Philips glowered at Schaefer.
He hated dragging civilians into this, especially unwilling ones, but when he’d been called back, after those months of inaction, and had seen what they’d left him to work with, he’d known he was going to need help.
His experts had all been reassigned; research had been stopped dead. Colonel Smithers and his men had been working counterespionage and had been pulled off that and put back under Philips’s command just the night before. Captain Lynch’s team was still intact, but they’d mostly been marking time, training in marksmanship and demolitions and unarmed combat and not learning a damned thing about the enemy they were supposed to fight.
Because with the researchers gone, nobody in the government knew, really knew, anything about the aliens. They’d given him all the staff he asked for, all the authority to call in any help he wanted, and the only person Philips had been able to think of who did know anything, and who could be located on short notice, was Schaefer.
They needed Schaefer. The fate of the whole goddamn world could depend on this man.
And Schaefer wasn’t cooperating.
”Don’t talk to me about the law, Schaefer, the general retorted. “Some things transcend Man’s laws.”
Schaefer’s eyes narrowed. “And some things don’t, General, and who appointed you God’s judge and jury, anyway? Those goons of yours blew away two citizens back there!”
”Two citizens who were selling cocaine and who had just helped murder four cops, Schaefer,” Philips replied. “I didn’t authorize Smithers and his boys to kill them, but don’t try to tell me you really give a damn about what happened to Baby or Arturo or Reggie.”
Philips wasn’t happy about how Smithers had handled matters, but he didn’t want to let Schaefer know; this wasn’t the time or place to argue about it.
”You know all their names?” Schaefer said. “Hey, I’m impressed.”
Much as he hated to admit it, he was slightly impressed-he hadn’t known Reggie’s name himself, nor that Rawlings and the others were definitely dead.
Baby and her friends had had it coming, then, but still, they should have had their fair chance. Arturo had gone down shooting, but Baby and Reggie had been defenseless; they shouldn’t have died.
”I do my homework,” Philips said. In fact, he’d been cramming desperately ever since the phone call had come.
He held up a manila folder. “For example, I read up on you, Schaefer. You grew up in Pennsylvania, you’re good with languages-fluent in Russian and French, picked up some German and Spanish on the streets.” The Russian was a lucky break, Philips thought, but he didn’t say so. “Joined the NYPD in 1978, made detective in ‘86. We’ve got your military records, your department file, hell, we’ve got your marks from grade school, right back to kindergarten-I notice you got ‘needs improvement’ for ‘works and plays well with others’ for three years straight. It looks like you haven’t changed all that much since, but I guess we’ll just have to put up with you.”
”No, you won’t,” Schaefer said. “You don’t need to put up with anything. You can just land this contraption and let me off.”
”No, we can’t.” Philips leaned forward. “I thought Smithers told you, Schaefer. We need you.”
”Why?” Schaefer started to sit up, then thought better of it as a wave of dizziness from the aftereffects of the drugs swept over him. “I seem to remember you and your boys telling me to stay the hell out of it when those things came to play in New York-in my town. Now they’re making trouble somewhere else, and you want me to get involved? Why? Maybe it’s Washington this time, and you’re afraid some senator’s going to wind up as a trophy?”
”You know they’re back,” Philips said. It wasn’t a question.
”Of course I know they’re back!” Schaefer said, sitting up and ignoring the dizziness this time. “For God’s sake, General, do you really think I’m as stupid as that? What the hell else would you want me for?”
”You’re right, God damn you,” Philips said. “They are back, and that’s why we want you.”
”So where are they, that you can’t just ignore them? Who are they killing this time? Why should I care?”
”I wouldn’t have brought you in if it weren’t absolutely essential to national security,” Philips said.
”Christ, it is Washington, isn’t it?” Schaefer said. “Well, if it is, you can all go fuck yourselves...”
Philips shook his head. He’d forgotten how quick Schaefer could be, that despite his looks he wasn’t just muscle, but this time he’d got it wrong.
