Covert One 7 - The Arctic Event

Behind her, handguns crashed, both pistols firing at once, the piercing crack of SmithÕs automatic and the heavier slam of her revolver. Ejecting brass flickered around the cockpit, and Randi caught a whiff of gun smoke as Smith got off half a dozen rounds before the target was past.

No chance! Missed the bastard! It was one of the rare times she ever heard him swear.

She got the helicopter stabilized under its rotor disk and checked her gauges. We can do that once more, she reported; then we go into the water.

It was a simple statement of fact.

ThereÕs a life vest under each seat, and a life raft slung under the fuselage. Smith was equally pragmatic with his reply as he reached forward to take another speed loader from the fanny pack. When we go in, IÕll try for the life raft. Everyone else swim as far away from the copter as fast as you can. Stay together and donÕt inflate your vests right off. HeÕs going to strafe us, and youÕre going to have to dive to evade.

He was only going through the drill for formÕs sake. Their survival time in the frigid waters of the straits could be counted in single-digit minutes.

This would be a marvelous moment for a witty offhand comment, Professor Metrace added dryly. Any volunteers? The historianÕs face was pale in the cockpit mirror, but she was holding it together in her own way. Randi had to smile. Her taste in men might be questionable, but even she had to admit, Valentina Metrace had style.

Beyond the portside windows she could see the Cessna climbing into attack position once again. Last chance, Smith said. Any suggestions?

There may be something... SmyslovÕs distracted murmur came over the intercom circuit.

Major, do you have an idea?

Possibly, Colonel, but there is only a small chance...

A small chance is better than none, Major, Smith snapped, and thatÕs what we have now. Go!

As you wish, sir! Behind his sunglasses Smyslov had his own eyes fixed on the enemy plane. Miss Russell, when he begins his next run, you must hold your course; your straight course; you must let him shoot at us!

Randi spared him an instantÕs disbelieving glance. You mean we give him a clean shot?

Yes. Exactly! We must let him fire on us. You must hold your course to the last possible second; then you must not turn and dive; you must climb! You must cut directly across his flight path!

That was insanity twice over. If he doesnÕt shoot us down, weÕll collide with him!

Smyslov could only nod in agreement. Very possibly, Miss Russell.

The Cessna banked, lifting into its wingover and final attacking dive.

Randi, do it! SmithÕs command rang in her ears.

Jon!

His voice mellowed. I donÕt know what heÕs thinking, either, but do it anyway.

Randi bit her lip and held her course. She felt SmyslovÕs hand drop onto her shoulder. Wait for him, the Russian said, tracking the pursuit curve of their attacker, calculating speeds and distances. Wait for him!

A tracer tentacle lashed past the Long Ranger, weaving and groping for the helicopter.

Wait for him! Smyslov said relentlessly, his fingers digging into her collarbone. Wait...!

The airframe shuddered as high-velocity metal thwacked through its structure. A side window starred and exploded inward as death screamed through the cockpit.

Now! Pull up! Pull up!

Wrenching her controls back to their stops, Randi lifted the Long Ranger through the flight path of the Cessna Centurion. For an instant, the whole world off the port side was filled with the nose and shimmering propeller arc of the diving plane, hanging mere feet beyond their own rotor arc. And in that frozen instant the windshield of the Cessna exploded outward.

Then it was past, and the helicopter was bucking and skidding wildly in the interlocking turbulence, on the very razorÕs edge of departing controlled flight. Randi fought for the recovery, a thin, angry adrenaline-spurred cry slipping from her lips as she wrestled with the pitch and collective, striving not to lethally overstress the airframe. If she could fly the Ranger out of this, by God, she could fly it anywhere.

The copter responded and steadied with a final shuddering bobble. They still had a valid aircraft. They still had life.

Where is he? Randi panted.

Down there, Smith answered.

The white Cessna was falling away beneath them in a flat spin, a thin haze of smoke streaming from its cockpit. A moment later it belly-slammed into the sea, vanishing from sight in an explosion of spray.

Well done, Randi, Smith continued. And you, Major. Exceptionally well done.

IÕll second that, Valentina Metrace added reverently. If you were a man, my dear Randi, IÕd be yours for the asking.

Thanks, but would someone mind telling me just what it was that I did? What happened to that guy?

It was...pah, what are the words... Smyslov slumped in his seat, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. ...target fixation. The machine gunner, he was firing his weapon from a body harness. He did not have a fixed gun mount with fire interrupters to keep him from shooting into his own airframe. Once he had you targeted, he focused on trying to hold his tracers on you for the kill. When you cut across his nose as you did, he swung with you, and turned his gun barrel right into his own cockpit.

And before he could get off the trigger heÕd killed his own pilot and shot himself down, Smith finished. Fast thinking, Major.

Smyslov lifted his hands. Merest memory, Colonel. Once, over Chechnya, I had a muzhik door gunner with pig shit for brains who nearly blew the back of my head off.

Randi sighed and glanced at the Russian. IÕm glad he missed.

