”Come on!” he said angrily, giving both the leashes another Yank.
The dogs didn’t move. The big female growled, deep in her throat. This wasn’t just worry, Buyanov knew-he did know something about dogs, or he wouldn’t have spoken up and wouldn’t have been given this duty. That was a serious warning, that growl, and Buyanov knew it. That wasn’t playing, or any sort of low-level threat; that was a “back off right now or I’ll rip your throat out” growl, nothing halfhearted or playful about it. If any dog had ever growled at Buyanov like that, he’d have backed down immediately.
She wasn’t growling at him, though. She was growling at something out there.
”There’s nothing out there,” Buyanov repeated, baffled and frightened. “Just the wind.”
The dog barked angrily, once, her hot breath a dense cloud in the cold air. The wind picked up just then, and snow sprayed up from the hillside, glittering white in the light from one of the station’s few windows, like a flurry of diamond dust.
The storm was coming, no doubt about it, and coming fast. Buyanov realized suddenly that that eerie stillness must have been the calm before the storm that people spoke about. Wind roared in the distance.
”Come on,” he said, pulling at the leash.
The big dog jerked back, and the leather strap slipped from Buyanov’s glove. The dog immediately charged up the hillside, her legs churning through the drifts as she bounded away into the darkness and swirling snow.
”No!” Buyanov shouted. “Come back, damn it!”
The dog didn’t come back, and by the time the echoes of his own shout had died away Buyanov couldn’t hear her anymore over the mounting howl of the wind.
”God damn it,” Buyanov said as he dragged the other dog growling and yapping around the final corner to the door. The dog planted his feet, but Buyanov was bigger and stronger, and with just the one dog now he could rely on brute force to haul the animal to the door.
He shoved the heavy steel door open and caught a faceful of warm, damp air that felt like a foretaste of heaven; the entryway was unlit, but light spilled out from somewhere farther inside, tempting Buyanov.
He did not yield. He had to track down and recover the other dog.
”Get in there,” he said, shoving the other dog inside. Then he flung in the leash and slammed the door, shutting the dog inside and himself outside in the storm.
He would have to be careful when he returned, he reminded himself, and make sure that the stupid cur wasn’t waiting there to lunge out the instant the door opened again.
Right now, though, he intended to find the first dog and haul her back.
”I should let you freeze, you stupid bitch,” he muttered as he located the dog’s tracks and began following them up the hillside. The wind was fierce now, already approaching gale force; he shielded his eyes with one gloved hand, trying to see clearly through wind and snow and night. He would have to move quickly if he didn’t want to lose the trail-drifting snow would cover it in minutes, he was sure.
”When I find you, I’ll ...” he began, but then he stopped; he couldn’t think of any appropriate vengeance that he would dare take on Salnikov’s dogs. “By God, I’ll do something, you miserable ...” He peered into the darkness; he was over the hilltop now.
Something slammed into him, something big and soft and heavy that hit him hard. He toppled backward into the snow and felt the cold crystals spray into his boots and gloves and collar, felt the icy hardness of the ground as he landed flat on his back.
He blinked, clearing the snow from his eyes, and saw what had hit him.
His missing dog lay on his chest, her face mere centimeters from his own. Her eyes were blank and staring, and blood was trickling from her open mouth.
”What...” He sat up, enough adrenaline pumping through his veins that the dead dog’s weight might as well not even have been there. As he rose the dog rolled down to he lifelessly across his legs.
Blood was everywhere, on his coat and his boots and his leggings and thickly matted on the dog’s fur.
The dog had been gutted. Something had ripped open her belly in two long slices, side by side.
”What could have done this?” he asked, staring.
Then he realized that the dog had not jumped on him; the corpse had been flung. What could have thrown it with such force?
He looked up, and there they were, three of them, standing in the snow, watching him.
They were bigger than humans; the shortest was well over two meters. They were shaped more or less like men, but their faces were hidden by metal masks, their hands ended in claws. They wore no coats, despite the cold, and bristled with unfamiliar weaponry. Their skin was yellow, where it showed; their hair, if it was hair, was worn in long, decorated, snakelike braids that flapped eerily in the wind.
”My God,” Buyanov whispered.
They stood, motionless, watching him, for a long moment. Buyanov stared back.
Gradually sense returned. These, Buyanov realized, were undoubtedly the snow devils, the arctic ghosts, that had taken the soldiers. When he understood that, he expected to die within seconds of that first sight.
Then he saw that they weren’t approaching him. They weren’t killing him. They were just standing there.
They had gutted the dog, but she had undoubtedly attacked them. They had almost certainly killed or captured the missing soldiers, but they, too, had presumably intruded where they weren’t welcome.
Buyanov hadn’t done anything to anger them, had he? They were going to let him go, he told himself; that was why they hadn’t killed him. He hadn’t meant them any harm, so they were letting him go.
He scrambled to his feet, shoving the dead dog aside, and backed slowly away.
They didn’t move.
Buyanov bowed awkwardly. “Thank you, my lords,” he said, stumbling over the unfamiliar pre-Soviet words. He had never before in his life called anyone “lord,” had never heard the term used except in satires and historical dramas, but what else could he say to these creatures, these ice demons?
