by Dave Edlund
“Yes, the State Secret Police still use that name, a carryover from the Cold War when Belarus was still part of the former Soviet Bloc.”
“What else are they saying?” Peter said.
“It sounds like they plan to question us.”
Peter tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. “That’s curious. Why? What are they looking for?”
Dmitri shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Perhaps they are interested in our research?”
“There have been several successful breaches of the university servers. That’s why I was contracted,” Gary said. “The hacks have been mostly aimed at data from the science departments.”
“We save our data, as well as drafts of publications, to the department server—we share it with the physics department—it makes it easier to collaborate with our colleagues.”
“There’s more to this than scientific espionage. What else are they discussing?” Peter said.
“Major Leonov and one other man were sent to the roof. General Gorev told them to find the…” Dmitri hesitated. He closed his eyes tight and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know the word, but I think it is air draw. That’s what the General told them to find.”
Peter turned away, thinking. Air draw. Air draw.
Suddenly he looked again at Dmitri. “Air intake, is that it?”
A quick nod. “Yes, air intake.”
“Do you think that’s important?” Ian asked, keeping his voice low, almost a whisper, like the others.
Peter leaned back in his chair, wincing when his bruised back pushed into the backrest. He slowly swiveled to face Gary, who sat with his arms folded across his chest.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Gary asked.
“Makeup air.” For a few moments Peter just sat there, running scenarios through in his mind. He kept returning to one possibility.
“Dmitri. Are there exhaust ventilation hoods in the laboratories?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I thought so. And since those hoods draw a large amount of air out of the building there would be air intakes on the roof to bring a supply of fresh air back inside, makeup air.”
“Yes, it is necessary to balance the air pressure in the building so the ventilation hoods draw properly.”
“Why is that important?” Ian asked. “They can’t poison us, not when the militia is still guarding us. They’re breathing the same air we are.”
“I don’t know,” Peter replied. “Dmitri, anything else?”
Professor Kaspar shifted in his seat. “Well, the conversation is a bit odd. The General doesn’t show much respect for the guards, and he talks as if he is from a different unit. His accent is wrong. I think he is not from here.”
“Why is that strange? I’d imagine many of these militiamen are from other cities in Belarus.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I think General Gorev is Russian military. Major Leonov, too.”
“Maybe the Russian army has advisors helping the militia?” Ian said.
Peter watched as Gorev interacted with several guards. “Not advisor, but active participant. We need some proof of Russian military involvement.”
Gorev sent two guards out with the rucksack and then engaged in animated conversation with another militiaman. Judging from the gesticulations, Peter assumed Gorev was not pleased with the direction the discussion was going. Abruptly the two men walked out, followed by the remaining two guards. With the room momentarily empty of militiamen, Peter decided to check out Gorev’s desk.
“Gary, plant yourself by the door and cause a commotion when the guards come back in.”
Many of the other civilians watched Peter and Gary with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Peter swiftly walked up to the desk and grabbed the top sheet of paper. The writing was in the Cyrillic alphabet. Stuffing the paper inside his jacket, he returned to Dmitri just as the guards entered again. Seeing Gary standing close to the doors, one guard shoved him away, causing Gary to stumble in the process, knocking a chair aside with exaggerated movements.
Peter innocently placed the document in Dmitri’s hands, then turned toward the doorway in time to see Gary picking himself up. He stared back at the two guards. “What was that for?” The guards ignored the question and moved off to the side.
Dmitri quickly read the paper while Peter stood with his back to the guards, preventing them from observing Dmitri. “This appears to be a directive from the Russian military command. It references Spetsnaz troops here under command of General Gorev. The Spetsnaz troops are to ensure safety of the ethnic Russian civilians.”
“What else?”
Dmitri handed the paper back to Peter, who folded it and stuffed it inside the waistband of his pants. “That’s all. I think it continues on another page.”
“Got a visitor coming,” Gary mumbled and then he nodded his head to the side indicating an approaching militia guard. Everyone quieted and looked at the floor.
The guard spoke to Dmitri, his rifle casually pointed at him, “He says we are to go with him.”
“What does he want?” Peter said.
“No. Not you. Only Ian and myself.”
Peter rose and the guard planted one foot back and snapped the AK-74 to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel at Peter’s head. Gary grabbed Peter by the shoulders. “No, Peter. Not here.”
Ian held a hand out toward his son. “I’ll be fine. They probably just want to ask a few questions. Probably about the research Dmitri and I are doing.” Ian forced a smile, but it didn’t fool Peter.
The guard escorted the two professors out of the room, Peter still restrained by his friend.
“I’m done with waiting. It’s time for some answers,” Peter said, seeing that Gorev had returned.
“What’s the plan?” Gary was ready to go along with whatever Peter had in mind.
“A short chat with the General.”
Peter started walking toward the desk where General Gorev was conversing with various militiamen—he had not yet noticed the missing document. No one stopped Peter this time. He stood at the desk, Gary at his left and looked down at the General. A militiaman moved in behind Peter.
“General Gorev. What do you want with my father and Dmitri?” Peter asked, interrupting the conversation.