Ê

Kodiak, Alaska

The spruce-shaggy slopes of Barometer Mountain mirrored themselves in the waters of St. PaulÕs Bay as the Long Ranger skimmed into the harbor at Kodiak. Angling past the trawlers that crowded the docks of the fishing port, the copter headed for the Coast Guard Base. The USS Alex Haley lay moored beside the base pier, and the big cutter was standing by to receive them. Her own helicopter had been offloaded, and her hangar bay doors gaped wide, a wandsman standing by on her afterdeck helipad to walk them aboard.

The Haley was a singleton, one of a kind within the Coast GuardÕs white-hull fleet. A staunch and stolid ex-Navy salvage ship, she did duty as both the regulation-enforcing scourge of the huge Kodiak Island fishing fleet and its rescuing angel of mercy. Sailing in the wake of legendary predecessors like the Bear and the Northland, she was the law north of the Aleutians. Also, with her powerful engines and ice-strengthened hull, she was one of only a handful of ships able to dare the Northwest Passage with winter looming.

Gingerly, Randi eased the Long Ranger aboard, compensating for the ground effect variant as she sidled over the cutterÕs deck. The pontoons scuffed down on the black pebbly antiskid, and she cut the throttles. For a long minute, as the turbines whined down, Smith and his people luxuriated in the sheer stability of the shipÕs deck. Then the cutterÕs aviation hands were ducking under the slowing rotor arc, and two officers in crisp khakis were approaching from the hangar bay.

Colonel Smith, IÕm Commander Will Jorganson. As stolid and stocky as his ship, Jorganson was a fit, balding middle-aged man with intent sea-faded blue eyes and a strong, dry handshake. This is Lieutenant Grundig, my executive officer. WeÕve been expecting you. Welcome aboard the Haley.

You have no idea how glad we are to be here, Commander, Smith replied with a degree of irony. After the cramped interior of the helicopter, the open, breeze-swept freedom of the helipad felt wonderful. This is my assistant team leader, Professor Valentina Metrace; my pilot, Ms. Randi Russell; and my Russian liaison, Major Gregori Smyslov of the Russian Federation Air Force. Now, I have two questions I need immediate answers for, Commander. The first and most critical is, how fast can you get this ship under way and headed north?

Jorganson frowned. WeÕre scheduled to sail at 0600 tomorrow.

I didnÕt ask when we were scheduled to sail, Smith said, meeting the Coast GuardsmanÕs eyes. I asked how fast you can get under way.

The cutter captainÕs scowl deepened. IÕm afraid I donÕt understand, Colonel.

I donÕt either, Commander. ThatÕs why we have to get out of here right now. I trust that you have received specific orders from the commandant of the Seventeenth Coast Guard District concerning my authority on this mission under certain curcumstances?

Jorganson stiffened. Yes, sir.

Those circumstances exist, and I am invoking that authority. Now, how fast can you get us under way?

Jorganson had indeed received his packet of sealed orders concerning the Wednesday Island evacuation, and the two-starred signature underneath them had been exceptionally impressive. We are fully fueled and provisioned, Colonel. I have personnel ashore that IÕll need to recall, and my engine room crew will need time to heat up the plant. One hour, sir.

Smith nodded. Very good, Captain. Now, my second question leads into the reason for all of this. Is your onboard aviation detail set up to assess and repair battle damage on an aircraft?

That finally shook JorgansonÕs stoicism. Battle damage?

Smith nodded. ThatÕs correct. While we were en route to your ship, someone tried to shoot us down. We were intercepted over the Passages by a light plane equipped with a military-grade radio jammer and a machine gun. If it werenÕt for a bright idea by Major Smyslov and some brilliant flying by Ms. Russell, youÕd be sailing to search for a downed helicopter.

But...

I donÕt know, Captain, Smith repeated patiently. But someone is obviously trying to prevent my team from reaching Wednesday Island. Accordingly, I think it behooves us to get the hell up there just as fast as we can.

WeÕll take care of it, sir. Jorganson nodded, his professional composure returning. The same for your helo. Whatever needs to be done will get done.

The captain turned to his waiting first officer. Mr. Grundig, recall all hands and make all preparations for getting under way. Expedite! Set your sea and anchor details and advise Chief Wilkerson that he will be ready to turn shafts in forty-five minutes!

Aye, sir! The exec disappeared through a watertight door in the white-painted deckhouse.

The Coast Guard commander looked back to Smith. Do you have any instructions about Dr. Trowbridge, Colonel?

Trowbridge? Smith groped mentally for the name.

Yes, sir, heÕs the off-site director of the university research program on Wednesday. HeÕs up at the Kodiak Inn now. He was scheduled to ride up with us for the recovery of the expedition.

Smith recalled the name now, and he considered his options. Dr. Rosen Trowbridge was listed as the chairman of the organizing committee for the Wednesday Island science program, a fund-raiser and an academic administrator, not an explorer. On the one hand, he would be another complication in a situation that was already growing increasingly complex.

On the other, he might prove a useful information source on the personnel, assets, and environment on Wednesday.

If he can make it down here by the time weÕre ready to sail, he can come.

