Screw that.
Fifth
31
May 13, 1:18P.M. MSK
Severodvinsk, Arkhangelsk Oblast
Tucker walked Marco across the snow-packed pavement, heading for a sparse patch of yellow grass where a steam grate had melted a swath of the church’s yard. He eyed the tunnel below the grate as he stomped over it, shaking a crust of ice from his boots, weighing the vent’s usefulness as a means of escape.
His assessment:No chance in hell.
Especially now.
A trio of armed guards in white Arctic gear trailed them during this relief break for Tucker’s four-legged partner. Elle strode alongside them, bundled in a puffy coat that was too large for her.
Their small group had just finished a meager lunch in their cell. It had consisted of a cold gruel of lentils with a gristly meat of unknown origin. But at least the loaf of bread had only a few scabs of mold on it. Even Marco had turned his nose up at the offering, until Tucker had ordered him to eat. The dog needed to keep his strength up.
They all did.
As Marco sniffed and circled, Tucker gazed out at the spread of the White Sea Naval Base. The sun sat wanly overhead in cloud-scudded skies. It had snowed last night, just a dusting, when they had arrived in Severodvinsk, but a dark line sitting at the horizon suggested a bigger storm would roll in from the sea before nightfall.
Closer at hand, the base looked like the many others that Tucker had transited through as a Ranger: cement block buildings, yellow dock cranes, narrow brick stacks churning out smoke. Uniformed men and women soldiered past, keeping a wary distance, eyes down, huddled in their jackets. The sound of heavy machinery and the sharper notes of rivet guns echoed all around the shipyards.
A larger rumbling drew all their eyes to a corner, where an eight-wheeled armored personnel carrier trundled past, topped by a 30mm cannon. Tucker recognized the BTR-80A APC. From its larger wheels and wider treads, this one looked adapted to Arctic conditions, like much of the base’s equipment—not to mention the brigade that trained out of this base, using the surrounding frozen landscape and seas for their exercises.
“Potoraplivat’sya,” a guard barked behind them, hurrying them along with a wave of his rifle.
“Seems like our leisurely stroll has come to an end,” Tucker commented to Elle.
Marco must’ve understood and finally squatted over the grate and defecated a wet stream directly into the steam tunnel. Tucker hoped the smell spread far across the base. That’s what they get for the quality of their food, but Tucker knew that sludgy stool was also likely due to stress.
Another guard yelled at the dog, raising the butt of his rifle.
Elle stepped in the way before Tucker could. She cursed the soldier out in Russian, or at least it sounded that way.
The soldier backed down and pointed his weapon toward the church, ordering them inside. “Shevelis’.”
They were herded back toward the sanctuary. The centuries-old Church of the Holy Sacrament was built of lichen-crusted stone and hewn pine, gone black with age. But atop its tall steeple shone a golden orthodox cross, one that looked newly installed.
They were taken to the rear of the church, where steps led down into the cellar. Last night, Tucker had been surprised at the site of their imprisonment, then they were herded into the gloomy basement below the gilded nave of the church. He had quickly identified this level to bea lingering holdout of the old Soviet era, a site of a former jail, maybe an old black-ops facility.
Clearly, its new owners, the orthodox church—or at least, a certain archpriest—still found such a place useful.
The guards marched them to their cell. Elle had been offered her own accommodation, but she had insisted on joining Tucker instead, clearly not wanting to be alone. Though, he suspected it had less to do with his own presence than Marco’s. The dog had slept next to her in her cot. She had kept one arm protectively over him.
Once locked in their cell, Tucker dropped to his bed on the other side of the room, which had a mattress as thick and stiff as a deck of playing cards. They shared a single commode and shower that continually dripped in the open corner. But with their respective backs turned, they managed a degree of privacy.
Elle sank atop her cot.
Without being told, Marco hopped next to her.
Tucker gave him the smallest nod.
Good boy.
Elle stared across at him, leaning back on her arms. She was silent for a spell, then shifted straighter. “Tell me about yourself,” she said softly. “How did you end up here, locked up with me?”
