Page 53 of Ascendent
“No.” He stubbed out another cigarette. “Your brother works at the airport? When is the next flight out?”
“Where you going?” Stas threw his arms wide. “Alykel will take you anywhere.”
“South. Krasnoyarsk.”
Stas hunched forward, leaning conspiratorially close. “Actually, there’s a flight out tonight. Secret flight. Cargo transport.” He winked.
“Heroin?”
Stas grinned. “Not quite. We’re moving a load down south.” He mimed firing a gun. “To Krasnoyarsk and then to Irkutsk.”
“For who? What kind of weapons? Where did they come from?”
Stas was just drunk enough to answer, not care about what he was saying. “Some military guys. You know so much of the military has collapsed, yeah? After all that shit up in the Arctic, that crazy fucking shit out in Moscow?” He shrugged, like the coup was something that happened on another planet, only tangentially affected him. “They got a fucking lot of weapons from up north. Khatanga Air Base. It’s a ghost town up there. Nothing but dead bodies and everything for the taking.”
Hard to imagine anywhere further north than Norilsk, but Khatanga, a twin concrete runway next to an Arctic military base, hugged the northern Siberian coast.
“You selling them?” Sasha’s heart pounded. He had to call Sergey. Ilya. Had to tell them. Wasn’t Ilya securing the bases around the country? Weren’t the FSB taking control over the military, at least for the moment? Had something happened? How had Khatanga slipped through the FSB’s, through Ilya’s, fingers?
“We’re providing transport,” Stas clarified. “I’m not involved in anything. I don’t want to be connected to anything.” He sat back, shrugging again. “But they’re paying well to move the goods. You want on? I can get you a seat. It’s just cargo.”
“Yes.” He needed to see who was moving weapons. Who was emptying Arctic military bases. Was this theBratva? Arctic gangs? Opportunistic bottom feeders, looking to make a few bucks? Or remnants of Moroshkin’s faction?
“No issue,Moskal.” Stas checked his watch. “Let’s move. Flight leaves in an hour.”
* * *
Stas drovehim to the darkened airport, to the maintenance terminal on the far end of the runway. A quad propeller Illyushin waited, engines idling in the quiet. Headlights from two transport trucks shone on the plane. Men in blacked-out fatigues loaded crates and containers stamped RUSSIAN ARMED FORCES into the cargo hold. Stas had him wait in his car, an older Mercedes, while he talked to his brother, the same skinny man who had limped with the metal staircase over to Sasha’s earlier flight. He didn’t wave Sasha over to the plane until all the cargo had been loaded and the trucks, along with the men, drove off into the night.
“Okay,” Stas said, introducing Sasha to his brother. “This is Ivan, my brother.”
“I ‘member you.” Ivan grinned, all broken, yellow teeth. “Need to go to Krasnoyarsk? No questions asked?”
He needed to follow these weapons. But he nodded. Said, “Yes. Tonight.”
“How much you got?” Ivan asked
Of course. Sasha pulled out his wallet, a stack of rubles. He’d brought cash for this trip. After the Urals, there weren’t many places that took credit cards. He handed the cash over.
“That’s all a bigMoskallike yourself has?”
“He’s from here.” Stas waved Ivan away. “He’s from Kayerkan, like us.”
“Okhu el?” Ivan laughed. “Not in that jacket you aren’t.”
“Will this buy me a seat or not?” Sasha held out his money. Ivan reached for it. Sasha pulled his hand back. “This much. No more. Not one more ruble.”
“Da. Da.” Ivan motioned for the money. “Hurry up. The pilot will be here any moment. Get on board.” He hustled Sasha up the ramp, pointed to a canvas jump seat. “Buckle up. In a few hours, you’ll be in Krasnoyarsk.”
Stas leaned against a stack of crates as Sasha buckled in and stowed his duffel between his feet. The string of military codes on the crate said the contents were rifles and advanced weaponry. “So,Moskal. Any advice to a fellow Norilsk-Kayerkan boy? How do I become like you,da? Become big and bad? Wear a fancy coat like that?” He puffed on a cigarette, the last of his Siberian pack.
Sasha swallowed. A gust of wind blew off the tundra, rocked the plane on her wheels. He saw snow billow off the ground, spin and spin in the air, dance in a cyclone behind the tail.
Run. Disappear. Blow away.
Without Sergey, without his sun, the cold was calling to him. Since landing in Norilsk, he hadn’t been cold, hadn’t felt chilled. Was he used to it? His infection, or his true nature? Was his soul out there, beckoning him into the frost?
Where did he belong?
