Page 92 of Stars
28
Dead Hand Operations Control
Nuclear Command and Control Bunker
Yamantau Mountain
Russia
Bootedfootsteps rang against the damp concrete, in counterpoint with his jagged, harsh inhales and exhales. Ilya moved in and out of the circles cast by exposed light bulbs. Only every third bulb was lit.
He glared at his phone, washed in the weak light as he strode down the corridor. “Answer your fucking phone, Seryozha,” he growled, passing under two more dead bulbs. He cursed Russia’s fickle financials that left their nuclear command and control systems underpowered and him walking in half darkness.
On the drive from Krasnoyarsk to Yamantau, he’d heard the breaking news over the radio.Death on the ISS. One of the American astronauts had died suddenly, cause unknown. The official rumor was a heart attack, but the unofficial rumor was far more gruesome. Leaks spoke of blood. Lots of blood.
No wonder Seryozha wasn’t answering his phone. He was probably pacing, pulling out his hair, screaming at the stars and trying to will Sasha back down to Earth. What the fuck had Sergey been thinking, encouraging the love of his life to become a fucking astronaut? He didn’t like it when Irina flew to Brussels and left him for a week thirty years ago. What the fuck did he think would happen when Sasha left the planet?
But whether he liked it or not, theblyadpresident of Russia had to answer his phone. Fuck, Ilya had to speak with him,now. General Sevastyanov had been part of so much, had his fingers in so many black projects. Svobodny-18 and Uchami, and now a Soviet weapons system dumped in orbit with his fingerprints on it.
And astronauts dropping dead.
Seryozha was right: Sasha had to come home.Now.
The last he’d heard from Sergey had been orders to secure Yamantau Mountain and the country’s nuclear command and control bunker. He’d still been cleaning up in Tomsk, working through Dr. Sevastyanov’s burned-out house. Whatever he’d hoped to find, he’d been disappointed. Her father had kept his secrets from her like he had from the world.
Ilya had dispatched his second-in-command at the FSB to Yamantau immediately and told him he’d arrive the next day.Secure the bunker. Lock it down to everyone but us.
The Americans brought the warhead onto the ISS, Sergey’s text had said. Ilya could read between the lines. There was a nuclear warhead far too close to Sasha for Sergey to sleep.
He tried Sergey on the phone one last time. “Mudak,Seryozha!” he growled into Sergey’s voicemail. “Answer your fucking phone. I have to speak to you. Call me.”
At the end of the long, damp underground corridor, a steel door undogged and swung open, the hinges creaking and echoing in waves that rolled past Ilya. A man stepped out of the bunker buried five thousand feet beneath the peak of Yamantau Mountain. Ilya raised his arm, waving at his second-in-command.
Iakov Zeytsev waved back. “Ilya,” he called, nodding.
“Do you have the bunker locked down?”
“We do.” Zeytsev pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. He offered the pack to Ilya.
“Spasiba.” Ilya accepted the light from Zeytsev and sucked down the sweet nicotine. His exhausted eyelids fluttered closed.Seryozha… what I fucking do to keep you and your dream of Russia safe. He’d be fucking glad when Sergey’s presidency was over. What idealists they’d been thirty years ago. What pragmatists they’d become. All Ilya wanted was one quiet day. A beach. And no one bothering him.
He didn’t see Zeytsev pull the gun or press it to the back of his head.
“Kneel,” Zeytsev growled.
“What the fuck!” Ilya tried to spin, shock arcing through him like he’d grabbed a bare wire. “Iakov—”
Zeytsev slammed his pistol down on Ilya’s skull and kicked the back of his knees. Ilya flew forward, landing in a flailing sprawl on the cold concrete. Blood dripped from his temple, puddling beneath him. He blinked, staring at the crimson liquid.
Iakov Zeytsev…Iakov had been in his FSB, rising through the ranks until he commanded the domestic counterintelligence division and then became his second-in-command after Moroshkin’s failed coup.
“You are a putrid fester on a cancer eating our Mother Russia,” Zeytsev hissed. “You are the enabler of a sickness that rots our home from the inside. You do Puchkov’s bidding and stab this country through her back.”
Ilya glared over his shoulder at Zeytsev, blinking through the triple vision and dizziness. He groaned. Squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re one of them.”
“I am a freedom fighter!” Zeytsev roared. “I believe in a free Russia! In a Russia that does not crawl on her knees, begging for handouts and pats on the head from the degenerate West!”
“You’re insane,” Ilya spat. “This isn’t fucking 1917! You cannot ignore the world!”
