Cold War

Chapter 22

Siberia!” Rasche said as he charged out onto the street. “Christ almighty, Siberia?” He looked both ways for a cab, didn’t see any-but when he briefly considered taking the subway the newsstand beside the subway entrance caught his eye. A stack of papers displayed the headline RUSSIANS DENY U.S. MISSILE CLAIMS.

He’d looked through a Chicago newspaper on the flight east and caught the usual snatches of news from radios and CNN and the like-it was hard to completely miss a major story in a news, saturated American city. Now the pieces fell into place.

”Shit,” Rasche said. “Siberia!”

There weren’t any illegal nukes being moved around, no Russian nationalists or separatists or terrorists threatening the U.S., he realized. That was the cover story, fabricated by someone in Washington to hide another monster hunt-and the Russians weren’t willing to counter it with the truth because they wanted to get their paws on the aliens’ high-tech goodies, too. That stuff could put their economy back on track, make them a real world power again without having to actually teach their people how to run businesses.

Half a dozen cabs finally appeared, a platoon of bright yellow Chevys charging up Sixth Avenue, vying with each other for position-they still seemed to hunt in packs, Rasche saw, the same as when he’d lived in the Big Apple. He flagged one down; it swooped in toward the curb, spraying Rasche’s pant legs with dirty slush.

”Where to?” the driver asked as Rasche climbed in.

Rasche hesitated.

The feds weren’t going to be cooperative, Smithers had made that plain. They’d shipped Schaefer off to Siberia to help out their team of monster-hunters, but they weren’t interested in Rasche, or he’d have heard from them already.

And it was a little late to volunteer, in any case-the mission had gone in. So he’d need to get to Siberia without any help from the feds.

In theory, he could go back to Kennedy and book a flight on Aeroflot to whatever commercial airfield was closest to the Yamal Peninsula, wherever the hell the Yamal Peninsula was, but what would he do from there? He didn’t speak Russian, didn’t know a thing about getting around there, didn’t know exactly where the alien ship was.

If he wanted to find this place where the alien ship had landed, he’d need a guide, someone who knew his way around, knew what was going on.

And he had an idea how to find one.

”The U.N.,” he said.

The cabbie didn’t ask any questions or start talking about Serbians; he just swung east at the next corner and headed downtown.

Rasche sat in the back of the cab, watching the familiar streets and buildings stream by, thinking over what he was getting into.

From what he’d heard on CNN and seen in the headlines, Pentagon spokesmen had been making threats, talking about a preemptive strike. The Russians had been countering with warnings of retaliation for any uninvited intrusion. Commentators talked about the sudden chill in U.S./Russian relations, and how even if this particular problem were cleared up there might be lasting damage. The whole world was closer to World War III than it had been at any time since the Soviet Union collapsed.

And all along, Rasche thought, the people in power, the people making threats and counter, threats, surely knew that there weren’t any misplaced nukes involved.

He used to wonder sometimes what had made Schaefer so bitter, what had happened to convince him that the human race was worthless, what had made it so hard for him to feel, to care about anything.

At that particular moment, Rasche thought he knew.

He didn’t give a shit about the politics involved in this mess; he was a loyal American, but that didn’t mean he had anything against Russians, or that he thought much of General Philips and company. Those clowns weren’t fighting for Rasche’s idea of freedom, democracy, or America-they were acting out of simple greed, out of a quest for power. They wanted to have the military strength to tell the rest of the world to go to hell, and they didn’t care how they got it.

Not that the Russians were much better. Somehow Rasche doubted that Moscow was going to share the alien technology with the peoples of the world, should they happen to acquire it, and if someone like that loon Zhirinovsky ever got elected president over there it could be bad news-but that wasn’t Rasche’s problem. The generals could smack each other around until doomsday for all he cared.

What he cared about was Schaefer. He was dealing with the world on a smaller, more personal scale than the generals and bureaucrats. He’d always figured that if everyone did that, if everyone minded his own affairs and lived up to his own responsibilities without getting any big ideas, the world would be a better place.

Rasche didn’t know much of anything about politics, but he did know that he wasn’t going to let anyone-not the feds, not the Russians, not the aliens-mess with his friends or family while he sat by and did nothing.

He paid the cabbie and marched into the U.N. Secretariat Building.

”Where do I find the Russian ambassador?” he demanded at the lobby information desk.

The guard started to give him the standard brush-off, but Rasche pulled out his badge and went into his “serious problem” speech.

Ten minutes later he was pounding his fist on a receptionist’s desk, demanding immediate admittance to the inner office.

”You can’t barge in on the ambassador without an appointment,” she protested.

”Just tell Boris, or Ivan, or whatever the hell his name is, that I know about that thing in Siberia,” Rasche told her. “Tell him that, and he’ll see me. It’s on the Yamal Peninsula at a place called Assyma – I know all about it. I know about the American team that’s gone in…”

”Sir; I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the receptionist said..

”But I do,” a deep voice said.

Rasche and the receptionist turned to look at the grayhaired man standing in the inner doorway.

”I heard the commotion,” the gray-haired man said.

Rasche had expected that; that had been the whole point of being loud and obnoxious in the first place.

”I’m sorry, Mr. Ambassador,” the receptionist said. “He was very insistent.”

”It’s all right, my dear,” the gray-haired man said soothingly. “Send the policeman in.”

Rasche smiled.

”Oh, and please, Sheriff,” the ambassador said as he ushered Rasche inside, “my name is not Boris or Ivan. I am Grigori Komarinets.”