airfield had a curiously deserted air about it, in spite of the bustle around an Aeroflot TU-144 airliner loading passengers at a small terminal. Heads turned in curiosity as the Jetstar taxied past and Gillon wondered if the national markings were still in place. They had been when he boarded the plane in Conakry, but they could easily have been changed in Rome without him having noticed.
The Jetstar eased to a halt in front of an old worn-out hangar. Staring through the window at the weather-beaten building, Gillon reckoned that it must have been built at least thirty years before, probably before World War II to protect the Russian southern flank as the Japanese had moved westward. Now it merely served as a forward base from which this 'safe' area of the Chinese border could be watched. There was, Gillon realized, only the remotest possibility that the Chinese would dream of mounting a land attack through the harrier imposed by the Tien Shan. Border actions might certainly be fought in the high passes and meadows, but hardly anything more serious. Only someone with the courage and stubbornness of a Hannibal would even dream of trying, and technology had long ago replaced elephants with less efficient means of locomotion. And further, since this territory was never in dispute with the Chinese, there was little likelihood that they would press for border adjustments as they had done further north along the Sinkiang border, or in the Far East along the Ussuri River. Gillon studied the building opposite them some three hundred feet. To judge by the multitude of signs nailed to its front the hangar did double duty as an administrative center. Weather-beaten and paint peeling, it nevertheless did not induce that empty feeling that most such World 'War II-vintage military buildings all over the world did, whether still in use or not.
Jones got up and reached into the rack for his parka. Gillon did the same, and, shrugging it on, he joined the others in the aisle, stretched and waited for the next-development. Shortly, the co-pilot stuck his head into the cabin.
'Captain says you may as well go on and get out. The control tower doesn't speak English and now they won't even answer us. Nobody else seems to be around.'
A worried frown appeared on Jones's face for a moment, but he motioned toward the back of the cabin. 'Let's go see what the holdup is all about.'
Leycock nodded and with a glance at the carbines in the overhead racks, walked to the hatch, unlatched and shoved it open and pushed the button to extend the ramp. The sun had been up for less than two hours, but already the sky was an intense cobalt blue with scattered, blindingly white clouds. The terrain, incredibly flat, stretched unbroken, west to the horizon. To the east, it butted sharply against the distant Tien Shan escarpment. From the level of the airfield, the mountains were completely covered with snow; the slopes icy gray and blue with long lines of shadow lacing sharp white ridges. The intervening distance was ethereal, mirage-like in quality, so that it seemed no more than a walk of a mile or two to the rearing barrier of snow and ice. Gillon turned to the north; again a similar vista. Flat steppe covered with snow stretching away to the horizon, the monotony of the terrain somewhat relieved by the demanding line of peaks curving away to the northeast. Gillon was struck by the majesty and serenity of these vast mountains.
He shook his head and glanced around to see if the others were as affected as he was by the quiet immensity of Central Asia. After a subdued moment, Leycock coughed in the cold air and the spell was broken.
'God almighty,' Stowe muttered, stamping his feet. 'This place is about as deserted as those mountains.'
'Don't let it fool you,' Jones said tightly. 'Neither is. This place is full of Russians and they are probably wondering who the hell we are because some damn fool clerk in Moscow forgot to process the paperwork. And,
over
The Jetstar eased to a halt in front of an old worn-out hangar. Staring through the window at the weather-beaten building, Gillon reckoned that it must have been built at least thirty years before, probably before World War II to protect the Russian southern flank as the Japanese had moved westward. Now it merely served as a forward base from which this 'safe' area of the Chinese border could be watched. There was, Gillon realized, only the remotest possibility that the Chinese would dream of mounting a land attack through the harrier imposed by the Tien Shan. Border actions might certainly be fought in the high passes and meadows, but hardly anything more serious. Only someone with the courage and stubbornness of a Hannibal would even dream of trying, and technology had long ago replaced elephants with less efficient means of locomotion. And further, since this territory was never in dispute with the Chinese, there was little likelihood that they would press for border adjustments as they had done further north along the Sinkiang border, or in the Far East along the Ussuri River. Gillon studied the building opposite them some three hundred feet. To judge by the multitude of signs nailed to its front the hangar did double duty as an administrative center. Weather-beaten and paint peeling, it nevertheless did not induce that empty feeling that most such World 'War II-vintage military buildings all over the world did, whether still in use or not.
Jones got up and reached into the rack for his parka. Gillon did the same, and, shrugging it on, he joined the others in the aisle, stretched and waited for the next-development. Shortly, the co-pilot stuck his head into the cabin.
'Captain says you may as well go on and get out. The control tower doesn't speak English and now they won't even answer us. Nobody else seems to be around.'
A worried frown appeared on Jones's face for a moment, but he motioned toward the back of the cabin. 'Let's go see what the holdup is all about.'
Leycock nodded and with a glance at the carbines in the overhead racks, walked to the hatch, unlatched and shoved it open and pushed the button to extend the ramp. The sun had been up for less than two hours, but already the sky was an intense cobalt blue with scattered, blindingly white clouds. The terrain, incredibly flat, stretched unbroken, west to the horizon. To the east, it butted sharply against the distant Tien Shan escarpment. From the level of the airfield, the mountains were completely covered with snow; the slopes icy gray and blue with long lines of shadow lacing sharp white ridges. The intervening distance was ethereal, mirage-like in quality, so that it seemed no more than a walk of a mile or two to the rearing barrier of snow and ice. Gillon turned to the north; again a similar vista. Flat steppe covered with snow stretching away to the horizon, the monotony of the terrain somewhat relieved by the demanding line of peaks curving away to the northeast. Gillon was struck by the majesty and serenity of these vast mountains.
He shook his head and glanced around to see if the others were as affected as he was by the quiet immensity of Central Asia. After a subdued moment, Leycock coughed in the cold air and the spell was broken.
'God almighty,' Stowe muttered, stamping his feet. 'This place is about as deserted as those mountains.'
'Don't let it fool you,' Jones said tightly. 'Neither is. This place is full of Russians and they are probably wondering who the hell we are because some damn fool clerk in Moscow forgot to process the paperwork. And,
over
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