”Not Washington,” he said, cutting Schaefer off. “It’s not body counts we’re worried about this time. It’s their technology.”
Schaefer frowned.
He didn’t get it. Sure, it would be nice to have the gadgets those creatures used, but the good ol U.S. of A. had gotten along just fine without them for a couple of centuries now. “Why is it suddenly so urgent to capture their technology?” he asked.
”No,” Philips said. “That’s not it. Not exactly. It’s not capturing anything that we need you for.”
”Then what the hell is it?”
”Making sure their technology isn’t captured.”
Schaefer stared at Philips.
Schaefer was certain that if it was Americans who captured some of the alien gadgets the general would be turning cartwheels. So it wasn’t Americans he was worried about. Who, then?
There must be a spaceship down in some hostile country somewhere. That was the only explanation that made sense.
But even that didn’t make much sense. The things only hunted in hot climates. Somehow, Schaefer couldn’t see a bunch of Iraqi or Somali camel jockeys, or Amazon tribesmen, figuring out how to copy a starship’s main drive. “Where the hell are they, this time?” he demanded.
Philips made a face, as if there were a bad taste in his mouth.
”Siberia,” he said.
Chapter 11
Lieutenant Ligacheva watched out the window of the military transport plane as the lights of Moscow slowly faded in the distance.
General Ponomarenko had thought he was punishing her by sending her back to Assyma, she was certain. He had almost said as much. Sending her back to the cold and the darkness and the monster that had slain her men-of course that was a punishment, was it not?
If the general thought so, then the general was a fool-at least in that regard.
This was no punishment. She was a soldier, something that Ponomarenko seemed to find impossible to believe, and a soldier’s first priority was duty. Assyma was unquestionably where her duty lay. Assyma was where the men she had worked with for the past two months were still in danger from whatever was out there on the ice.
She was a soldier, sworn to defend her people, and those people at Pumping Station #12 were her people. Moscow had sent them out there and forgotten them watching the pipeline was just another necessary but worthless job that had to be done, and the men sent to do it were nothing to their commanders back in the capital.
But they were everything to Ligacheva. Ponomarenko couldn’t have stopped her from returning if he had tried; it would merely have taken her longer.
She turned her gaze to what lay ahead of the plane. She could see nothing out there but haze and darkness. Somewhere ahead of her was Assyma. Somewhere out there were her home, her post, her duty-and whatever it was that had slaughtered her squad.
She stared into the darkness and wondered what Galyshev and the others she had left behind were doing about the killer out there in the night.
At that moment, in the science station of the complex at Assyma, Galyshev was leaning over Sobchak, once again angrily demanding answers to the questions he needed to ask, questions he couldn’t put clearly into words, questions that Sobchak understood anyway-and questions that Sobchak, much as he wanted to, couldn’t answer.
”I tell you, Galyshev, I don’t know what happened to the squad,” Sobchak repeated. “Yo
u were there when the villagers brought the lieutenant in, and when they came to pick her up-you know as much as I do.”
”NO,” Galyshev said. “You spoke to Moscow on the radio. They asked for you.”
”But they didn’t tell me anything! They just asked questions.”
”They didn’t tell you anything?”
”Only that they had flown the lieutenant straight to Moscow for questioning, they told me that much, and they said they’d send more men back with her, but that’s all they said, I swear it!”
”That’s not good enough!” Galyshev raged, slamming a gloved fist against the concrete wall. “You sent for Lieutenant Ligacheva, Sobchak! You told her about something out there, she took the squad to investigate it, and no one came back! Now, tell me what you sent her there to find! What’s out there, Sobchak?”
”I don’t know! I told you, I had seismic readings, radiation readings, and I sent her to find out what caused them! I don’t know!”
”You don’t just lose an army squad, Sobchak, not even out here,” Galyshev insisted. “They had the truck, the truck had a radio, they had plenty of weapons and fuel. What happened to them?”