Ê

Off the Alaskan Peninsula

With bright ice crystal stars overhead and an occasional distant shore light to starboard, the USS Alex Haley swept through the deepening autumn night, her engines rumbling at a steady fast cruise. The big ice cutter had a four-hundred-mile run to the southwest along the Alaskan coast before she could make her turn north at Unimak Island for the true long haul up through the Bering Sea.

Her cramped radio room smelled of ozone and cigarette smoke and was sultry with the waste heat radiating from the equipment chassis. The use-worn gray steel chair creaked with SmithÕs weight and the roll of the ship, and the handset of the scrambled satellite phone was slick with perspiration. Smith had the radio shack to himself, the regular radio watch having been evicted in the face of security.

How did they spot us? Smith demanded.

ItÕs not difficult to guess, Fred KleinÕs distant voice replied. Pole Star Aero-leasing provides helicopters and light transport aircraft for a number of survey and science operations in the Canadian and Alaskan Arctic, including the Wednesday Island project. When the press release about your expedition to the Misha crash site hit the media, the hostiles must have staked out the most likely equipment sources. You were caught in an airborne version of a drive-by shooting.

Then somebody else must know about the anthrax aboard the Misha 124.

ThatÕs a distinct possibility, Jon. Director KleinÕs voice remained controlled. WeÕve known from the start that the Misha warload would be a major prize for any terrorist group or rogue nation. That could explain the attack on your aircraft. But thatÕs only one possible explanation. We donÕt know nearly enough to close out any options on this incident.

Smith ran a hand through his sweat-dampened dark hair. IÕll concede that point. But how did it get out? Where did it leak?

I donÕt know, but IÕd suspect itÕs on the Russian side. WeÕve been holding all the information on the Misha 124 tightly compartmentalized. Literally the only people stateside who know the whole story are the President, myself, Maggie, and the members of your team.

And as my people were the ones damn near killed in this intercept incident, I think we can safely eliminate them as a sellout source.

KleinÕs voice grew emotionless. I said we canÕt close out any possibilities, Jon.

Smith caught the caution. Smyslov...Professor Metrace...Randi. He fought back the instinctive denial. Klein was right: ItÕs inconceivable! made a wonderful set of famous last words.

The director continued. The other remaining option is that we had a leak on site, through one of the members of the Wednesday Island team itself. We have been assured that none of the expedition members have visited the downed bomber. Somebody may be lying. That will be something else for you to investigate, Jon.

Understood, sir. That brings us back to the question of whoÕs on our ass.

All I can say is that we are working that problem with all available assets, Klein replied. The ID numbers of the aircraft that attacked you belong to a Cessna Centurion owned by one Roger R. Wainwright, a longtime resident of Anchorage. The FBI and Homeland Security have pulled their packages on the man, and he has no criminal record and no known ties to any extremist organizations. The manÕs a moderately successful building contractor and purportedly a solid citizen. But when the Anchorage FBI office scooped him up for questioning, he confessed to occasionally renting his plane out under the table to other parties. After that, he stopped talking and started yelling for a lawyer. The FBI is still working on him.

How about the hangar across from Pole Star Aero-leasing? Who rented that?

The name on the documentation was Stephen Borski. The people at Merrill Field business office recall a nondescript middle-aged man with a definite Russian accent. Possibly a Russian expatÑthey have a lot of them up this way. He paid in cash for a monthÕs hangar rental. The address and phone number given on the documentation have proven to be false.

Was he aboard the plane that hit us?

Unknown, Jon. The Coast Guard has found a floating debris field where the Cessna went down, but no bodies. They must still be in the plane, and itÕs at the bottom of Kennedy Entrance. Given the deep waters and fast currents, it will be a while before they can locate and recover the wreck, if ever.

Smith rapped a fingertip on the console top in frustration. Even Alaska was in on the conspiracy. ThereÕs one other Russian connection. Major Smyslov believes that the electronic warfare system used to knock out our radio was a Russian-made military communications jammer.

Smith tilted his chair back on its swivel, wincing a little at the piercing squeal. But why in the hell would the Russians be trying to stop us? They started it!

There are Russians and then there are Russians, Klein replied mildly. WeÕre working with the Federation government; somebody else might not be. Anchorage FBI says they get the feel of Russian Mafia or something similar, but thatÕs just an instinct call on their part, with nothing solid to back it up. The Russian links could be purely coincidental, or they could be local hirelings fronting for someone else.

Whoever they are, they seem to have a broad spectrum of resources available to them. That bullet recovered from the float of your helicopter was a 7.62mm NATO standard round, and the Alaskan State Police Lab identifies the lands on the slug as coming from an American ArmyÐissue M-60 machine gun.

God, Smith sneered at himself. And just this morning heÕd been saying that this shouldnÕt be a shooting job? What are your orders, sir?

IÕve been in conference with the President, Jon. We feel that the mission and its secrecy protocols are both still necessary, more so than ever if someone else is interested in that anthrax. We also view your team as still the best asset we have in position to do the job. The question is, how do you feel about it?

