the bureaucracy when the oil money was flowing, Utkin thought.
“If you would just take a closer look at what we’ve been doing, or perhaps a demonstration of some of the units’ various capabilities might convince you otherwise—”
“I admire your single-minded persistence, Doctor, but I have made up my mind.” Utkin opened his mouth to continue his attempt, but Istrakov shook his head. “Are you aware of just how many programs I have to evaluate in the next two weeks? I have reviewed your summaries, and in many areas, I must admit that the results you have achieved are impressive. But the training and preoperational period is completely unacceptable for the results you are claiming.”
“But we are now ready for true fieldwork, sir,” Utkin persisted. “Just find my units a mission and let them execute it. Then you will see what all that money and time has purchased.”
“At the moment, there is nothing that requires their specialized abilities. Your creations are not useful on the general battlefield, or training soldiers in Syria. They are highly specialized weapons, suitable only for things that we are not doing now.”
During Istrakov’s last comments, Utkin had run through several possible gambits in his head and evaluated the hazards of each. Like most good Russians working in the military and the government, he had a wide range of knowledge about things he probably shouldn’t have known about. Bringing any of them up, even in a roundabout way, might simply get him a quick trip to the gulag.
But after another second’s consideration, he decided to gamble on exposing a bit of what he knew—if he could just keep his program going another six months, it would be worth the risk. “Begging your pardon, I am aware of several initiatives that have been discussed at certain levels of our military that my units would seem tailor-made for. Particularly ones in the Far East, and in North America, as well.”
Istrakov’s brows narrowed. “Perhaps they would, but those various operations are all theoretical at best, and many are years from actual implementation. You are asking us to allocate millions of rubles a year to keep these units ready on the off chance that one of these programs might be enacted in the future. I’m afraid not, Doctor.”
Istrakov stared dispassionately at him. “I have my orders to cut the budget wherever I can, and your program is on the chopping block. It is that simple. You have two weeks to make whatever preparations are necessary for reassigning your personnel—”
“And exactly how do you suggest that I do that?” Utkin asked, letting his overall anger finally seep into his tone. “As you said yourself, these are not merely frontline soldiers, or even special forces personnel. They cannot simply be ‘reassigned.’”
“I understand. Your notes state that many of their internal systems can either be deactivated or removed. I suggest that you begin scheduling the necessary surgeries to make sure these units of yours will be able to function appropriately in their new assignments. Please be sure to follow proper procedures in doing so, including any letters of commendation or recommendation that would be required.” Istrakov leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “Do you have any other questions, Doctor?”
Utkin just sat there for a moment, blinking. Istrakov stared back at him until the silence grew oppressive. “Doctor, are you all right?”
With a start, Utkin shook himself and nodded. “Yes, sir, my apologies. This is all rather sudden. You had said I have two weeks to wind the program down, correct?”
“That is correct.” Istrakov was already focusing on his monitor again. “Any further issues or questions that arise during that time can be sent directly to my office.”
It was clear that the meeting was at an end. Utkin slowly rose and walked out of the office like a man in a trance. With a polite nod at the secretary, he left, walked down the hall past the entry checkpoint and out the door.
Blinking in the sudden weak sunshine, Utkin stood to the side of the headquarters entrance for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. Although a part of him had always known this day might eventually come, to be denied when they were so close to success was the bitterest pill to swallow.
Two weeks...two weeks to shut everything down, he thought while he walked down the broad avenue, oblivious to the other passersby.
He had gone a couple blocks when it struck him that perhaps he had been given two weeks to prove the efficacy of his program.
So, what if he were to show them what his program can do? The thought was so antithetical to his normal scientific mode of operation that it stopped him in his tracks. Several reasons came to mind—with his potential death factoring heavily in more than one—but he brushed them aside impatiently.
And once he removed any thought of personal survival versus what he hoped to gain—the continuance of his program—the reality of his situation was stark. Why not? He had nothing to lose anymore.
Overcome with the ramifications of the decision looming before him, Utkin looked around for somewhere to sit for a minute. He had wandered farther than expected while pondering his future, and now stood in an unfamiliar neighborhood of dingy shops interspersed with what looked like bars. Utkin frowned—he’d had no idea these places were so close to the military headquarters.
Selecting the nearest one, he stepped inside, wrinkling his nose at the overwhelming smell of stale cigarette smoke. He wasn’t a puritan, just not fond of the odor.
Sitting at the bar, he ordered vodka, and when it came, he reached for the shot glass and was about to knock it back when he stopped and stared at the drink in his hand, then set it back down.
No, he thought, if I am to do this, let it be my decision alone, unmodified by drink or anything else but my own conviction. He would use the remaining program funds for a series of missions.
Tossing some rubles on the bar, he left the full shot glass and walked back outside, now a man on a mission. Within another block, he found what he was looking for—one of the new payphones that allowed a user to access the internet, pay their utility bills, or even use Skype to call people.
With a surreptitious scan of the area, he picked up the receiver and dialed a number.
It rang twice before being picked up. “Da?”
“This is Father Time,” he said. “The alarm clock has gone off, repeat, the alarm clock has gone off. Please make sure that all students report to their assigned schools in time for the next semester. Confirm.”
“Understood, Father,” the voice replied. “All students are to report to their schools immediately and deliver their assignments.”
“That is correct,” Utkin replied. “I look forward to seeing their grades.”
“As do we,” the voice on the other end said before hanging up.
Utkin replaced the receiver, wiping it off with his sleeve. Now that the operation had been set in motion, he had a lot to do—starting with getting out of the city within the next twelve hours.
Geneva, Switzerland
Two days later
Mustering