”I don’t know!” Sobchak was almost weeping. “The authorities wouldn’t tell me anything! All they told me was that the whole squad was gone, and the lieutenant was on her way to Moscow!”
”Gone? How, gone? Where, gone? Are they dead, are they kidnapped?”
Sobchak turned up his empty hands and shook his head. “Ya nye znayu -- I don’t know,” he said again.
Galyshev glared at him. Sobchak was sweating, but he kept it so warm in this room of his that Galyshev couldn’t be sure whether that was nervousness or just because Sobchak was overheated.
If Sobchak got really scared, he might start babbling or break down completely; that wouldn’t help. Even through his anger, Galyshev could see that. He tried to force himself to be calm and reasonable.
”Listen, Sobchak,” he said. “The men are frightened, and I can’t blame them. There’s talk of a strike, of shutting down the pumps-tell me something I can use to calm them down, to ease their fears of whatever’s out there.”
”Out there?” Sobchak asked. He laughed nervously, recovering himself somewhat, and wiped at the sweat on his forehead. “I would be afraid of Moscow, and what they’ll do to whoever they choose to blame for this, not of what Ligacheva went to investigate. Yes, there was something out there, something that registered on the seismograph, something hot, something radioactive-but it’s out there, whatever it is, out in the snow, it’s not in here. The walls are concrete, the doors are steel-what are the men scared of, Galyshev, ghosts? Are they children?”
Galyshev’s temper snapped. He was a big man, he’d worked his way up from the construction crews that built the pipeline; he grabbed the dirty white lapels of Sobchak’s lab coat and lifted. The scientist came up out of his seat and hung in Galyshev’s grip like a rag doll.
”Damn you to hell, Sobchak!” Galyshev growled. “Locked in here with your papers and your manuals and your meters you haven’t felt it, but the rest of us have!” He shook Sobchak as a terrier shakes a rat. “There’s something out there, Sobchak! We all know it, we’ve sensed it. It’s out there, watching and waiting. It took the squad, I know it did-dead or alive I can’t say, but it took them, whatever it is. And steel doors or not, it might try for us!”
”You’re mad,” Sobchak gasped.
Galyshev flung the scientist back into his chair. “Mad?” he said. “Maybe I am. But if I’m not, then there’s something out there, and it’s not going to stop with the soldiers. Sooner or later, it’s coming for all of us!”
”That’s ridiculous!” Sobchak said. “Ridiculous! There is something out there, Galyshev, or there was-but it’s not some arctic ghost monster come to eat us all in our beds. My best guess is that it’s an American plane or satellite, down on the ice.”
”Americans?” Galyshev straightened, startled. “What would Americans want here?”
”Who knows?” Sobchak replied. “But the impact of a downed plane, a large one, would account for the seismic disturbance. Burning fuel could have been responsible for the heat, and who knows what might have caused the radiation, eh? Isn’t something like that far more likely than your ghosts that walk through walls?”
Galyshev considered that. “And the missing soldiers?” he asked.
Sobchak shrugged. “Ambushed by the Americans, perhaps, or caught in an explosion ...”
Galyshev frowned. “Was there an explosion?” He gestured at the seismographs and other equipment.
”Well ... well, it’s hard to be sure,” Sobchak said, which Galyshev immediately realized meant there was no evidence of any explosion. “The storm distorted the readings. But there might have been one, I can’t tell. A small one.”
Galyshev glared at Sobchak. “You believe this?” he demanded.
Sobchak let out his breath in a deep sigh. “I told you, Galyshev, I don’t know. I am a scientist-I believe what I can see, what I can demonstrate, I take nothing on faith. This idea about downed Americans is my best hypothesis, but I have no way to test it, not until the storm stops and Lieutenant Ligacheva returns with more soldiers.”
”Very well,” Galyshev said, turning away. “I accept that you do not know what is out there, that it might be American spies. You will watch your dials and gauges then, Sobchak, and you will tell me at once anything you learn. And if you speak to the authorities again, or anyone else, you will tell me that, as well. Now, I’ll try to calm the men, to get us all back to work.”