Gorev ignored him, further infuriating Peter. He snapped his hand out and latched onto Gorev’s arm. “I’m talking to you!”
As soon as contact was made the guard swung the rifle butt into Peter’s side, connecting just below his ribs. Peter gasped, loosening his grip and twisting to the side.
Gorev stood, glaring at Peter and Gary, while the guard had his rifle aimed at the Americans. “It would be much easier just to shoot you now; unfortunately, that would be counterproductive. Lock them in the store room.”
With rifle barrels pressing into their backs, Peter and Gary were escorted out of the conference room and into a long corridor. Shortly, they stopped in front of a room. One of the guards unlocked and opened the door, then turned on the light. It was a small, windowless room with cleaning and other supplies stacked on shelves along the walls. Opposite the door was a utility sink and next to the sink stood an industrial air compressor, bolted to the concrete floor.
Peter and Gary were shoved in and the door slammed shut behind them, followed by a click indicating the lock had been engaged. Gary immediately tried the handle, but it wouldn’t turn. He examined the latch and surrounding cover plate, failing to find machine screws holding it in place.
“The latch must be fastened to the door from the outside.”
“The hinge pins?” Peter asked.
“Tamper resistant. We’d need a special tool to remove them and I’m guessing we don’t have it.”
Still favoring his right side, Peter slowly took in the contents on the shelves—a collection of cleaning supplies plus electrical components and plumbing parts. For a couple minutes he said nothing, focused on his new surroundings.
�
�You got a plan coming together?” Gary said.
Peter nodded slightly. “Ever watch MacGyver on TV?”
Chapter 8
Minsk
“DON’T TELL ME YOU WANT to play TV trivia,” Gary said.
“Nope. But our host just made a big mistake by locking us in this room.” Peter replied.
Gary looked around at the walls and shelves. “The walls are concrete blocks, no way we’re digging out anytime soon. What do you see that I don’t?”
There was a large, battered metal box underneath the sink. Peter opened the top to reveal a tray containing various tools. He spotted a rusty hacksaw, pliers, hammer, and assortment of other hand tools.
Next, Peter examined the air compressor. The machine was dusty and the electric motor and finned metal cylinders were connected by a pair of pulleys and a worn belt. The pressure gauge read just shy of 1.2 MPa.
“If this gauge is correct, we have about 175 psi of air in the tank,” Peter said as he continued his inspection. A large valve was fitted close to the receiving tank, and iron pipe extended from the valve to an elbow and then to the wall. From there the pipe traveled vertically up through the ceiling.
Peter tested the valve. He grabbed the lever handle and pushed to the side until the handle was perpendicular to the pipe. He stepped back, studying the run of iron pipe.
“See if there are a couple of wrenches in that tool box,” he said.
Gary kneeled beside the sink and rummaged through the tools, working his way down to the bottom of the box. He stood and handed two worn pipe wrenches to Peter.
He clamped one of the rusty tools onto a three-foot section of pipe that extended horizontally to the wall. He pulled on the wrench, but the pipe didn’t budge. Again he tried, this time with both hands on the wrench, but the serrated jaws slipped on the iron, losing grip.
“Want me to try?” Gary asked.
“No, the threaded joints are rusted tight. If I pull too hard I could break the pipe.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“No, I’m not looking for a club, rather something with more punch.”
Peter retrieved the hacksaw from the toolbox. “I’ll cut the pipe here by the wall. That will give us some leverage and together we should be able to turn the section of pipe 180 degrees so it’s pointing toward the door.”
Immediately, Gary understood. “A compressed-air spud gun.”
“That’s the idea, but we aren’t shooting potatoes out of the pipe. This shut off valve at the receiver tank will be the trigger.”
“And what do you have in mind for the projectile?”
Peter was about a quarter of the way through the iron pipe where it was threaded into another elbow at the wall. Without looking away from his work, he nodded his head to the side and said. “That mop handle—if it fits inside the pipe.”
Gary hefted the mop. “Primitive, but effective.”
Peter completed severing the pipe and then handed the hacksaw to Gary. “Cut off the mop head and then saw a slot down the middle of the handle, about four inches long.”
While Gary was busy, Peter found some steel wire in the toolbox and grabbed the pliers. Then he pulled the composite knife from his boot. The knife was molded without a hand guard, although there were two holes through the grip, forward and rear, to help with lashing the blade to a pole.
Returning to the toolbox, Peter searched for a drill and bits—nothing. So he picked up a Philips screwdriver; it would have to do.
It took Gary another minute to finish. Peter fit the grip of the composite blade into the slot sawn into the handle. It was snug, but good. He marked the location of both holes on the grip and then used the Philips screwdriver to auger two ragged holes through the wood. Next, he used the wire to secure the composite blade, passing the wire through both holes in the knife handle and twisting securely with the pliers until the wire bit into the wood. Then he wrapped the wire tightly around the wood over and over, cinching the split handle tight against the knife grip, finally twisting the wire ends together.
Pointing to the iron elbow that connected the valve to the section of pipe Peter had just cut through, he said, “Put the wrench on this elbow and turn while I push up on the pipe.” With a groan of rusted metal the pipe budged just a tiny amount at first. But as the years of rust broke free the pipe swung around until it was aimed directly at the door.
