Smith’s taciturn features broke into one of the rare boyish grins that involved his full face, the smile Sophie had talked about. “That sounds about right,” he replied. “I’m not hearing any pulmonary congestion, and your body temperature seems to be back where it’s supposed to be, so I think you were knocked out more by simple exhaustion than deep-core exposure. Still, stay warm.”
“I won’t argue.” Randi burrowed gratefully deeper into her sleeping bag. She was back in her own thermal long johns, and the pellet stove and their combined body heat had brought the interior of the cave up to close to freezing, but it wasn’t exactly cozy. “But still, feeling this awful now is a vast improvement over how I felt last night.”
The smile on Smith’s face snapped away, replaced by a faint disapproving frown. Randi sensed it was aimed inward. “I’m sorry about what happened at the station, Randi. I shouldn’t have left you hanging like that. My fault.”
“I didn’t exactly shine, either, Jon. I never should have let that little shit Kropodkin take me like he did.” She smiled wryly and then sadly. “I’m supposed to be good. Maybe if I’d been a little better, I might have gotten Trowbridge out.”
“I’m finding you can’t live on might-haves, Randi. We all have to make do on best-we-cans.”
Smyslov hunched his way back from the cave entrance and hunkered down on his heels, joining the group at the sleeping bags. “We have no wind outside and no snow. The sea smoke has come in heavily, but I believe it will burn off soon. It looks like it will be a lovely day, at least for the eightieth parallel.”
“As soon as he has a clear sky, Kretek will go for the anthrax,” Randi said.
Over their sketchy tea-and-energy-bar breakfast, she and the others had exchanged briefings over events at the Misha crash site and the science station. At last, they had the full picture of all they were facing. Only it wasn’t an attractive one.
Valentina opened the gun cleaning kit and took the model 70 across her knees. “What are we going to do about it, Jon?” she said, opening the bolt and dumping the shells out of the magazine trap.
“Frankly, that’s an excellent question. We’ve got two bands of hostiles out there, both of whom outgun us and both of whom have a vested interest in killing us on sight.”
Smith closed the heavy-duty zip on his medical kit and slouched back against the ice wall. “One valid strategy is to do nothing. We’ve got good concealment and shelter here, and last night’s storm would have erased our trails. We’ve also been out of communication for too long. There was a Mike force standing by in Alaska, and it’s probably inbound right now. If we sit tight and stay quiet for the next few hours, the odds are we won’t be found until after the cavalry arrives.”
Randi came up on one elbow. “But that concedes the anthrax to Kretek. He’s expecting the arrival of outside forces. He’s wired that into his planning. I heard his people talking about it. By timing off the weather and the flight distances, he figures he can get up to the wreck, pull the bioagent reservoir, and get out before he can be interfered with. And given the way he’s outfitted, I think he has a pretty good chance of doing it.”
Smith nodded. “I’ll agree with that assessment. If Kretek is going to be stopped, we have to be the ones to do it.”
Smith shifted his position and idly fished something silver out of his pocket, Smyslov’s cigarette lighter/radio transponder. “Major, here’s a question for you. Could you bring your Spetsnaz over to our side? In the face of the threat of the anthrax falling into terrorist hands, could you get them to help us against Kretek and his people?”
An expression akin to despair crossed the Russian’s face. “I have been thinking of this as well, Colonel. But in the eyes of my government the bioweapons aboard the Misha are entirely secondary to the security of the March Fifth Event. That was made most clear to me in my own mission briefing. The Spetsnaz platoon commander will no doubt have been given specific orders to this effect from a higher command. I have no authorization to change those orders, and he will be aware of it. He will view you and your knowledge as the primary threat, not the anthrax.”
“What about getting those orders changed?” Smith insisted.
