Covert One 7 - The Arctic Event
Okay, IÕm at the bomb bay, he reported. He paused for a moment to catch his breath and reached for the undogging lever. IÕm opening the ha... His words trailed off.
Jon, what is it?
So thatÕs why the tunnel ladder was been moved. Somebody has been here, Val, and recently. Everything in here is covered with frost. Everything but the release handle on the hatch. ItÕs been wiped off. I can make out the finger marks.
Smith twisted and whipped the flashlight beam around the cockpit. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could spot the smears and scrapes in the frost cover where someone had moved around the cabin. He got in through the pilotÕs-side window.
Did he get inside the bomb bay?
WeÕll know in a second. Smith got a grip on the dogging lever, twisting it. The hatch unlatched and swung open with disconcerting ease. Hunkering lower, he peered into the dark opening.
SmithÕs strained breath caught in his throat.
It filled the entire upper half of the bomb bay: a great lozenge shape held in place by a network of struts and braces, the iced stainless steel of the case sparkling. The latent death of entire cities whispered from within it, billions upon billons of lethal disease spores slumbering in icy suspension, waiting for revival, waiting for release.
Confronting such horrors were part of Jon SmithÕs profession, but he still had to suppress a shudder.
Val, you were right. ItÕs in here. Put Major Smyslov on. IÕm going to need him.
As he waited for the Russian to come online, he quartered the interior of the bay with his light, looking for damage to the containment vessel or for the deadly telltale gray-brown stain of spore spillage. After a few moments SmyslovÕs filtered voice filled his earphones.
I gather we have a hit, Colonel.
We surely do, Major, Smith replied. IÕm looking at the reservoir now. From this end at least, it appears to have survived the crash in good shape. The bomb bay doors are partially caved in, but the casing doesnÕt appear to be involved. The mounts and bracings seem to be intact as well. Did Val tell you that weÕve had at least one snooper inside the aircraft?
Yes, Colonel.
HeÕs been in here as well. There is an instruction plate on the front of the reservoir casing directly opposite me. The frostÕs been wiped from it. I can see a Soviet Air Force badge, a hammer-and-sickle insignia, and a lot of bright red writing. IÕm not up on my Cyrillic, but I gather itÕs a bioagent warning advisory.
Quite correct, Colonel. That would tell the inquisitive one everything he would need to know about the payload.
Then I think weÕve found our information leak. Now, Major, the containment vessel and the anthrax dispersal system are your babies. Walk me through what I should be looking for.
Very well, Colonel. If the casing is intact, you should next inspect the dispersal system manifolds to ensure that the manual containment valves on the pressurization ducts are still closed and sealed. The valves shouldnÕt have been opened and the system armed until the bomber was coming in on target, but...
But, indeed. From those diagrams you showed me, those containment valves should be right over my head.
With his head and shoulders inside the bomb bay, Smith carefully rolled onto his back and found himself looking up into a tangle of large-diameter stainless steel piping.
Okay, IÕm looking up into the manifold assembly. I see two large lever valves directly above me. The valve gradations seem to just be marked with red and green zones.
That is correct. Those are the forward containment valves. How are they set?
The levers are turned all the way to the left and right, with their pointers aimed at the green zones. There appear to be intact wire seals on both valves, and the frost buildup hasnÕt been disturbed.
Very good. Smyslov sounded relieved. The containment valves are still closed. The system was never armed for drop. Now, just to the right, looking aft, next to the access hatch, you should see two more levers marked and sealed as were the overhead valves. These control the valves on the dispersal vents at the rear of the reservoir.
Smith squirmed onto his left shoulder. Okay, I see them. They are set vertically, in the green, and the wire seals are still in place.
Excellent! Smyslov exclaimed. Those are all metal-to-metal knife valves with single-use lead gaskets. Nothing will get past them. We still have full containment.
Theoretically. IÕm going into the bomb bay to do an eyeball inspection of the whole system to make sure.
There was some thumping and murmuring at the other end of the circuit, ValentinaÕs voice taking over from SmyslovÕs. Jon, are you sure thatÕs wise?
ItÕs got to be done, and if I do it now, I wonÕt have to come back later. Smith tried to sound offhand about it. In truth he wasnÕt sure he could make himself come back later. Belly crawling into the freezing blackness beneath that concentration of megadeath was a singularly unappealing prospect.
In fact, he had to do it right now, immediately, or see his nerve crack. IÕm going into the bay, he said shortly.
Backing his shoulders out of the entry hatch, he swung his legs in and dropped to the crumpled metal floor of the compartment. Sinking to his hands and knees, he began to squirm down the length of the bomb bay, hugging the starboard bulkhead to take advantage of the space offered by the curve of the containment vessel.
Even at that, the crawl was claustrophobic in the extreme, complicated by the crash-buckled aluminum of the bay doors. Smith had to carefully plan each move, flowing himself over the torn metal, striving to protect the MOPP suitÕs integrity. He couldnÕt help but flinch each time his shoulder bumped the brooding mass of the spore-packed casing.
The hood faceplate was fogging again, hampering his vision, and he had to partially feel his way ahead. He reached forward...and froze. Very slowly he lifted his head, trying to peer around the edges of the visor.
