“And no mention of a biological broken arrow in the Arctic involving two tons of anthrax?” Smith prompted.
She shook her head, then brushed back a lock of raven hair from above her brow. “Not a whisper, until the Russians brought the subject up with our President.
“Now, information on a bioweapons warload being carried by a specific aircraft might very well have been compartmentalized for security purposes. But this particular Bull and its entire aircrew have been completely erased from all standard Red Air Force documentation. They urgently wanted to make it go completely away. And I think the only reason the Russian Federation is admitting to its existence now is because it’s sitting there in front of God and everybody.”
Smith looked past Valentina for a moment and out the glare-bright window, digesting the information. “That is interesting,” he replied slowly. “Here’s one I’ve been wondering about. It seems damn peculiar to me that anyone would risk uploading a live biowar agent as part of a training exercise. Common sense would dictate you’d use some kind of harmless inert testing compound.”
Valentina shrugged. “You’d think so, and so would I. But then, we aren’t Russian. They tend to do things differently.
“Consider the Chernobyl disaster,” she went on. “We wouldn’t build a big electric power reactor with a combustible graphite core, but the Russians did. We wouldn’t build a big nuclear reactor of any kind without a proper radiation containment dome, but the Russians did. And we wouldn’t run a series of radical systems-failure tests on a big, unsealed graphite-core power reactor while it was up and critical, but the Russians most certainly did. I don’t think we can make any assumptions on that point.”
Smith nodded. “Then we won’t. Now, let’s move on to something else. I know the status of the Russian Federation’s current biowar program, but you’re our expert on past Soviet systems. What’s the possibility that bomber might be carrying something other than plain old anthrax?”
She sighed. “It’s difficult to say. The Misha 124 was the kind of aircraft that would have been used on a one-way transpolar strike mission against strategic targets in the United States. With that as a given, and given the plane was armed, it would have been carrying some kind of ABC warload: atomic, biological, or chemical. The Soviets wouldn’t expend a long-range bomber and an elite aircrew to deliver anything less potent.”
She took another sip of her coffee and squirmed around to face him directly, tucking her feet under her in the seat. “As for the specific agent, those were the days before the exotics like Ebola and before advanced genetic engineering. You had to make do with what Mother Nature provided. The big three everyone was fooling with were anthrax, smallpox, and the bubonic plague. Anthrax was favored because it was simple and cheap to manufacture in bulk, and militarily controllable because it isn’t a contagion.”
Smith frowned and considered. “If it were the plague or smallpox, we’d likely have nothing to worry about. The pathogens would probably be long inert by now. Besides, why lie about it? All three of the alternatives would have been equally nasty, and once we reach the crash site we’d know anyway.”
“Exactly.” Valentina gave an acknowledging tilt of her head. “That’s why it can’t just be the presence of the bioagent alone. They’ve already confessed to it. There must be some X factor involved that we don’t understand. Beyond that, the present deponent knoweth not. But I can be reasonably certain about one other thing.”
“What would that be?”
She took another sip of her coffee. “Something damn peculiar is going to happen when we get inside that airplane.”
Chapter Twelve
Anchorage, Alaska
Three hours out of Seattle the 737 popped its flaps and airbrakes and began its descent into the Anchorage bowl. Snowcapped ridgelines and the steel blue waters of Cook’s Inlet panned past the liner’s windows as it spiraled down into the contradiction of a twenty-first-century American city set in the heart of an essential wilderness.
Settling on its landing gear, the little Boeing taxied to the south terminal of Ted Stevens International Airport. A uniformed Alaska State Policeman from the airport security detail stood waiting for Smith and his people at the head of the Jetway.
“Welcome to Alaska, Colonel Smith,” the state trooper said gravely. “We’ve got a vehicle waiting for you out in the police lot.” He passed Smith a set of car keys. “It’s a white unmarked Crown Vic. Just leave it at Merrill Field. We’ll send someone to collect it.”
