The Secret Speech - Страница 46

The other prisoners chimed in agreement.

Leo approached Lazar, assessing his appearance:

— We need to dress as guards.

Leo, Lazar, and Georgi stripped three dead guards of their uniforms. They hastily got changed, hurrying, fearful the prisoners would change their minds. Dressed in an ill-fitting uniform, Leo took the wheel, Georgi in the middle, Lazar on the other side. Prisoners opened the gates.

Suddenly the young leader banged his hand on the truck door. Leo was ready to accelerate off, should he need to. But the man said:

— They’ve agreed to accept the wounded as a sign of good faith. Good luck, Lazar, I hope you find your wife and son.

He stepped away from the truck. Leo put the vehicle into gear, driving past the remains of the two guard towers, through the perimeter gates, and onto the highway, heading directly to the military encampment on the other side of the plateau.

* * *

RUNNING AS FAST AS HE COULD, the radio operator arrived at the outer gates. The prisoners were watching as the truck set off along the highway. Out of breath, the operator exclaimed:

— They’re leaving already? But we haven’t told the regional commander. We haven’t told him we’re sending the sick and injured. Should I run back and tell them?

The young leader grabbed the man’s arm, stopping him:

— We’re not going to tell them. We cannot fight a revolution with men who want to run away. We must make a lesson out of Lazar. The others must learn that there is no option but to fight. If the soldiers open fire on their own injured guards, so be it.

SAME DAY

LEO DROVE SLOWLY, edging along the highway toward the temporary encampment. With only two kilometers remaining, midway between rival camps, his eye was caught by a single puff of smoke on the horizon.

The view disappeared, engulfed in a cloud of dust. An explosion dug up the highway, only meters in front of the truck. Dirt and ice and shrapnel cracked against the windshield. Leo swerved, avoiding the crater. The right tire slipped off the tarmac. The truck almost rolled over, shaking as it passed through the smoke, lopsided. Heaving the steering wheel, he pulled the truck level, skidding back into the middle of the highway. He checked his rearview mirror, staring at the scooped-out portion of tarmac.

Another puff of smoke appeared on the horizon, then a second and a third; they were mortar rounds fired one after the other. Leo slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The truck surged forward, trying to accelerate under their trajectory, exploiting the fractional lag time between firing and impact. The engine growled, its speed slowly building. Only now did Lazar and Georgi turn to Leo for an explanation. Before they could speak, the first shell landed directly behind — so close the rear of the truck lifted up. For a fraction of a second only the front tires were touching the highway and Leo could no longer see anything except the road, the cabin facing directly down, angled toward the tarmac. Convinced the truck was going to flip over and land upside down, he felt more surprised than relieved when the rear sat back with a jolt, knocking them out of their seats. Leo struggled with the wheel, trying to regain control. The second shell landed wide, missing the highway, showering the truck with ragged chunks from the plateau, shattering the side window.

Leo swerved, abandoning the highway just as the third shell landed — a perfect shot, detonating exactly where the truck had been. The tarmac was ripped up, the remains thrown into the air.

Crashing across the uneven icy tundra, bumping up and down, Georgi cried out:

— Why are they firing?

— Your comrades lied! They haven’t called us in!

In the side mirrors Leo saw the injured guards, confused and panicked and bloody, peering around the canvas, trying to work out why they were under fire. Using his elbow, Leo knocked out the cracked side window, sticking his head through and shouting at the guards:

— Your uniforms! Wave them!

Two of the guards stripped off their jackets, waving them like flags.

Four puffs of smoke appeared on the horizon.

Unable to accelerate across the tundra, Leo had no other option except to hold the truck steady and hope. He imagined the shells arcing in the air, rushing up, then whistling down toward them. Time seemed to stretch — a second becoming a minute — and then the explosions sounded out.

The truck was still bumping along. Glancing in the mirror, Leo saw four columns of dust rising behind the truck. He smiled:

— We’re under their range!

He hammered the steering wheel in relief:

— We’re too close!

