Anton Malakov's jet touched down shortly before midnight. It was a small aircraft, much like the one Khrushchev used for personal travel. Malakov imagined he'd been transferred from Artem to Moscow in a similar plane, but he had been too drugged to remember. He still wasn't terribly lucid now. His nurse had given him another shot for the pain before he'd left with Gharkov, and he had two tinctures of a morphine derivative in case he needed them. But it was taking all his effort just to remain focused with this much dope inside him. Even after the jet had thundered to an eventual stop down the runway, Malakov still felt like he was flying.

For a moment there was silence, and Malakov sat there, his belt still fastened over his waist, his thoughts not so much wandering as fading away. His head nodded with a pleasurable, inviting weariness, and it wasn't until the door of the jet opened and a siren outside blared in that he jerked back into the here and now again.

"Agent Malakov, sir?" said the man boarding the plane.

Malakov looked up as his fingers - though they still didn't feel like a part of him - fumbled with the seatbelt. The man was about his age, wearing a military uniform. Malakov noticed the rank slips on his shoulder and breast.

"Yes, yes, of course," Malakov said/slurred.

Then he got the belt open, rose to his feet and followed the base commander out of the jet. There were a series of steps leading down to the runway. The siren got even louder. Malakov was almost moved to cover his ears.

Outside, there was chaos. The jet had stopped at one end of the runway, a mere fence away from the billet buildings. The noisy siren was atop a tall, thick post beside the fence, pointing toward the buildings. Although the noise almost drowned it out, Malakov could also hear the sound of orders being shouted. There were men running everywhere, seemingly without purpose, though Malakov suspected that this wasn't the case. Some were climbing into the backs of large diesel trucks that when full drove off. Many were carrying weapons - and not just their own: Malakov saw a whole platoon of men carrying rockets toward the trucks too.

"The evacuation is proceeding as you ordered, sir," the base commander shouted to Malakov over the cacophony. "We should achieve complete evacuation within the hour." He paused. "Hang on, cover your ears."

Malakov didn't have time to. The sound was literally ear-splitting; and not in that clichéd way, the description being applied to any loud noise. Malakov actually felt his eardrums injure as a fighter plane tore down the next runway over and roared into the skies. His ears were still ringing a good few minutes later, as the base commander led him through the gate in the fence and toward the chaos.

"Has the American weapon arrived?" Malakov asked as they made their way through the troops. Though he knew better now, Malakov got the impression from Gharkov that everyone else was still calling it that.

"Yes, sir. Several hours ago."

"Where is it? Take me to it."

It was right on the other side of the base, the base commander told him, as if hoping that might change his mind. And it almost did. A little part of Malakov's brain, the part that was feeling quite high, kept telling him none of this mattered, why don't you just stop, lie down and enjoy these sensations?

More fighter planes and a couple of bombers took to the air behind them, but they were now far enough away from the runway for the noise not to be so deafening. The further they got from the siren, the clearer Malakov's thoughts became. They were now walking through part of the base that had already been evacuated. Lights shining through the windows and open doors of billet buildings showed them to be abandoned. Malakov and the base commander encountered only a couple of officers, who barely stopped long enough to give the obligatory salute.

"Do you really think this will be one of the Americans' targets, sir?" the base commander asked. They didn't need to shout anymore.

"This is the largest airbase in nearly an eight hundred mile radius," Malakov told him. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't an answer either. He had told the base commander over the phone that in the event of hostilities breaking out, his base would be targeted. That was unlikely, but not entirely implausible - especially with this supposed American weapon here. But it wasn't the Americans that Malakov feared attacking and he didn't want these grunts getting in the way of things.

The commander grunted. "Yes. As I thought, sir."

He took Malakov to the far side of the base, within sight of the tall, barbed wire-topped double fence around the perimeter. There were wide gates, adjacent in the two fences, lit up by searchlights from nearby sentry towers. As Malakov got closer, he saw the rail tracks that came through the gates, and headed off beyond them toward the distant lights of night-time Khabarovsk. And as he came around the corner of the last billet building, Malakov saw the freight carriage, waiting at the end of the short line, right up against the buffer - and stopped dead in his tracks.

The freight carriage was like the back of a pick-up. It wasn't so much a carriage as an empty space on wheels, with slightly raised edges. And on top of this freight carriage, covered with insufficient tarpaulin, and locked in place with a criss-cross of industrial chains - was the distinct shape of Shelby's alien craft.

Malakov said something under his breath, but even he wasn't sure what. The base commander gave him a quizzical look, then gestured for him to come on. And then Malakov was walking toward the thing. It looked even bigger the closer he got. There was just this one carriage left now. The rest of the train had gone. There were four men standing guard, one at each corner of the freight carriage.

