Covert One 7 - The Arctic Event

The heat in the cabin issued from a small coal stove centered on the north wall. Crossing to it, Metrace lifted the stove lid, revealing glowing orange ash. I wonder how long one of these things can hold a fire, she mused, adding a few chunks of glossy black anthracite from the scuttle.

Probably for some time, Smith commented, looking around the lab. ThereÕs no sign of a struggle, and there are plenty of delicate things in here to smash.

Um-hm, Valentina agreed, pointing toward a row of empty hooks near the exterior doorway. Miss Brown must have had the chance to put on her snow gear. Apparently she left under controlled circumstances.

Smith went on into the radio room. With her gloves off and her hood thrown back, Randi was sitting in the sidebands operatorÕs chair, a frown on her face. The radios were still switched on. Check lights glowed green, and the thin hiss of a carrier wave issued from the speakers. As Smith looked on she pressed the transmit key at the base of the desk mike. CGAH Haley CGAH Haley, this is KGWI Wednesday Island. This is a check call. This is a check call. Do you copy? Over.

The carrier hissed back emptily.

What do you think, Randi?

I donÕt know. She shook her head. WeÕre on frequency, and the transmitter gain indicates weÕre putting out. She adjusted the receiver squelch and transmitter power and repeated the test call, to no effect. Either theyÕre not hearing us or weÕre not hearing them.

There was a sat phone and data link at the far end of the console. Smith stepped around Randi and lifted the receiver, punching in the Haley Õs address code. No joy here, either, he reported after a moment. ItÕs not accessing the satellite.

Could it be the antennas?

Possibly. ThatÕll be something to check out later. LetÕs go.

The last hut in the row was the bunk room. The leading edge of the snow squall had enveloped the station, and visibility was graying out as the team approached the building.

Once more they repeated the entry drill. Flanking the snow lock door, Smith and Metrace listened as Randi pushed her way into the bunk room. After a moment, they heard her exclaim aloud, Now, this is just too weird!

Smith and the historian looked at each other and shouldered through the lock into the bunk room.

Inside, the overall layout was similar to the laboratory. There were two sets of bunk beds and a small coal heater against the north wall of the cabin. Kitchen equipment and a food preparation counter were on the south, with a communal mess table in its center. A set of womenÕs quarters had been partitioned in the far end of the hut, an accordion-style sliding door standing half open.

The bunk room had been heavily personalized with a variety of photographs, hard-copy downloads, and sketches, humorous and otherwise, tacked and taped to the walls.

Randi was standing beside the mess table, staring down at a plate holding a half-consumed corned beef sandwich and a half-empty glass of tea.

I concur, Miss Russell, Valentina Metrace said, joining in the stare at the sandwich. That is indeed the limit.

Randi set her submachine gun on the table. I feel like IÕve just gone aboard the Mary Celeste. She tugged off one of her leather inner gloves and touched a couple of fingers to the side of the glass. Still warm, she commented.

Looking up, she tapped the rim of the glass with a fingernail.

Jon Smith knew that he truly had a team working at that moment. None of the three in the bunk room had to say a word to understand her meaning.

The portable SINCGARS transceiver squalled and shrieked, with only the faintest fragmentary hint of human speech discernible through the clamor of the disintegrating Heaviside layer. Even with the extended-range eighteen-foot antenna strung in the rafters of the laboratory hut, it was futility.

Smith snapped off the radio. I think the Haley might be receiving us and I think they might be trying to acknowledge our call, but I wouldnÕt count on anything beyond that.

ItÕs the same with the set in the Ranger, Randi added. While weÕre on the ground it doesnÕt have enough power to punch through the solar interference. We might have more luck with the big station SSB, but I still canÕt figure out whatÕs wrong with it.

With their gear unloaded and the helicopter tarped and tied down against the weather, the landing party from the Haley had gathered in the laboratory hut, both to make a futile attempt to contact their mother ship and to develop a course of action.

What do we do now, Colonel? Smyslov inquired.

We do what we came here to do: get a look at the crash site. Smith glanced out of the lab window. The snow had slackened for the moment, but the wind still gusted uneasily. WeÕve got enough daylight left to reach the saddleback. Major, Val, youÕre with me. Get your gear together and plan for a night on the ice. Doctor Trowbridge, as youÕve stated, this station is your responsibility. I think itÕs best you stay here. Randi, if you could step outside with me for a moment. I need to talk with you.

Garbing up, they pushed out through the snow lock, making the transition from the enclosed warmth of the hut to the piercing cold of the outdoors. Smith led Randi up the packed snow trail between the cabins until there was no chance of being overheard.

All right, he said, turning to her. We have a problem.

Randi produced a wry ChapSticked smile. Another one?

You might think so, Smith replied, the mist of his breath swirling around his face. HereÕs the situation. IÕm going to have to do something I donÕt want to do. I have to split my forces, such as they are, to cover both the station and the bomber. IÕm going to need both Professor Metrace and Major Smyslov with me at the crash site. That means IÕm going to have to leave you here on your own. I donÕt like it, but IÕm stuck with it.

