The Rock

THE RUSSIAN IV

The Russian vomited off the edge of the trail his stomach spasming in agonizing ripples. The remains of the cold army ration he'd eaten earlier in the evening stood out clearly against the white snow. He stood and willed the pain to stay a hand's distance away. He sensed it, but didn't let it override his control. The sickness was coming quicker than he had expected. He walked slowly back to the truck and pulled out the large-scale military maps of the area.

He checked his location and then estimated how far he had to go. He'd misjudged the radiation poisoning, but he hadn't made much of a miscalculation on his rate of travel. He should make it to his destination in a day, give or take six hours. He put the maps away and reached into his rucksack, pulling out a small pill bottle. He shook out the painkillers and took several, swallowing them with great difficulty.

Stiffly, he climbed into the cab of the truck and started the engine. He was on the edge of the wilderness that stretched to the northeast of Volgograd, formerly known to the world as Stalingrad. He felt it was appropriate that that city, site of the greatest exhibition of will of the Soviet people in the Great Patriotic War and so casually renamed by those in power, should be the first to fall to his plan.

He looked out the windshield. Mile upon mile of pine forest stretched in a mind-numbing continuity in front of him. His target lay out there, long camouflaged and hidden among the trees and swamps. When he destroyed it, the action would most certainly make them aware of what they had done to his son and all the others. He was committed to all who had sworn to uphold Mother Russia and had had their faith shattered and their pride spit on.

He pushed the gearshift lever into first and the wheels started turning, crunching the fresh snow from the previous night beneath as he moved down the old logging road. His eyes flickered for a moment from the dull glow of the headlights on the trail to the old photo he had taped to the dashboard. The young man in the sharply cut uniform, with the pilot's wings proudly pinned on his chest, grinned back at him. The Russian's eyes closed briefly-this time the pain coming from a deeper source than the radiation-and then he opened them. He focused on the road.