Smith studied the cable-bedecked overhead for a long ten seconds. If heÕd forgotten how to command, heÕd also forgotten about the burdens that command brought with it. He was being reminded vividly now.

I concur, sir. The team is still good, and we still have a valid operation.

Very good, Jon. A hint of warmth crept into Klein. I will so advise President Castilla. HeÕs ordered you some backup as well. An Air Commando task force is being deployed to Eielson Air Force Base near Fairbanks. TheyÕll be on call to lift in to Wednesday Island should you need them. We are also working on the identity and motives of your attackers, top priority.

Very good, sir. ThereÕs one other point I need to bring up: our liaison, Major Smyslov.

A problem with him, Jon?

Not with the man himself. He saved our collective asses today. Only after todayÕs events, IÕm fairly sure he realizes that weÕre not your average bunch of army doctors and government contract employees. And fair being fair, itÕs pretty obvious Major Smyslov is not your average Russian Air Force officer.

Klein chuckled dryly. I think that particular fiction may be abandoned within the family, Jon. You have a fangs-out operation now and a common enemy. Putting a few more cards on the table might be in order. As team leader IÕll leave that to your good judgment. YouÕre carrying the ball.

Thank you, sir. Is there anything else?

Not at this time, Jon; we will keep you advised. Good luck.

The sat phone link broke.

Smith dropped the phone back into its cradle and frowned. Accepted as a given, the United States and the Russian Federation did have a common enemy in this affair. But did that necessarily make them friends?

Okay, Chief, IÕm out of your hair for a while, Smith said as he left the radio shack.

Not a problem, sir, the radioman of the watch replied tolerantly. The Old Man had already passed the quiet word. The Army guy and his people were to be considered VIP-plus, and donÕt even think about asking questions.

Smith descended one deck level into officersÕ country and headed aft down a gray-painted passageway. It had been a number of years since heÕd last experienced the vibrant undertone of a living ship at sea, the whirr of air through ductwork, the throb of engines, and the repetitive creak of the hull working with the waves. Not since the tour heÕd spent cross-attached to the Navy aboard the hospital ship Mercy. The cruise where RandiÕs fiancŽ...

He jerked his mind away from the thought. The past was dead, and there was no time for resurrections. He and his team were operating.

Smith ducked through a curtained doorway into the Haley Õs wardroom, a small living space with scarred artificial wood paneling on the bulkheads and a collection of battered steel-tube-and-leather furnishings. Randi sat half curled on one of the settees, her feet tucked under her.

Good evening, Colonel, she said, glancing up from a paperback Danielle Steel, reminding him there was an individual present who wasnÕt supposed to know they were on a first-name basis.

The cabinÕs two other current occupants were seated at the big central mess table: Valentina Metrace and a middle-aged man in a wooly-pully sweater and heavy-duty cargo pants, a scattering of files open before them.

The manÕs rounded shoulders rendered him squat rather than stocky, and the thin frosting of graying hair over his skull was countered by a precisely trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. An expression of instinctive petulance had been ingrained on his features, and a look of automatic disapproval in his eyes, and he wore his outdoorsmanÕs gear as though it were a poorly fitted costume.

Colonel Smith, I donÕt think youÕve had a chance to meet my fellow academic yet, Dr. Rosen Trowbridge. Dr. Trowbridge, this is our team leader, Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith. A studied sweetness in Professor MetraceÕs voice spoke beyond her words.

Smith nodded pleasantly. HeÕd caught and registered the vibrations radiating from the man as well. Good evening, Doctor. I havenÕt had a chance to apologize yet for the sudden change of our sailing schedule. I hope it didnÕt inconvenience you too badly.

In fact it did, Colonel. Trowbridge spoke SmithÕs rank with a hint of distaste. And, speaking frankly, I donÕt appreciate your not consulting me about it. The Wednesday Island expedition has been a meticulously planned research project, and so far it has been a success for the involved universities. We donÕt need any complications at this late date.

Smith called up and applied an appropriate sympathetic smile. I understand fully, Professor. IÕve been involved in a number of research projects myself.

Enough of them to recognize you, my friend, Smith continued silently behind his smile. What you really mean is that your people in the field did good research while you sat in your cozy office signing off the documentation and absorbing credit by bureaucratic osmosis. Now youÕre probably scared to death that someone is going to upset the applecart before you can finagle your name onto the final paper.

YouÕre right, Doctor. Smith settled into a chair across from Metrace and Trowbridge. I should have, but it was a matter of expediency. There are certain concerns about the weather conditions we might encounter around Wednesday Island. With the winter closing in, it seemed to me the faster we get to the island the better. By gaining a little more time on station with an early sailing, I felt my teamÕs investigation of the crash site would be less likely to interfere with the extraction of your people and their equipment.

Well, that does make a degree of sense, Colonel, Trowbridge replied, not happy at being mollified. But still, the way this was done left a great deal to be desired. IÕd like to be consulted before any further changes are made.

Smith clasped his hands on the polished tabletop. I understand fully, Doctor, he lied, and I promise you will be fully consulted on any further developments. ItÕs in everybodyÕs best interest for us to work together on this.

