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Twenty minutes.
Leaning lower, he throttled up, goosed the gas, and sped through the faded, rusted city. The asphalt was broken, and shattered glass threatened the tires.
Around every corner, they met unexpected obstacles: abandoned rusted skeletons of automobiles, moss-covered old furniture, and even a strangely surreal stack of band instruments.
Despite the hazards, Gray raced at breakneck speeds, taking corners hard enough to lift the sidecar off its tire. Kowalski whooped a bit at these turns. They passed the occasional soldier patrolling the streets, who lifted a rifle or arm in greeting as they raced past; at other times, Gray spotted a flash of a haunted face peering through a broken window, one of the stray scavengers of the city.
Reaching the outskirts of Pripyat, Gray sped toward the horizon as a trio of deer sprang away from the roar of the cycle. He aimed for the towering ventilation stack of the reactor. Even over the roar of the cycle, he heard snatches of amplified voices rolling out from the grandstands. According to
Masterson, Senator Nicolas Solokov was pla
But what was the man's plan?
What was Operation Uranus?
As Gray raced down a freshly paved asphalt road, he studied the growing hulk of the Chernobyl complex ahead. His eyes were drawn to what looked like a gargantuan Quonset hut off to one side. The arched steel hangar reflected the morning sunlight like a mirror.
And it was moving.
Like oil on water, the sunlight flowed over its curved exterior. It closed slowly upon the Chernobyl reactor. Most of the complex was gray concrete and whitewashed surfaces, but along one side, a hulking structure stuck out along one edge, blackened like a dead tooth. It marked the grave of reactor number four, a massive black Sarcophagus. The rolling hangar, open at one end, sought to swallow the structure under its high arch.
As they drew closer, Gray's mind shuffled through possibilities. Archibald Polk had been exposed to a deadly level of radiation, possibly from here. Whatever
Nicolas was pla
Masterson had warned that security would be high near the grandstands, especially with the number of dignitaries in attendance. The stands stood a quarter mile from the reactor. Gray weighed which path to take: to head for the grandstands or the reactor. What if he was wrong about the reactor? Could there be a bomb somewhere among the stands?
As the bike shot across the open plain between Pripyat and Chernobyl, a broadcasted voice reached him, echoing and hollow, extolling the virtues of nuclear cooperation in the new world. There was no mistaking that voice. Gray had attended several events at the White House.
It was the president of the United States.
Gray factored this into his account. The Secret Service would surely have canvassed the site, swept it multiple times, set up a strict protocol.
Additionally, the Secret Service would have agents on all sides of the reactor, again searching for any threat.
Gray studied the number of parked vehicles, the sea of satellite ante
As he weighed his options, speeding toward the immense site, he was awed by the sheer size of the project. The giant steel hangar slowly trundled along a pair of tracks, pulled by whale-size hydraulic jacks. It had already reached the dead reactor and had begun to close over it, arching high into the sky, its steel now nearly blinding with sunlight, so tall that the Statue of Liberty could stand on her own shoulders and still not reach the roof of the arched hangar.
Even Kowalski whistled his appreciation at the dimensions of the rolling structure. He finally leaned over and called out, What's the plan when we ?
Gray lifted an arm, silencing him. A new voice had cut into the president's speech. Like the president, this speaker was also familiar. He spoke Russian, then repeated his words in English, playing for the international audience.
Senator Nicolas Solokov's voice boomed toward Gray. I protest this travesty! he bellowed. Here we all are, congratulating ourselves for erasing a shameful piece of Russian history for hiding it, as though it never happened, sweeping it under a steel rug. But what about those killed during the explosion, what about the hundreds of thousands doomed to die of cancers and leukemia, what of the thousands of babies born into deformity, pain, and mental debilitation? Who will speak for them?
Gray was now close enough to see the stage that rose before the amphitheater seating. Figures were too small to make out, but giant video screens flanked the stage. One displayed the Russian president, the other the United States's leader. Each president stood behind a podium. In the center of the stage, another figure stood amid chaos. Nicolas Solokov. Guards tried to haul the senator from the stage, while others protected him so he could speak. From all the milling confusion, Nicolas must have barged onto the stage to initiate this dramatic, televised protest.
Off to the side, men in black surrounded and shielded the president.
Whatever Nicolas had pla
The speaker squawked with electronic feedback, then Nicolas continued, shouting,
You all believe a handsome coffin like this marks an end to a blasted legacy, but it is all sham! The monster has already escaped its cage! No matter how large a lock or how strong the steel, you ca
Finally, the guards overwhelmed the senator's supporters. Nicolas's microphone was ripped from his hands. He was dragged bodily off the stage.
The Russian president began speaking in his native tongue, sounding both angry and apologetic. The U. S. president motioned the agents to disperse, not wanting to appear spooked by a showboating politician. Speeches slowly resumed.
Behind them, the arch continued to swallow the reactor.
Gray slowed his bike. He still had a choice to make: to head to the grandstands or the reactor. He considered Nicolas's protest, his dramatic exit. It had all been artfully staged. The senator had plainly orchestrated a reason not to be at the event, to be taken away. But where? He would not leave that to chance. He would not risk being trapped in harm's way. Whoever had dragged Nicolas from the stage must be in his employ, removing him to safety.
Beyond the gaggle of TV vans, Gray spotted a green army jeep hightailing it away from the media area. It was on a dirt road that paralleled the eight-foot-tall tracks of the massive archway. The rutted path headed away from the reactor and curved around the end of the tracks toward the rear side of the complex.
Gray spotted a suited figure in the backseat.
Nicolas.
Gray stared upward. The blinding steel structure now consumed half of the blackened hulk of the Sarcophagus. In another fifteen minutes, it would close completely over the crypt. The grandstands rested a quarter mile away from the reactor.
Gray had to make a choice.
He pictured Nicolas Solokov seated behind the desk in the guard shack during the interrogation. From the cut of his clothes to the patterns of his speech, the man was arrogant and self-assured, an ego matched only by a need to control. It radiated out of him.