“Those men have betrayed our trust. What does it matter if they’re charged with sabotage? Either way, they’re enemies of the people. Don’t forget, you gave me the justification to do it. You assured me that the sabotage was so sophisticated that it could only have been perpetrated by skilled workers!”
“But you know it wasn’t them. The reports show the times the accidents took place, but not the moment the machines were tampered with. Like the gauge, for example, the first problem was detected in a routine maintenance operation performed on February 6 at eight ten a.m.”
“That’s right.”
“But what you might not know is that to decalibrate that machine, a qualified operative would need at least twenty minutes. It would take that long to cause a fault subtle enough so that the damage wouldn’t be immediately detected, but bad enough to ruin the parts after a few hours of use.”
“What are you insinuating?”
“That the machine must’ve been tampered with in the early hours of February 6, sometime before the shift change.”
Sergei gave Jack a puzzled look mixed with resentment. “That doesn’t free any Americans from suspicion.”
“I beg to differ. I’ll remind you that, on your orders, at that time all Americans were forbidden from working the night shift, so it’s impossible any of them caused the damage.”
Sergei pursed his lips and stood, casting aside the chair. “Arrogant Americans! You think you’re better than everyone else. You take us Soviets for fools, without realizing that we’re the ones with the intelligence, the courage, and the determination that you lack. And why should I believe a word of your reports?”
“I don’t care whether you believe them or not. Wilbur Hewitt hired me to find out the truth behind the sabotage, and that’s what I’ve been doing. If you’d rather close your eyes and ignore the evidence, perhaps it’s because that’s what you want.”
“How dare you? Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“Until a moment ago, I thought it was Sergei Loban, upholder of Soviet justice. Now, I’m not so sure.”
The morning was as cold as it was overcast.
Jack got up with a sore back. As he pulled on the white overalls that identified him as a specialized operative, he shook his head. He was more convinced than ever that Sergei was hiding something, even if he had encouraged him to continue his investigations with the support of a Soviet assistant.
When he reached the foundry, he was received by the official whom Sergei had ordered to accompany him. It was Anatoly Orlov, the Soviet who’d acted as his guide on his arrival at the Avtozavod. Jack greeted him coldly and got to work. Sergei had ordered him to inspect the furnaces, the boiler section, and the mineral wagons. He spent half the morning completing the first tasks. But when he was about to inspect the molten mineral conveyor, Jack stopped.
“What is it?” Orlov asked.
“I can’t inspect them while they’re moving. You’ll have to shut it down.”
“Impossible. Production can’t be halted.”
Jack stood firm. The mineral conveyers consisted of a suspended rail from which metal buckets hung, transporting the molten ore from the crucible. Examining them while in operation was reckless and risky, because the molten material could splash onto anyone underneath.
“To see it properly, I’d need to go through the safety barrier and into the pit,” Jack explained. “I’m not going to do that with molten metal raining down on me.”
“All right. I’ll order them to stop,” Orlov muttered.
Jack waited for the conveyor to come to a complete standstill. He asked an operative for a protective apron, pulled on some gloves, and opened the door to the pit. Though stationary, the buckets of liquid metal swayed dangerously overhead. Jack protected his eyes and looked up toward the buckets. Though they seemed secure, they creaked menacingly. He went carefully forward, making sure he didn’t tread on the pieces of metal that were still hot, before heading back to the door.
“All in order. I’m coming out!” he yelled to the others.
Suddenly, before he could reach the barrier, the conveyor jerked into motion without warning, pulling along its deadly load.
Jack screamed like a man possessed when a splash of white-hot liquid missed his face by only a few inches, but the conveyor, relentless, continued moving, spitting out pieces of molten metal that forced him to retreat. “Stop the conveyor, you bastards!” he cried from the temporary shelter he’d found under a metal support.
Nobody seemed to hear him. The noise from the foundry was deafening. Jack tried to think—the support wouldn’t protect him forever. If he stayed there, he would be burned to death. He looked around. At that moment, a shower of incandescent projectiles lit up a piece of discarded rail. It might be his salvation, if he could reach it. He looked toward the conveyor and saw the buckets swinging overhead. He tried to synchronize his movements with the splashes by counting to himself: One . . . two . . . three. He got ready. On three, he leapt from his shelter and swooped on the metal bar, grabbing it and quickly returning to the support. But before he reached it, he felt a searing pain in his left hip, making him howl in agony.
Jack looked at the place where the molten metal had missed the apron and eaten into his flesh. With the red-hot fragment devouring his flesh, he took a penknife from his pocket and cut his pants until his hip was exposed. He roared when he inserted the sharp point between the flesh and the hot metal. As he extracted it, he felt a pain so unbearable that for a moment he wished he could tear his leg clean off. Curling up under the support, he screamed for help again, but there was no response. He took a deep breath and focused on not passing out. He could barely hold himself up because of the pain. He glanced at his hip again and saw a hole like a volcano’s crater. He looked away. He had to get out, but fragments continued to pour down, and right above the door they formed an impassible curtain of fire. He knew that what he planned to do was crazy, but he had no choice. He positioned the apron over his shoulders, took a deep breath, and gripped the metal bar with all his might. Then, without thinking, he left the shelter and ran with a limp toward the chain that drove the conveyor. With burning ingots whistling past him, he inserted the bar between two links and returned to the support. He prayed as the chain carried the metal bar toward the drive gears. Finally, the bar jammed between the cogs, the chain tensed, and there was a horrifying screech as the links bent and vibrated.