Methuselah Project S.O.S. by Rick Barry

Author:Rick Barry
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fithian Publications
Published: 2020-10-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

Strutting through the woods of the Exclusion Zone around Chernobyl, Nikita Klimov seethed. During all his months as security chief of T.R. III, no weakness or threat had escaped his attention. He’d beefed up nighttime patrols of the forest. He’d requisitioned night-vision goggles. He’d installed hidden, high-tech monitors with infrared capabilities. That any outsider could approach undetected was inconceivable.

But somewhere, one or more of his men had bungled and permitted an intruder to penetrate not only the vicinity above ground, but T.R. III itself. Not for the first time in his life, someone else’s gaffe made Klimov look incompetent. And it had happened precisely when a delegation of H.O. scientists was visiting.

The moment Klimov spotted a rotting tree stump, his army boot delivered a savage kick, exploding the dead wood into a hail of pulpy bits. Somebody would pay.

He paused, peering at the blue sky through the thinning veil of golden leaves overhead. Wait. The timing of it all ... Could one of those visiting brains be involved? He would interrogate each one. Then a worse thought surfaced—was it possible one of his own security men had assisted an outsider? A big enough bribe might tempt one of them.

Klimov curled his fingers into a fist, then punched a dead branch off the tree trunk beside him.

He would personally murder the cretin making him look foolish. If this intruder had inside help, Klimov would feed the culprit to the crematorium.

He continued along the barely discernible trail connecting each of the aboveground guard posts. Until today, the strategy of hiding T.R. III beneath Chernobyl’s “dangerous” Exclusion Zone had fulfilled the goal of keeping away all but the lost and the reckless. But evidently, tales of lethal radiation had fallen short of keeping out at least one interloper.

When—not if—this fake Number 49 was captured, Klimov would interrogate the man until he begged for death. That meant Klimov must bottle his anger for now. It would do no good to murder the slob before he was squeezed for details of his mission.

Klimov turned the new AK-12 in his hands and switched it from full automatic mode to two-round bursts. In his current state of mind, he was likely to cut the imposter in two with full auto. That would be satisfying, but stupid for his career.

He twisted his head to the left and keyed the mic attached to his epaulet.

“Glava-1 to all surface units. Be alert for absolutely anything out of the ordinary, on the ground or in the air. Footprints, sounds, airborne drones—anything. If so much as a crow looks suspicious, shoot it down and bring it to me.”

Of course, it was possible the intruder had escaped detection and still hid inside T.R. III. He keyed the shoulder mic again.

“SurTech-4, talk to me. What does the footage from those internal cams reveal?”

The voice of SurTech-4, the duty officer in charge of electronic surveillance, crackled back. “We’re still sorting evidence. Much video footage to review. Preliminary examination shows nothing unusual, with one exception:

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