"Get rid of these chains. Take off that tarp."

Malakov gave the orders subconsciously as he walked around the craft once, and then twice. Once the chains were removed, the tarpaulin slipped off the shiny metallic surface of the alien ship silently with ease. And then it wasn't only Malakov standing there, staring at this thing with a mixture of fright and wonder.

He found himself climbing up onto the carriage, using one of the wheels as a foothold. He slipped, banged his shin, but his numbed body didn't feel any pain. As he stood up on the carriage at the front of the craft - though Malakov couldn't be sure it was the front - it wasn't just the drugs making him giddy.

And then, as he stood there, it opened up.

The soldiers, knowing their training, immediately pumped their weapons and took aim. The base commander asked Malakov what he wanted them to do, but Malakov didn't respond. Carefully, he edged around the craft - it was almost as wide as the freight carriage. Then he stuck his head into the opening.

Just as Shelby before him, he'd never seen anything like this. After a few seconds, he climbed all the way in. The panels were blinking and chirping, the whole craft emitting this low hum. As he touched it, felt it, even Malakov's anaesthetised body could detect this soft, incredibly rapid vibration. He stood in the middle of this ship and felt small and powerless, but the drugs stopped him caring.

"Sir?" said the base commander from the opening. He had climbed up onto the freight carriage as well, but wouldn't come in. "Sir?"

Eventually, Malakov turned to regard him. He was standing just outside the opening and he was holding a large metal box by its two handles.

"This is what you requested, sir," he said.

Malakov went over and opened the lid of the box. On top of the contents was what looked like a small two-way radio. Malakov took it out, then put it back.

"That's the remote detonator," the base commander said.

Beneath it were all the explosives.

Leonid Brezhnev sat in his office at home, a small measure of vodka untouched on the desk. He looked up at the clock. It was just after 2am. This was usually when he got up in the mornings, having slept for three hours. But he hadn't been to bed yet. He was waiting for someone. He had been waiting for several hours; and he would have to wait another thirty minutes before they finally arrived.

Brezhnev opened the door himself and ushered Metzkin inside. He took him into the office without a word and finally downed that vodka, now warm.

"Metzkin, I want complete honesty from you," he said, then after a short pause, added under his breath: "If you're even capable of the thing."

Metzkin of course looked completely innocent. "Sir?"

Brezhnev sighed. "Marshal Gharkov has now been missing for several hours: you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Metzkin took a deep breath, but then said nothing.

"Now is not the time to lose the leader of the KGB, Metzkin. There's even talk that he has been targeted by an American assassin here in Moscow."

"Well, his death's proved useful on two counts, then."

Brezhnev swept his arm across the desk, catching the empty glass with the back of his hand and sending it smashing into the bookcase against the wall. His nostrils flared, and Metzkin's proud, smug look fell from his face.

"Did you kill Gharkov, Metzkin?"

Metzkin sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, folded his arms, inclined his head to one side and blinked. "Yes, sir. I did."

"Oh, goddamnit, Metzkin! Why?"

"Because he was about to prove a liability, sir. One of my contacts informed me that he was about to go to Khrushchev with intelligence that would prove the Americans aren't responsible for these attacks, and Gharkov confirmed it."

Brezhnev snorted. "What do you mean, the Americans aren't responsible for these attacks? How'd he know? Who is responsible?"

So Metzkin told him. At first Brezhnev laughed, but it was a forced laugh, a dismissive laugh. By the time Metzkin finished, he wasn't even smiling.

"So you see, sir, if Gharkov had got to Khrushchev first, this would have been an opportunity squandered. As far as I know, there were only two others who knew about this extraterrestrial. My contact in the hospital; I have just paid her a visit - she should be found in the River Volga a few days from now. And the KGB agent, the one who told Gharkov all about this in the first place. I gave instruction for his plane to be shot down on the way to Khabarovsk, and as far as I know, it has been. With any luck that will be blamed on the Americans, too."

Brehznev just sat there, shaking his head.

"I know it's hard to believe, sir. I mean, killer creatures from outer space, and they're here in Russia. That's why it's perfectly plausible to keep on blaming the Americans. For all we know, the Americans might be in collusion with the aliens, anyway. They hire a third party to attack us, then they can deny all knowledge."

Brezhnev held up his hands. "Metzkin, just stop it."

"I've checked out this airbase in Khabarovsk, sir. It's our most important strategic defence outpost east of Irkutsk. If this thing's really heading there, and there's another massacre, you have to be ready. The place is a major military target. We're not just talking about some tanks on the Vladivostok beachhead that anyone can hush up. If the Americans are held responsible for an attack on that airbase, then Khrushchev will have no choice. You must push him toward a nuclear strike."