Major, he said deliberately, my right arm is fouled in a wire. The wire is connected to a series of rectangular metal boxes attached by some kind of metal clip to the side of the reservoir. The boxes appear to be one foot by four inches by three, and there are half a dozen of them spaced out along the near side of the casing. I canÕt tell if another set is mounted symmetrically on the far side. They do not appear integral to the reservoir. The boxes and wiring are frost covered and undisturbed. TheyÕve been there for a while.
You are all right, Colonel, Smyslov replied promptly. You are all right. Those are thermite incendiary charges. They are part of the bomberÕs emergency equipment. They were intended to destroy the anthrax to prevent its capture should the plane be forced down in enemy territory.
Fine. What do I do about them?
You donÕt have to do anything, Colonel. The charges are stable. They would have to be set off deliberately using a magneto box or a heavy battery, and if there are any batteries aboard the wreck, they would have been drained by the cold long ago.
Thanks for telling me. Smith untangled his arm and paused for a moment, panting.
This is odd, Smyslov said. The bomberÕs crew must have deployed the incendiaries after the landing, with the intent of destroying the warload. I wonder why they didnÕt fire them.
They would have saved everybody a lot of trouble if they had. Smith resumed his crawl to the rear of the bay. He had never considered himself a claustrophobe, but the bomb bay was getting to him, and badly. The cold metal walls kept folding around him, and it seemed increasingly difficult to breathe. He was getting a headache as well, the beating of his heart pounding at his temples. He had to force himself to focus on the job, checking the casing, inch by deliberate inch, for cracks or other damage and for spore leakage.
He made the last yard to the rear of the bay, twisting onto his back to check the rear of the reservoir and the dispenser manifolds. The fogging of his faceplate was getting worse, and the flashlight seemed to be dimming. His head suddenly seemed to be exploding, and he gulped for air, cursing weakly. This was no good! He had to get out of here!
Jon, whatÕs wrong? Valentina was back on the circuit.
Nothing. IÕm fine. ItÕs just...tight in here. The containment vessel is intact. IÕm starting back.
He tried to roll over and turn in the confined space. He couldnÕt seem to make it around. He kept hanging up on things that hadnÕt been there before, and his suppressed panic flared. He lost his grip on the flashlight and swore again as it rolled out of reach.
Jon, are you all right? ValentinaÕs words were sharp this time, demanding.
Yes, damn it! He gave up on the flashlight and tried to drag himself toward the dim patch of outside illumination at the far end of the bay. Cold sweat burned in his eyes, and his arms felt as if they were encased in solidifying concrete. His breath hissing through clenched teeth, he commanded his body to move. Only his body refused to obey.
And then it reached him through his muddled mind. He wasnÕt all right. He was dead.
Get away from the plane! he shouted weakly, his lungs suddenly on fire.
Jon, what is it? WhatÕs happening?
The planeÕs hot! IÕve been contaminated! ThereÕs something else in here! ItÕs not anthrax! Abort the mission! Get away from here!
Jon, hold on! WeÕre suiting up. WeÕre coming for you!
No! The suits are no good! It penetrates! The antibiotics arenÕt stopping it, either!
Jon, we canÕt just leave you! Beyond ValÕs frantic words he could hear SmyslovÕs demanding questions.
Forget it! He had to force each word with its own racking breath. IÕve had it! IÕm already dying! DonÕt come in after me! ThatÕs an order!
It had been bound to happen sooner or later. HeÕd dodged the biological bullet with Hades, with Cassandra, and with Lazarus. He had to take the fall sooner or later. That bit of his disintegrating consciousness that was still the researcher, the scientist, pushed its way forward. There was a last service he could render to those who would follow him into this black pit to learn and fight this thing.
Val, listen...listen! ItÕs respiratory. It hits through the respiratory system. My lungs and bronchial tubes are burning...No congestion or fluid buildup...no pulmonary paralysis...but I canÕt get oxygen...accelerated pulse...vision graying out...strength...losing...Get away...ThatÕs...order.
There was nothing left to breathe and speak with. They were calling to him over the radio, something about the MOPP suit. He couldnÕt hear over the staggering hammer of his heartbeat in his ears. Was this how it had been for Sophia at the end, drowning in her own blood? No. At least Sophia hadnÕt been so alone. He made a final effort to drag himself toward the light, just so he wouldnÕt die in this hideous place. Then the light was gone, and the dark took him fully.
An eternity passed, or maybe only a second.
Smith became aware of fragments...Movement...Touch...Voices...Pressure on his chest...Lips, soft, warm, living, pressed against his, with urgency but without passion.
Sensation returned within himself. The lift of his chest; air, cold, pure, pouring into his lungs like water from an iced pitcher. Life stirred with its bite, radiating outward. He could breathe. He could breathe! He lay there in the suddenly pleasant cool darkness, almost orgasmically relishing each inhalation.
A small ungloved hand brushed back his hair, and those lips pressed against his again. Gently this time, pleasantly lingering.
I think respiration has been fully restored, Professor, an amused, accented voice commented.
Just making sure, a second lighter voice replied.
Smith realized that his head was pillowed on a rolled sleeping bag. Opening his eyes, he found Valentina Metrace kneeling beside him, her parka hood thrown back and ice crystals glittering like stars in her black hair. She smiled down into his face and quirked one of her expressive eyebrows at him.