I canÕt disagree with that, Colonel. Just as long as it is recognized that the university expedition was there first and that we have priority.

Smith shook his head. ThatÕs not exactly true, Doctor. Some other people were on Wednesday Island a long time before your expedition arrived. The job of my team is to identify them and return them to where they belong. I think they should receive a degree of concern?

Smith found that his words were only half cover sophistry. There were men up there on the ice. Men who had been there for a long time. They had served another flag, but they had been soldiers, like Smith himself. They had also been abandoned and forgotten by the world. The fate of the Soviet aircrew might be overshadowed by political expediency, but after half a century, they still deserved to go home.

Smith kept his gaze locked on Trowbridge until the academic backed down. Of course, youÕre correct, Colonel. IÕm sure weÕll be able to accommodate everyone involved.

IÕm sure we will.

IÕve been going over the Wednesday camp setup with Dr. Trowbridge, Valentina said, and the personnel roster, just to see what we might have to work with. I was thinking some of the expedition members might be able to help us with the crash site investigation.

If it doesnÕt interfere with their official duties within the university expedition, Trowbridge interjected hastily.

Of course.

Smith claimed the personnel file and flipped it open. Actually Smith had no intention of letting any of these people anywhere near the Misha 124. But that didnÕt mean one of them might not have already paid the bomber an illicit visit. The leak about the TU-4Õs warload must have come from somewhere. Could it have come from the source? And had it been inadvertent or deliberate?

HeÕd seen these files and faces before, but now he studied them again in this new light.

Dr. Brian Creston, Great Britain, meteorologist and the expedition leader. By his picture a big, smiling bear of a man with a brown flattop and a ruddy outdoorsmanÕs face. An accredited field researcher, he had a number of expeditions in both the Arctic and Antarctic to his credit.

Dr. Adaran Gupta, India, climatologist and assistant expedition leader. A lean, dark scholarÕs face peered back at Smith from the file photo. You are a long way from New Delhi, Doctor.

Climatology and meteorology? Smith commented. I gather global warming and the melting of the arctic ice pack were major points of concern?

It was the major point of concern, Colonel.

Smith nodded and flipped to the next page.

Kayla Brown, U.S.A., graduate student, geophysics; pretty, delicate, almost elfin. She was hardly the classic image of the hard-bitten polar explorer. But apparently sheÕd had the guts and skills to claw her way onto this expedition over what must have been several hundred male applicants.

Ian Rutherford, a biology major from England, handsome in a boy-next-door kind of way, if next door happened to be the British Midlands.

Dr. Keiko Hasegawa, Japan, a second meteorology specialist. Sober, studious, a little on the plain and plump side. Possibly sheÕd balanced a slow social life with an exceptional dedication to her field of endeavor.

Stefan Kropodkin, Slovakia, cosmic ray astronomy; lanky, dark-haired, an amiable slaunchwise grin, and a little older than the other graduate students. Probably youÕre the one giving Ms. Brown the most attention, desired or not.

Smith flipped the folder shut. He wasnÕt prepared to make any assumptions on nationality, race, sex, or potential political orientation. That was a foolÕs game, for greed or fanaticism could wear any face. Covert One and a variety of other intelligence and law enforcement agencies would be hard at work dissecting the past lives of these six individuals. When he arrived on Wednesday Island it would be his duty to dissect their here and now.

He felt himself being regarded, and he looked up to find both Dr. Trowbridge and Professor Metrace looking at him. From TrowbridgeÕs expression, he was puzzled. From ValentinaÕs smile and the ironic lift of her eyebrow, she was busy reading SmithÕs mind.

Smith returned the file folder to the mess table. Professor Metrace, have you seen Major Smyslov?

I think heÕs out on deck absorbing a little nicotine, she replied.

Then if you will both excuse me, I need to speak with the major about a few things.

The cutterÕs drive through the sea put a chill wind across her darkened decks. Gregori Smyslov flared the butane lighter within his cupped palm, touching the flame to the tip of his cigarette. He inhaled once, deeply, and let the smoke hiss slowly through his clenched teeth.

He needed to contact General Baranov. He needed to find out what in all hell was going on! He had a secure phone number that would be guarded by the Russian Federation military attachŽ at the embassy in Washington, but SmithÕs ordering of an immediate sailing this afternoon had not given him the chance to make a call.

And even if he had accessed a clear phone, would he be able to trust the person at the other end? Somebody knew! Somebody outside the konspiratsia knew!

But how much? About the Misha 124, obviously. They must also know the anthrax was still aboard the bomber. That would be the minimum that could conceivably justify this afternoonÕs airborne assassination attempt. But what other knowledge might they possess?

Smyslov took another heavy drag on his cigarette. The anthrax and the risk of it falling into the hands of a terrorist group would be bad enough. But what if there was something more? What if they knew of the March Fifth Event?

That was a nightmare worth considering. What if someone outside the circle of thirty-two knew about the Event and of the possibility that evidence of it still existed aboard the downed bomber? What if they were striving to prevent the destruction of that evidence and obtain it for themselves?