RandiÕs face went dark. Thanks so much for the vote of confidence, Colonel.

Annoyance cut across SmithÕs features. DonÕt cop an attitude with me, Randi. I donÕt need it. I suspect the minimum youÕll be confronting down here is a mass murderer. Your only backup will be Professor Trowbridge, who, I also suspect, will be about as much use in a fight as an extra bucket of water on a sinking ship. If I didnÕt think you were the most survivable member of this team, I wouldnÕt even be considering this scenario. As it stands, I estimate you have the best chance of coming out of this job alive. Are we absolutely clear on this?

The cold words and cold focus in those dark blue eyes jolted her back momentarily. This was a facet of Jon Smith Randi had not encountered before, either in his time with Sophia or in her chance encounters since then. This was the full-house soldier, the warrior.

IÕm sorry, Jon, I got off base. IÕll cover things here for you, no problem.

The look on his face disengaged, and Smith smiled one of his rare full smiles, resting a hand momentarily on her shoulder. I never doubted it, Randi. In a lot of ways this will be the tougher job. YouÕve got to verify our suspicions about whatÕs happened here while watching your back to make sure it doesnÕt happen to you. YouÕve also got to find out how the word was passed off the island and who it was passed to. Trowbridge may be of help to you there. ThatÕs one of the reasons I brought him along. Anything you can learn about the identities, resources, and intents of the hostiles could be critical.

She nodded. I have some ideas about that. IÕll try and get the big radio working, too.

Good enough. SmithÕs expression closed up again. But while youÕre about it, remember to stay alive, all right?

As long as it doesnÕt interfere with the mission, she replied. Then she tried to lighten the Zen of her statement. And while youÕre up there on that mountain I suggest you watch your own back with that scheming brunette. I think she has designs on you.

Smith threw his head back and laughed, and for an instant Randi could see what had enraptured her sister. An arctic glacier is hardly the environment for a romantic interlude, Randi.

Where thereÕs a will thereÕs a way, Jon Smith, and I have a hunch that lady has a lot of will.

Standing outside the laboratory hut, Randi watched the three small figures trudge up the flag-marked trail, the one that led eastward along the shoreline toward the central peaks. The snow had stopped altogether, but the mist, the near-perpetual sea smoke of the poles, was closing in. The arctic camouflage her teammates wore blended them into the environment until, abruptly, they were gone.

What now? Doctor Trowbridge stood beside her in the lee of the hut, garish in the Day-Glo orange cold-weather gear issued to the science expedition. Randi could see that the academic was beginning to regret his momentary burst of responsibility back aboard the Haley.

He was a man meant for the warm classrooms and comfortable offices of a university campus, not for the wild, cold, and dangerous areas of the world. She could see the fear and loneliness of this place sinking into him. It would be so even without the overlay of the Misha scenario.

He was questioning his only companion as well, this alien being with the submachine gun slung over her shoulder.

Randi felt a momentary surge of contempt for the academic. Then, angrily, she dismissed the thought. Rosen Trowbridge could no more help what he was than she could help being the bitch wolf she had become. She had no right to judge who was the superior.

That was a computer data link attached to the satellite phone, wasnÕt it?

Trowbridge blinked at her. Yes, that was how most of the expeditionÕs findings were downloaded to the project universities.

Were the expedition members allowed access to that data link?

Of course. Every expedition member had a personal computer and was allotted several hours of Internet access a week for their project studies and for personal useÑfor e-mail and the like.

Right, Randi replied. That would work. The first thing we do, Doctor, is to collect laptops.

Ê

The Southern Face of West Peak

After the first hour they had been forced to strap on crampons, and their ice axes had become something more than walking staffs. The safety line linking them together had also become a comfort rather than an encumbrance.

This is it. Last flag. End of the trail. Smith shot a look up the mountain slope above them, checking for unstable rock formations and snow cornices. LetÕs take a breather.

He and his teammates shrugged out of their pack frames and sank down with their backs to the vertical wall of the broad ledge they had been following. The climb itself had not been technically challenging. There had been no piton and rope work involved, but the cold, the icy footing, and the intermittent patches of broken stone had made it physically demanding.

TheyÕd been climbing into the overcast, and the gray haze had folded in around them, limiting their world to a fifty-yard radius. Visibility grew somewhat better-looking downward from the ledge. They could see as far as WednesdayÕs coastline, but the differentiation between ice-sheathed land and ice-sheathed sea was a subtle one.

Hydrate, people. With his snow mask tugged down and his goggles lifted, Smith opened the zip of his parka, removing a canteen from one of the large inside pockets, where the warmth of his body kept the water liquid.

With a physicianÕs instincts he watched as his companions followed suit. A little more, Val, he counseled. Just because you donÕt feel like you need water in this environment doesnÕt mean you donÕt require it.

She made a face and took another grudging mouthful. ItÕs not the input that IÕm worried about; itÕs the inevitable outflow. She screwed the cap back onto her canteen and turned to Smyslov. ThatÕs the curse of having a doctor perennially in the house, Gregori. He goes around insisting you enjoy good health.