Smyslov was looking over her shoulder, grinning as well. Smith realized he was lying on the deck in the forward compartment of the bomber. He was vague for a moment on just what they all were doing there; then full memory came crashing back.
Damn it, Val! What do you think youÕre doing?
Both brows lifted. So IÕm enjoying my work?
ThatÕs not what I mean! he exclaimed, struggling to sit up. This plane is a hot zone! ThereÕs a contaminantÑ
Easy, Jon, easy, the historian replied, holding him down gently with her hands on his shoulders. There is no contaminant. YouÕre fine, weÕre fine, and the plane is fine.
This is true, Colonel, Smyslov interjected wryly. I told you before, barring two tons of weaponized anthrax, there is nothing the least bit dangerous aboard this aircraft.
Smith sank back and found he was still in most of the MOPP suit. Beyond the glare of the electric lantern that filled the cockpit, he could see a lingering trace of daylight through the windscreen. He must have been unconscious for only a matter of a few minutes. Then what the hell did happen to me?
You almost protected yourself to death. Smyslov held up the hood of the MOPP suit. ItÕs cold in here. The moisture in your breath condensed and froze in the filters of your breathing mask. It gradually cut off your air.
Valentina nodded. Something similar happened in Israel during the first Gulf War. During the SCUD bombardment, when it was feared that Saddam might be using nerve gas, a number of Israeli citizens suffocated because they forgot to remove the filter caps on their gas masks. You were rebreathing your own carbon dioxide. Only with you the effect must have come on so gradually that you didnÕt notice the buildup.
Smith looked back over his clearing memories. Yes. When I started to have breathing problems I first thought I was just having a bad attack of claustrophobia. Then I thought...
We know what you thought, Valentina said softly. You started to report the symptomology of your own death. But when you began to give us a very good clinical description of a man dying of suffocation, we realized what was going on. We tried to tell you to take off your mask, but you were too far gone to understand.
She nodded toward the glassed-in nose of the bomber. We came in through the cockpit window, and Gregori dove into the bomb bay and hauled you out. A little mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and here you are.
Smith grimaced. Pardon me while I feel incredibly stupid.
I shouldnÕt, Jon, Valentina replied soberly. I canÕt imagine what it must have been like, climbing into that chamber of horrors. Just looking through that hatch was enough to make my skin crawl. The historian shook her head in profound distaste. I love fine weapons, but that...thing...isnÕt a weapon; itÕs a nightmare.
IÕm not going to argue the point. Smith smiled up at her. I suppose I should be making a stink over you and the major for disobeying my direct orders, but I canÕt seem to work up much enthusiasm for it. Thank you, Val.
He extended a hand past her to Smyslov. And thank you, Major.
The Russian gripped it firmly. It is the duty of a good subordinate to point out factors in a situation possibly overlooked by his superior, he quoted, still grinning.
Smith tried to sit up again, this time succeeding with only a hint of dizziness. His strength seemed to be returning rapidly. Well, weÕve got some good news and bad news. The bad news is that we still have the anthrax to deal with. The good news is that the containment vessel seems to be intact and undamaged. Just in case, weÕll stay on the antibiotics, but I donÕt think we have any spore spillage to contend with. Val, how didÑ
She stood up abruptly, giving Smith a sharp but seemingly accidental bump as she got to her feet. Thank God for that at least, she chattered on. Do you think itÕs safe to fort up in the fuselage for tonight? It sounds like the weather is kicking up a bit outside.
Yes...I think that might be a good idea, Smith replied. I suspect it will feel a little odd camping on top of a mound of anthrax, but I think it should be safe enough. What do you say, Major?
Smyslov shrugged. I think it will still be bloody cold in here, but I think it will also be better than a tent out on that stinking glacier. I think weÕd do better in the aft compartment though.
Marvelous! Valentina said, offering her hand to Smith. LetÕs get our gear together and start playing house. I could use a dollop of that medicinal whisky you promised.
Smith accepted her hand and heaved himself off the deck. Now that you mention it, so could I.
Seated on the bare springs of the starboard crew bunk, Smith scowled at the walkie-talkie in his hand. Wednesday Island Station, Wednesday Island Station. This is crash site, crash site. Randi, can you read me? Over.
The little SINCGARS Leprechaun tactical transceiver hissed and spat back in his face. IsnÕt that just the way of it, Smith said in disgust. He snapped off the radio and folded the antenna back into the casing. You can communicate instantly with the farthest corner of the world except for when you actually need to talk with someone.
There is an entire mountain between us and the station. Sitting cross-legged beside the tiny pack stove, Valentina carefully dropped a ball of hard-packed snow into the pan of water steaming atop it. Beyond melting a foot-wide circle in the frost on the overhead of the crewÕs quarters, the little fuel-pellet burner was incapable of measurably affecting the temperature within the compartment, but it could produce hot water for an MRE and to refill the teamÕs canteens.
To save their batteries, the only illumination in the compartment came from a pair of chemical light sticks clipped to the bunk frames, the soft, all-encompassing green glow giving an impression of warmth.
The fuselage at least provided still air shelter from the wind whining across the glacier. The environment within the wreck would at least be tolerable for the night.