He turned, trying to decide whether to walk or run. He took two short steps, trying to maintain some trace of dignity, then glanced back.
The nearest of the demons took a step closer. It moved swiftly, with an appearance of immense power. Its face was hidden by its mask, unreadable, but Buyanov read hostility in the way it stood, the way it moved; he ran.
As he neared the station he began shouting, “Open the door! Help! Help me!” He slammed into the door, too hysterical to work the heavy hatchlock mechanism at first, and pounded on it with both fists.
A moment later the door swung open, and two worried faces peered out at him.
”Sergei!” someone said. “What happened?”
”We saw the dog roaming the corridors,” another said.
Buyanov staggered in, and the larger of the two men caught him as he fell, exhausted from his panicky run.
”Get that door closed,” the man holding Buyanov called to the other. “It must be sixty below outside!”
”Anatoli,” the other man said as he slammed the door, “look! What’s that on his coat?”
”Looks like frozen blood,” the man holding Buyanov said. “Sergei, what happened?”
”Devils,” Buyanov gasped. “Devils on the ice. I’ve seen them, Dmitri!”
The other two exchanged worried glances.
”We’ve got to warn the oth--” Buyanov began.
He was interrupted by a loud booming as something slammed into the door from outside.
”What was that?” Anatoli shouted.
Then all three men froze at the sound of tearing metal. An instant later the gleaming tip of a jagged blade punched through the door.
”But that door is steel,” Anatoli said. “Ten centimeters of steel!”
All three knew that to be true; the door was a massive slab of solid metal, designed to withstand the mightiest storm-or the explosion of the pipeline itself.
It didn’t seem to matter; the jagged blade sliced down through the door slowly, sawing back and forth, like a knife through hard cheese.
”My God!” Dmitri said.
”Warn the others!” Buyanov said. He rolled off Dmitri’s knees, caught himself against the wall with one hand, and started to get to his feet.
As he did the ruined door slammed open, and there were those things. Buyanov moaned.
”Devil!” Anatoli said.
Then, without warning, moving faster than human eyes could follow, the foremost of the three creatures rammed a spear through Anatoli’s chest. Anatoli crumpled; with his lung pierced he couldn’t even manage a dying scream.
For an instant everyone remained frozen, Anatoli hunched over the blade that had killed him, the other two staring in shock.
Then the initial shock passed.
”Bastards!” Dmitri shouted. He ran for the nearest alarm box.
One of the creatures ran after him, moving inhumanly fast, so fast Buyanov could not properly follow the motion; as Dmitri’s hand reached for the alarm handle the thing’s hand slammed down on the top of the Russian’s head.
Dmitri staggered and fell to his knees, still reaching for the alarm handle. Buyanov watched, still too astonished and terrified to move.
The thing swung its other hand back, and two curving, crooked blades snapped into place, extending from its wrist past its clenched fist.
Still holding Dmitri’s head with one hand, the creature plunged the pair of curved blades into Dmitri’s back.
Dmitri convulsed, jerking wildly, then collapsed limply into death-but in his final spasm his hand closed on the alarm handle and yanked it down.
Buyanov saw all that just before a taloned, yellow-skinned hand smashed across his face, knocking him to the floor. He looked up and screamed.
The last thing he saw was the approaching sandal as the thing set one foot on his face; then the creature leaned its full weight on Sergei Yevgenyevich Buyanov and crushed his skull as if it were the shell of an annoying beetle.
Chapter 13
Galyshev had decided to pay another call on Sobchak, and was just stepping into the geologist’s workroom when the alarm sounded.
The superintendent looked up, startled.
”What the hell is that?” he demanded.
”An alarm,” Sobchak said.
”Why?” Galyshev asked sharply. “Something wrong with the pipeline?”
”Nothing that shows on my equipment,” Sobchak said, looking around at the ranked gauges. “But I’ve lost the feed from the sensors at the east door.”
”Something’s breaking in over there?” Galyshev demanded, tensing.
”I don’t know,” Sobchak said, staring at the meters. “I can’t tell.”
”Well, then I’ll find out for myself!” Galyshev turned and charged out of the room, heading for the passage back to the main part of the complex.
Sobchak watched Galyshev go, then looked at the equipment again.
He didn’t have any real surveillance equipment-this was science, not the KGB-but when this monitoring station had been set up they’d had the possibility of accidents, or sabotage, in mind. There were thermo-sensors and barometers and rem-counters and even microphones scattered through the entire complex, along with the seismic monitors. The theory had been that if the pipeline burst, or a fire started, the station’s scientists would be able to track the effects through heat, pressure, radiation, and sound.
Sobchak reached over and turned on all the interior monitors, one by one. Last of all he turned on the speaker for the microphones in the east corridor.
He immediately turned the volume down; the screams were deafening.
”My God,” he said. He looked at the other readings, trying to understand.
Sobchak judged that something big and hot had come in through the east door and was moving down the corridor, deeper into the station-the temperature and barometric pressure at the sensors nearest the door were dropping steadily, as if the door was open or even gone, but at the next set the temperature was higher than before.