"I said stop!" Brezhnev slammed his fists on the desk.

Metzkin rolled his eyes and sighed silently. "If I may be candid, sir, now's not the time to be having doubts. This is a war, and only one victor will emerge. The only question is who it shall be. Will it be Khrushchev? Or will it be you?"

Brezhnev had heard enough. He opened the right-hand drawer, took out the loaded pistol and shot Metzkin in the chest. The force of the gunshot tipped the chair over and Metzkin fell out of it. The bang echoed around the room.

Brezhnev got up and walked around the desk, still holding the pistol in a loose grip. Metzkin was bleeding all over the floor, clawing his way slowly across the carpet, a completely, utterly shocked and bewildered expression on his face. His breath whistled in and out of his punctured lung. He looked up.

"Whuh-whuh-why?" he managed to gasp.

Brezhnev stood over him and sighed. "Oh, Metzkin. I could give you all the reasons, but I honestly don't think you have long enough to hear them. You and I, we don't want the same things, Metzkin. I want to be leader of the Soviet Union, not some radioactive wasteland. People like you are very dangerous; people who seem to believe it's possible to win a nuclear war. If we attack the Americans, they will attack us, and so will the French, and the British. And then the Chinese will join in on our side, and between us all we have enough nuclear weapons to kill every single person on this planet several times over - but we can only die once, Metzkin."

Metzkin, turning blue, grabbed at Brezhnev's ankle.

"And the other reason," Brezhnev said, lifting his ankle out of Metzkin's reach and licking his lips. "Is that you've proven yourself to be a liability, Metzkin. You're just too wilfully disloyal. When I am Premier - and I will be, once everyone knows that Khrushchev has blundered his way into this crisis - I could do without men like you, hovering around my rivals, teasing them with a promise of power. I should never have entertained your presence, Metzkin. You may yet kill us all."

"Nuh-nuh-no!" Metzkin went, reaching an arm up.

Brezhnev grabbed the grasping hand, held it out of his way. Then he aimed the pistol between Metzkin's eyes and put a hole in the back of his head.

By the time it reached Khabarovsk, the stolen black sedan car was almost out of gas. The engine sounded dry and tired to Jack Shelby. He was sitting in the back of the car with Agent Hanlon. It was the dead of night and freezing cold. He was exhausted, but the temperature kept them all awake and alert.

Mikhail Kramer was driving. Hanlon had rescued him from the administration block on the provision that he drove them to Khabarovsk - the CIA agent didn't know the way, after all. The prisoner had leapt at the chance. He knew if he stayed behind he would be either executed or lynched. He was bloody and stank of urine, but he was so grateful to be free he drove over 60mph for the entire journey.

They followed the road to Khabarovsk, and from there, found a reserved military railway line that led to a nearby airbase. That was the one, Hanlon said, and a little after 4am local time, they pulled up to the perimeter fence.

"Looks like nobody's home," Hanlon muttered as the three of them climbed out of the car. Kramer had parked it a hundred yards from the gates, but they could see through the double fences, and the entire base looked deserted. The gates were open, the sentry towers were unmanned, the spotlights were off, and billet buildings that did have their lights on were silent and abandoned.

"Are we too late?" Shelby wondered.

"I don't see any bodies." Hanlon shook his head. "But there's something up here. The gates are open. Let's go and have a look."

Shelby shot him a look, but Hanlon was already walking. He snapped his fingers at Kramer, who dutifully skipped after them like a dog - as fast as his scrotal injuries would allow him to. He hadn't asked them in the car why they spoke to each other in English. It was beyond one outlaw to interrogate another.

They walked along the fence until they reached the open gates. The railway line they'd followed here went straight through them. Shelby had a momentary flash of that infamous image of Auschwitz. But it was gone a second later. As he stepped over to the other side of the tracks, the lights from the nearest billet building, several hundred yards inside the base, were suddenly blocked right out by some large, dark, motionless shape that sat silently between him and the light source.

He moved from one side of the tracks to the other, and his fists clenched by his sides reflexively. The outline of the blockage was visible in silhouette and Shelby recognised that giant beetle-esque shape from the Roosevelt immediately.

"That's it," he said, breathless. "Hanlon, that's it."

Hanlon was a few yards ahead of him, standing beyond the first set of gateposts but before the first. He looked back at Shelby, then back into the base. He hadn't even noticed it before. He stopped and stared. Both Shelby and Kramer came up beside him, and as they peered into the dimness, and their eyes grew accustomed to the low light, the freight carriage and its cargo appeared to them.

"That means we beat it here," Hanlon said distantly. He sighed, took out his pistol and checked it was loaded, then holstered it again. "But the question is: by how much?" He paused, then looked at Shelby. "Come on."