What bunk do you want, Professor? Smyslov asked, detaching his sleeping bag from his pack frame. Ladies have first choice.
Thank you, kind sir, Valentina replied. But please indulge yourself. IÕm taking the deck.
IÕm doing the same, Smith added, taking the last swallow of coffee from his canteen cup. They apparently built aviators on a small scale in those days.
As you wish. Smyslov started to unroll his sleeping bag into the lower port-side bunk. Tell me, Colonel, now we know we do have anthrax to deal with. How do we proceed?
Well, I think your people had the right idea; we just take it a step farther. Since we still have full containment, IÕd say we simply bring in a demolition team and pack the fuselage with a couple of tons of thermite and white phosphorous. We incinerate the whole damn thing right where it sits.
We most definitely do not! Valentina exclaimed, looking up from the stove.
Why not? Smith asked, puzzled. If we can just concentrate enough heat rapidly enough around that casing, we should be able to burn every spore before thereÕs any chance for them to spread.
Oh, good Lord! The blind who will not see! She gestured expressively around the compartment. Given its superb condition, this plane is a historic treasure! Come spring, if we can get an ice breaker and a helicrane in here, we could lift it off the glacier essentially intact! It could be restored. In fact...
The idea flared behind her eyes, In fact, with the components of this crash and the TU-4 thatÕs on static display at the Gagarin Institute, IÕll wager we could assemble one complete airworthy aircraft.
She turned to face Smyslov, suddenly as excited as a schoolgirl with a new bicycle. YouÕve been to the Institute! YouÕve seen the Bull they have in the air museum there! What do you think?
The Russian officer looked up, bemused. I really wouldnÕt know, Professor, but IÕm sure it would take a great deal of money.
You leave the fund-raising to me, Gregori! I know of a number of wealthy war bird fanatics who would give an arm and a leg to see the Fifi, the Commemorative Air ForceÕs Superfortress, doing a joint flyover with a genuine Russian B-29-ski. Champlain alone would be good for at least a quarter of a million!
Smith couldnÕt help but be impressed with her vibrant enthusiasm. Valentina Metrace obviously was a cobbler who stuck to her last. He whistled softly and aimed a thumb forward toward the bomb bays. IÕm afraid we still have certain other priorities here.
Valentina waved a hand arily. Details, details! I donÕt care what breed of germ we might have to tidy up. No one is casually putting the torch to this aircraft if I have anything to say about it. This is history!
That will be for the powers that be to decide, Val, Smith smiled. Not me, IÕm very pleased to say.
Smyslov looked over his shoulder at Smith, his expression intent. What do we do next, Colonel?
We know the anthrax exists and is still a factor, so reporting that is our priority. Smith set the empty canteen cup on the deck. Tomorrow morning, if we have decent weather, I intend to make one fast sweep around the crash site to look for the survival camp of the MishaÕs crew. Then we hike for the science station. If we canÕt make radio contact with the outside from the station, then IÕll send Randi back to the cutter in the helicopter to report.
Smith studied SmyslovÕs back as the Russian unrolled his sleeping bag in the crew bunk. IÕm also going to commit the reinforcement group and secure the island, Major. ThatÕs going to mean bringing the Canadians on board, and a general escalation of the whole scenario. I know we promised your government that weÕd try and keep this low-key, but now, with both the anthrax and the disappearance of the station staff to contend with, we may have no choice but to go overt.
I fully understand, Colonel. There is indeed no choice.
SmyslovÕs reply was unexpressive, and Smith had to wonder if the Russian was speaking in agreement with his words or with some thought of his own.
Ah, me! ThatÕs all for tomorrowÕs worry list, Valentina said, glancing toward the hatch set in the rear bulkhead. In the meantime, there is something else I need to have a look at.
CanÕt it wait until morning? Smith asked.
She looked toward Smith so the minute tilt of her head and the lift of her eyebrow would be masked from Smyslov. ItÕs nothing really. ShanÕt take a second.
Catching up a flashlight, she got to her feet and moved aft. Undogging the pressure door, she ducked low through it. Assorted thumps and bangs followed as she worked toward the very tail of the aircraft, followed by a few minutes of involved silence. Now, this is interesting, her voice reverberated with a metallic hollowness. Jon, could you please give me a hand back here for a second?
On my way. Smith followed Valentina into the dark of the passage. The historian was crouching on the gangway between the stinger turretÕs ammunition magazines. With her flashlight aimed at her face, she silently mouthed the words Shut the hatch.
Damn, Val. Were you raised in a barn! ItÕs even colder out here. He pulled the pressure door closed and twisted the dogging lever to the locked position. Moving back to the magazines, he sank down on one knee beside Valentina. She was turning a wicked-looking autocannon shell over and over in her gloved fingers.
WhatÕs that? Smith inquired over the whine of the wind playing around the tail surfaces.
A Soviet 23mm round. From the tail gun belts, she replied.
All right. WhatÕs going on?
Something odd, Jon. Things arenÕt adding up, or rather, theyÕre adding up in a very peculiar way. ThatÕs why I cut you off up in the cockpit this afternoon.
I thought as much, he replied. What are you seeing?
This airplane was fully outfitted for combat. In addition to having its anthrax warload aboard, its defensive armament was also fully charged. Furthermore, this plane didnÕt make an emergency landing here. This was an accidental crash.
