprints everywhere, Lieutenant. Big ones, see?” Then he looked up at the corpse again.
”What happened here?” he wailed.
Ligacheva didn’t answer directly-she couldn’t. The only answer she could give would have been “I don’t know,” and she couldn’t say that in front of her men, not yet.
”Who is it?” she asked. “Anyone know?”
”One of the villagers,” Utkin replied. “Look at his clothes.”
Ligacheva looked at the dead man’s clothes, she realized she had been staring at the frozen blood, the headlights making the pool glisten like smoldering coals on the snow, rather than at the victim. Sure enough, the corpse wore the reindeer hide garments of the local tribesmen.
”Which?” she asked. “Who is it?” She wondered whether this might be some tribal ritual she had never heard of, some frenzied rite or primitive custom, a formal vengeance, perhaps, or a sacrifice to whatever brutal arctic deities the locals might worship.
”Taro,” Salnikov said.
”How can you tell?” Dolzhikov said, his voice cracking. “His head is gone!”
”His rifle is there,” Salnikov said. He gestured.
”That’s Taro’s rifle. He was very proud of it, never let anyone else carry it.”
Sure enough, a fine old hunting rifle lay half-buried in the snow behind the corpse; Ligacheva had not seen it until Salnikov pointed it out.
That eliminated the possibility that any sane human being had done this, Ligacheva thought. No one but a madman would have left so valuable an item out there in the snow.
A madman… then this was no tribal ritual but merely berserk slaughter.
”Footprints?” she asked Salnikov.
He nodded. “Hundreds of them.” He looked around, then said, “They go that way.” He hesitated. “And, Lieutenant,” he added, “I have never seen such footprints. They’re too big. And there are other marks, in front of every print, as if something had clawed at the snow.”
”Perhaps something did. Do you mean it was a beast that did this? A beast that ties knots?”
Salnikov shook his head. “No, these are boot marks, or shoe marks but there are claw marks with them, as if there were claws that stuck out the front of each boot.”
”More likely the killer had some sort of trained animal,” Ligacheva said. “Follow them. And be ready-whoever, or whatever, did this is dangerous.” She waved to the others. “Utkin, Vetrov, you go with him. If you see anything move, anything strange, fire twice-don’t take chances.”
Utkin and Vetrov nodded and followed Salnikov reluctantly as Ligacheva called, “The rest of you, help me cut him down. We’ll take him back to his people.”
The pole was firmly fixed in the ice, and none of the men could reach high enough to untie the ropes from its peak; instead two men held Taro’s frozen corpse to keep it still while a third sawed through the bindings with his knife.
It took longer than Ligacheva would have thought; she resisted the urge to order Kazaryan, the knife-wielder, to hurry. The blade was probably brittle with cold; hurrying might snap it. She shivered and glanced after Salnikov and the others.
They had moved on down the slope to the east, following the trail; the wind carried away their words, and Ligacheva could not hear them as they shouted to one another.
”Look how big these prints are!” Utkin said. “Whoever made them must be a giant!”
Vetrov knelt by the trail and shook his head. “Look again,” he said. “The ice melted with each step, then refroze-that’s why they’
re so big.”
Utkin stared at him. “Do you have any idea what kind of heat that would take?” He looked at Salnikov, who had moved on ahead, then turned back to Vetrov. “Besides, they must have been huge even without the melting-look at them!”
Vetrov shrugged. “Maybe,” he admitted.
”The trail goes on past that next rise,” Salnikov called back to them. “Perhaps from the top we can see something. Come on!”
Reluctantly the others followed, struggling up the next slope-it wasn’t steep, or particularly high, but the wind was against them.
”We should have brought a light,” Vetrov muttered.
”Yes,” Utkin agreed. “I would like to see these footprints more clearly. I do not think anything could have melted the ice as you suppose.”
”Feel them for yourself,” Vetrov retorted. “The bottom of each print is slick ice.”
Utkin stooped and did as Vetrov suggested. “Maybe,” he conceded. “But I do not think that was what made them so large, Igor. I think it is a giant that we follow.”
”Come on, you two,” Salnikov called as he struggled up onto the top of the little rise-it wasn’t really much more than an overgrown snowdrift, but it did provide a slightly elevated vantage point.
Salnikov paused, peering out into the gloom. He did not say so, but he, like Vetrov, wished they had brought a light. The night here was not utterly black, not with the clouds and snow to reflect and multiply every slightest glimmer of light, but he still could not see far through the swirling snow and the midwinter gloom.
At least, at any distance he could not be certain what he was seeing. A jagged black gap in the snow cover ahead might be a ravine or merely a shadow; he couldn’t be sure. He stared, but still couldn’t decide whether the canyon he thought he saw was really there.
He was sweating, he realized abruptly. His face was damp with perspiration and wasn’t freezing.
He pulled off his hat and crumpled it in one hand. No ice crunched, no snow fell; instead he could see the fur was damp.
Cold War p-2 Page 2