The Russian shook his head. “Impossible within our time frame and probably impossible altogether. I would have to contact the Spetsnaz force, then I would have to arrange a rendezvous with the submarine that transported them here to get access to long-range communications. Then I would have to convince my superiors to overturn a fifty-year-old standing security policy.” Smyslov grimaced a bitter smile and shrugged. “Even if I somehow succeeded in this miracle, the anthrax would be gone long before I could get the orders changed. In all probability you and the ladies would be long dead as well.”
“How about working on the tactical level, leaving your government out of it? What are the odds of us convincing your platoon leader that it’s in the best interest of all involved to focus on the anthrax threat?”
Again Smyslov shook his head. “You might find that degree of flexibility among the Special Forces commanders of your army, Colonel, but not of mine. In the Russian military, good junior officers do not think, they obey, and this Spetsnaz leader will be a very good junior officer.”
“What about you, Major?” Valentina interjected, running a cleaning rod down the Winchester’s barrel. “You’re thinking.”
Smyslov smiled wearily and shrugged. “Dear lady, I’m thinking maybe I am not such a good Russian military officer. Beyond that, you shot the hell out of that Spetsnaz platoon yesterday and you humiliated its commander. He is not going to view you with favor.”
“I can empathize with his feelings.” Smith idly flipped the top of the transponder lighter open and shut with his thumb, his eyes drifting around the green-lit interior of the little cave, taking stock of his available assets.
Randi ran her own mental inventory. Two rifles, one pistol, maybe two hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition, and four combatants, one of whom was disabled by cold and exhaustion, and another crippled by conflicting interests.
It didn’t make for an impressive army.
“Well, Sarge,” she heard Smith murmur under his breath. “If I can pull this one off, I guess you’ll say I’ve learned how to command.”
“What did you say, Jon?” Randi inquired, puzzled.
“Nothing.” The repetitive click-ching click-ching of the lighter top filled the interior of the cavern.
Valentina slid the bolt back into the model 70. “Here’s a lovely thought,” she said. “Perhaps when Kretek and company arrive at the crash site they’ll waltz into a Russian ambush just as we did.”
“A lovely thought indeed,” Smith replied. “Only our friends up at the wreck are probably miles away from the crash site by now, hunting for us.”
Silence returned, except for the rhythmic click-ching of the lighter top. Then it stopped. Thumb still extended, Smith sat dead still for a long moment, staring intently into nowhere.
“Jon, what’s wrong?”
The lighter top snapped shut decisively a final time, his features going back to their fixed focused impassiveness. “Randi, do you think you’re up to moving?”
She sat up in the sleeping bag. “I can go wherever you need me to.”
“Right, then. Major, let’s get the gear together. I want to be out of here in ten minutes. We have some positioning to do. Ladies, a favor, please. When you get dressed, exchange your outer clothes, Randi’s for Val’s. Got it?”
“You have a plan, my dear Colonel.” Valentina made it a statement, her eyes bright with interest.
“Just possibly, my dear professor. It says in the Bible that a man can’t serve two masters at the same time. But it doesn’t say a damn thing about his not being able to fight two enemies.”
Chapter Forty-six
Over the Arctic Ocean
The patterns of pack ice below and boiling cumulus clouds above were frost white, while the sea and sky shone a steely blue. Intermittently t
he MV-22 Osprey VTOL bucked and shuddered like a heavily laden truck on a potholed road. The storm front had passed, but the turbulence of its passage lingered.
With the Combat Talon tanker holding its course ahead and above the Osprey, Major Saunders stalked the refueling drogue streaming from the larger aircraft’s wingtip. It was an exceptionally precise piece of flying machinery. With its wingtip engine pods rotated into horizontal flight mode, the danger of putting the shuttlecock-shaped drogue through the arc of one of the Osprey’s huge prop-rotors was very real. The result, to say the least, would be spectacular.
The intermittent jolts of clear-air turbulence and the fuel gauge bars dipping toward empty only compounded the challenge. Saunders had given his wingman first pass at the tanker, and it had taken the number two VTOL over twenty minutes to make the hookup, burning through most of Saunders’s meager fuel reserve.