Smith wasnÕt quite sure of the differentiation. Are you sure?
Quite. The bomber wasnÕt configured for an emergency landing when it hit the ice. Remember when I asked about the propeller and fuel mixture controls in the cockpit? They had been left at their cruise settings. Also, I asked about the flap lever. The wing flaps hadnÕt been lowered, as would have been done for any kind of a deliberate landing.
Valentina rapped the top of the magazine housing with her knuckles. Finally they didnÕt eject the gun turret ammunition magazines. In a B-29 Superfortress or a TU-4 Bull, that would be a standard procedure in a ditching or emergency landing scenario.
Then what the hell did happen?
As I said, a freak crash, a total accident, she continued. According to the maps of Wednesday Island, this glacier has a gradual descending gradient toward the north. The bomber must have come in from the North. They also must have been coming in at night, flying low and on instruments because they never knew the island was here. They came in between the peaks, and the terrain rose up underneath the aircraft. Before the pilots realized what was happening they struck the ground, or rather the ice. They must have been traveling at full cruising speed, way too fast for a conventional landing, but as fate would have it, the glacierÕs surface at that time must have been comparatively smooth, without any ledges or crevasses to trip the aircraft. So they hit flat and skidded cleanly.
There have been similar crashes in the Arctic and Antarctic, she continued in her whisper, when aircrews have lost situational awareness in whiteout conditions. To put a bottom line on this, this aircraft was not in an emergency state when it went down. They werenÕt lost, and they werenÕt landing. They were in a controlled cruise configuration, bound for somewhere else.
If thatÕs the case, wouldnÕt they have seen the island on their charts? Smith asked.
You have to remember that in 1953 detailed navigational information on this part of the world was all but nonexistent. The closest thing to an accurate chart was an American military secret. Wednesday Island is also something of a freak. ItÕs one of the highest points within the Queen Elizabeth Archipelago. At that time, whoever plotted this planeÕs course had no idea that a bloody great mountain would be parked out here in the middle of the Arctic Ocean.
ItÕs not all that much of a mountain, Smith mused. WeÕre only about twenty-five hundred feet above sea level here. WouldnÕt that be a pretty low cruising altitude for a pressurized aircraft like this one?
Very much so, she agreed. In fact, a TU-4 or B-29 would only follow such a low flight profile for one reason: if its crew were worried about being picked up by long-range radar.
Jon forced himself to play devilÕs advocate. WouldnÕt they have seen the island on their own navigational radar?
Only if they were using it. What if they were maintaining full EMCON, full emission control, with all of their radio and radar transmitters deliberately shut down to avoid detection?
If such was conceivable, it seemed to grow colder. So what do you think, Professor? Smith asked.
I donÕt know what to think, Colonel, she replied. Or rather, I donÕt know what I want to think. One thing I am certain of. Tomorrow morning we have got to find the crew of this plane. It might be more important in the greater scheme of things than the anthrax.
Do you think this might have something to do with this Russian alternate agenda?
He saw her nod. In all probability. I suspect when we find the survival camp, weÕll know.
I suspect weÕll know about Major Smyslov by then as well, Smith replied grimly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Smyslov watched Smith disappear into the tail. All evening he had been waiting for the opportunity to act, for a moment when the others were involved or distracted. This might be the best, if not his only chance.
He headed for the crawlway tunnel leading forward, snaking down its length as rapidly and as quietly as he could. He knew exactly what he was to look for and exactly where it should be. He also had the set of fifty-year-old keys in his pocket.
Earlier in the day, when he had been in the cockpit with Smith and Metrace, he hadnÕt dared to search. He couldnÕt risk drawing possible attention to the Misha 124Õs official documentation until he could ascertain its status.
Bellying into the forward compartment, he removed a pocket flash from his parka. Clenching it between his teeth, he sank down on one knee beside the navigatorÕs station and sent the narrow beam stabbing across the map safe below the table. Drawing the key ring, he fumbled with the safeÕs lock.
This had been a Soviet Air Force bomber, and in the old Soviet Union, maps had been state secrets, denied to all but authorized personnel.
After a momentÕs resistance the tumblers of the lock turned for the first time in half a century. Smyslov swung open the small, heavy door.
Nothing! The safe was empty. The navigational charts and the targeting templates that were to have been issued to the radar operator were gone.
Wasting no time, he closed and relocked the safe. The bomberÕs logbook and the aircraft commanderÕs orders would be next. Moving forward to the left-hand pilotÕs seat, Smyslov thrust the second key into the lock of the pilotÕs safe located beneath it. Opening it, the Russian groped in the small, flat compartment. Again nothing!
That left the political officerÕs safe. The most critical of the three. He squeezed in between the pilotsÕ stations to the bombardierÕs position in the very nose of the aircraft. Here the glass of the unstepped greenhouse had been caved in by the crash, and snow had drifted in and had refrozen. The bombsight itself was goneÑit hadnÕt been needed for this missionÑand the rest of the station was buried in caked semi-ice. Drawing his belt knife, Smyslov hacked his way down to the deck-mounted safe.