Gary tested the fit of the wood spear inside the pipe. “It’s a bit loose.” Peter noticed as well.
“We need a tight fit to build up pressure.” Peter hurried to the shelves beside the door. A pile of rags, mostly stained and oily, yielded what he sought. Selecting what had once been a T-shirt, Peter ripped off strips a few inches wide. While Gary held the spear, Peter wrapped one of the strips around the blunt end.
“See if you can work it into the pipe, it may be too tight.”
Gary twisted and pushed. Once he got it started the wood rod slid inside the pipe, although it took some effort. Together they rammed the shaft home, and then Peter took a final sighting along the length of the iron pipe, satisfied with the aim.
“That’s only good for one shot,” Gary said.
Peter nodded. He knew they needed more weaponry. “See what else you can find.”
“There’s a hammer in the toolbox, and those wrenches can be used as clubs.”
“Not likely. You’ll be shot before you get within arm’s reach.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Are there any chemicals you can mix to make a bomb?”
Peter shook his head. “Not here. Maybe in the chemical store room, wherever that is.”
“Well, I don’t see anything to make a bow.” Gary was methodically scanning the room. “And I don’t see any arrows either.” He paused. “Wait, is that a sprayer?” He pointed to the floor behind Peter and rushed to pick up the metal canister.
Like everything else, it was coated with grime and oil stains. Gary worked the pump and it felt like it was building pressure. The sprayer had a brass wand about two feet in length attached to a length of rubber hose. The hose was not very pliable anymore and the rubber was beginning to crack. He pointed the nozzle in a safe direction and squeezed the handle. A focused jet of foul-smelling liquid squirted about six feet.
“It works! Maybe we can fill it with paint thinner or something and make a flamethrower.”
“Not paint thinner, something more volatile.” As Peter was talking, he was moving cans of cleaning fluids. “This might work,” he said and set a metal can on the floor, followed by a second one, identical in appearance. He removed the screw cap and carefully sniffed the vapors.
“What is it?” Gary asked.
“I don’t know. The label’s not in English. But it has the skull and crossbones, so it’s poisonous, and it smells like solvent or hydrocarbons.”
Peter poured a small amount of the clear fluid on the floor, then retrieved a book of matches he found next to some candles. He struck a match and extended the flame toward the liquid. As the flame approached the spreading puddle the liquid caught fire and burned with a blue-yellow flame.
“Excellent,” Peter said. “Whatever this is, it’s pretty volatile.”
Gary dumped the previous contents of the sprayer down the sink and flushed the pungent-smelling liquid with lots of cold water. Peter filled the canister with both cans of solvent.
“We need some means to light it,” Gary said.
“I’ll wire a piece of oily cloth around the nozzle. There’s a can of machine oil next to the compressor.”
It only took a few minutes for Peter to complete the ignition mechanism of their makeshift flamethrower.
“Under different circumstances, we’d test this contraption before betting our lives on it,” Peter said.
“Come on, that’d take all the excitement out of it. Of course it’s gonna work.” Gary forced a grin, but it was fleeting.
“Now we wait.”
“And when the guards come back?” Gary asked.
“We have to constantly man that air valve. When the door opens, we have to pop open that valve before the guard realizes he’s looking at a home-made harpoon cannon. We’ll only have a fraction of a second.”
“Wish we had a real cannon and grapeshot.”
“Me too. But this spear will do the job. Better get some rest buddy. I’ll take the first watch.”
Chapter 9
Sacramento, California
MONA STEPHENS GLANCED at the nameplate on the door; Lt. Ellen Lacey. She knocked and was promptly answered.
“Come in.”
Omitting the usual pleasantries and small talk, Stephens got right to business, advancing smartly to stop in front of Lacey’s desk. She handed a folder to her boss. “This came in overnight from NSA. They’re reporting multiple, simultaneous attacks in Minsk by pro-Russian militia. The entire operation happened extraordinarily fast, obviously well planned and executed. A large number of civilian hostages are being held at several public buildings now under the control of the militia. They call themselves the Nationalist Proletarian Army, or NPA.”
Lacey opened the folder and began to scan the contents. “Great. Before they were just kooks. Now they’re organized kooks. What are the Russians saying?”
“The usual. President Pushkin is urging the Belarusian government to exhibit restraint, adding that Russia reserves the right to defend ethnic Russians should they be threatened or harmed.”
“And NATO? How are the Europeans responding? And President Taylor?” Lacey stopped reading and shifted her gaze to Stephens.
“No official response from NATO yet, but the Joint Chiefs are conferring with Brussels in the event Belarus requests military assistance and President Taylor honors the request. The NSA and CIA are scrambling; seems they were caught totally by surprise. So far, the conflict is localized to a few government buildings and the main campus of the Belarusian State University. However, the situation is very fluid and, based on recent patterns in Ukraine and Latvia, it’s likely to escalate to the principle transportation hubs—airport, train stations. I’d imagine the leaders of France, Germany, and the U.K. will request a meeting with President Taylor to align their positions before anyone issues a public statement.”