The long refueling probe extended from above the cockpit of the Osprey like the horn of a techno-unicorn. For the dozenth time, the Air Commando leader aligned it with the bobbing, weaving mouth of the drogue as a Stone Age hunter might aim a spear. With his knuckles white on the joystick and throttles, he waited for the instant his target might hold steady. It came, and he nudged the throttles forward.
This time, the probe slipped smoothly into the drogue and locked, linking the fuel-starved VTOL with its tanker. Beneath the wing of the big MC-130, command lights shifted pattern to green. “We have locks, pressure, and transfer,” Saunders’s copilot announced.
Saunders exhaled luxuriously. With the drogue secured and kerosene cascading into his fuel tanks, he could relax by a minute increment.
“Nav, how are we doing?” he called over his shoulder to the officer crouching before the GPS console.
“In the groove, sir,” the navigator replied. “We’re clearing the tail of that front now and we’ll be angling east at our next waypoint.”
“ETA to objective?”
“Maybe another three hours to touchdown, sir, depending on the winds.”
“Three hours it is.”
“I touched base with the cutter a few minutes ago, Major,” Saunders’s copilot commented. “The Coasties report clear air, but they aren’t hearing anything from the island yet. I wonder what we’re gonna find.”
“Maybe not a damn thing, Bart. That’s what’s worrying me.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Saddleback Glacier
Crouching inside the cave mouth, the Russian demolitions man studied the lava ceiling and the explosive charges he’d planted, double-checking his placements. His orders had been explicit. He must collapse the entrance in a way that would present the appearance of a natural rockfall. It was an interesting technical challenge, especially in the roiling of the fall so that explosives-uncontaminated rock would face outward. It wouldn’t do to leave detectable chemical traces. Lieutenant Tomashenko had been very insistent about this, and today would not be a good day to fail his platoon leader.
Satisfied, the demolitions man knelt and crimped an electric detonator cap to the end of the spliced bundle of primer cords. Some of the cord lengths led to the overhead charges; others ran deeper into the cavern within the mountain.
Pavel Tomashenko felt the cold sweat gathering down the center of his spine beneath his parka. He knew it was only partially due to the golden ball of the sun bobbing above the southern horizon. He was on the verge of losing this mission. Like a hockey goalie seeing the puck skimming past beyond his block, all he could do was try to stretch for that last critical millimeter.
He, his radioman, and the second member of his demolitions team stood out on the glacier some fifty meters from the mouth of the cave the Misha crew had used as a survival shelter and the Americans had used for a fortress.
Even standing out on the glacier face in the open daylight was an admission of crisis. Like any other commando unit, the Spetsnaz were normally creatures of secrecy and concealment. But Tomashenko had lost both the cover of night and weather to the more critical factor of time. He must act decisively now, utilizing the scraps remaining to him. With the clearing skies, the outside world would be reaching in to Wednesday Island.
“Have you been able to contact the submarine?” Tomashenko snapped, then silently berated himself for the display of nerves. If his radioman had been able to establish communications, he would have reported it at once.
“No, Lieutenant,” the stolid Yakut replied, crouching beside his tactical transceiver. “There is no longer any interference, but there is no reply. They must not have found a lead in the ice for their antenna.”
“So be it.” Tomashenko forced his voice into normality. “We will try again at the noon schedule.” It was just as well. It would give him a couple of additional hours to salvage this mess and conceal his failure. “Get me through to White Bird team.”
“At once, Lieutenant.”
Using the radio so promiscuously was another symbol of disaster, as was the splitting of his meager command. But again Tomashenko had no choice. He must clean up things here at the crash site, and at the same time he must find and eliminate those damn American intelligence operatives!
At the base of East Peak the senior demolitions man emerged from the cave mouth. Trailing the detonator wire behind him, he backed across the sun-brightened surface of the glacier toward Tomashenko’s temporary command post. The number two demo man took the detonator box from the explosives sled and began setting it up.