It was obvious that Director Klein’s invisible but potent presence had passed this way, smoothing their path. “Thank you, Sergeant,” Smith replied, accepting the keys. “It’s appreciated.”
The trooper also handed over a small, heavy case of black pebbled plastic. “This was also sent over for you, Colonel. Somebody seems to think you might need it.”
Smith matched the trooper’s rather pointed smile. “They could be wrong.”
They had limited themselves to carry-on luggage, so there was no need to join in the battle around the baggage carousels. Smith led his team out of the terminal building and into the crisp Alaskan noon. The oddly angled sun was warm, but the air was cool in the shadows, and the surrounding peaks of the great Chugach range were dusted with fresh snow—pointed hints that time was running out in the North.
As promised, a mud-streaked Ford with Alaskan state plates was waiting for them. After stowing their luggage in the sedan’s commodious trunk, Smith tossed the keys over to Randi. She slid in behind the wheel, with Smith taking the front passenger seat and Valentina the back. Automatically they paused to arm up.
Taking the pistol case onto his lap, Smith popped the slide catches and flipped open the lid.
Since joining the profession Smith had developed a theorem about weapons preference. It was a profound personality statement about the individual and the way they related to a potentially hostile world. It was also an absolute truth because it was something one was entrusting one’s life to.
He passed a black leather and nylon fanny pack across to Randi and watched as she ripped open the heavy Velcro fasteners and flipped the pouch section down and off the concealed crossdraw holster. Revealed also were the rosewood grips and stainless steel finish of a Smith and Wesson model 60, the Lady Magnum variant ergonomically optimized for a female shooter. With deft, practiced movements she dunked a speedloader of .357 hollowpoint into the revolver’s chambers.
Point proven. Randi Russell was a lady, and she carried a lady’s gun. But as she was a very serious lady, it was a very serious lady’s gun.
For himself, there was simple mil-spec practicality, a Department of Defense alternate-issue SIG-Sauer P-226 with a stack of 9mm clips and a Bianchi shoulder holster and clip carrier. The armed forces had expended a great deal of time and effort proving up the SIG as an effective and efficient personal firearm. Smith found no reason to argue with their decision.
Finally there was a small, elongated bundle wrapped in soft black cloth. “What’s that?” Randi asked as Smith lifted it from the case.
“Those are mine,” Valentina replied, resting her chin on her crossed hands atop the seat back. “Have a look.”
Smith opened the bundle. It contained a brace of throwing knives, but knives such as he had never seen before. Intrigued, he drew one from its nylon slip sheath.
Only eight inches long and barely the width of his ring finger, it was half haft, half blade. The blade itself was almost spikelike, with a flattened, diamond-shaped cross-section, the junctures of all four oiled facets honed to a shimmering edge. Both the doctor and the warrior within Smith were impressed. Like a rapier or one of the old triangular-bladed trench knives, it would produce a wound channel that would be a perfect horror to try and close.
There was no guard, but an indented thumb brace circled the top of the checkered hilt. And the knife hadn’t been assembled; it had been carved, expertly cold-machined out of a single bar of some exceptionally heavy metal.
>
The knife bore a certain family resemblance to the tonki throwing darts used in Japanese martial arts, and when Smith laid it across his extended finger to test its balance he found it perfect. Except for the blade edges and a minute silver “VM” scripted on one blade facet, it was finished in jet black.
“It’s beautiful,” Randi whispered in honest appreciation. And it was. There was a sense of design and proportion to the little knife that made it a work of art beyond the weapon.
“Thank you,” Valentina Metrace replied. “That’s DY-100 steel—hellish stuff to work but incredibly strong, and if you can get an edge on it, it lasts forever.”
Smith glanced back at her. “You made these?”
Valentina gave a modestly acknowledging tilt of her head. “A hobby.”
