Friday 1:17 A.M.
The room was cold. Just cold. That was the first thing he'd noticed
when they shoved him in. It still was. For nine hours he'd been sitting
on a hard, canvas-covered Soviet cot, shivering.
The place was no larger than a small cell, with a tile floor, ice gray
concrete walls, and two bare fluorescent bulbs for lighting. No heat.
There was a slight vibration--it seemed to be part of the room itself--
emanating from the walls and floor. He'd tracked it to a large wall
duct.
Ventilation system could use adjusting, he'd thought, fan housing's
loose somewhere. They also could turn up the damned heat.
He was wearing only what he'd had on in London, and this definitely was
not London. Hokkaido was a much colder part of the planet.
The room had the feeling of a quick, slapped-together job. But it also
looked like it could withstand a medium-sized nuclear detonation. One
thing was sure, though: It wasn't built with comfort in mind. The door
was steel, the same dull hue as the rest. It was bolted from the
outside, naturally.
But if isolation and cold were Tanzan Mino's idea of how to break his
spirit, to see how tough he was, the man was in for some
disappointment.
What the Mino Industries CEO had unwittingly accomplished by moving him
here, however, was to enlighten him about the layout of the place. As
he was being escorted down the crowded facility corridors by the three
leather-jacketed _kobun_, he'd passed a projection video screen
suspended over the center of a main intersection. The location seemed
to be some sort of central checkpoint, and the screen displayed a
schematic of the whole facility.
He'd faked a stumble and used the recovery time to quickly scan its
essential features.
He leaned back on the cot and ran through one more time what he'd seen
on the screen, trying to imprint it in his memory.
Insight number one: the facility was organized into four main
quadrants, with a layout like a large X. Some of the writing was
Japanese, but mostly it was Russian Cyrillic characters. He massaged
his temples and visualized it again.
The first thing he'd focused on was something called the North
Quadrant, whose Russian designation was Komendant. It looked to be the
command center, with a red-colored area labeled in both Japanese and
Russian. Next to that were a lot of little rooms, probably living
quarters or barracks. Kanji ideograms identified those, so that section
was probably where the Japanese staffers bivouacked.
That command section, he'd realized, was where he and Eva had been.
They'd been quartered in a part of Tanzan Mino's private suites, the
belly of the beast.
It got even more interesting. The other three quadrants were where the
real work was going on. On the right side of the screen was East
Quadrant, whose label was _Komputer/ Kommunekatseon, _ which meant it
contained the computers and communications set-up. Flight Control. And
the South Quadrant, the _Assamblaya_, consisted of a lot of large open
bays, probably where the two prototypes had been assembled. Those bays
connected directly to a massive sector labeled _Angar_, the hangar. But
the bays also had separate access to the runway, probably for delivery
of prefabricated sections from somewhere else.
The West Quadrant appeared to house test facilities; the one label he
could read was _Laboratoraya_. Probably materials labs, next to a
configuration that could have been a large wind tunnel. Made sense.
That quadrant also had more small rooms with Russian labels. He'd
studied the screen a second longer and . . .
Bingo. He'd realized he was being moved into the Soviet sector,
probably the barracks and laboratory area.
This had to be the least used location in the facility now, he told
himself. All the wind tunnel testing of sections and the materials
research was probably wrapped up, meaning this area was history.
Yesterday's news. So the CEO had shunted him to this obscure lock-up in
the West Quadrant, the Soviet section. What better spot to discreetly
dispose of somebody for a while?
Time to brush up your Russian.
Problem was--he grimaced at the realization--there wasn't a heck of a lot
left to brush. He'd had a year at Yale, just enough to let him struggle
along with a dictionary and squeak around some standard language
requirement. That was it. He'd never given it a second thought
afterward. Instead he'd gone on to his real love--ancient Greek. Then
later, in CIA days, the action had been Asia. At one time he'd ended up
doing some consulting for Langley's Far Eastern INTEL desk, helping
coordinate American and Japanese fieldwork.
He could swing the Japanese, but the Russian . . .
Tanzan Mino probably knew that, yet another reason why he'd decided on
this transfer. There'd be fewer people here to communicate with. Smart.
The labyrinth of King Minos, brainchild of Daedalus, that's what he
felt trapped in. But Theseus, the Greek prince who killed the monster,
got some help from Minos's daughter, Ariadne. A ball of string to help
him find his way out of the maze. This time around, though, where was
help going to come from? Maybe the first job here was to kill the
monster, then worry about what came next.
Partly to generate a little body heat, he turned and braced himself at
an angle against the door, starting some half push-ups. With his hands
on the door, he also could sense some of the activity in the hallway
outside. He figured it had to be after midnight by now, but there were
still random comings and goings. Activity, but nothing . . .
He felt a tremor, then heard a loud scraping and the sound of a bolt
being slid aside.
He quickly wheeled and flattened himself against the wall, looking
futilely for something to use as a weapon. Aside from the cot, though,
there was nothing.
Okay, this would be hand to hand. He could use the exercise. Besides,
he was mad enough.
