monolithic, in raising the unchangeable to the level of a principle. Should the army one day give up this position, it would be all over with security, and, above all, with the security in people’s heads.
Leonid had never wished for challenging work. With his qualifications, he might possibly have joined the army engineers or become a pilot—but he didn’t want to. Leonid Nechayev was twenty-nine years old, athletic and fit in appearance, with test results that demonstrated his intelligence; he was popular with his men and considered an agreeable subaltern by his superiors. But there was one quality lacking in his personal inventory: ambition. He’d reached the rank of second lieutenant effortlessly and had been promoted to first lieutenant when his turn automatically came up. His captain’s commission, the single unforeseeable turning in his career, had brought him freedom and anxiety in equal measure.
He recalled his telephone conversation with Anna. He’d recognized from the beginning the potential for problems with such a woman, but all the same, recent events had surprised him. His Anna was proud, filled with the highest ideals, and she dreamed of accomplishing something that would benefit society. He hadn’t imagined that she’d cheat on him, but rather that she’d want to give her life a mission. Her father had probably laid those qualities in her cradle; to be the daughter of an important Soviet writer entailed obligations. When Leonid had first met Anna, she was already a house painter, but in his view, her profession had represented nothing more than an intermediate stage on the way to something else. He could imagine the sacrifice she’d made by giving up school after her mother’s death, but readiness to make sacrifices was also an essential part of her character; her important father must be enabled to go on living his poet’s life. Leonid prized books that dealt with interesting subjects; he was suspicious of poems. In Leonid’s eyes, someone who took weeks to get a couple of verses down on paper was a parasite.
As for the separation from Anna, Leonid was able to cope with it. Their relationship had never been particularly passionate. Of course, going so long without seeing Petya caused him pain—in fact, it was a source of deeper regret than he’d imagined himself capable of. For Leonid, his son’s welfare was more important than anything else. Now Petya was ill, seriously ill, and Leonid, six thousand miles away, felt helpless to do anything for the child. Taking early home leave was out of the question. His garrison was small, the number of officers limited, and the duty arduous. He and his comrades represented Russia’s last bulwark against the imperialistic world; just beyond them lay Japan.
The abyss was now so close that the sea-spray struck his face like a steady drizzle. The final feet had to be crossed without the help of the steel cord. He narrowed his eyes, wobbled forward, and entered the office of the technical unit like a shipwreck survivor. Except for the private first class on telephone duty, the office was empty; the rest of the men were in the workshop, preparing their mission.
“They’ll be ready soon,” said the private. His rolled-up shirt sleeves revealed a pair of powerful forearms.
“Before we begin the operation, we have to do a security check.” Leonid removed his coat, which was soaking wet, and took his foul-weather gear out of his locker.
“High tide’s in an hour,” the telephone man said. “After that, we won’t be able to do anything.”
“Major’s orders,” said the captain, his voice grating. “We start in ten minutes.” He went into his room. Formerly, he’d never had to speak sharply to his men; he’d been on good, even familiar, terms with them. These lads, however, were falcons, overqualified, ready for anything, and often bored by the endless, dark days, on which nothing happened. It was hard to keep them under control, especially since Leonid was their professional inferior. For these men, it was a joy to board a light boat and head into the breakers, but Leonid hated the entire process. Mostly, he held on tight to whatever he could while the others sat insouciantly on the sides of the boat. The spray blinded him, and he feared that one of the three-foot-high waves might sweep him into the sea.
He kicked off his boots, pulled the oilskin over his pants, and slipped into the black waterproof jacket that bore the insignia of his rank on its lapel. This little scrap of material gave