Damnation! The lock mechanism had been frozen solid. Swearing under his breath, the Russian tore off his gloves. Pulled his lighter from his pocket, he played the little jet of butane flame over the keyhole area. Burning his fingers, he muffled another curse and tried the key again. The stubborn lock yielded grudgingly.
Empty. The targeting photographs and maps. The tasking orders. The political officerÕs log and contingency instructions and the crewÕs postmission action planÑall were gone.
Smyslov resecured the safe door, repacking and smoothing the snow over it, trying to erase the signs of his tampering. Standing, he drew his gloves on again, his thoughts racing. It was all gone. All the mission documentation. That was how it was supposed to be. The Misha 124Õs political officer had been ordered to destroy every last scrap of evidence concerning the bomberÕs mission and the March Fifth Event.
But the political officer had also been ordered to destroy the aircraft and its payload. The thermite incendiary charges in the bomb bay were proof that he had been in the process of doing so when he had been interrupted. But what about the documents? Had he been prevented from destroying them as well?
And what of the men? Tomorrow Smith would go looking for the bomberÕs crew. What would be left for him to find?
Smyslov tugged down the zip of his parka and restowed the pen flash. He also removed the cigarette lighter from his shirt pocket. Not the little plastic butane he had purchased at the airport shop in Anchorage, but the other one, the stainless steel Ronson-style reservoir lighter he had brought with him from Russia. Balancing it in his palm, his mind raced through his rapidly shrinking number of options.
He could comfort himself with the thought that much of the decision making had been taken out of his hands. If the Russian Spetznaz troopers had killed the science stationÕs personnel, fate must run its inevitable course. The coming confrontation between the United States and Russia would not be his responsibility.
He need only concern himself with betrayal on a far more personal level. Today he had saved the life of a friend in this strange cold metal room. Tomorrow he might have to kill that friend as an enemy. And the disclaimer that it wasnÕt his fault rang hollow.
Hey, Major, you okay up there? SmithÕs voice rang up the crawl tube from the aft compartment.
Yes, Colonel, Smyslov replied, his fingers tightening around the little silver box. I only...dropped my cigarette lighter.
Several hundred feet up the face of East Peak, on a ledge that overlooked both the glacier and the Misha crash site, the wide lens of a powerful spotting scope peered out through a crevice in an artfully camouflaged stone and snow windbreak. Two men lay behind the windbreak, sheltered by an ice-encrusted white tarp spread and supported over their heads. Even with the protection it was searingly cold on the exposed mountainside. Yet the two watchers stolidly endured, the one peering through the night-vision photomultiplier attached to the spotter scope, the other listening intently to the small radio receiver he had been issued.
At regular intervals the two men conducted a survival ritual, their free hands moving between their crotches and armpits and their faces, transferring body warmth to their exposed skin, keeping at bay the vicious, scarring frostbite.
Slithering on his belly like a lizard, a third parka-clad man crawled to join the two behind the windbreak.
Anything to report, Corporal?
Nothing of importance, Lieutenant, the man at the telescope grunted. They have set up their camp inside the wreck. You can see lights through the windows of the rear compartment. Sometimes in the front as well.
Let me have a look, Lieutenant Tomashenko said.
The Spetsnaz corporal rolled aside, making room for his platoon commander, and Tomashenko worked his way behind the night-vision scope, peering into the green and gray world it revealed. The bomber lay on the glacier below the observation post like a stranded whale. The faint wisp of illumination leaking from the downed planeÕs astrodomes, all but undetectable to the naked eye, was magnified to a bright kelly glow by the photomultiplier. Intermittently the glow would pulse as a figure moved past the bubble windows.
Apparently the anthrax spores are not loose inside of the airplane, Tomashenko muttered. That is something anyway.
Tomashenko and his men had not ventured near the downed TU-4, nor had they even set foot on the glacier. The platoonÕs orders were specific and stringent. Keep the crash site and the investigation team under long-range observation. Conceal their presence on the island. Avoid detection at all cost. Await the issuance of the alpha command by the point agent attached to the American party. Be positioned to intervene instantly on the transmission of said command. Be prepared to withdraw to the submarine should it not be issued.
Tomashenko started to ask the radio monitor if he had heard anything, but caught himself. If the signal had been heard, he would hear. Until that moment they must wait.
Ê
Wednesday Island Station
Randi Russell lay quietly in the darkness. Beyond the partition, in the main room of the bunkhouse, she could hear the heavy slumber breathing of Doctor Trowbridge, the sound she had been waiting for.
An hour before, she and Trowbridge had banked the fire in the bunkhouse and theoretically had turned in for the night. However, in the womenÕs quarters, Randi had only stretched out fully dressed atop Kayla BrownÕs bunk, refusing sleep. Now, rolling silently to her feet, she began to prepare for the out-of-doors. She squeezed three pairs of socks inside the white thermoplastic bunny boots. Then came the parka and insulated overpants with the Lady Magnum and its speedloaders fitted into the holster pocket. Thin Nomex inner and leather outer gloves were pulled on, along with a white balaclava and finally the snow camouflage.
She worked in total darkness. Before shutting down for the night she had carefully positioned everything she would need and had mentally mapped out every move she would make.
Stepping to where she had left her pack, she removed a small plastic envelope from an outer compartment. Then, slinging her ammunition pouches and submachine gun, she took a folded HudsonÕs Bay blanket from the sleeping roomÕs upper bunk.
