there,' he said, pointing toward the mountains, àre more Chinese soldiers than you ever thought existed, all waiting for us to come bumbling across their border.'
His words were strangely prophetic and Gillon was to think back on them bitterly in the coming days. Stowe snorted. 'You're probably right . .
Òver there,' Leycock interrupted, pointing across the field. A bright red snowplow, almost black in the distance, was plodding comfortably down the far runway. A crystal plume of blown snow towered thirty feet above the cab, spraying a fine mist of flashing rainbows as it drifted slowly in the bright sunlight.
`Hey, you guys, wake up.' The co-pilot was standing above them in the hatch with a pack in either hand. He tossed both down and reached back inside for two duffle bags. which he passed down to Gillon.
`What are we supposed to do with these now?' Stowe yelled up at the co-pilot.
`For God's sake, if you don't know by now, then you _ better get hack .' He stopped abruptly and stared at the hangar.
`Who the devil?' Jones began, and took a few paces forward. The sound of booted feet trotting in rhythm floated around the side of the hangar and Gillon moved up next to Jones just as a squad of Russian soldiers trotted into sight. There were ten soldiers, five abreast and all carrying rifles at port arms while a sergeant trotted beside them calling cadence. Gillon and Tones stared at each other in surprise and both stared hack to the Jet-star just as two jeeplike vehicles roared up behind, one jamming to a stop in front of the aircraft's nosewheel, effectively blocking any movement, and the other skidding to a halt beside them. A young officer vaulted out as the soldiers reached them, rifles levelled.
`What in hell is going on here . .. ?'
The officer pushed Jones back and pointed. Instantly, four soldiers sprang forward to grasp each of them by the arms. Four more stepped in front of Jones and looked him up and down.
Àmerikanet?'
Jones glanced around at the other three and nodded vigorously.
'Yeah, yeah . . . Amerikanets
. Amerikanets . .
The officer nodded. 'Da, Amerikanets . . . Amerikanets. Shpion.'
'Like hell:. Jones shouted, and fumbled through his long-forgotten college Russian. Nyet, nyet Amerikanets shpion, drug K Rossii.'
The Russian officer merely snorted at that and motioned to the soldiers, who closed in tightly and began herding them toward the hangar. Gillon managed a glance over his shoulder in time to see the pilot stop, halfway down the ramp, beside the co-pilot, mouth open in surprise. A rifle barrel jammed painfully into Gillon's back was as good as a command in English to face forward and he did so, promptly. The officer, who had jumped back into his jeep to follow, climbed out again as they reached the building and pushed ahead to shove open the door. They were shoved inside and, with gestures, the officer made them understand that they were to sit down along the wall. Stowe jerked his arm away and shook his head. 'Like hell I will!' he shouted. His guard reversed his carbine and swung it hard to his midsection, but Stowe stepped to one side, parried the swinging weapon and kicked the soldier neatly in the back of the left knee. He went down in a heap and several soldiers rushed Stowe. The soldier he had knocked down, a short, thickset Tartar by his deep complexion and slanted eyes, got slowly to his feet and started toward Stowe, who stood waiting, shoulders hunched against the pressure of the arms that held him immobile. Gillon took a deep breath, forced himself to relax and eyed his guard warily, estimating his chances of jumping him; from the corner of his eye he saw Jones and Leycock tensing. The officer snapped a command and the soldier hesitated. The officer spoke again, his voice cold and flat, and the Tartar stepped back, hitching his carbine sling and glaring at Stowe, suggesting plainly that the incident was by no means forgotten. The officer, hands behind his back, stepped
His words were strangely prophetic and Gillon was to think back on them bitterly in the coming days. Stowe snorted. 'You're probably right . .
Òver there,' Leycock interrupted, pointing across the field. A bright red snowplow, almost black in the distance, was plodding comfortably down the far runway. A crystal plume of blown snow towered thirty feet above the cab, spraying a fine mist of flashing rainbows as it drifted slowly in the bright sunlight.
`Hey, you guys, wake up.' The co-pilot was standing above them in the hatch with a pack in either hand. He tossed both down and reached back inside for two duffle bags. which he passed down to Gillon.
`What are we supposed to do with these now?' Stowe yelled up at the co-pilot.
`For God's sake, if you don't know by now, then you _ better get hack .' He stopped abruptly and stared at the hangar.
`Who the devil?' Jones began, and took a few paces forward. The sound of booted feet trotting in rhythm floated around the side of the hangar and Gillon moved up next to Jones just as a squad of Russian soldiers trotted into sight. There were ten soldiers, five abreast and all carrying rifles at port arms while a sergeant trotted beside them calling cadence. Gillon and Tones stared at each other in surprise and both stared hack to the Jet-star just as two jeeplike vehicles roared up behind, one jamming to a stop in front of the aircraft's nosewheel, effectively blocking any movement, and the other skidding to a halt beside them. A young officer vaulted out as the soldiers reached them, rifles levelled.
`What in hell is going on here . .. ?'
The officer pushed Jones back and pointed. Instantly, four soldiers sprang forward to grasp each of them by the arms. Four more stepped in front of Jones and looked him up and down.
Àmerikanet?'
Jones glanced around at the other three and nodded vigorously.
'Yeah, yeah . . . Amerikanets
. Amerikanets . .
The officer nodded. 'Da, Amerikanets . . . Amerikanets. Shpion.'
'Like hell:. Jones shouted, and fumbled through his long-forgotten college Russian. Nyet, nyet Amerikanets shpion, drug K Rossii.'
The Russian officer merely snorted at that and motioned to the soldiers, who closed in tightly and began herding them toward the hangar. Gillon managed a glance over his shoulder in time to see the pilot stop, halfway down the ramp, beside the co-pilot, mouth open in surprise. A rifle barrel jammed painfully into Gillon's back was as good as a command in English to face forward and he did so, promptly. The officer, who had jumped back into his jeep to follow, climbed out again as they reached the building and pushed ahead to shove open the door. They were shoved inside and, with gestures, the officer made them understand that they were to sit down along the wall. Stowe jerked his arm away and shook his head. 'Like hell I will!' he shouted. His guard reversed his carbine and swung it hard to his midsection, but Stowe stepped to one side, parried the swinging weapon and kicked the soldier neatly in the back of the left knee. He went down in a heap and several soldiers rushed Stowe. The soldier he had knocked down, a short, thickset Tartar by his deep complexion and slanted eyes, got slowly to his feet and started toward Stowe, who stood waiting, shoulders hunched against the pressure of the arms that held him immobile. Gillon took a deep breath, forced himself to relax and eyed his guard warily, estimating his chances of jumping him; from the corner of his eye he saw Jones and Leycock tensing. The officer snapped a command and the soldier hesitated. The officer spoke again, his voice cold and flat, and the Tartar stepped back, hitching his carbine sling and glaring at Stowe, suggesting plainly that the incident was by no means forgotten. The officer, hands behind his back, stepped
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