The Russian nodded ruefully. He erodes you like water dripping on a rock. The bastard has me down to ten cigarettes a day and feeling guilty about them.

If he starts going off on chocolate and champagne, IÕm planting a cake spatula between his shoulder blades.

Or vodka, Smyslov agreed. I will not have him attacking my national identity.

Smith chuckled at the exchange. He didnÕt need to worry about team morale at any time soon. Nor about the capabilities of his companions.

Smyslov had obviously undergone the same kind of mountain warfare training and conditioning he had. He knew and could apply the simple, effective basics, with no unnecessary flash. Valentina Metrace was a tyro but with a very steep learning curve. She was quick, she kept her eyes open, and she was ready and willing to take instructionÑthe kind of individual who could pick up an understanding of any skill rapidly. And for all her urbane drawing room sophistication there was a startling reserve of wiry strength in that slender, long-lined body.

There were intriguing things to be learned about this woman, Smith mused. Where had she come from? Her accent was an odd combination of educated American, British, and something else. And how had she developed the odd set of talents that made her a cipher agent.

And as one of Fred KleinÕs ciphers, she, like Smith, must be a person without personal attachments or commitments. What disaster had made her alone?

Smith forced his mind back to immediate concerns. Unsnapping his map case, he took out a laminated sectional photo map of Wednesday Island as scanned from polar orbit. This is as far as the expeditionÕs ground parties gotÑthe official ones anyway. From here the climbing party that found the bomber started working directly upslope to the peak. WeÕll follow on around the mountain to a point above the glacier in the saddleback.

How does the route ahead look, Colonel? Smyslov asked.

Not bad if this mapÕs any indication. Smith passed the photo chart down to the Russian. This ledge weÕve been following seems to keep going for another half mile or so. At its end we can drop down into the glacier. We might need to do some rope work, but it shouldnÕt be too bad. The crash siteÕs almost at the foot of the east peak, about a mile, mile and a quarter across the ice. With no hang-ups we should make it well before nightfall.

He glanced at Metrace. She was sitting back against the rock wall, her eyes closed for the moment. Holding up okay, Val?

Marvelous, she replied, not opening her eyes. Just assure me thereÕll be a steaming bubbly spa, a roaring fireplace, and a quart of hot buttered rum waiting for me at our destination and IÕll be fine.

IÕm afraid I canÕt promise anything but a sleeping bag and a solid belt of some very good medicinal whisky in your MRE coffee.

A distant second, but acceptable. She opened her eyes and looked back at him, a quizzical smile brushing her face. I thought you medical types had decided that consuming ardent spirits in freezing weather was another biological no-no.

IÕm not that healthy yet, Professor.

Her smile deepened in approval. There is hope for you yet, Colonel.

Ê

Wednesday Island Station

ShouldnÕt you have a warrant or something? Doctor Trowbridge asked suddenly.

Distracted, Randi looked up from the row of six identical Dell laptops on the laboratory worktable. What?

These computers contain personal documents and information. ShouldnÕt you have some kind of a warrant before you go rummaging around in them?

Randi shrugged and turned back to the computers, tapping a series of on buttons. Damned if I know, Doctor.

Well, you are a government...agent of some nature.

I donÕt recall saying that.

The six screens glowed, cycling through their start-up sequences. Of the six, only two demanded access code words: those belonging to Dr. Hasegawa and Stefan Kropodkin.

Still, before I can allow you to violate the privacy of my expeditionÕs staff members there must be some kind of...

Randi sighed, fixing a baleful gaze on Trowbridge. First, Doctor, I donÕt have anyplace to get a warrant from. Secondly, I donÕt have anybody to give a warrant to, and finally, I donÕt really give a shit! Okay?

Trowbridge subsided in outraged bafflement for a moment, turning to stare out of the lab window.

Turning back to the computers, Randi methodically set to work, checked the four open systems first, skimming through the e-mail files and address lists. Nothing sprang out at her from the stored correspondence. Professional and personal business, letters from wives, families, and friends. The English boy, Ian, was apparently on very good terms with at least three different girlfriends, and the American girl, Kayla, was discussing a marriage with a fiancŽ.

No one seemed to be openly chatting up any known terrorist groups or exchanging missives with the Syrian Ministry of Defense. Which, of course, was meaningless. There were any number of covert contact and relay nodes for such organizations infesting the Internet, just as there were any number of simple transposition codes and tear-sheet ciphers that could be used to mask a covert communication. But these days there were better ways to go about things.

Randi moved on, cross-checking the control panels and programming screens and the memory reserves of the laptops. What she was looking for could be hidden, but it would also absorb a fair-sized chunk of hard drive space.

Again nothing sprang out at her. That left the locked-out laptops.

Getting up from the stool she had been using, she stretched for a moment and crossed to her pack that she had lugged in from the helicopter. Opening it, she took out a software wallet and removed a numbered compact disk. Returning to the laboratory table, she popped open the CD drive of the first locked computer and inserted the silvery disk.

The locked laptop made the error of checking the identification of the inserted disk, and in seconds the sophisticated NSA cracking program was raping its operating system. The desktopÕs welcome screen came up, the systemÕs lockout protocols erased and supplanted.