Sliding open the door in the partition, she moved the length of the bunk room to the outside door, navigating unerringly by the faint rectangular lessening of black of the windows and the light brush of a fingertip on a table or countertop, easing each footstep soundlessly onto the floor. Trowbridge was still deeply asleep as she slipped through the snow lock.
Sinking onto her hands and knees, she crawled through the outer door, keeping low in the snow trench beyond the entry. Snaking down the compacted paths, she made her way to the foxhole she had molded for herself covering the bunkhouse. There she constructed her hunting hide.
The heavy HudsonÕs Bay blanket went beneath her, insulation between her body and the ice. The contents of the plastic envelope went over her. It was a silvered foil survival blanket, incredibly warm for its cellophane-light weight. But unlike the usual blanket of its type, the backing on this one was not high-visibility orange but arctic camo white.
Covering herself with it, Randi merged with her surroundings, making of herself nothing but an unevenness in the snowÕs surface.
Here, in the lee of the island, the night was almost still. Yet the wind could faintly be heard, roiling and gusting over the sheltering ridgeline. Even with her night-adapted vision, Randi could only make out the slightly variegated shades of darkness around her, the hutÕs solid shadow geometrics against the slightly grayish black of the snow pack. Gradually, as the minutes and eventual hours passed, she began to note a faint wavering in these shades of night. She puzzled over it for a time, then realized the northern lights must be playing somewhere overhead, a meager hint of their illumination leaking through the cloud cover above the island.
It was cold, a bitter, infiltrating cold that gradually seeped through her armor of blankets and heavy clothing. Still, as silent, patient, and invisible as an arctic fox, Randi waited, breathing as lightly as she could to minimize her breath plume.
Under the survival blanket she cuddled the MP-5 close, not to protect the rugged weapon itselfÑit had been lubricated with an all-environment synthetic proof against arctic temperaturesÑbut to keep the batteries of the tactical combat light clipped under its barrel warm and energized.
Time crawled past like one of the islandÕs glaciers. Still, she waited. If she was cold, then he was cold, and he would know there would be a warm coal fire and a cozy bed waiting for him inside, with no reason not to claim them.
Finally Randi heard the first ever-so-faint squeaking crunch of a boot step on snow. Her thumb moved half an inch, flipping the fire selector on her primary weapon from Safe to Auto.
An amorphous blob of total blackness moved slowly down the trail from beyond the camp. Gradually it defined itself as the upright form of a man carrying a slender, elongated shape in each hand. Moving with a stalkerÕs care, he approached the bunkhouse entry.
The thumb that had flipped off the MP-5Õs safety moved to the button on the SMGÕs handgrip.
The figure paused for a moment outside the snow lock, taking a final protracted look around and missing the faint bumpy irregularity in the snow a few yards away. Then he leaned the elongated object in his right hand against the door frame and transferred the one in his left hand to the right. Using the freed left hand, he reached for the door handle.
Randi heaved aside the thermal blanket and came up onto her knees, the MP-5 lifting to her shoulder. Her thumb pressed the switch of the tactical light, and the narrow, dazzling blue-white beam lashed out, encompassing and paralyzing the man who stood at the bunkhouse door, his ice axe half raised.
Hello, Mr. Kropodkin, Randi said, her voice as cold as the barrel of the leveled submachine gun. Shall I cut you in two now, or should we wait until later?
The MP-5 lay on the bunkhouse dining table, its muzzle aimed at the dark-stubble-bearded youth seated in the wall-side bunk. Randi RussellÕs hand rested a short grab away from the SMGÕs trigger. They had both shed their heavy outdoor snow gear, and she had used a set of nylon disposacuffs to bind KropodkinÕs hands behind his back. Now she stared at the man with ebon-eyed intensity.
Where did you leave the bodies of the other members of the science team?
Bodies? Kropodkin turned to the third party in the room. Dr. Trowbridge, please. I donÕt know what this madwoman is talking about! I donÕt even know who she is!
I...donÕt either, really. Trowbridge blinked uneasily in the glare of the gas lantern, smoothing back his sleep-rumpled fringe of white hair. Still clad only in thermal long johns and socks, he had been jarred awake a few minutes before when Randi had prodded Kropodkin in through the snow lock.
DonÕt worry about who I am, Randi said coldly. DonÕt even worry about standing trial for murder yet. Focus on staying alive long enough to be handed over to the authorities. Answering questions is your best chance. Now, who do you report to? WhoÕs coming for the anthrax?
Anthrax? The SlovakianÕs eyes darted once more to his only potential ally in the room. Dr. Trowbridge, please help me! I donÕt know what is happening here!
Please, Ms. Russell. DonÕt you think we might just be getting ahead of ourselves here? The academic fumbled his glasses onto his nose.
I donÕt think so, Randi replied flatly. This man killed the other members of your expedition in cold blood, the teammates heÕd lived and worked with for over six months. He slaughtered them all like sheep, and IÕll bet for no better reason than money.
KropodkinÕs jaw dropped. The others...dead? I do not believe this! No! This is insane! I am no killer! Doctor, tell her! Tell this woman who I am!
