“Stop here,” Reinhart ordered.
The surface car slowed to a halt. Reinhart peered cautiously out, studying the horizon ahead.
On all sides a desert of scrub grass and sand stretched out. Nothing moved or stirred. To the right the grass and sand rose up to form immense peaks, a range of mountains without end, disappearing finally into the distance. The Urals.
“Over there,” Reinhart said to Dixon, pointing. “See?”
“No.”
“Look hard. It’s difficult to spot unless you know what to look for. Vertical pipes. Some kind of vent. Or periscopes.”
Dixon saw them finally. “I would have driven past without noticing.”
“It’s well concealed. The main labs are a mile down. Under the range itself. It’s virtually impregnable. Sherikov had it built years ago, to withstand any attack. From the air, by surface cars, bombs, missiles—”
“He must feel safe down there.”
“No doubt.” Reinhart gazed up at the sky. A few faint black dots could be seen, moving lazily about, in broad circles. “Those aren’t ours, are they? I gave orders—”