Randi began to repeat the process with the second laptop. Dr. Trowbridge, please donÕt come up behind me like that, she murmured, not taking her eyes from the screens. It makes me nervous.

Excuse me, he replied, his footsteps withdrawing toward the stool in the corner of the laboratory. I was just thinking about going over to the bunkhouse for a cup of coffee.

IÕd rather you didnÕt. ThereÕs a jar of instant coffee, some mugs, and a pot for heating water in the cupboard beside the coal stove.

The academicÕs voice grew heated as well. So I gather IÕm under suspicion of something as well?

Of course you are.

I do not understand any of this! It was a vocal explosion.

God, and she didnÕt have time for this! She spun around on the lab stool. Neither do we, Doctor! ThatÕs the problem! We donÕt understand how word about the anthrax got off this island. Nor do we understand who may be coming for it. Until we do we are going to be as suspicious as hell of everybody! What you apparently donÕt understand is that entire national populations can be at stake here!

She turned back to the computers. There was a long silence from the far end of the lab, followed by the clatter of coffee paraphernalia.

Dr. Hasegawa used Japanese kanji script on her personal computer, and it wasnÕt difficult to learn the great secret she was shyly locking away from the world. The female meteorologist was also a budding novelist. Randi, who was as capable in kanji as she was in several other languages, scanned a page or two of what was obviously a sweeping and rather sultry historical romance set in the days of the shogunate. Actually sheÕd read worse.

As for the computer of Stefan Kropodkin, he conveniently used English, and there was nothing out of the way on his system beyond a not excessive amount of downloaded cyber porn.

But there was one blip on his scope. Almost nothing in the way of personal e-mail traffic had been saved.

Dr. Trowbridge, what do you know about Stefan Kropodkin?

Kropodkin? A brilliant young man. A physics major from McGill University.

That was in his file, along with the fact he holds a Slovakian passport and is in Canada on a student visa. Do you know anything about his family? Was any kind of a background check done on him?

What kind of a background check were we supposed to do? Trowbridge swore softly as he struggled with the lid of the jar of powdered coffee. This was a purely scientific research expedition. As for his family, he doesnÕt have one. The boy is a refugee, a war orphan from the former Yugoslavia.

Really? Randi sat back on her stool. Then who is financing his education?

HeÕs on a scholarship.

What kind of a scholarship?

Trowbridge spooned coffee crystals into his mug. It was established by a group of concerned Middle European businessmen specifically for deserving refugee youth from the Balkan conflicts.

And let me guess: this scholarship was established shortly before Stefan Kropodkin applied for it, and so far, heÕs the only deserving refugee youth to receive it.

Trowbridge hesitated, his spoon poised over his steaming cup. Well, yes. How did you know?

Call it a hunch.

Randi refocused on KropodkinÕs laptop. Again, that unaccounted-for block of hard drive space she was looking for wasnÕt present.

She bit her lip. All right, somebody was being smart again. If it wasnÕt locked up in one of the computers, it must be somewhere else. Where might that be?

She closed her eyes, resting her hands on her thighs. LetÕs say heÕs being very, very smart and very careful. Where would he hide it?

In his personal effects? No, there would be a risk in that. The same with carrying it on his person. It would be elsewhere.

Maybe where it would be employed.

Randi slipped off her stool. Crossing to her cold-weather gear on the wall hooks, she took her thin leather inner gloves out of her parka pocket. Donning them, she brushed past Trowbridge, recrossing the lab and entering the radio shack.

It was little more than a large closet containing only the radio console, a single swivel chair, a small filing cabinet for hard copy, and a second small cabinet containing tools and electronic spares.

It wouldnÕt be inside the radio chassis or in the cabinets, simply because other people might have reason to poke around in there.

The floor, ceiling, exterior walls, and interior partition were solid slabs of insulated fiber ply; the window, a sealed double thermopane. No hiding places. But where the wall and ceiling panels joined, there was a narrow ledge above man height and maybe an inch in depth. Carefully Randi started to feel her way around it.

When her fingertips finally came to rest on it, she said, Got you! aloud.

What is it? Trowbridge had been watching her actions from a wary distance.

Randi carefully held up a chewing gumÐsized stick of gray plastic. A remote computer hard drive. Somebody hid it in here where it would be nice and convenient.

Randi returned to the lab table. Popping the end cap off the mini hard drive, she plugged it into the USB port of the nearest computer and called up the removable-disk access prompt.

Got you! she repeated with greater exaltation. Randi lanced around to find Doctor Trowbridge trying to ease a look at the screen. Be my guest, Doctor, she said, stepping aside.

What is it? he repeated, staring at the title screen.

ItÕs an Internet security program, Randi replied, used to encrypt e-mails and Internet files that you donÕt want the world at large to be able to read. This one is a very sophisticated and expensive piece of work, totally state-of-the-art. ItÕs available on the open market, but usually youÕd see something like this only in the hands of a very security-conscious business firm or government agency.

RandiÕs gloved fingers danced over the keyboard for a moment. ThereÕs a secured document file in here as well. But even with the program, I canÕt open it without the personalized encryption key. That will be somebody elseÕs job.

For the first time she looked around at Trowbridge. Why would anyone at this station need something like this?

I donÕt know, Trowbridge said, all trace of his former belligerence erased. There would be no reason. This was all open research. Nothing secretive was being done here.

That you know of. Randi delicately removed the minidrive from the computer and dropped it into a plastic evidence envelope.

Do you think... He hesitated. Do you think this has something to do with the disappearance of the expedition staff?

I think this is the way the word about the bioweapons aboard the Misha 124 got out, Randi replied. But this leaves us an even more interesting question.

WhatÕs that, Ms. Russell? For the moment, in the face of this discovery, they were at a truce.

This island has been a totally sealed environment for over six months. Somebody brought this thing here long before that bomber was ever found, for some totally different reason. Its use in this situation is a coincidence, not a cause.

Trowbridge started to protest. But if itÕs not for the bomber, why would anyone have a reason...

As I said, Doctor, thatÕs a very interesting question.

Rosen Trowbridge had no answer. Instead he turned to the little coal stove with the little pot of water steaming atop it. Would...would you care for a cup of coffee, Ms. Russell?

Ê

Saddleback Glacier

Smith studied the row of glowing green numbers in the LED strip of the handheld Slugger Global Positioning unit. DonÕt quote me on it, but I think weÕre close, he said, lifting his voice over the wind rumble.

Whatever weather Wednesday Island received, the glacier between the two peaks got the worst of it, the mountains channeling the polar katabatics between them. On this afternoon, the sea smoke and cloud cover had blended, streaming through the gap between the mountains in a writhing river of mist intercut with stinging bursts of airborne ice crystals too hard and piercing to be called snow.

As Smith had hoped, the rappel down the mountainside to the glacierÕs surface had not proved excessively difficult, but the crossing of the glacier itself had turned into a slow, painful crawl. Visibility had varied from poor to nonexistent, and the threat of crevasses had mandated a wary roped advance, probing constantly with their ice axes. Away from the shield of the mountains, the incessant winds tugged and burned, penetrating even their top-flight arctic shell clothing. Frostbite and hypothermia would soon become a factor.

They werenÕt in trouble yet, but Smith knew his people were tiring. He was feeling it himself. Night was coming on rapidly as well. Soon they would have to break off the hunt for the plane and start the hunt for shelter, if such existed up here.

That thought decided him. If he was thinking soon, it should be now, while they still had some reserves remaining. He must conserve his teamÕs strength and endurance. Time was critical, but squandering it by stumbling around in this freezing murk would accomplish nothing.

ThatÕs it, he said. LetÕs pack it in. WeÕll dig in for the night and hope for better visibility tomorrow.

But, Jon, you said weÕre close. ValentinaÕs muffled protest leaked through her snow mask. We must almost be on top of it!

ItÕs been here for fifty years, Val. ItÕll be here tomorrow. We just have to make sure weÕre here to find it. Major, weÕll try and make it across to East Peak. ThatÕll be our best bet to find some cover out of this wind. YouÕve got the point. LetÕs move.

Yes, Colonel. Obediently Smyslov turned and started his hunched trudge, probing ahead with the spike end of his climbing axe and slamming his crampons into the wind-abraded ice with each step.

HowÕs that for command, Sarge? Smith grinned to himself, telepathing the thought to his distant mountain warfare instructor.

In the saddleback, the prevailing wind was as good as any compass. They only had to keep it on their left shoulder to eventually reach the far side of the glacier. Last on the safety line, SmithÕs attention was centered on the other two members of his team, ready to brace and hold should either suddenly fall through into a hidden crevasse in the ice. Accordingly it took him a moment to comprehend why Gregori Smyslov came to such an abrupt halt.

Look! The RussianÕs excited yell was torn by a wind gust. Look there!

Almost directly ahead of them, a towering finlike shape had materialized, ghostlike in the streaming mist: the vertical stabilizer of an aircraft, a big aircraft, the outline of a storm-scoured red star still faintly visible.

Yes! Valentina Metrace lifted her fists in triumph.

WasnÕt that always the case? When you werenÕt looking for it, you found it.

Ê

Wednesday Island Station

Randi Russell trudged up the trail to the knoll overlooking the station. Every few feet she stopped and heaved on the heavy, weatherproof coaxial cable that led up to the radio mast, peeling a length of it up and out of the snow cover. Carefully she ran each exposed cable section through her mittened hands, looking for breaks or cuts.

It had to be the antennas. SheÕd checked everything else on both the sat phone and the sideband set. The little SINCGARS transceiver theyÕd brought with them was useless. It simply lacked the power to override the solar flare that was demolishing communications. Once theyÕd broken the line of sight she hadnÕt even been able to raise Jon and the others on the aircraft party.

She was on her own. As much as one could get. Impatiently she shook her head, displeased with the pang of loneliness that had flared within her. Giving the MP-5 a hitch onto her shoulder, she doggedly plowed another few feet up the compacted snow trail.