Please, Ms. Russell! TrowbridgeÕs voice strengthened in protest. You have no grounds to make such...drastic accusations. We have no real proof that anyone has been killed here yet.
Yes, we do, Doctor. Last evening I found Kayla BrownÕs body on the hill below the radio tower. Someone had used an ice axe on her. That one, I suspect. Randi nodded toward the axe that lay on the table beside the submachine gun, the axe Kropodkin had been carrying. I have no doubt DNA testing will prove the point. TheyÕll probably also find blood traces from Dr. Gupta and Dr. Hasegawa as well. You took out Creston and Rutherford by other means, didnÕt you, Kropodkin?
The graduate student half rose from the bunk, straining at the nylon bands around his wrists. I tell you, I have killed no one!
RandiÕs hand covered the grip of the MP-5. The muzzle traversed half an inch, indexing in line with KropodkinÕs chest. Sit down.
He stiffened and subsided into the bunk.
Trowbridge stood watching the developing tableau, a totally blasted expression on his face. The revelation about Kayla BrownÕs corpse had been another of those things that shouldnÕt happen in his existence, another boulder in the accelerating avalanche that was sweeping his life and carefully ordered career into scandal and chaos. His only escape lay in denial. You have no proof that any of the expedition members are responsible for any of this, he protested hoarsely.
IÕm afraid I do. Leaning back in her chair, Randi caught up the model 12 Winchester Kropodkin had been carrying, the campÕs polar bear deterrent. This shotgun has a three-round magazine capacity. ItÕs a safe assumption that there were three shells in it when it left this camp.
She jacked the model 12Õs pump action repeatedly, but only a single round of magnum-load buckshot ejected to clatter on the tabletop. Three shells in the gun when it left the camp, three men with this gun when it left the camp. One of each came back. Do the math.
I fired those shells as a signal, Doctor, out on the ice pack! Will you make this woman listen?
The boy is right, Trowbridge protested with growing vehemence. At least he has the right to be heard.
RandiÕs cold stare never left KropodkinÕs face. All right. ThatÕs fine with me. LetÕs hear him. WhereÕs he been? What happened to the others?
Yes, Stefan, Trowbridge interjected almost eagerly. Tell us what happened.
I have been trapped out on the damned pack ice for two nights, and I have been wondering what happened to the others! He took a deep, shuddering breath, bringing himself under control. Dr. Creston, Ian, and I were looking for Dr. Gupta and Dr. Hasegawa. We thought maybe they had gone out onto the pack after a specimen or to get around the ice jam along the shore. Somehow, when we went out onto the pack, I became separated from the others. The ice near the island is very broken, with many hummocks and pressure ridges.
Then the wind shifted and a lead opened in the ice. I was cut off from the island! I couldnÕt get back to shore. I called for help! I fired shots. Nobody came! KropodkinÕs eyes closed, and his head sank onto his chest. I had no food. I have not eaten for two days. No heat. No shelter but the ice. I thought I was going to die out there.
Randi was unimpressed. She picked the single shotgun shell up from the table. The standard firearm distress signal is three shots fired into the air.
KropodkinÕs head snapped up. We found signs of a polar bear out there! I kept the one shell for him! I didnÕt want to be devoured on top of dead!
And how did you get back? Randi kept her words emotionless.
Tonight the lead in the ice closed. The wind must have changed, and I managed to get back to the shore. Then I came straight back to the camp. All I wanted was to get warm again!
ThatÕs odd, Randi said. I was out there tonight, too, and the wind seemed to be holding steady from the north, just as itÕs been all along.
Then it must have been the tide, the current, the Holy VirginÑGod knows I prayed enough! I donÕt know! All I know is that when I finally get back to camp, someone pushes a machine gun in my face and accuses me of murdering my friends. Awkwardly Kropodkin twisted in the bunk, looking to Trowbridge once again. Damn it to hell, Professor! You know me! I have taken classes with you. You were on my selection committee. Are you a party to this insanity as well?
I... Trowbridge stammered for an instant; then his sleep-puffy features tightened in resolve. He could not have been so totally wrong. No, I am not! Ms. Russell! I must protest. This man has obviously undergone a serious ordeal! Could you at least put off this inquisition until after heÕs had a chance to rest and have a hot meal?
RandiÕs eyes still didnÕt shift from Kropodkin, and her slight smile held the chill of the polar katabatics. ThatÕs an excellent idea, Doctor. He should have something to eat.
Standing, she removed a paratrooperÕs knife from the slit pocket of her ski pants and thumbed the button that snapped out the hook-shaped shroud cutter. Turn him loose, Doctor. She set the open knife in the center of the table. He can fix himself a meal.
Trowbridge picked up the knife. IÕll do it for him, he said, self-righteousness trembling in his voice.
I said he fixes his own meal, Doctor! Randi snapped, catching up the MP-5. Just cut off the cuffs and donÕt block my line of fire. Then go to your bunk, put on your pants, and stay out of the way.
Wordlessly, but red-faced with anger, Trowbridge cut the disposacuffs from KropodkinÕs wrists. Keeping the student covered, Randi reclaimed her knife and pulled her chair to the farthest corner of the bunk room. With her back to the wall, she settled down once more, the stock of the MP-5 tucked under her arm, and the barrel leveled.