silent testimonials to their brutality: bodies so torn by the wolves and other
scavengers that it was hard to tell the manner of their passing. But some still
showed the marks of burning or of the knife or the bullet.
The cavalry patrol had seen identical marks in the hamlet Of Ozhbarchik on the
other side of the frozen Bering Strait.
During a day-long blizzard, the major had felt the unhappiness of his troops,
many of whom were muttering for a return to their homes in Magadan. But he had
urged them on with promises of extra pay all around and hints that the best
troopers might be promoted and transferred to the West. He knew from bitter
experience that it was pointless to appeal either to their religion or, even
worse, to their loyalty to the party.
But now they were close, anticipating an actual sighting of their prey within
the next twenty-four hours.
Aliev, the Mongolian tracker with the hideously mutilated face, was excited.
Jumping, green snot dripping from the raw hole where his nose should have been,
he held up his right hand, showing only one finger, indicating a single day.
Then he chopped at it with the edge of his left hand, showing he thought that
the Narodniki were even less than a day ahead of them.
Zimyanin stood in the stirrups, using one of his most valuable possessions—a
pair of scratched and battered binoculars with the name Zeiss engraved on the
side. He knew of no other officer of his rank who possessed such a wonderful
tool. Many had cheap telescopes or binoculars, but nothing to compare with
these.
To the south, in a cleft in the mountains, he could see a great wall of
concrete, with a stream of water gushing from near its top. It had to be some
sort of dam, he figured, blocking a river that was kept ice free by some
underground source of heat.
He moved the glasses to the right and inspected a series of sharp-edged valleys.
He thought he could see a trail worming into one of the valleys. For a moment,
Zimyanin thought he could even see signs of life: a plume of snow, as though men
on horseback moved there, and tiny black specks against the whiteness.
Bat his hands began to tremble, and the glass blurred with his breath. By the
time he wiped the lenses clear, the figures had gone.
If they’d ever been there in the first place.
AVALANCHES HAD DESTROYED virtually all of the little mining town that had once
flourished high in the ravine near the looming dam. Now only a few roofless
shacks remained.
Ryan and the others had discussed their plans, finally agreeing that the Russian
guerrillas were too dangerous to ignore. In the morning they would take the
buggies and return to the redoubt. Then they would use the gateway to leave the
ice-bound desert of Alaska behind them.
Chapter Eighteen
OKIE WAS ON GUARD, walking cautiously around the ruined houses at the neck of
the valley. From below she heard the river tumbling over the rounded stones at
the foot of the dam’s spillway. To her right, she could make out the great dam,
with its towers and pumping stations. The moon gave only a pale, spectral light,
not enough to illuminate the trail that clung to the mountainside, dappled with
patches of ice and snow. It hadn’t been easy to negotiate that trail, even with
the tracked buggies, but there was no other way up or down.
Her low-heeled tan riding boots clicked on the loose stones. The Mini-Uzi was
safely in its holster on her belt; the M-16 carbine cradled in her arms. Looking
behind her, she saw the tiny ruby glow of the fire that smoldered at the center
of their camp between the two parked buggies. Straining her eyes, the blaster
could see the gravelike mounds that were her sleeping comrades. The larger one
was Ryan Cawdor, and the mutie girl tangled together.
Okie spat, her sullen face showing her dislike for Krysty Wroth. Ryan had shown
interest in her before the redhead had appeared. If anything happened to the
mutie…?
There was always the strong possibility of a nasty accident.