Randi smiled indulgently as she buckled the belt of the fanny pack/ holster around her waist. “They’re pretty, Professor, but if a situation develops you might want something a little more substantial.”
“Never underestimate the point and the edge, darling.” Valentina accepted the knives from Smith. “Blades have killed more people than all of the bombs and bullets ever created, and they continue to do so with undiminished efficiency.”
One of the throwing knives vanished up the historian’s left sweater sleeve, the other into a boot top. “My little pets are silent, jamproof, and far easier to conceal than a gun. You never have to worry about running out of ammunition, and they can punch through soft body armor that would stop a conventional pistol round cold.”
Randi gave her gun belt a final settling tug and cranked over the Crown Victoria’s ignition. “I’ll stick with a gun, thanks.”
“Hopefully we won’t need either flavor of ordnance on this job, ladies.”
“Hopefully, Jon?” Randi replied, backing the car out of its slot.
“Well, let’s call it a nice thought.”
The next step was a call to a number he’d committed to memory before leaving Seattle that morning. As they worked their way out of the airport lot Smith keyed his cell phone. A deep voice speaking a mildly accented but excellent English replied, “This is Major Smyslov.”
“Good afternoon, Major, this is Colonel Smith. We will be picking you up in front of your hotel in about fifteen minutes. A white Ford sedan, Alaska license, Sierra...Tango...Tango...three...four...seven, one man, two women. Civilian clothes.”
“Very good, Colonel, I will be waiting.”
Smith flipped the phone shut. This would be his next critical unknown. There had already been a couple of interesting turns in his team’s makeup. What would this last member add to the already exotic brew?
Clad in anorak, khaki slacks, and climbing boots, Major Gregori Smyslov stood outside the lobby entrance of the Arctic Inn, his flight bag at his feet and his thoughts paralleling those of Jon Smith.
He had been briefed to expect an army doctor, a historian, and a civilian helicopter pilot. But who would they truly be? Already Smyslov had the sense they would be something more. The way Smith had set up the contact and pickup, the crisp identifiers he had given—they had the flavor of an experienced field operative.
Impatiently he lit a Camel filter with a disposable butane lighter, not of a mood to enjoy the superior American tobacco. Soon his performance would begin.
Already Smyslov didn’t like the feel of this job. It had the stink of desperation about it, a stench all too common in Russian governmental circles in these days. Someone somewhere in the Moscow bureaucracy was not thinking, just reacting.
He took a hard drag on the cigarette. It wasn’t his place to decide such things.
The white automobile he had been told to expect turned off the street and rolled to a halt under the hotel canopy, its license number and passengers matching the given description. Smyslov flipped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it deliberately with his boot heel. Presently he would know, or at least he would have an idea, where the Americans stood and what they suspected.
Collecting his bag, Smyslov strode out to the car.
Within five minutes Smyslov indeed knew, and any hope that the Americans might be naively accepting the Russian line on the Misha 124 crash was irrevocably gone. As he was flying a false flag, so was everyone else.
The two women might look like American fashion models, but they most certainly were something else. The taciturn, wary blonde driving the car, theoretically the “helicopter pilot,” was maintaining a spy’s situational awareness, as was the more openly relaxed and vivacious brunette “history professor.” As she lounged in the backseat beside him, overtly chatting about the Alaskan climate, her vision scanned in a regular pattern, checking the paralleling traffic and skipping from one rearview mirror to the other, watching for potential tails.
Smyslov judged them as CIA or as members of one of the associate intelligence agencies that made up what the Americans called “the Club.”
He wondered if the striking attractiveness of the two female agents was a mere coincidence or if one or both of them might include seductive interrogation as part of their arsenal.
That could prove disconcerting.
As for the team leader, he might be an Army surgeon but he was also American Spetsnaz, probably attached to their defense intelligence agency. The feeling of alert, focused confidence radiating from him was unmistakable, as was the bulk of the military-caliber automatic riding under his jacket. The least they could have done was to give the poor fellow a decent cover name. Jon Smith indeed!