”Very good,” Sobchak said primly as he began reconstructing his customary calm detachment. “Thank you, Galyshev.”
Galyshev marched out through the barren anteroom of the scientific station and back down the corridor toward the rest of the complex. After the damp heat of Sobchak’s hideaway the cool air of the passage was like a bracing shower, clearing away the fog.
The men wouldn’t like this, that the authorities had said nothing. They would be pleased to hear that more soldiers were coming, perhaps less pleased to hear that the cocky young Lieutenant Ligacheva was returning with them-the men liked her well enough, and Galyshev included himself in that, but they still had doubts about her abilities. She was still very young for an officer, and despite her efforts to prove herself any man’s equal, she was still a woman, though admittedly perhaps an exceptional one. The men might well have preferred a more experienced, more authoritative officer in charge, and Galyshev wouldn’t blame them for it if they did.
As for the rest of it, they might or might not accept Sobchak’s guess that it was a crew of downed Americans who were responsible for the squad’s disappearance. While it might be the most logical explanation, it didn’t feel right to him, and Galyshev knew the others would think the same.
He could feel the cold seeping into the corridor through the concrete walls as he walked. He even thought he could hear the wind howling overhead.
Why would Americans venture into this white wasteland, this frozen corner of hell? Americans were soft creatures who lived in warm, easy places like Florida and California; why would they ever leave their sunny homes to come to this cold, bleak land of months-long nights?
It was almost easier to believe in arctic ghosts.
Chapter 12
Master pipefitter Sergei Yevgenyevich Buyanov was not at all happy to be out in the snow, walking the station’s pair of guard dogs.
Ordinarily he wasn’t supposed to handle them at all; that had been Salnikov’s job. But Salnikov hadn’t come back from Sobchak’s little errand, so someone had to take the dogs out, and Buyanov had been ordered to do it. He had made the mistake of admitting that he knew something about dogs.
The dogs didn’t seem very happy about the state of affairs, either, and it wasn’t just the cold, Buyanov was certain of that. Instead of trotting along as they usually did, sniffing at anything interesting, they hugged the station’s walls and seemed to b
e constantly whining, heads down, or else staring out into the icy gloom of the arctic night and making unhappy noises in their throats.
At first Buyanov had thought it was just him, that the dogs didn’t like him, that they missed Salnikov, but when they didn’t improve, and it sank in that they always both looked into the darkness in the same direction, he reconsidered.
There was something somewhere out there that they didn’t like.
But there wasn’t anything out there, Buyanov told himself. It was quiet and clear. The storm had ended, at least for the moment-everyone who had been here for more than a single winter seemed to agree that this was probably just a lull and they could expect howling winds and blinding snow to come sweeping back down on them at any time, but right now the air was calm-so cold and still that it seemed almost solid, as if all the world were encased in crystal.
Did the dogs sense a new storm coming?
That couldn’t be it-there were storms here all the time, and Buyanov had never heard of the dogs being spooked like this before.
There had been all those stories about the missing squad, about ghosts or monsters or some crazy American commando mission, but Buyanov hadn’t believed any of that-and he didn’t see anything. He stared repeatedly in the direction that seemed to worry the dogs and couldn’t make out anything but snow, ice, and the overcast sky.
”What the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded, tugging at the leashes as the dogs crouched, staring out into the wilderness. “There’s nothing out there!”
Just then a puff of wind swept down at them from the nearby hilltop; snow swirled around Buyanov’s boots. As if that had shattered the stillness gusts and eddies began to appear everywhere.
That new storm was definitely coming, Buyanov decided, and might break any moment. The storm was coming, and he wanted to get back inside, where it was warm, where he wouldn’t have to worry about these crazy dogs, and where he wouldn’t find himself half believing children’s stories about snow demons or ghosts. Next thing you know, he told himself, I’ll start believing Baba Yaga’s out there, coming in her chicken-legged house to snatch me up for her stewpot.
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