The Rock

THE RUSSIAN III

The truck rolled down the frozen dirt road and halted, front fender facing the slowly flowing waters of the Don River. The Russian looked to his left at a well-constructed log house built into the river bank. The front door opened and a man with a long, flowing black beard stepped out, looking quizzically at the military vehicle.

"Can I help you, comrade?"

The old ways died hard in the countryside. The Russian opened the door to the vehicle and stepped down. "I need to cross."

The man looked at the truck, then down at his large flatbed barge drawn up on the crossing site. "Can you pay?"

Some of the new ways had made it out here. The Russian reached into his overcoat and pulled out a wad of bills. "Yes."

The man nodded. "Let me get my coat." He disappeared into the house and when he reappeared, his son was at his side, a strapping youth who looked sullenly at the Russian soldier.

"My son will load your vehicle onto the barge. If you'd like a cup of tea, my wife has some inside. We'll be ready to go in a minute."

The Russian's stomach twisted at the thought of putting anything into it, but he kept his face expressionless. "Thank you, comrade." He left the two to maneuver the truck onto the barge and walked into the cabin.

A woman of indeterminate age, her features withered by the harsh living here in the forest, greeted him without a word, simply extending a chipped mug of steaming tea.

"Do you three live out here alone?" The Russian asked, cradling the mug in his hands, allowing the warmth to sink in.

The woman nodded. "Yes, General."

The Russian smiled. "I am only a colonel." He glanced over his shoulder. The truck was on board the raft. The old man was starting the two ancient outboard engines. The son was walking about the truck, going to the rear and peering over the back gate, trying to see what was tied down beyond the canvas.

The Russian gently set the cup of tea down. The old woman was back at the fire, stirring something in a large blackened kettle. He pulled his pistol out and shot her in the back of the head, the body pitching silently forward into the fire.

The Russian strode out of the cabin and down the sloping bank toward the barge. The youth stepped away from the rear of the truck and made his way over to his father, to take control of the second engine. The Russian hopped on board and they were on their way across, the engines fighting not only to make it to the other side but to keep them from being swept downriver.

Up to this point all the lesser rivers and streams had posed no obstacle, as the fierce winter weather had frozen them over with enough ice to be negotiated even by the ten-ton truck. The Russian had known the Don would be a major obstacle and in preparation for his final mission had studied crossing sites, finally settling on this one. The bridges were to be avoided-they were choke points with the potential of being closed off. Here, more than a hundred kilometers from the nearest tar road and bridge, this family was one of several that operated along the river, giving access to the other side for those willing to pay the freight.

In five minutes the far bank drew up and the father and son expertly maneuvered the front end of the barge into the landing site. The son laid down the two squeaking metal ramps and gestured for the Russian to drive off. As he stepped up to the cab of the truck, the old man appeared.

"If you don't mind, comrade, I'd like my payment now before you drive off."

The Russian reached into the cab and pulled out his AK-74. The old man's eyes widened. "Forgive me, comrade, you do not have to pay."

The Russian fired a three-round burst, the rounds producing a triangular pattern in the old man's chest and blowing him off the barge into the swirling frigid waters of the Don. The son turned and ran, leaping off the barge and scrambling up the snow-covered bank. The Russian flipped the selector lever to single shot, nestled the folding metal stock into his shoulder, aimed, and fired. The son tumbled down the bank into the water, and was washed away, a streak of red on the snow the only sign of his futile escape attempt.

Clambering into the cab, the Russian started the engine and carefully rolled off the barge, up the far bank, and into the cover of the woods. He knew he'd be long gone before anyone found the bodies, and even then the authorities would most likely conclude it was the work of bandits and not pursue the matter aggressively or quickly enough to affect his mission.

He felt no emotion over the death of the family. In fact, he felt he had done them a favor. At least they had died quickly-if all went as he planned, in forty-eight hours they, and millions more, would have begun to die slow and painful deaths.