What if an organization or even a single individual gained the ability to blackmail a major nuclear power? It would dwarf the threat of even a planeload of anthrax to insignificance.

Lost in that dark thought, Smyslov started as a voice spoke nearby. As a physician IÕm required to warn you that smoking is bad for your health.

Jon SmithÕs silhouette detached itself from the shadows down deck and came to lean on the cable rail beside Smyslov. And now that IÕve performed that duty, please feel free to tell me to go to hell.

Smyslov chuckled dryly and flipped the glowing cigarette butt over the side. We havenÕt invented lung cancer in Russia yet, Colonel.

I just wanted to tell you again, thanks for what you did today.

Smyslov caught himself before he could reach for his lighter and cigarette pack again. We were all riding in the same helicopter.

So we were, the silhouette agreed. So, Major, what do you think?

To speak the truth, Colonel, I donÕt know what to think. And it was the truth.

Do you have any idea at all who might have been behind the attack?

Smyslov shook his head. Now he would lie again. None. Someone must have learned that the Misha 124 was a bioweapons platform. They must be acting on the assumption the anthrax might still be aboard the aircraft and are attempting to prevent us from reaching the crash site first. ThatÕs the only thing that would make any sense.

YouÕd think so, Smith mused. But someone is certainly committing a lot of resources on a speculation. He turned his head and looked directly at Smyslov. The Alaskan authorities are also speculating about the possible involvement of the Russian mafia.

Good. Smyslov could tell the truth again. This is entirely possible, Colonel. It would be foolish to deny that certain criminal elements within my country have developed a great degree of power and influence within our government.

Smyslov grimaced. The members of our underworld had a considerable advantage over the rest of our nation. They were the one facet of Russian society not controlled by the Communists.

Smith chuckled in the darkness, and they looked out across the darkened wave tops for a time, listening to the hiss of the hull cutting through the water.

Finally Smyslov spoke. Colonel, can you tell me if my government has been notified of todayÕs attack?

I really canÕt say for sure, Smith replied. My superiors have been advised of the situation, and theyÕve informed me that all available resources are being put to use to identify our attackers. IÕd presume that includes Russian resources.

I see.

Smith hesitated, then continued. Major, if you wish to speak directly with your superiors about this incident, I can arrange it. If you are concerned about...security, I can offer you my word that you will be able to speak freely. Your communications will not be monitored.

Smyslov considered for moment. What can I safely say to who? No, that will not be necessary.

As you like. The offer stands. SmithÕs voice mellowed. So tell me, Major, hearts, bridge, or pokerÑwhich is your game?

Ê

Off Reykjavik, Iceland

In another ocean, half a world away, a second ship sailed.

The captain of the deep-ocean trawler Siffsdottar had thought that his shipÕs long run of bad luck had at last come to an end. Now he wasnÕt so sure.

The North Atlantic fisheries had been a depressed industry for a long time, and cheeseparing and procrastination on the part of the trawlerÕs owners had not made matters any easier. Finally, as it inevitably must, the neglected maintenance had caught up with them. Siffsdottar had spent most of last season held up in the yards with a protracted and expensive series of engine room casualties. The owners, as owners inevitably do, found it easier to blame the ship rather than themselves.

Siffsdottar had been facing the breakersÕ yard, and her captain and crew the beach when, like a miracle, a last-minute reprieve had appeared: a month-long charter by a film company for enough money to pay off the repairs and poor season both. Only they must sail immediately to meet a production deadline.

For once the owners and crew were in accord. They were happy to oblige.

But when the filmmakers had come aboard they had proved to be a gang of twenty extremely tough-looking men, even by the standards of the hard-bitten trawler crew. There had also been a decided lack of camera equipment, just a good deal of electronics and radio gear.

And the guns. Those hadnÕt made an appearance until after they had gotten under way. Two of the filmmakers lounged at the rear of the darkened wheelhouse now, each of them with an automatic pistol thrust openly in his belt.

They offered no explanation, and the trawlermen decided it prudent not to ask for one.

The leader of the filmmakers, a tall, burly red-bearded man who relayed his orders in strangely accented English, had laid in a course to the west-northwest, their destination being a set of nameless GPS coordinates deep within Hudson Bay. He had also instructed that the trawlerÕs radio be disabled. His people would handle all communications for the voyage, for business reasons.

Siffsdottar Õs captain now strongly suspected that his owners had made yet another bad business decision. But as the flashing point light at IcelandÕs westernmost landÕs end drifted past to starboard, he also suspected that there was little he could now do about it. Instead he would fall back on an ancient Icelandic survival mechanism: strict, stolid neutrality and a hope for the best. It had seen Iceland through a number of the worldÕs wars essentially untouched. Perhaps it would suffice here.

Belowdecks, the Command Section had taken over the main salon as the operations center. Seated at the big mess table, Anton Kretek splashed three fingers of Aquavit into a squat glass. Taking a slurping gulp, he grimaced. This Icelandic liquor was muck, but it was the muck that was available.