“Lieutenant, I have White Bird leader.”
Tomashenko tore back his parka hood. Hunkering down beside the radioman, he accepted the headset and microphone.
“White Bird, this is Red Bird. Report!”
“Red Bird,” the radio-filtered voice whispered in the earphones. “We have no contact. We have swept the south descents and the main trail approaches for a second time. We have found no trace of them. They are not on the glacier and they have not climbed down on this side of the ridge. They must have descended the north face, Lieutenant.”
The descent Tomashenko had said was impossible the night before.
“Very well, White Bird,” he spoke curtly into the handset. “Commence a sweep toward the west end of the island and the science station. Engage on contact. We will be joining you shortly. Red Bird out.”
“Understood. Executing. White Bird out.” Tomashenko passed back the headset and mike. The Americans must have headed for the station. There was nowhere else to go. If so, there was still a chance they could be taken and eliminated. Even if it cost him another third of his command, the secret of the March Fifth Event would be kept.
The demolitions team had the charge leads wired into the detonator box now, and the lead man was cranking up the key. “Ready to fire, Lieutenant.”
“Carry on. Blow it.”
The demo man rested his gloved thumb on the detonator button and hesitated, looking over his shoulder at his platoon leader. “Lieutenant, those men in the cave...Sergeant Vilyayskiy and our people. Shouldn’t something be said...some words?”
“The dead are deaf, Corporal. Fire it!”
The detonator box magneto zipped, and thunder rumbled deep within the belly of the mountain. Ten thousand tons of basalt fractured, shifted, and resettled, sealing the crew of the Misha 124 and the four lost members of the Spetsnaz platoon in a black rock eternity. A brief burst of lava dust jetted from the cave mouth, only to be overwhelmed by the cascade of disturbed ice and snow flowing down the flank of East Peak, erasing the last trace. Even those who had been inside the lava tube would have a hard time finding it again.
As the misting avalanche cloud dissipated, the demolitions leader spoke, his words flat. “Your orders, Lieutenant?”
“Retrieve the detonator leads and let’s move out. I want to join up with the search party as soon as possible.”
The demo man gestured toward the wreck of the Misha 124 a half-mile distant across the saddleback. “What about the plane?”
“We leave it as it sits. Th
e Americans know of it, and to burn it now would only make for more questions. Let’s move!”
At that moment, the radio operator stiffened. Tilting his head he pressed his earphones tighter to his head. “Lieutenant, I hear a signal on the transponder circuit! It is the radio tracer beacon Major Smyslov was carrying!”
Tomashenko bent over the radioman’s shoulder. “Are you certain?”
“It is the proper frequency and code pattern. It must be the same tracer.”
“Get a bearing!” Smyslov must still be alive and possibly pointing the way to his captors. As the radioman plugged the RDF loop into his set, Tomashenko squatted on the ice. Spreading out an island map, he readied a compass and a straightedge from his chart case.
“Signal bearing approximately two six six degrees! Signal strength five!”
Tomashenko’s all-weather pencil slashed across the map. A little south of west. That bearing would put Smyslov either on top of East Peak or on the south coast between this position and the science station. It must be the science station! At signal strength five it might be three or four miles out. Maybe his luck was turning.
“Radioman! Contact White Bird leader! Tell him the enemy is on the southern coast and they are heading for the station! Tell him to pursue with all speed! Corporal! Cache and conceal the radio and the other heavy gear, on the double! Light marching order! Weapons and ammunition only! We’ll have these bastards yet!”
Chapter Forty-eight
Wednesday Island Station
“We destroy the station when we leave,” Kretek ordered. “We burn it all.”
“Is that necessary?” Mikhail Vlahovitch looked up from the data file he had been glancing through. He was no man of science, and he did not understand the columns of carefully noted meteorological readings. But neither was he, by instinct, a wolverine.
“It will muddy the waters and destroy evidence, Mikhail. Besides, the people who scribbled all of that down are dead. What will it matter to them?”