Flames lit the night sky as the camp burnt to the ground.
Grant watched from behind a tree while he caught his breath. Men and beasts filed into the back of the nearest helicopter. He rummaged through the pockets of his uniform, found a toque, and slid it on his head. Grant waited for the last few people to board the chopper before breaking cover and jogging over. He kept his head down and prayed that no one would pay much attention to him. A soldier at the back of the helicopter saw him coming and pointed to the right side of the craft. Grant nodded and took a seat between two of the creatures, using their size to help mask him from view. He did up his seatbelt and pulled his toque down low as if he were going to take a nap.
The engines grew louder as the back ramp raised up and slammed shut.
Grant’s stomach dropped as the helicopter left the ground and pivoted in the air. There was no turning back now. He sank as low as he could in his seat and crossed his arms.
“Bot,” said a man, tapping Grant’s leg.
Grant lifted his toque, so he could see out of his right eye. A man stood in front of him, holding out a white armband. Grant looked out the corner of his eye and saw other men tying the bands on their left arms. He nodded and took the armband. Grant slipped it onto his arm and continued his charade. He suspected the armbands were a form of friendly forces indicator. Anyone without one would be considered the enemy and be shot on sight.
Grant checked the time. He’d never flown in an MI-26 before, but he was certain the flight would last no more than one hour. If Hayes was right, and the missile regiment was understrength, Grant didn’t expect the fight to last very long. It was the launch authorization codes that would delay Nazarov more than anything else. Without them he couldn’t access and launch the nuclear weapons. Grant felt sick to his stomach. He had no plan other than to stop the launch, or millions of people would die.
A phone rang loudly, startling the half-asleep duty officer. He opened his eyes and reached for the phone.
“Captain Petrov speaking, how may I help you?” said the officer, trying to sound wide awake.
“Captain, this is Brigadier-General Sokolov. Your commanding officer is not answering his phone. I want you to find him and have him call me. Before you do that, you must place your installation at red alert. Do you understand me?”
Petrov shot out of his chair. “Yes, sir, I understand. We will go to red alert.”
“I have already alerted the air base at Perm to scramble two fighters to your location. May God be with you, Captain.”
The call ended, leaving Petrov confused and alarmed. He turned on his heel to wake up the rest of the duty staff.
A man stood in the doorway to the duty center.
“Major Volkov, I’ve been ordered to place the base at red alert,” stammered Petrov.
“By whom?” asked Volkov, a man in his mid-thirties, with thinning, brown hair.
“General Sokolov.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Volkov, bringing his right hand from behind his back. In his hand was a Makarov pistol with a silencer on the barrel.
Petrov’s blood turned cold at the sight of the weapon.
Volkov fired twice into the young officer’s heart, killing him. He watched Petrov fall to the ground, left his pistol on the nearest table, and dragged the body away from the door. Next, he closed and locked the door. The only way to activate the base warning alarm system was from inside the room. Volkov took a seat and lit a cigarette. His betrayal of his country was complete. Aside from Petrov, he’d eliminated the base commander and the duty staff while they slept in their beds. No one would know what was about to happen until it was too late.