Do you have the reports from Canada Section yet? he demanded irritably.

Downloading now, Mr. Kretek, the chief communications officer replied from his laptop workstation. It will take a moment to decrypt.

The Internet had proven a boon to the international businessman and the international criminal alike, providing instant, secure communications from point to point anywhere on the planet. A dinner-plate-sized sat phone dish, deployed in the trawlerÕs upper works, linked them into the global telecommunications net, and the finest in commercial encryption programs sealed their Internet messaging away from prying eyes.

A portable laser printer hissed and spat out a series of hard-copy sheets. Pushing his chair back from the communications desk, the communicator passed the hard copy over his shoulder to the waiting Kretek.

Taking a small torpedo-shaped Danish cigarillo from the ashtray, the arms merchant puffed and read, the strong tobacco smoke blending with the salonÕs background smell of diesel and fish oil.

Kretek frowned. There was good news and bad in the dispatches. The attempts to disrupt the joint Russian-American investigation had failed. Kretek hadnÕt had high hopes for the effort in the first place. The groupÕs point man in Alaska had been forced to hire and equip whatever was available at short notice, in this case, local Russian mafia street trash.

The ad hoc interceptor dispatched to kill the investigatorsÕ helicopter had failed to return. As there had been no news reports of an attack on the government expedition, or of a plane lost, it had probably gone down at sea or in the wilderness in an accidental crash.

So be it. Let the investigation team come. If they beat him on site, he would rely on his agent on the island and on the shock effect of his main forceÕs arrival. If a few history buffs made a nuisance of themselves at the wrong time, that would be their problem. Timing, planning, and the weather would be his allies against the outside world.

Kretek took another draw from the cigarillo, followed by a throat-clearing sip of the liquor. Unless, of course, there had been more to the investigation team than had met the eye. Was it possible that the governments involved knew of the incredible prize that was still aboard the bomber?

That seemed unlikely. If the truth was known, the Americans would be racing to secure the aircraft with all their considerable assets, and their national media would be having hysterics over the anthrax threat. The Russians must have assured them that the bomberÕs payload had been jettisoned, if they had mentioned it at all. The former Soviet weapons experts within the Kretek Group had assured their leader that this would be standard operating procedure.

For some reason SOP had not been followed aboard this particular aircraft, and Anton Kretek was prepared to take full advantage of the fact.

The second dispatch, from Vlahovich and the Canada group, was far more favorable. Suitable aircraft had been procured, and suitable aircrewmen had been brought in through Canadian customs. Refueling base A was being established, and sites for bases B and C were being surveyed. Very favorable. Very favorable indeed.

The final dispatch secured the arms merchantÕs good mood. It was from Wednesday Island, indicating that no alarm had been raised. The station staff was preparing for the arrival of the aviation historians and for their own winter extraction. No problems noted. Operations proceeding.

Now that the plan was under way, Kretek would be able to send their ETA and his final phase instructions on to Wednesday. If all continued to go as well as it had so far, it would be a most pleasant reunion.

Kretek grinned and poured another finger of liquor in his glass. It was tasting better all the time.

Ê

Off the Eastern End of Wednesday Island

The stars stabbed through rents in the cloud cover, their light refracting and reflecting off the jumbled pressure ridges of the ice pack, granting hunting illumination to the great, shambling bulk that moved spectrally among them.

The polar bear was still a comparative youngster, a mere eight hundred pounds of rippling muscle and perpetual hunger thickly sheathed in glossy white fur. His instincts were driving him southward, to follow the edge of the expanding freeze up. But he had paused for a time in the vicinity of Wednesday Island. The stressed ice around the island had provided hauling-out leads and breathing holes for a lingering population of ring and hood seals, and a profitable hunting ground for a polar bear.

The bear had slain twice in the past week, crushing the skulls of his prey with swift, precise swats of his massive paws, his powerful jaws stripping the seal carcasses of the rich blubber that he needed to fuel his biological furnaces against the piercing cold of the arctic environment. But winter loomed, and the seals were fleeing ahead of it. The bear must commit to his own southward drift as well. Either that or he must explore the possibilities of his only other potential food source: the odd, decidedly unseallike animals that inhabited the island itself and that walked upright on two legs.

The polar bear was not familiar with these creatures, but the wind had carried him the scent of their sweet, hot blood, and on the ice, meat was meat.

The bear dropped down from the pressure ridge onto the thin flat surface of a recently refrozen lead. Here, where the ice was thin and still pliant, he might find a more conventional meal: a seal gnawing its way to the surface and a breath of air. Padding silently to the center of the open lead, the polar bear paused, his head held low to the ice sheet, extending his senses, feeling and listening for the faintest hint of sound or vibration from below.

There! There was a sense of something moving below the ice.

And then came a titanic shock, and the bear was lifted off his feet and hurled through the air. Such indignities were simply not supposed to happen to the lords of the Arctic! He hit the ice sprawling. Scrambling to his feet, the bear fled in abject terror, bawling his protest to an uncaring night.