Reaching the base of the ice-coated radio mast, Randi knelt down and traced the last few inches of cable into the booster box at the tower base. It was intact, and all the connectors were still screwed tight. Frustrated, she rocked back on her heels. The radios should be working. Given they werenÕt, she was missing something. Randi suspected sabotage, but if such was the case, some very subtle methodology had been used.

Somebody was being very, very clever, and she hoped that soon she would have the opportunity to make him suffer for it.

Standing, Randi took her binoculars from her belt case. From her position on the knoll she had a fair view of the immediate cove area. Degree by degree, to the limits of the haze and the fading daylight, she made another scan of her environs, her augmented gaze lingering on the jumbled piles of pressure ice along the shoreline and on the shadows and swales of drift at the foot of the central ridge.

That clever person was out there now, somewhere nearby, possibly even watching her. He was waiting, maybe for assistance or maybe for her to make that one mistake. To defeat him she was going to have to be a little bit more clever than he was.

She had one immediate advantage. Movement in this snow-blanketed environment meant leaving obvious and unerasable tracks. The science station was centered in a straggling, lopsided web of flag-marked snow trails that interconnected the buildings, supply dumps, and more distant experiment and research sites. Randi ran her glasses down each track, seeking for fresh ground disturbances or sets of snowshoe or boot tracks angling off from the regular routes of travel.

She found one. Disconcertingly, it was almost immediately below her, branching off from the trail to the knoll she had followed just a few minutes before in her climb to the radio mast. In her intent study of the communications cable, she hadnÕt paid attention to the short lateral stretch of broken snow that led out to a small disturbed drift. She did so now, and a chill rippled down her spine that had nothing to do with the sinking evening temperature.

She hastened downslope to the divergent trail and followed it for a dozen yards, kicking her way along and restirring the surface. She found what she had feared: red-stained snow, covered over and hidden. Reaching the end of the trail, she dropped to her knees and dug into the drift. It didnÕt take long to uncover the parka-clad body.

Kayla Brown wouldnÕt be going home to her fiancŽ in Indiana. Gently Randi brushed the snow from the young womanÕs face. She had died from a smashing blow to the temple from some heavy, pointed object, possibly an ice axe. Traces of shock and terror, her last expression, lingered frozen on the studentÕs face.

Kneeling beside the girlÕs body, Randi Russell decided that it would not be adequate for this clever person to suffer. He was going to die, and it would please her to be his executioner.

Randi reburied the body with a few sweeps of her arm. She would not tell Trowbridge about this discovery. Not immediately, at any rate. Kayla Brown would keep here for a time, at least until Randi could arrange for her avenging.

Randi continued to the hut row. The lights were already on within the bunkhouse. Doctor Trowbridge had volunteered to prepare an evening meal. Pausing on the main trail that led past the hut entrances, she judged vision angles and distances. Near the front of the bunkhouse, Randi veered off the trail, plowing out into the virgin snow for a few yards.

Then, dropping onto the snow, she burrowed and rolled, compacting a pit large and deep enough for her to lie in with her back almost flush with the surrounding surface. It brought back unbidden childhood memories of making snow angels up at Bear Lake. Her intents now, though, were quite different.

Satisfied with her efforts, she got to her feet, shook off the ice rime, and went in to dinner.

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The Misha Crash Site

It strikes me that a lot of people are going to feel awfully stupid if we get in there only to find that containment vessel has been lying on the bottom of the ocean for the past fifty years. The MOPP biochemical warfare suit had been designed to fit over his cold-weather clothing, and Jon Smith suspected that he looked very much like the Michelin Tire man.

That is a stupidity I could live with, Smyslov replied, passing him the headset for the Leprechaun tactical radio.

So could I. Smith flipped back his parka hood and settled the headset in place, wincing a little as the searing chill bit at his momentarily exposed ears. Radio check.

IÕve got you. Valentina Metrace hunkered down on the ice beside him, wearing a second tactical headset. WeÕre all right for line-of-sight distances at least.

The team had set up some fifty yards upwind of the crash site, behind the meager windbreak afforded by their backpacks and a low ledge of extruded ice. Evening was standing on, but there was nothing in the way of a sunset; the grayness around them simply grew darker and the wind colder. Time and environment were becoming critical.

Okay, people, this will be a fast in-and-out to learn if the anthrax is still aboard the aircraft, and to see if anyone else has been in there. Smith popped the plastic safety covers off the MOPP suitÕs filter mask. You two know what I should be looking for, and youÕll walk me through it. There shouldnÕt be any problems, but IÕm putting one absolute in place now. If, for any reason, something goes wrongÑif I donÕt come out, or if we lose contactÑnobody goes in after me. Is that clearly understood?

Jon, donÕt be silly... Valentina started to protest.

Is that understood? Smith barked the words.

She nodded, looking unhappy. Yes, I understand.

Smith looked at Smyslov. Understood, Major?

In the shadow of his parka hood, Smith could see some emotion roiling beneath the RussianÕs stony features, an effect Smith had noticed several times before during the past week. Again Smyslov was struggling with something down in his guts where he lived.

Colonel, I...It is understood, sir.

Smith pulled the anticontamination hood over his head, adjusting the mask straps and sealing tabs. He took his first breath of rubber-tainted filtered air and drew on the suitÕs overgauntlets.

Okay. His voice sounded muffled even in his own ears. Dumb question of the day: how do I get inside?

The fuselage appears to be essentially intact, ValentinaÕs voice crackled over the radio channel, and the only way into the forward bomb bay is through the forward crew compartment. Unfortunately the conventional access doors are located in the nose wheel well and in the forward bomb bay itself, both of which are blocked. Your alternatives are through the port and starboard cockpit windows, which would be hard to wriggle through in that outfit, or the crewÕs access tunnel to the aft compartment. The latter is your best bet.

How do I get into the aft compartment, then?

There is an access door in the tail just forward of the horizontal stabilizer on the starboard side. YouÕll have to work your way forward through the pressurized crew spaces from there.

Right. Smith stood awkwardly and waddled toward the murky outline of the downed bomber.

The port-side wing of the TU-4 had been torn loose in the crash and folded back almost flush against the fuselage, but the starboard approaches to the bomber were clear. As he circled around the great aluminum slab of the horizontal stabilizers Smith found himself marveling a little. Even in an age of giant military transports and jumbo jet airliners, this thing was huge. And they were actually flying these monsters during the Second World War.

Smith approached the great cylindrical body and ran a hand over the ice-glazed metal.

Okay, IÕm here and IÕve found the entry door. ThereÕs a flush-mounted handle, but it looks like itÕs been popped out.

The emergency release will have been pulled from the inside, Valentina replied. It should open, but you might have to pry it a bit.

Right. Smith had a small tool kit slung at his belt, and he drew a heavy long-hafted screwdriver from it. Fitting the tip of the blade into the frost-clogged slit around the door, he slammed the heel of his hand against the butt of the tool. After a couple of blows there was a sharp crack as the ice seal broke. A few more moments of levering, and the door swung outward, the wind catching at it, leaving a rectangular shadowed gap in the fuselage.

You were right, Val. ItÕs open. Going inside now.

Bending low, he ducked through the small door.

It was dark inside the fuselage, with only the trace of dull exterior light at his back. Smith removed a flashlight from his tool kit and snapped it on.

Damn, he murmured. I never expected this.

What are you seeing, Jon? Valentina demanded.

Smith panned the flashlight beam around the fuselage interior. No appreciable amount of snow had leaked inside, but ice crystals glittered everywhere, thinly encrusting the battleship gray frames and cable and duct clusters. ItÕs incredible. ThereÕs no sign of corrosion or degradation anywhere. This thing might have rolled out of the factory yesterday.

Natural cold storage! the historian exclaimed over the radio. This is fabulous. Keep going!

Okay, thereÕs a catwalk leading aft past a couple of large flat rectangular boxes to a circular dished hatch right in the tail of the airplane. The hatch is closed, and there is a round window set in its center. A couple of what look like ammunition feed tracks are set on either side of it. I guess that must be the tail gunnerÕs station.

Correct. Is there anything else noteworthy back there?

ThereÕs some kind of a mount or pedestal with a couple of unbolted cables hanging from it. It looks like some piece of equipment has been dismantled.

That would be the generator set of the auxiliary power unit, the historian mused. ThatÕs rather interesting. Now, just to your right there should be a bulkhead with another pressure hatch centered in it, leading forward.

There is. ItÕs closed.

The B-29/TU-4 family was one of the first military aircraft designed specifically for high-altitude flight. A number of its compartments were pressurized to allow its crew to survive without the need for oxygen masks. YouÕre going to have to work forward through a series of these pressure hatches.

Got it. Smith shuffled over to the hatch and tried to peer through the thick glass of the port, only to find that it was frosted over. What should be in this next compartment?

It should be the crewÕs in-flight rest quarters.

Right. Smith gripped the dogging handle of the hatch and twisted it. After a momentÕs resistance, the lever started to yield.

Jon, wait!

Smith yanked his hand away from the handle as if it had gone red hot. What?

Smith heard a background muttering in his earphones. Oh, Gregori was just saying that itÕs very unlikely there would be booby traps on the hatches or anything.

Thank you both for sharing that with me, Val. Smith leaned on the lever again until it gave. The hatch swung inward, and he probed with the flashlight.

CrewÕs quarters, all right. ThereÕs a set of fold-out bunks on either side and thereÕs even a johnÑno relationÑup in one corner. The cabin appears to have been stripped. There are no mattresses or bedding in the bunks, and I can see a number of empty, open lockers.

ThatÕs understandable. Valentina sounded thoughtful, obviously cogitating on something. The next space should be the radar-observer compartment. LetÕs see what you find there.

Working his way forward, Smith ducked through a low nonpressure hatch. Here there was dim outside light. Plexiglas bubbles, sheathed in ice and hazed with decades of wind spalling, were set into the port and starboard bulkheads and into the overhead. Skeletal chairs faced the two side domes, and a third seat on an elevated pedestal was positioned under the astrodome in the top of the fuselage. In a bomber mounting its full defensive armament, Smith imagined that these would have been the gunnersÕ targeting stations for the remotely controlled gun turrets. Valentina verified the supposition as he described the space.

This compartment has been emptied out, too, Smith reported. A lot of empty lockers, and even the padding has been stripped out of the seats.

All of the survival gear will have been taken, along with anything that could serve as insulation. There should also be a large electronics console against the forward bulkhead.

There is, he concurred. The chassis has been completely gutted.

ThatÕs the radar operatorÕs station. TheyÕd have wanted the components, Valentina finished cryptically.

There are also two circular doors or passages in the forward bulkhead, one above the other. The larger lower passage has a pressure hatch on it. The upper one has a short aluminum stepladder leading up to it.

The lower hatch opens into the aft bomb bay. There wonÕt be anything in there but fuel tanks. The upper passage is the one you want. ItÕs the crew crawlway that runs over the bomb bays into the bow compartment.

Smith crossed the compartment and peered down the aluminum-walled tunnel. It had been designed large enough for a man in bulky winter flight gear to negotiate, so he shouldnÕt have a problem with his MOPP suit.

Going on. He put his boot toe in a ladder step and heaved himself into the tunnel, hitching and shouldering his way awkwardly toward the circle of pale light at its far end.

The forty-foot crawl down the frost-slickened tube seemed to take forever, dislodged ice crystals raining around him with each inch gained. Smith was startled when he finally thrust his head into the comparatively open space of the forward compartment.

The last of the outside light trickled in dully through the navigatorÕs astrodome and the hemispheric glazed nose of the old bomber, and again the state of preservation was astounding. The plane was frozen in time as well as in temperature. Ice diamonds sheathed controls that hadnÕt moved for five decades, and glittered over the ranked instrument gauges frozen on their last readings.

IÕm in the cockpit, he reported into his lip mike, panting a little with the exertion.

Very good. Is there much crash damage?

ItÕs not bad, Val. Not bad at all. Some of the windows in the lower curve of the bow were caved in. Some snow and ice has packed in around the bombardierÕs station. A drift seems to have built up around the nose. Beyond that, everythingÕs in pretty fair shape, although some inconvenient SOB unshipped the tunnel ladder. Just a second; let me get down from here.

Smith rolled onto his back and used the grab rail mounted above the entry to draw himself out of the crawlway. Okay, on the deck.

Excellent, Jon. Before you examine the bomb bay could you check a couple of things for me?

Sure, as long as it wonÕt take too long.

It shouldnÕt. First, I want you to examine the flight engineerÕs station. That will be the aft-facing seat and console behind the copilotÕs position.

Okay. Smith snapped on his flashlight once more. ItÕs a lot roomier in here than I figured.

In a standard TU-4 a lot of the space in the bow compartment would be taken up by the basket of the forward dorsal gun turret. That was one of the weapons mounts pulled in the America bombers.

Yeah. Smith tilted his hood faceplate up. I can see the turret ring in the overhead. Again, IÕm seeing the empty lockers, and the seat cushions and parachutes are gone. Looking toward the bow, IÕve got what looks like the navigatorÕs table on my left, and another stripped electronics chassis to my right.

That was the radio operatorÕs station. I suspect the planeÕs crew built a survival camp somewhere around here, someplace that would provide a bit more protection than the wreckÕs fuselage. They must have transferred all of the survival and radio gear there along with the planeÕs auxiliary power generator.

That camp will be the next thing weÕll be hunting for. Smith lumbered to the flight engineerÕs station and played the light across the gauge- and switch-covered panel. Okay, IÕm at the engineerÕs station. What am I looking for?

Good, there should be three banks of four levers across the bottom of the console, a big one, a middle-sized one, and a small oneÑpapa bear, mama bear, and baby bear. The big ones are the throttles. They should be pulled all the way back, I imagine, to the closed position. The others are the propeller and fuel mixture controls. How are they set?

Smith scrubbed at his faceplate and swore softly as the haze turned out to be on the inside. TheyÕre both sort of in the middle.

Most interesting, the historian mused over the radio circuit. There would have been no reason to fiddle with them after a crash. All right, there is one more lever I want you to check for me, Jon. It will be located on the control pedestal outboard of the pilotÕs seat. It will be very distinctive in appearance. The knob on the end of it will be shaped like an airfoil.

Smith turned in the aisle between the flight control stations, peering awkwardly over the back of the pilotÕs chair. Looking for it...ThereÕs a hell of a lot of levers all over this thing...Okay, I found it. ItÕs all the way up, forward, whatever.

ThatÕs the flap controller, Valentina murmured. This is coming together...This is making sense... There was a moment of silence over the channel, and then the historian continued with a rush. Jon, be careful! The anthrax is still aboard that aircraft!

How can you be sure? Smith demanded.

It will take too long to explain. Just take my word for it. The crew never jettisoned the bioagent reservoir. ItÕs still in there!

Then IÕd better have a look at it. Smith straightened and returned to the forward bomb bay access.

In a mirror image of the rear compartment, it was a circular dished pressure hatch with a round window in its center, located directly below the crawlway tunnel. Smith knelt down.