The shadow cast by the mountain enveloped Gulag 57, stretching across the plateau, reaching out toward the temporary military encampment. Abel Prezent checked his watch: the toxin would be taking effect very soon; prisoners would be falling unconscious. They’d timed it carefully. At night, no one in the camp would think it odd that prisoners were tired. Before their suspicions were aroused the ground troops would advance, unseen, cutting through the fence and regaining control. The prisoners would be killed, except for a token number necessary to fend off accusations of a massacre. News of the success would spread through the region. Every other camp would receive the clear message that the riot had failed and that the Gulags were here to stay, that they were not the past-that they were part of the future, that they would always be part of their future.
– Excuse me, sir?
A bedraggled guard stood before him.
– I was on the truck, from Gulag 57. I’m one of the injured officers they released.
The man’s arm was bandaged. Abel smiled condescendingly:
– Why aren’t you in the medical tent?
– I faked my injuries to get on board the truck. I’m not seriously hurt. The doctor says I’m fit to report for duty.
– You needn’t worry about your comrades. We’ll be launching our rescue soon.
Abel was about to move away. The man persisted:
– Sir, it wasn’t about them. It was about the three men driving the truck.