A great black axe blade pressed up from beneath the surface of the frozen lead, the shattered ice groaning and splintering as it opened, flowerlike, around it. The mammoth Oscar-class SSGN bulled its way through the pack, hatches crashing open atop its sail as it stabilized on the surface. Men poured out of those hatches, dark, weather-scarred faces contrasting against the white of their arctic camouflage clothing. Some of them swung lithely down to the ice using the ladder rungs inset in the sides of the submarineÕs conning tower. Dropping to the surface of the lead, they fanned out, unslinging AK-74 assault rifles as they established their security perimeter.

The others focused on hoisting their gear up and out of the red-lit belly of the undersea vessel: loaded backpacks, white equipment, and ration-stuffed duffel bags, collapsible fiberglass man-hauling sledges, and cases of ammunition and explosives. All that they would need to live, fight, and destroy in a polar environment for a protracted time.

The commanders of both the naval Spetsnaz platoon and the submarine were the last up the ladder to the submarineÕs bridge.

Damnation, but this is cold, the sub commander muttered.

Lieutenant Pavel Tomashenko of the Naval Infantry Special Forces grinned in self-superiority and repeated the old saw. In weather like this the flowers bloom in the streets of Pinsk.

The submarine commander was not amused. I need to submerge as soon as possible. I want to give this lead a chance to refreeze before the next American satellite pass. As was the case with all good submariners, he was a nervous and unhappy man on the surface. And he had reason to be so. He was inside Canadian territorial waters in an area forbidden to probing foreign submarines. And while the Canadian naval forces were totally incapable of enforcing this prohibition, the atomic hunter-killer boats of the United States Navy also cheerfully and routinely disregarded this restriction.

Do not worry, Captain, we will be away in a few more minutes, Tomashenko replied, glancing down at his men as they loaded their sleds. We must be under cover by the time of the next pass as well. There will be no problems.

So we can hope, the submariner grunted. I will endeavor to keep to the communications schedule, but I must remind you, Lieutenant, I can make no promises. It will depend on my finding open-water leads for the deployment of my radio masts. I will return to these coordinates once every twenty-four hours, and I will listen for your sounding charges and your through-ice transponder. I can do no more.

That will be quite adequate, Captain. You run a very efficient taxi service. Dos ve danya.

Tomashenko swung himself over the rim of the bridge and lowered himself toward the frozen lead.

The sub skipper only muttered his response under his breath. It galled to take such lip from a mere snot-nosed lieutenant, but these Spetsnaz types considered themselves GodÕs anointed under the best of circumstances. Unfortunately, this particular example came with a curt set of sealed orders from the Pacific Fleet Directorate that squarely placed the sub commander and his boat at the beck and call of Tomashenko. To disregard either the word or spirit of those orders would be extremely bad joss in the shrinking Russian navy.

The sub skipper watched as Tomashenko and his platoon lined out, dark shapes against the ice, trudging toward the shadowed silhouette of Wednesday Island. He was glad to see them go. His soul and his ship were his own again for a time. He was pleased to have that particular outfit clear of his decks as well. TomashekoÕs force had to be one of the most thoroughly cold-bloodedÐ and murderous-looking crews he had ever encountered. And given his twenty years of service in the Russian military, that was saying something.

Clear the bridge! The submarine commander lifted his voice in a hoarse bellow. All lookouts below!

As his seamen brushed past him to clatter down the ladder, he pushed the brass button beside the waterproof intercom. Control room, this is the bridge. Prepare to take her down!

Ê

The USS Alex Haley

Randi Russell nudged a scarlet plastic disk an inch forward with a fingernail. King me, she said, staring across the game board with the focused intensity of a cougar preparing to pounce.

Muttering under his breath in Russian, Gregori Smyslov took a counter from his minimal pile of trophies and clapped it down where indicated.

YouÕre in trouble, Gregori, Valentina Metrace said, munching a chip from the bowl resting beside the tabletop battlefield.

Draughts is a childÕs game, Smyslov said through gritted teeth. A childÕs game, and I am not in difficulty!

We call it checkers, Major. Smith chuckled from where he sat beside Randi. And yes, you are in trouble.

Even the great Morphy would find it impossible to concentrate with certain people incessantly crunching crackers in his ear!

TheyÕre tortilla chips, to be precise, Valentina said, enjoying another savory crunch. But your real problem is, youÕre trying to logic the game as you would chess. Checkers are more like fencing: a matter of finely-honed instinct.

Indeed. Smyslov pounced, jumping one of RandiÕs red checkers with a black. I told you I was in no difficulty.

The riposte was lethal, RandiÕs freshly minted king clearing the board of black counters in a swift, final tic-tic-tic triple assault. Best four out of six? she queried with just the faintest hint of a smile.

SmyslovÕs palm thumped into his forehead. Shit, and for this I left Siberia!

Smith grinned at the Russian. DonÕt feel too bad, Major; IÕve never beaten Randi at checkers, either. I donÕt think it can be done. Now, whoÕs for bridge?

Smyslov lifted his head and started to collect his dead soldiers. Why not? Being tortured with hot irons canÕt be worse than having oneÕs fingernails torn out.