And if he had caught their scent, they most certainly had his. When Smith had reached back over the seat to shake Smyslov’s hand, there had been a glint of humor deep in his penetrating dark blue eyes, a shared, cynical joke of “Shhh, we’ll play the game for as long as you will.”
Madness!
Smyslov jerked his attention away from his thoughts. “What did you say, Colonel?”
“I was just asking if your people had come up with anything new on the circumstances of the crash,” Smith said amiably, looking back over the seat once more. “Do you have any better idea of what brought her down in our territory?”
Smyslov shook his head, aware of the three pairs of eyes regarding him, two sets directly and one in the rearview mirror. “No. We have reexamined our records and we have interviewed certain personnel who were serving in Siberia at the time of the Misha 124 training flight. Communications failed sometime between two routine position reports, and no distress call was heard. There was some evidence of environmental radio interference over the Pole. We believe this is the explanation.”
“What was the last solid fix you had on her? The plane’s position, that is?”
So it began. “I don’t have the exact latitude and longitude to mind, Colonel; I’ll have to check my documentation, but they were somewhere north of Ostrova Anzhu.”
“We’ve been wondering what she was doing so far over on our side of the Pole on a training exercise.” The woman professor, (Metrace, was it?) smoothly took over the flow of the questioning. “From what we know about the B-29-TU-4 family of aircraft, a crash on Wednesday Island would have put your bomber almost beyond her point of no return for your Siberian bases.”
Smyslov gritted his teeth for a moment and parroted the answer he had been programmed to give. “The training flight was never intended to come close to the North American coastline at any point. We theorize that the plane’s onboard gyrocompasses tumbled. Given the difficulties of aerial navigation near the Pole, the crew must have accidentally flown a reciprocal course toward Canada instead of back to Siberia.”
“That’s funny,” the woman behind the wheel murmured almost to herself as she deftly maneuvered around a lumbering SUV.
“What is, Randi?” Smith said almost casually.
“It’s still dark over the Pole in March, and the B-29 was a high-altitude aircraft. It should have been flying well above any cloud cover. Even if they did lose their gyros, I wonder why the navigator wasn’t able to shoot a star sight and ge
t his bearings.”
Smyslov felt the sweat start to prickle under his anorak. Now he knew what it felt like to be a mouse under the claws of a pack of exceptionally playful and sadistic cats. “I don’t know, Miss Russell. Possibly we will learn more at the crash site.”
“I’m sure we will, Major,” Smith said with a pleasant smile.
This...was...madness!
Chapter Thirteen
Merrill Field, Anchorage
Even into the twenty-first century, Alaska was essentially still a wilderness with a minimal road and rail net. Flight stitched the mammoth state together, and Merrill Field and its sister seaplane facility at Lake Hood were two of the largest civil aviation facilities in the world, central nodes in this culture of the bush pilot.
Scores of hangars lined the field taxiways, and hundreds of light planes occupied acres of parking apron. The drone of engines was a constant, and the traffic pattern was perpetually filled with incoming and departing aircraft.
As Smith and his team drew up in front of the office of Pole Star Aero-leasing, they found that a sleek Day-Glo orange helicopter had already been wheeled out of an adjacent hangar. Mounted on a set of pressed-foam arctic pontoons, it stood spotted and ready for takeoff.
“Okay, Randi,” Smith said. “There’s your piece of the action. What do you think?”
“It’ll do,” she replied, openly pleased. “It’s a Bell Jet Ranger, the stretched 206L Long Ranger variant with twin turbines. It’s about as stone reliable as a helicopter can get. According to the documentation, it should be fully IFR capable and weatherized for polar operations.”
“Then I may assume it’s acceptable in all aspects, Ms. Russell?”
She shot a look at him along with a half-smile. “Nominally, Colonel Smith. I’ll let you know for certain when I’ve finished my walk-around.”