The gray steel door slowly began to swing inward; then a mane of white
hair tentatively appeared, followed by a rugged ancient face as the
visitor turned to stare at him through heavy glasses.
"_Strasvitye_," the man said finally, uncertainty in his gravelly
voice. "_Ya Doktor Andrei Petrovich Androv_."
Friday 1:20 A.M.
_
_Would the idea work? Yuri still didn't know. As he walked between the
vehicles, the hangar's wide banks of fluorescents glaring down on the
final preflight preps for _Daedalus I_, he was sure of only one thing:
at this point, the revised plan was the only option left. Would the
American help?
The woman, the bitch, was no fool: An insight he'd come by the hard
way. But maybe the CIA guy--what had she said his name was?--Vance?
How the hell did he get here? However it had happened, he was being
kept in the West Quadrant. It had been no trick to find him.
He was a godsend; his help would make the scenario possible. Now it
merely required split-second timing.
He glanced up at the big liquid crystal display screen on the far wall,
noting it read zero minus eight hours ten minutes. He should be back in
the West Quadrant now, catching some sleep--if Taro Ikeda knew he was
here in the hangar, there'd be hell to pay--but time was running out.
Tanzan Mino had listened icily to his renewed arguments against
additional personnel in the cockpit, then declared that the viability
of the program depended on having backups. Merely an essential
precaution. End of discussion.
Bullshit. As soon as the political games were played out, the CEO was
planning to get rid of him, probably by some "accident."
Well, screw him. And that's where the American came in. The thing to do
was just appear to be proceeding with the countdown normally, keep
everything innocent. Then, at the last minute . . .
He stared up at _Daedalus I _one last time, watching as the maintenance
crews finished the last of the preflight scramjet preps. And he shook
his head in amazement that Andrei Androv and all his damned propulsion
engineers could create a genuine technological miracle and still be
total bumblers when it came to what in hell was really happening.
These technical types thought they were so brilliant! But if it had
taken them all this time to realize they'd been fucked by Mino
Industries, then how smart could they really be? Made him wonder how
the Baikonur Cosmodrome ever managed to get so much as a turnip into
orbit.
Now these same geniuses had to get _Daedalus II _flight- ready in just
a few hours, and had to do it without anyone suspecting what they were
doing. Finally, they had to be ready to roll into action the instant
the "accident" happened. No trial runs.
He checked his watch and realized his father's propulsion team was
already gathering at Number One, the final meeting. The question now
was, could they really deliver? The American was the key.
Friday 1:21 A.M.
"Your name Vance?" The Russian voice, with its uncertain English, was
the last thing he'd expected.
"Who are you?"
"For this vehicle, I am Director Propulsion System," he replied
formally, and with pride, pulling at his white lab coat. "I must talk
you. Please."
Vance stepped away from the wall and looked the old man over more
closely. Then it clicked. Andrei Petrovich Androv was a living legend.
Ten years ago the CIA already had a tech file on him that filled three
of those old-time reels of half-inch tape. These days, God knows what
they had. He'd been the USSR's great space pioneer, a hero who'd gone
virtually unrecognized by his own country. No Order of Lenin. Nothing.
Nada. But maybe he'd preferred it that way, liked being a recluse.
Nobody, least of all the CIA's Soviet specialists, could figure him.
And now he was here in the wilds of northern Hokkaido, building a
spaceplane. They'd sent over no less than the Grand Old Man to handle
the propulsion. This project was top priority.
A s it deserved to be. But the immediate question was, What was the
dean of Soviet rocket research doing here visiting him?
"Sorry I can't offer you a cup of tea. No samovar." He looked out the
open door one last time. Several Soviet staffers were glancing in as
they walked by, obviously puzzled why the famous Doktor Androv himself
had come around to talk with some unknown civilian.
"_Shto? Ya ne ponemayu._ . . . I not understand."
"Tea. _Chai_." He shrugged. "Just a bad joke." He reached over and
shoved the door closed, then gestured toward the cot. "In the wrong
language. Please. Sit."
"Thank you." The old man settled himself. "I did not come for _chai_."
His hands were trembling. "I want--" Abruptly he hesitated, as though
searching for words, and then his mind appeared to wander. "Your name
is Vance?"
"Mike Vance."
"And you are with American CIA?"
What's going on, he wondered? How did these Soviets find out?
"Uh, right." He glanced away. "That's correct."
"Mr. Vance, my son is test pilot for the _Daedalus_." He continued,
running his gnarled hands nervously through his long white hair. "His
name is Yuri Andreevich."
"_Pozdravleneye_." Vance nodded. "Congratulations. Yuri Andreevich is
about to make the cover of Newsweek. You should be proud."
"We have serious problem, Mr. Vance." He seemed not to hear. "That is
why I am come. I am very worried for my son."
Vance looked him over more closely. Yes, he did appear worried. His
severe, penetrating eyes were filled with anguish.
"Got a problem with the CEO? Guess the godfather can be a hard man to
warm up to, even for his new allies."
"Mr. Vance, I do not know you, but there is very small time." He
continued with a shrug, not understanding. "So please, I will tell you
many things in very few minutes."