Then he led the way into the airbase. Shelby felt his chest tighten as they got closer to the alien craft. It seemed larger here, on top of a lone freight carriage, and not submerged knee-deep in floodwater. The nearer they got, the more its shiny metal surface reflected the light from the nearby billet buildings. As they reached it, Shelby began to hear that peculiar hum again, that buzz of electricity.

Both he and Kramer stopped short of getting too close, but Hanlon went on regardless. Shelby could see from the way his shoulders rose and fell that the CIA agent was almost breathless with excitement. It was not a feeling Shelby shared. The humming sound just reminded Shelby of Shun Li, who had stood outside whilst he had gone in, with just as much curiosity as Agent Hanlon.

"Wondrous," Shelby heard him say from inside, once he'd climbed up onto the freight carriage and the craft had opened up. He'd said the words under his breath, but they came out crisp and clear in the early morning silence.

Shelby glanced at Kramer, and found the Russian already looking at him; they didn't speak the same language, but they didn't need to.

"Both of you, come up here," Hanlon said, then remembered Kramer and repeated it in Russian. His voice had dropped an octave.

Shelby and Kramer glanced at each other again, then went around the side of the carriage so that they could see Hanlon. He was standing in the opening, dwarfed by it, holding a brown package in his hand with wires coming out of it. When Shelby worked out what it was - or rather, who was responsible - he smiled.

Suddenly, machine gun bullets ricocheted off the ship with bright lightning sparks. The rapid klak-klak sound shattered the silence. Hanlon as good as tripped back into the craft. Shelby threw himself in after. Kramer dived between the wheels of the carriage. The firing continued for a few seconds, then stopped.

As Shelby picked himself up, Hanlon whipped out his pistol. "Did you see where they're firing from? Someone still in the sentry tower?"

Shelby shook his head. "Malakov?" he shouted.

Hanlon jerked him a white-faced look.

A few moments later, a distant voice from outside called back: "Shelby? Jack, is that you?"

Shelby grinned, then slipped past Hanlon and stepped out into the opening. He put his hands up, just in case. One of the spotlights from one of the sentry towers they'd thought abandoned came on, shining blazing white light right into his eyes. He covered his face with one hand, waved with the other.

"Shelby!" Malakov called. He was coming down from the sentry tower now, but Shelby still couldn't see him. "Jack!" Now on the ground.

And then Shelby saw him, his long shadow stretching for yards ahead of him as he came toward the carriage. "Malakov!" Shelby climbed down quickly, but Malakov reached him first. They stopped, a distance between each other.

At first Malakov was grinning too, but then his expression tightened. "Jack, what are you doing here? Why didn't you escape? How'd you - "

But suddenly he wasn't looking at Shelby anymore, but had torn his gun from beneath his arm and was pointing it up and beyond Shelby's head.

Shelby quickly glanced back. Hanlon had come out into the opening, and was standing in a firing position, his gun trained on Malakov.

"What's going on, Jack?" Malakov said.

"Both of you, put your guns down," Shelby said.

"We expected to run into you," Hanlon said, his tone venomous. "A chance to finish the job, I think." Then he snapped off the safety.

Malakov did the same. "Jack?"

"Fine. Shoot each other," went Shelby. "Leave me and the guy with no balls to fight this motherfucker on our own, why don't you."

Kramer poked his head out from beneath the train, though of course, he hadn't understood a word. Hanlon gave a short, genuine laugh.

Malakov faltered, giving him a quizzical look.

"Down," said Shelby forcefully, holding up both hands, one directed at each of them, and then gesturing with a patronising down motion what they had to do. And slowly, matching each other's moves, they lowered their weapons.

Shelby exhaled loudly. "We all need to talk."

The hunter stopped. The corona of another grey dawn was slowly encroaching on the horizon. In another few hours, it would be getting light.

He was standing on the same parallel metal tracks that he'd followed since the last slaughter. The metal felt cool beneath his rough feet.

He flipped open the panel on his arm.

The green circle was complete.

NOTES:
Once more, the longest chapter so far (and will probably retain that record), at only a few sentences shy of 4000 words. It would have been even longer if I'd written a direct account of the ensuing argument over what to do. Originally I wrote this in an indirect way, between Shelby saying they all need to talk, and the Predator drawing near. However, it just didn't sit well, a paragraph in the indirect, reportive voice; not at the end of the chapter, anyway. So I cut it out either way: an indirect account will work better at the start of the next chapter (the penultimate chapter), and a direct account (i.e. he said, but then he said) would take up too much space, merely delaying the inevitable: everyone deciding to work together to defeat the approaching Predator. And so on to the final showdown...