The relief melted away. Up ahead, at the edge of the temporary encampment, two tanks rotated their turrets toward them.

The nearest tank fired, an orange burst. Leo’s body involuntarily tensed, the air sucked out of his lungs. But there was no explosion — in the side mirror he saw the shell had ripped through the truck’s tarpaulin and exited the other side. The gunner would not make the same mistake twice, directing the next shell at the steel cabin where it was sure to detonate. Leo punched the brakes. The truck stopped. He threw open the door, climbing up onto the roof of the cabin, taking off his jacket, waving, shouting:

— I’m one of you!

Simultaneously both tanks lurched forward, their caterpillar tracks splintering across the tundra. Leo remained on the top of the cabin, waving his uniform from side to side. Less than a hundred meters away one tank came to a halt. The hatch opened. The tank operator peered out, mounted machine gun at the ready. He called out:

— Who are you?

— I’m a guard. I’ve got wounded officers in the back.

— Why didn’t you radio?

— The prisoners told us they had. They told us they’d spoken to you. They tricked us! They tricked you! They wanted you to kill your own men.

The second tank circled the rear of the truck, its turret aimed squarely at the occupants. The wounded guards pointed to their uniforms. The hatch of the second tank opened, the operator calling out:

— All clear!

* * *

AT THE PERIMETER of the temporary military encampment Leo stopped the truck. The injured were unloaded, carried to a medical tent. Once the last man was helped off, Leo would start the engine and drive down the highway, back toward the port of Magadan. The back of the truck was empty. They were ready to go. Georgi tapped his arm. A soldier was approaching:

— Are you the ranking officer?

— Yes.

— The director wants to speak with you. Come with me.

Leo indicated that Lazar and Georgi remain in the truck.

The command center was under a snow-camouflage canopy. Senior officers surveyed the plateau with binoculars. Detailed maps of the region were spread out, blueprints of the camp. A gaunt, sick-looking man greeted Leo:

— You were driving the truck?

— Yes, sir.

— I’m Abel Prezent. Have we met?

Leo couldn’t be sure that every officer didn’t meet Prezent at one stage or another, but he was unlikely to remember every guard:

— Briefly, sir.

They shook hands.

— I apologize for firing on you. But with no communication, we were forced to consider you a threat.

Leo didn’t need to fake his indignation:

— The prisoners lied. They claimed to have spoken to you.

— They’ll soon get their comeuppance.

— If it’s of any use, I can detail the prisoners’ defenses. I can mark their positions…

The prisoners hadn’t made any defenses, but Leo thought it prudent to seem helpful. However, the regional director shook his head:

— That won’t be necessary.

He checked his watch.

— Come with me.

Unable to get away, Leo had no choice but to follow.

Leaving the cover of the canopy, Abel Prezent looked up to the sky. Leo followed the direction of his gaze. The sky was empty. After a moment Leo heard a distant humming noise. Prezent explained:

— There was never any question of negotiating. We risk anarchy if their demands were met. Every camp would start a revolution of its own. No matter what they say in Moscow, we must not allow ourselves to become soft.

The humming grew louder and louder until a plane roared over the plateau, flying low, the numbers on its steel belly visible as it passed directly overhead, leveling out on a course toward Gulag 57. It was a Tupolev Tu-4, an aging bomber reverse-engineered from the American Superfortress planes — four propeller engines, a forty-meter wingspan, and a fat silver cylindrical frame. On a direct approach, the underside hatch opened. They were going to bomb the base.

Before Leo had a chance to question the decision, a large rectangular object fell from the hatch, a parachute opening immediately. The Tu-4 veered up, climbing sharply to clear the mountain while the bomb swung through the sky, rocking on its parachute, perfectly positioned, guided into the center of the camp. It drifted out of sight, landing, the parachute spreading across the roof of a barracks. There was no explosion, no firestorm: something had gone wrong. The bomb hadn’t detonated. Relieved, Leo checked on the regional director, expecting him to be furious. Instead he seemed smug: