Covert One 7 - The Arctic Event

There! A ribbon of white against the black rock, a spill of snow down the tunnel wall!

Smith scrambled up the glassy slope of the miniature glacier to where the compacting snow was being forced into the lava tube. It was at a point maybe eight feet above the cave floor and took in an area the size of a coffee table. Bracing a foot on a solid stone ledge, he snapped off the lantern and let his eyes adapt. After a couple of minutes he could make out the faintest luminescence radiating through the snow plug from the outside. Daylight!

Drawing his bayonet, Smith started to dig, tunneling his way carefully toward the outside world. The luminescence grew brighter, and Smith recognized that he was digging through another of the ice-crusted snowdrifts such as they had found caking the first lava tube entrance. This was the back door heÕd been seeking.

Suddenly Smith froze. Something more was leaking in from the outer world beyond the light.

VoicesÑfaint, muffled, and not speaking English.

Smith resumed his digging, but he moved slowly, quietly, and with infinite care not to break through the drift. He eased a last knife thrust through the ice shell, creating a single blade-wide horizontal penetration to the outside. Daylight gleamed, bright to Smith even through the heavy overcast. He squinted through the narrow observation slit he had created.

This second entrance opened into a shallow notch in the cliff face. A bare forty feet away, two armed figures in snow camouflage crouched behind the shoulder of the notch, peering around the corner toward the main cave entrance.

Like a man moving on nitroglycerin-filled eggs, Smith backed out of the snow tunnel and down to the cave floor, easing each step and testing each foot and handhold. He had found an option.

Ê

Wednesday Island Station

Randi saw it coming and was ready for it. The blows were delivered open-palm, but they were no mere slaps. She relaxed her neck and shoulder muscles and rode with the vicious left-right-left of the blows, minimizing their effect. Even so, stars flashed behind her eyes for a moment, and her skin burned.

There had been no reason for the assault. Randi had not spoken a word to her attacker, nor he to her. It was only the predictable start of the testing and breaking process, a testament on the part of her captors that they were not the least bit hesitant about inflicting pain and injury. Randi was already fully aware of that fact. She shook off the effects, straightened, and met her assailantÕs gaze, her features defiantly neutral.

She knew from her escape-and-evasion training that this was a bad tactic. She should be keeping her eyes lowered in submissive mode. Given the animalistic psychology of the terrorist, meeting eyes was a threat act that could trigger a violent if not lethal reaction.

But what the hell, they were going to kill her anyway.

The man who had struck her was a giant in size and in dissipation, his height and bulk enhanced by his cold-weather gear. A tangled, graying ginger beard flowed over the opened collar of his parka, and narrowed pale blue eyes peered from beneath shaggy brows of the same color, bloodshot and intent.

Those eyes studied RandiÕs face for a long moment; then the laughter wrinkles clenched around them and he chuckled, deep in his chest. Randi was not comforted. This manÕs anger would likely be more merciful than his humor.

This is a sassy little bit, the big man rumbled. What do you know about her, Stefan?

That she is some kind of American government agent, Uncle, Kropodkin replied, spite heavy in his reply, and that the bitch owes me.

Uncle, Randi mused grimlyÑso it was all a family affair. Some incredible roll of random chanceÕs dice had placed KropodkinÕs fox inside the science expeditionÕs henhouse. The security services of the world were totally at the mercy of such flukes.

They were in the laboratory hut: Randi, Professor Trowbridge, Kropodkin, the redheaded giant, and two more of his gangÑwatchful, stone-featured Slavic types. Randi had been disarmed, searched, and stripped of her parka and heavy outer snow pants, and her wrists cuffed with the good old-fashioned steel variety of handcuffs.

One of the guards stood immediately behind her, and intermittently she felt the brush of a submachine gun muzzle between her shoulder blades.

And what of him? the giant asked, nodding toward Dr. Trowbridge.

KropodkinÕs flat, dark eyes flicked briefly toward the academic, the man he had beseeched for aid and who had defended him in the face of RandiÕs accusations. A schoolteacher. He is nothing.

Trowbridge, his hands cuffed behind him as well, was reaching the apex of his waking nightmare. He had gone so pale, his skin had a greenish tinge, and Randi feared cardiac arrest might be imminent for the man. He stayed on his feet only because of the blows and kicks that had followed when his legs buckled. The crotch of his corduroy trousers was soaked.

Randi wanted to speak to him, to say some word of encouragement or comfort, but she dared not. For TrowbridgeÕs sake, she had to maintain a posture of complete indifference to him. If she exhibited even a hint of compassion toward the academic, their captors might view his systematic torment as a lever to get at her.

Come, now, Stefan, the big man said jovially. No one is nothing. Everyone is something. He turned to Trowbridge. Come, now, my friend, you are something, arenÕt you?

Yes! Yes, IÕm...I am Dr. Rosen Trowbridge, the administrative director of the Wednesday Island Science Program. IÕm a Canadian citizen. IÕm...a...a noncombatant! A civilian! I have nothing to do with...with these other people!

See, Stefan? The big man stepped across the laboratory to where Trowbridge cowered against the wall near the stove. He gave the doctor a light slap on the shoulder. He is a doctor. A man of learning. An intelligent man.

He glanced back at Randi. And you, my pretty pretty? Are you intelligent, too?

Randi didnÕt reply. She stared past him out of the laboratory hut windows, her unfocused gaze automatically taking in the movements of the other men brought in aboard the giant helicopter, noting the supplies they were unloading, trying to spot where they might be establishing their sentry goes and guard posts around the camp perimeter.

Hmmm, maybe the lady is not so intelligent as you are, Doctor. Who is she? What agency does she work for?

TrowbridgeÕs tongue dabbed at his lips as he tried not to look at Randi, as he tried to not look at anything. Like Stefan said, she is some kind of American government agent. I donÕt know any more about her than that.

My friendÑthe redheaded giantÕs voice grew ominously softÑdonÕt stop being an intelligent man.

A big, hairy-backed hand shot out and engulfed the front of TrowbridgeÕs sweater. Swinging the handcuffed man around, the terrorist leader bent him backward over the lab hutÕs coal stove until the bare flesh of TrowbridgeÕs hands and wrists sizzled on the hot stovetop.

RandiÕs jaws clenched so tightly, her back teeth almost shattered.

After Trowbridge had stopped screaming, he started talking, the words gushing from him in a whimpering babble. There was no need for the redheaded giant to conduct an interrogation. He merely guided the flow of words with an occasional quiet, nudging question, occasionally cross-checking a given answer with Kropodkin.

Trowbridge gave it all up: Jon, Valentina, Smyslov, the Haley, the mission. The doctor was no trained agent. Randi could expect the hapless, terrified man to do nothing more or less.

As Trowbridge talked, Randi thought. Her mind raced, using every precious second gained to develop some kind of con or angle that might save the doctor and herself. She had been in similar situations before where she had bought herself survival time with a skillfully crafted lie or cover story. But, damn it, this scenario gave her no maneuvering room!

Between Trowbridge and Kropodkin and overt, common knowledge, these people simply knew too much. She had nothing to sell, bargain, or bluff with. In the hands and eyes of the enemy, she and Trowbridge were irrelevant and disposable.

Across the room, TrowbridgeÕs flow of words was going dry. Randi frantically tried to telepath him a message. Keep talking! For GodÕs sake, make something up! Anything! Just keep talking!

He didnÕt hear her unspoken entreaty. His words trailed off with a final, near-whispered, ThatÕs all I know...IÕm cooperating...IÕm a Canadian citizen.

The big man turned toward her, those ghost-pale blue eyes speculative. Well, pretty-pretty? Do you have anything to add?

Randi read those eyes and knew that he had her pegged. He understood her, and he understood that anything she might say would be merely a stratagem, offered to stave off the inevitable. She stared back as impassively as the statue of Venus, her pride and instinctive discipline blocking her despair and rage.

YouÕre absolutely correct, my pretty-pretty. No sense in wasting everyoneÕs time.

The big red-haired man turned back to Trowbridge, drawing a big Czech-made CZ-75 automatic out of the side pocket of his parka. Thank you, friend Doctor. You have been most helpful. He lifted the pistol. With a flick of his head, he indicated to the guard covering Trowbridge that he should stand clear.

Trowbridge caught the meaning of the act, and a dawning, ultimate horror filled his features. No! Wait! IÕve told you everything I know! IÕm cooperating! You have no reason to kill me!

HeÕs right! HeÕs not part of this! Randi blurted. She had to speak, to protest just once, even though she knew with a sick certainty that it was useless and worse than useless. You have no reason to kill him.

The aimed muzzle of the pistol wavered. This is very true. The big man looked back at her and smiled. I have no reason to kill him...but then, I have no reason to keep him alive, either.

The CZ-75 roared. The single 9mm slug embedded in the radio room partition, surrounded by a splatter pattern of blood, bone splinters, and homogenized brain tissue. Death limp, TrowbridgeÕs body collapsed into the corner of the lab.

Randi closed her eyes, and no one heard her sob of regret and despair but herself and the universe. Trowbridge, IÕm sorry! Jon, IÕm sorry! I wasnÕt good enough!

She opened her eyes again to find the redheaded giant circling the worktable to confront her. So this was it. The ending place she had known she would stand in someday. It wasnÕt a particularly good one, but few of her kind found good endings. It was an aspect of the profession.

The CZ-75 leveled at her stomach. Well, pretty-pretty? Do I have a reason not to kill you?

The man behind the gun was speaking rhetorically. Randi sensed he had already decided. He knew he needed nothing from her. Any ploy she might try now, any bargain she might offer, any attempted diversion would be recognized as sophistry. Randi reverted to silence.

No, I suppose not. The automatic lifted and aimed into her face.

Wait.

It was Kropodkin speaking. He was standing at his uncleÕs shoulder, and his expression was one of smug cruelty. His flat, dark eyes ran the length of her body, slipping under her clothes.

The faintest spark of hope gleamed.

Do we have to be so fast with this one? We have a long, cold night ahead of us, Uncle. It would be a waste.

That faint spark of hope flared as a hint of thoughtful consideration crept into the big manÕs eyes. The muzzle of the automatic lowered to RandiÕs chest, brushing lightly against the fabric of her sweater, slowly tracing the outlines.

Randi knew she was an attractive, even a beautiful, woman. Sex and seduction had been useful tools in her agentÕs kit, and she had no problem with employing them. But any overt coquetry on her part now would blow the fragile potential. This man was not a fool. Still, Randi inhaled slowly, a deep breath that lifted and subtly offered her full breasts.

Yes, Stefan. This one might be worth enjoying a bit, the red-haired man murmured.

Very carefully Randi metered a hint of fear into her expression, the promise of a chink in her iron control. Fear and vulnerability would be an aphrodisiac to men such as this. They would react to it in the way a shark would react to a drop of blood in the water. The one chance might be the briar patch tactic.

Come on, you bastards! You want it! Screw me before you kill me!

Existence balanced on a razor edge.

Yes, a waste. The automatic sank away from her chest and disappeared into the pocket of the parka. Recreational facilities are decidedly lacking on this misbegotten rock. Remember this, Stefan. You must always look to the morale of your employees. Our men would not forgive us for denying them this charming ladyÕs company. The big man reached up and playfully patted RandiÕs bruised cheek. Take her back to the bunkhouse and keep her secured until this evening. Work must come before pleasure.

Randi pretended to crack, registering an expression of sick horror. Inwardly, she exulted. They had thought with their glands instead of their brains. They were only a bunch of thugs, after all. Thugs on a world-class scale, perhaps, but thugs nonetheless. They had made a mistake a real pro outfit would never have made. They had allowed another pro to remain alive. She must now make them pay for that folly.

Wednesday Island Station had undergone a population boom. Anton Kretek had brought in a twenty-man security and technical team aboard his Halo. Now that crew was hard at work securing the mammoth helicopter against the weather and establishing a sentry perimeter.

With matters dealt with inside the laboratory hut, Anton Kretek made a tour of inspection, ensuring that his detailed ops plan was being followed to the letter. He could still make this thing workÑhe was certain of it, even in the face of the niggling interference of the Western security agenciesÑbut the margin for error would be small.

His dead sisterÕs son crunched through the layering snow at his side. Kretek was pleased with how things had worked out with him. Stefan had been a wild one a few years back. Kretek had once despaired over the boy. No discipline. No common sense, like so many of them these days.

It had been bad enough when Stefan had knifed that German student over some tourist girl in Belgrade, but he had cut the girlÕs throat as well. There was no putting a fix in for that. Kretek had expended a great deal of time and trouble in spiriting the boy out of Europe and getting him established under a new identity in Canada.

But the boy had made amends with this current coup. He had acquitted himself well, and perhaps there would be a place for him in the business after all. An heir.

Stefan squinted through the growing sweep of wind-driven snow. WeÕre awfully open here, Uncle. The American spy satellites could spot this activity.

Kretek nodded to himself, pleased. The lad was thinking. Yes, he had come a long way. Let them look all they like. This was one of the reasons we delayed our arrival. We had to get the timing and the weather just right. We had to squeeze in just ahead of this next storm front. Now the flying conditions are impossible everywhere between us and the Canadian coast. No one can get at us.

But it must clear sometime.

Very true, Stefan. There should be a break in the weather tomorrow morning, in fact. But in this part of the world the weather breaks from the north. We will be able to take off first. I have my best explosives men with me, and they have ribbon charges already cut to fit the bulkheads of a TU-4. I have also obtained a set of schematics for the biowarfare system, and I have had a lift harness made to fit the anthrax reservoir.

Tomorrow morning we will fly to the crash site and open up that aeroplane like an oyster. Then we will pluck out the pearl and be on our way. It should take only half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes at the most. By the time the authorities arrive, we will be gone.

Where do we go from here, Uncle?

I have three refueling sites established in isolated areas across northern Canada. We will stage through them to reach Hudson Bay, flying at treetop altitude to evade the NORAD radar. In Hudson Bay we will rendezvous with an Icelandic trawler. The helicopter will go to the bottom of the sea, and we sail for the mid-Atlantic. There, we will transfer the reservoir to one of the group ships and we will dispose of the trawler and its crew. After that, we are free and clear. We need only decide if we should sell our prize in bulk to one buyer or if there is more money to be made breaking it down into penny packets.

Kropodkin laughed and clapped Kretek on his shoulder. The old wolf always has a plan.

Yes, but this time it was the sharp-nosed cub who sniffed out the prey. Kretek peered intently into the eyes of the younger man. You are sure the investigation team didnÕt have the opportunity to get out a radio report on the situation here?

I am certain. The transmitter they brought with them did not have the power to penetrate the solar flare, and I had sabotaged the station set. It was a close thing. Very close, but they didnÕt radio out.

Kretek nodded. This is good. As far as the outside world knows, the investigation team and the crew from the science station might still be here in the camp. The Americans wonÕt risk cruise missiles or radar bombing through the storm if it might kill hostages. That was the last thing we had to fear.

IÕm not quite so sure, Uncle. Kropodkin glanced back toward the laboratory hut. One of KretekÕs guards was dragging the body of Dr. Trowbridge out into the snow. Another was herding a handcuffed Randi Russell toward the bunkhouse. We still have the other members of the American investigation team loose on the island. If they are anything like that bitch, they could be trouble.

Kretek shrugged. Pish, pish, pish! Three are only three. Worry about things worth worrying about. If they come stumbling back into camp tonight, we will kill them. If they are still up at the crash site tomorrow morning, we will kill them there. If they choose to hide from us somewhere on the island, let them hide. They are nothing as long as they do not interfere with us.

All but that one. Kropodkin nodded toward Randi. She is something to me. His voice was tight and as cold as the polar winds.

I can understand that. You will be the first in her tonight. You are owed that. Kretek gave his nephew a bearlike cuff. Just see you leave plenty for the rest of us, he continued boisterously. Remember, you are a member of the firm now. Fair shares for all.

The two men shared a warm family laugh.

Ê

Saddleback Glacier

The black rock of East Peak loomed over the pale sheet of glacial ice, becoming one with the deepening night. At its base, the final approach began. Dark, leathery faces and dark, narrowed eyes peered from parka hoods, gauging the growing strength of the wind and the density of the snow being driven before it. As each gust blurred the line of sight between them and their objective the Spetsnaz troopers snaked forward another few meters, taking advantage of every minute concealing swale and depression in the ice, relentlessly tightening their half-circle perimeter around the cave mouth.

They were Siberian Yakut tribesmen, the ancient seed race from which the American Indian had sprung, adept at survival in this kind of savage, frigid environment. They could ignore the wind that drove through their arctic gear, turning the windward side of their bodies into a half-deadened ache. They were inured to the burning numbness of the frostbite eating into their faces. The resulting scabs and scars would be badges of honor, a testament to their ability to survive and fight in realms that would destroy lesser, softer men.

This night, if they felt anything, it was heat. The fires of revenge burned bright for the teammates who had died at the hands of those in the cave. They hoped that their enemies would not die swiftly in the initial assault. In their worldview, vengeance was something worth taking oneÕs time over.

Lieutenant Pavel Tomashenko peered cautiously from behind a jumble of snow-sheathed slide rock. He and his platoon sergeant had worked their way along the cliff face to within fifty yards of the objective cave. Through his night-vision monocular he could make out the body of Private Uluh sprawled on the ice outside of the cave mouth. It gave him the range he needed.

Trying to get a grenade in there that afternoon had been a mistake, but he had been angry over the loss of Scout Toyon to that sniperÕs shot. He had gotten impatient, and it had ended up costing him two men instead of the one.

That would make it a total of three to be avenged. The attack signal from the radio transponder carried by Major Smyslov had been their last contact with their agent within the American investigation team. The Americans must somehow have learned of SmyslovÕs true mission intent and killed him. It was unfortunate but also one less factor to worry about in the upcoming assault.

They were good, Tomashenko mused, the man and the woman in the cave. Probably United States Military Special Forces or Central Intelligence Agency. When he and his troopers went in after them it would be like hunting down a mated pair of Siberian tigers. They must be sure to kill them both very dead.

Full darkness settled, the beginning of a sixteen-hour arctic night. Tomashenko squinted through the monocular one last time. The photomultiplier helped against the lack of light but not the thickening snow, and now the battery was fading in the cold. His men had their orders, and the platoon would be in position. There was no sense in prolonging this.

Stand ready, Sergeant.

Sergeant Vilyayskiy grunted an acknowledgment and drew the flare gun from the holster clipped to his harness.

Tomashenko slipped an RGN-86 limited-fragmentation grenade from a bandolier pouch and tugged a whistle from the neck of his parka. When he had first been assigned to the Siberian garrison he had made the mistake once of letting his whistle dangle outside on his chest on its chain. The metal of the mouthpiece had peeled the flesh right off his lips.

Illuminate!

The platoon sergeant fired, skidding the flare flatly across the ice so it came to rest near the cave mouth, revealing it in a blue-white glare of burning magnesium. Lifting the whistle, Tomashenko blew a prolonged, piercing blast.

Around the perimeter, the RPK-74 squad automatic weapons raved a long, focused burst, their tracer streams converging on the cave mouth. A second later half a dozen rifle grenades impacted around the cave mouth, flinging Private UluhÕs body aside in a grotesque tumble. One of the grenades scored a clean hit down the throat of the tunnel, kicking a spray of snow and ice from the barricade across the mouth.

Tomashenko blew the double blast that signaled the cease-fire and the assault charge. Then he was on his feet and running for the cave mouth. For his own pride and the mastery of his platoon, he must be in the forefront of the attack.

His men were rushing the cave from all angles, pale spectral figures rising up from the ice, weapons lifted. But Tomashenko arrived first.

Beware grenade!

He tore the pin out of the RGN-86 and allowed the safety lever to flick away from the deadly little sphere. He counted two racing heartbeats before hurling the grenade into the tunnel mouth and pressing against the cliff face.

The heavy thud of the detonation sounded well back in the lava tube, snow and shock waves belching from it once more. Catching up his AK-74 from where it hung slung under his arm, Tomashenko pivoted in front of the cave mouth, emptying the thirty-round magazine in a single protracted burst. Sergeant Vilyayskiy was at his side, hosing out a second stream of bullets, sparks kicked up by the ricocheting slugs dancing in the cavern throat.

There was no replying fire.

As the remainder of the platoon deployed on either side of the cave entrance, Tomashenko and Vilyayskiy activated the tactical lights clipped under the barrels of their weapons.

Nothing. Beyond the swirling mist of pumice dust and picric acid fumes, this first length of tunnel was empty. The Americans must have withdrawn deeper into the cave before the attack.

Tomashenko slapped a fresh clip into his rifle. Corporal Vlahvitich. You and your fire team will remain here covering the cave approaches. The rest of you, follow me!

It was not an appealing concept, but it must be done. Hunched into a single file, they plunged into the deeper darkness of the tunnel.

Beyond the first turn of the passage, they had to cautiously work their way past a jumble of old radio equipment, smashed by the grenade attack. There was no sign of life or death here, either, but ahead a gash in the tunnel floor resisted the probing beams of their tactical lightÑa descent into a larger, lower passage. This would be a natural choke and ambush point.

Flare, Tomashenko breathed.

The noncom snapped a fresh round into the projector. Together, with utmost caution, they eased up to the entrance of the lower cavern, moving as silently as well-trained warriors can move.

Now!

Sergeant Vilyayskiy fired the illumination round into the gut of the blackness, and Tomashenko whipped his assault rifle to his shoulder, ready to send bullets after it.

The flare hit, bounced into the rear of the lower cavern, and ignited.

Barsimoi! There were only supposed to be two of them!

Half a dozen figures stood on the cave floor, backlit by the pulsing blaze.

Back! Get back! Tomashenko squeezed off a wild burst and threw himself away from the cavern entry. Clawing at his bandolier, he tore out another hand grenade, Sergeant Vilyayskiy mirroring his actions.

Tomashenko hurled the grenade down into the cavern, the steel sphere ringing as it bounced off stone. It exploded with a roar and an ear-popping shock wave. The Spetsnaz troopers shrank back as shrapnel screamed and whined around the cavern interior. A second grenade followed, a third. Smoke and powdered lava saturated the air, and a fist-sized chunk of rock dislodged from the tunnel roof, glancing off TomashenkoÕs shoulder.

No more! he yelled in sudden fear. The whole damn mountain might come down. Cease-fire!

The echoing reverberations and the faint, ominous grating of rock against rock faded. There was only silence from the pit of the lower cavern. Darkness as well, for the volley of hand grenades had blown out the flare.

More illumination, Sergeant! Tomashenko commanded.

The flare gun coughed once more, sending another scintillating ball of light bouncing around the interior of the cave.

We got them, Lieutenant! Vilyayskiy exclaimed. The bastards are down!

They augmented the flare with their tactical lights, playing the beams across the cluster of bodies on the cavern floor.

We only saw the two Americans. Where did these others come from?

I donÕt know, Sergeant. Be careful. There may be more.

There was something strange about the way those bodies lay so rigidly. And then it hit Tomashenko. There was no blood! They had killed no one! Those men down there had died fifty years before!

Swearing, Tomashenko led his men down the lava slope to the floor of the tunnel. They had blown apart the stiff, frozen bodies of their own people! The dead crewmen of the Misha 124 had been strung up like grotesque puppets on a network of climbing rope, criss-crossed between pitons driven into the walls of the cave.

In a growing fury, Tomashenko recognized the delaying action, deftly rigged by someone who would understand the psychology and instincts of a military force in a cave-clearing operation. And he, Pavel Tomashenko, had reacted just as his enemy had hoped. Of the Americans themselves, there was no sign. Nor was there any clue to the fate of Major Smyslov.

Tomashenko became aware of an uneasy murmur passing among the enlisted men of his platoon. They were soldiers of the Russian Federation, but they were also Yakut, not far removed from the magics and superstitions of their people.

Spread out and search! Tomashenko roared them into action again. There must be another exit from this cavern! Another tunnel! Find it!

It took several minutes of searching to find the passage into the next section of tunnel. It had been blocked with chunks of basalt stacked into it from the far side.

The Americans were buying themselves time. But to what end? They were still rats trapped in a sewer pipe. Unless...

Forward! After them! Move!

Recklessly Tomashenko dove through the gap into the next tunnel section. He must not give them the time and opportunity to set up any more of their monkey tricks. He had the numbers and the firepower. He would use them.

Illuminate! Light this place up!

Volleys of flares were hurled ahead, filling the tunnel with the scarlet light of hell, the chemical vapor for their combustion tainting the air and burning the lungs. This section of lava tube was as broad as a highway and as high as a two-story building. The platoon advanced fast and dirty, snaking through the jagged jumble of rock slabs on the cave floor in a leap-frogging overwatch, half the force moving while the other half covered, ready to unleash a storm of gunfire at the first sign of life or hint of resistance.

But there was none, and as the advance continued and the tunnel lengthened, TomashenkoÕs fears began to solidify. And then there it was, a thick fall of pale, compacted snow drooling down the left side of the tube. The rock floor of the tunnel was slick with clear condensation ice, but this was from the outside. Damnation, there was a second exit, and the Americans had found it!

A series of steps had been axed into the face of the icefall. Sergeant Vilvayskiy scrambled up the slope for a closer look. ThereÕs a snow tunnel here! They must have escaped through it, then caved it in behind them.

The Americans had logically projected that Tomashenko would tighten his security perimeter around the main cave entrance in preparation for his assault. They had simply waited for his screen to contract past their concealed escape hatch; then they had slipped away, leaving a series of delays and diversions behind to buy them running time.

Sergeant! Get that tunnel open immediately and get after those bastards! Keep Corporal OtosekÕs section with you. IÕll take the rest of the platoon back to the main entrance! The Americans must be heading back for the science station. You trail them while we try to cut them off. Move!

Yes, Lieutenant, the Yakut noncom replied, stoically snapping open his entrenching tool. You, Private Amaha, get your ass up here and help me!

In seconds, the two Spetsnaz troopers were assaulting the snow plug. Tomashenko turned and started to double-time the remainder of his force back the way they had come.

Tomashenko abruptly hesitated as the thought caught at him. The American bastards were clever. What if...

Private Amaha plunged his entrenching tool into the mass of loose snow blocking the route to the outside. As he scooped the burden aside, he felt a resisting tug. Glancing down in the flarelight, he saw a thin cord hooked over the blade of his shovel. He stared at it for an uncomprehending instant; then he understood and screamed.

The plastique-augmented hand grenade Private Uluh had attempted to drop into the cave entrance earlier that day fulfilled its destiny.

Concentrated by the confines of the tunnel, the concussion hurled Tomashenko face-first to the cavern floor. He tasted blood, the bitterness of high explosives, and the metallic taint of basalt. Over the howling ring in his ears he faintly heard the groans and pained swearing of the other downed members of the platoon. He levered himself to his feet and peered through the rosy haze of flare-illuminated dust that filled the cavern.

The passage to the outside had been blasted open, and the bodies of Sergeant Vilyayskiy and Private Amana had been hurled against the far wall of the lava tube and plastered there, like bedbugs smashed under the thumb of an annoyed sleeper.

There was no curse potent enough to be worthy of the sight.

Tomashenko staggered back down the tube and clambered up to the blackened fissure in the stone revealed and emptied by the explosion.

He looked out into the storming night and couldnÕt believe what he found. The cave exit opened into the same cove in the mountainside he had used as his command post for all that afternoon. This man Smith must have crouched within twenty feet of him, watching and listening, and Tomashenko had never realized it! There had never been a hint!

This was a shame his career could never survive! Get after them! he raged. They die tonight!

Ê

Wednesday Island Base

Randi Russell lay on her back in the lower of the two bunks in the womenÕs quarters, her wrists over her head and cuffed around the bunkÕs vertical stanchion. A swath of light cut through the darkened room from the open door, issuing from the gas lantern in the main room. Intermittently the armed guard seated at the mess table glanced in her direction.

To the guard, she lay apparently unmoving, possibly even asleep. He couldnÕt see into the shadows at the head of the bunk, where RandiÕs fingers flexed and clenched slowly and continuously like a cat kneading its claws. She must not allow her hands to swell and get stiff.

Even as she had been prodded and shoved back to the bunk room that afternoon, she had been making her plans. When her captors had handcuffed her into the bunk, she had seemingly resisted for a moment, earning herself another impatient slap across the face. But in a deft bit of positional legerdemain she had also managed to ensure that when the handcuff had been resnapped around her right wrist it had closed over both the sleeve of her sweater and the heavy thermal long johns she wore underneath it.

She had worked the fabric out from under the cuff, loosening it. She had also made sure that her fists had been tightly clinched when the cuffs had been locked on, gaining herself yet another precious fraction of an inch of play.

She rolled a little on the bunk, as if hunting for a more comfortable spot. Under the cover of the movement she again found the joint in the bunk stanchion and practiced wedging the connecting links of the handcuffs into it. Then she folded her fingers in as tightly as she could and gave an experimental tug. Given enough adrenaline, it would work. It wouldnÕt be very pleasant, but it would work.

Her eyes scanned the semidarkness, gauging distances, plotting positions, considering the potential assets. How big was the window in the end wall of the cabin, and how thick was the thermal glass? Remember how the big boom box tape player was positioned atop the cabinet against the far wall. How deep was the snow drifted against the cabins, and how would the snow crust bear weight? Listen to the wind and gauge what the weather was like and how the visibility would be outside. What about outer shell garments? She supposed her own cold-weather gear was still over in the lab hut. She would have to improvise when the time came.

In her hours of imprisoned waiting she had made every mental and physical preparation she could. For the rest she must trust to patience, luck, and Slavic sexual propensities.

The smell of cooking rations filled the bunk room, and a growing number of shadows moved across the bar of light streaming through the door. The chief smugglerÑKretek, she had heard him calledÑwas feeding his crew in shifts. The scent of hot food pointedly reminded Randi she hadnÕt eaten since a very sketchy breakfast. A meal would be a very good thing to have just now, but she didnÕt dare ask for anything to eat, for fear of disrupting the scenario she had built.

She recognized the voices of Kretek and Kropodkin. They were in the bunkhouse, having dinner. Russian was the lingua franca of the group, although Randi could recognize half a dozen different Balkan dialects and accents. Over their meal the shop talk was about the coming dayÕs operation: the blowing open of the MishaÕs fuselage and the sling lifting of the anthrax reservoir, and the precautions that must be taken when dealing with the deadly bioagent.

They also discussed Jon, Professor Metrace, and Major Smyslov. From what Randi could gather, there had been no contact with her teammates so far. Plans were being proposed for hunting them down.

The clink and rattle of eating utensils trailed off. She smelled pipes and acrid Balkan cigarettes being lit. The conversation grew more genial, the laughter more frequent. The men were relaxing after dinner, joking, discussing women and sex.

It wouldnÕt be long now.

Randi heard KretekÕs bullÕs-bellow voice say, Well, Stefan, youÕd best get on with it. You have a lot of men standing in line for their rations here.

So it would be Kropodkin.

She heard the ex-student laugh sheepishly, followed by a bellow of humor from around the table and a barrage of coarse suggestions and advice.

Just donÕt mark up that pretty face of hers, lad.

Why do you worry about her face, Belinkov? What are you going to do? Draw her picture?

What can I say? I have a romantic soul.

A shadow occulted the light. He was in the doorway, looking at her. She could hear his rasping breath, still hampered by the nose she had broken. She could hear the scuffle of his booted feet on the floor, smell the rancidity of his body.

Kropodkin stepped into the womenÕs quarters...and drew the accordion door closed behind him, plunging the little room and the two of them into darkness.

Got you, you son of a bitch!

If Kropodkin had been a show-off or if KretekÕs crew had been up for a gang bang on the mess table, Randi knew she would have been in trouble. But she had been involved in sexual relationships, both romantically and professionally, with Russians before. She knew that a strong streak of inherent prudishness still ran deeply through many of the Slavic cultures. Overt sexual exhibitionism still frequently triggered a guilt-shame response. She had been counting on this.

Kropodkin was kneeling beside the bunk now and his hands were on her breasts, squeezing and kneading them with a brutal childish eagerness. Things are different now, arenÕt they, Miss Russell? He spat her name out like an epithet. You have a great deal to make up for. A very great deal. You may start begging my pardon any time you please. I might listen.

She could make out his silhouette in the bar of light down the edge of the door and see the sparks of red light glinting in his eyes. She spoke directly to those sparks, her voice a soft whisper, audible only to him.

Just so youÕll know, IÕm still going to kill you.

Kropodkin spat out a true epithet, a counter to the chill rippling down his spine. Standing, he tore off his clothes. He would destroy the hex this deadly, beautiful witch had put on his soul with her degradation.

Then he was stripping her, dragging her ski pants, thermal underwear, and panties down to her ankles. Not bothering to force the snug garments off over her boots, he was content to hobble her with them. Then RandiÕs sweater and long john top were being forced up and over her head and into a wad around her wrists, leaving that firm, pale body bare save for her bra. That he tore away altogether with an angry, painful wrench, leaving her nothing.

She did not speak again or try to resist, not even in the slightest. She just looked into his face, those dark eyes glittering. It was as if what he was about to do to her simply didnÕt matter. As if he were irrelevant, already dead and gone.

But if it was frightening, it was also exciting. He would make this bitch notice him. He would master her and break her and make her scream and cry. He was atop her in the bunk, hunching down under the springs of the upper mattress, mounting her, feeling her back arch under the stab of his dry penetration. She would break or she would die.

Randi rode out the initial, tearing burst of pain. She could hear the sound of Stefan KropodkinÕs breath hissing through his clenched teeth, and the laughter and shouted advice from the other arms smugglers just a few feet away beyond that paper-thin door. She felt KropodkinÕs hands moving from her bruised breasts to her throat.

Above her head, the links of the handcuff chain clicked as they locked into the shallow notch in the stanchion, and the fingers of her left hand took a grip on the clothing wadded around her right wrist, so she could clear her right hand.

Kropodkin thrust savagely within her, and her pain and rage reached critical mass and exploded. Her skin tore as she ripped her right hand out of the loosened handcuff.

Lost in the sensual softness of the prostrate body beneath him and the brutality of his rape of it, Kropodkin didnÕt realize what RandiÕs convulsive movements meant. She pushed completely free of her sweater and long john top, letting them fall to the floor. Then RandiÕs left hand, still burdened by the handcuffs, whipped up and clenched in KropodkinÕs lank hair, yanking his head back.

Told you so. That whisper was the last thing he heard. Then the heel of Randi RussellÕs right hand smashed an angled blow under KropodkinÕs nose, driving his sinus cartilage into the frontal lobes of his brain, killing him instantly.

Randi felt the gush of blood over her hand, the death spasm racking KropodkinÕs body. She rolled him onto the floor, clutching him in an awkward embrace to muffle the thud of his fall. Escaping from the handcuffs and killing her would-be rapist had been no major problem. Getting away afterward, with a dozen armed men a meager yard or two away beyond a flimsy unlockable door, was. It was only a matter of time, a very brief time, before they realized something was wrong in here. She faked a pained, whimpering outcry to buy a few more seconds as she wiped the blood from her hand. Hastily she redonned her clothes. She didnÕt have enough to wear for the outside. No doubt there was more clothing in the wall lockers, but she didnÕt have the time to rummage for it in the dark.

The laughing voices were trailing off out in the main bunkroom, and someone, Kretek, called out a question to Kropodkin.

She had to get out now. Kropodkin had been wearing a heavy flannel shirt with a hooded sweatshirt over it. With her night-adapted eyes she could make out where they had been discarded on the floor. They would have to do. For a fraction of a second she considered the sleeping bags in the bunks. No good. Too bulky. They would slow her down for those first few critical moments of flight.

The question from the room outside was repeated, more pointedly. Randi snatched up KropodkinÕs garments, then grabbed for the carrying handle of the tape player atop the locker. Swinging it with all her strength, she smashed out the heavy thermopane of the bunkhouse window.

Mess table chairs crashed to the floor.

Randi threw the shirts over the bottom edge of the window frame as protection from the glass shards and rolled through to the outside. Behind her, the door to the womenÕs quarters tore open.

She felt the blowing ice spicules stab at her face, and the explosion of outside cold. It all depended on that cold now. If the snow crust had frozen solidly enough in the night to support her weight, she would live. If she broke through and bogged down in a drift, she would die. Scrambling to her feet and clutching the shirts to her, she ran for the safety of the darkness.

She heard enraged shouting and started to weave and sidestep as she ran. A flashlight beam stabbed after her, and someone emptied a handgun out of the window. Bullet strikes sprayed snow around her feet. Pray that nobody in there had grabbed a submachine gun!

The toe of her boot broke through the snow crust, and for a hideous moment she stumbled; then she caught herself and ran on. Out of the lightÕs reach, she veered sharply to her left. An Agram SMG started its angry typewriter chatter, but the gunner was firing blind, wildly spraying the night.

Randi diverted laterally again, heading away from the camp, the cabin lights fading rapidly to indistinction in the swirl of the snow. She was clear! She paused, panting, and struggled with the stolen shirts, untangling them, shaking out the glass shards and drawing them on, augmenting her ski outfit. Already she was feeling the bite of the cold. They werenÕt going to be enough protection out here tonight. Not nearly enough.

She ripped the tail off the flannel shirt and bound it over her face as an ad hoc snow mask and drew her already aching hands up into the overlong sleeves of the shirts. She looked around in the bleak near pitch blackness. The wind would be her compass. She would move north and try to join up with Jon and Valentina.

RandiÕs one course of action, her one chance, was to keep moving and somehow find the others. She would work on the premise that they had come down from the crash site to find Wednesday Island Station occupied. Given that, she would further presume that they would divert and go to cover on the islandÕs central ridge, where they could both find shelter and keep the camp under observation. Knowing Jon, he would try to work in close during the night to try to establish the identity of the landing force and learn what had happened to her and Trowbridge.

The odds were not good. If her teammates hadnÕt come down from the crash site or if she couldnÕt find them, then she would die before morning. But the death out here looked cleaner and more defiant than the death back there. Hugging herself to conserve body warmth, Randi began her stumbling trudge through the growing blizzard.

Pouring through the broken window, the cold filled the bunkhouse like the touch of death. In the harsh white glare of the gas lantern, the naked body and bloody, ruined face of Stefan Kropodkin looked exceptionally obscene and grotesque. Kretek tore the sleeping bag from the bunk and covered his nephew.

His men stood by awkwardly, their faces impassive but with a suppressed glint of fear in their eyes. Someone had taken something from their leader. He did not react well to such acts, even in far lesser matters.

Kretek stared at the muffled mound at his feet. The one connection heÕd had left to this thing called family. It was a current that ran deep through the Balkan cultures, even through a blackened soul such as his.

He had been a fool. He had made the mistake of viewing the blonde woman not as a threat but as a treat, like a bite of chocolate to be consumed casually in passing. Instead she had been a time bomb waiting for an opportune moment to explode.

He could read the signs. At her own choosing, she had torn loose, swatted Stephan like a cockroach, and made her escape. She was a professional in the deadliest possible definition of the term, and a pretty face and a nice pair of tits had blinded Kretek to this.

StefanÕs hand protruded from beneath the sleeping bag, his fingers half curled in beseechment, pleading for revenge.

Find that whore. KretekÕs words were a growling whisper. Get out there and find her. The only way any of you will ever leave this island is if you bring her back to me alive. Do you hear me? Alive!

Vlahovitch, his chief of staff, hesitated only a moment before speaking. It will be done, Anton. Come on, the rest of you. LetÕs get a sweep organized. She wonÕt get far in this weather. Move!

Anton Kretek said nothing more as his men geared up to start the search. His thoughts were distant, planning what he would do when the golden-haired woman was brought before him.