And the radioactivity levels in the east corridor were running about twice what they should be, still harmless, but inexplicable.
The screams, too, were inexplicable-and terrifying.
Sobchak was a man of science. He didn’t believe in arctic ghosts. All the same, he got up and closed the door of his workroom, and locked it.
”To keep in the heat,” he told himself. “That’s all, to keep in the heat.”
He looked around and noticed that he’d left his coat and boots out in the anteroom-he didn’t like to have them in the workroom; the equipment was packed in so tightly that they got in the way. He didn’t open the door to retrieve them, though. They could wait out there.
In the main station there were men milling about in the common room, unsure what to do, as Galyshev burst from the tunnel.
”Sir, what’s going on?” someone called. “What’s happening? Why the alarm?”
”Something’s broken in the east door,” Galyshev called. “We’re going to find out who it is!”
The men glanced at one another uneasily.
”But, sir.. .”
”We’re not soldiers...”
”We’re still men, aren’t we?” Galyshev demanded. “And there are guns in the armory, aren’t there?”
”Armory?”
The glances the men exchanged now were considerably more hopeful.
”We may not be trained soldiers,” Galyshev said, “but we can still fight when our home is invaded!” He marched down the corridor to the soldiers’ barracks, and after a brief hesitation the others followed him.
Lieutenant Ligacheva had not bothered to lock it before leading her squad out on their fatal investigation. The squad’s weapons were gone, no one had recovered them from the ice, but the reserves were still there, and moments later a dozen men were marching down the east corridor with AK-47s in their hands. Galyshev had taken a quick roll call as he handed out weapons and knew that three men were missing, Sergei Buyanov, Dmitri Veins, and Anatoli Shivering.
No one present admitted to sounding the alarm; presumably one of those three had.
”There was nothing on the radio or the teletype?” Galyshev asked as they marched. “Nothing to warn us some sort of attack might be coming?”
”Nothing at all,” Shaporin replied.
”That bothers me ...” Galyshev began.
Then they turned the final corner, and a blast of icy wind from the ruined door struck them. It wasn’t the wind that made Galyshev halt dead in his tracks and stop speaking in midsentence, though.
It was the blood.
Blood was spattered all over the floor and one wall, great splashes of blood, still wet.
”What happened here?” Galyshev demanded.
There was no answer.
”Where are the bodies?” Shaporin asked from just behind. “Whose blood is it?”
”It couldn’t just be paint?” someone asked from farther back.
Galyshev shook his head. “It’s not paint.” He studied the floor, the patterns of red, the drops and smears ...
”They went down there,” he said, jerking the barrel of his gun. “Toward the pipeline.” He flipped off the safety. “Come on!”
Sure enough, a thin trail of drops of blood led into the tunnel to the maintenance areas.
”What’s in there?” Rublev asked. “What did this?”
”I don’t know,” Galyshev said, “and I don’t care. Are you coming with me or not?”
Rublev still hesitated.
”Come on, Rublev,” Shaporin said. “You think it’s monsters in there?”
”More likely Chechen guerrillas,” Leskov, the practical joker in the bunch, said. “After all, it’s only what, two thousand miles from Chechnya to the Yamal Peninsula? If no one told them the war was over, it might’ve taken them this long to get here!”
A few of the men grinned, but n
o one laughed, that blood on the wall was too fresh.
”It’s probably American saboteurs,” Galyshev said seriously. “Whoever or whatever it is, you think these won’t handle the job?” he hefted the AK-47.
The men still hesitated.
”Well, I’m going,” Galyshev said. “There are three men missing, and maybe they aren’t all dead, and if we hurry maybe they’ll stay that way.” He turned and marched down the side tunnel.
Reluctantly, first Shaporin, then Leskov, and finally the others followed him. Rublev came last.
The little corridor ended in a large open space, a maintenance area under, the pipeline. The chamber was intended to give easy access to any part of the pipeline, from the huge valves to the immense pumping equipment at the north end; it ran some sixty meters end to end, almost the full length of the underground portion of the station, and was a good fifteen meters wide. Thick concrete pillars were spaced along the room’s length, one every ten meters or so. The oil-spattered floor was poured concrete, sloping slightly to improve drainage, while the walls on either side were concrete block to a height of about three meters. Above those walls a complex maze of steel struts and girders wove overhead, supporting and steadying the immense pipe, and Galyshev had never been sure what the walls up there, hidden behind that framework, looked like.
Regulations required that this entire area be kept clear, so in a crowded, uncomfortable station this huge open space remained virtually empty, and almost unlit. Galyshev reached for the switch at the end of the corridor and flipped it up; three dim work lights came on, but most of the cavernous chamber remained dark.
There should have been more, he knew; they must have burned out. He’d want to do something about that later, during the next round of maintenance.
He stared out into the dimness, scanning the immense chamber for his enemy, whoever it might be; the AK-47 was ready in his hands.
Nothing moved anywhere that he could see. There were no intruders, nothing out of place. He heard a faint dripping, but that wasn’t unusual; not only did the lubricant from the pumps sometimes leak, but the temperature differential between the station’s air and the pipeline itself often produced heavy condensation on the pipe.
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