Covert One 7 - The Arctic Event

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Saddleback Glacier

Behind them, Jon Smith heard the thud of the explosion, faint in the face of the gusting wind. Straight off the Pole and unchecked by terrain, its cold was searing. Still, Smith viewed that wind and the ice particles driven before it as allies tonight. They would cut their pursuersÕ long-range vision and scour his partyÕs crampon marks from the surface of the glacier.

Then there was also the subliminal human instinct to seek the easier path and turn away from a direct confrontation with that river of freezing fire, to keep your back to it. Accordingly, Smith would leave instinct to his enemies while he and his people would drive into the gale.

Our friends reacquired their hand grenade, Valentina commented. She was a shadow at the end of the safety line, her words muffled by her snow mask.

Sounds like, Smith replied. WeÕd better keep moving. They wonÕt be too pleased with us now.

They werenÕt all that fond of us before, Jon. I see weÕre still angling to the northwest. ShouldnÕt we be turning south to pick up the flag trail back to the station?

WeÕre not taking the trail back. Presumably the Russians know about it. TheyÕll move to cut us off, or at least thatÕs what I hope theyÕll do.

Where are we going, then?

To the station. But weÕll be taking the scenic route. WeÕll drop out of the saddleback on the north side of the island and follow the shoreline around.

Uh, Jon, excuse me, but doesnÕt that mean pioneering a two thousand-odd-foot descent down broken glacier fall and sheer rock cliff at night and in a bloody blizzard?

Essentially.

ValentinaÕs voice lifted. And you intend to do this with one total climbing tyro, i.e., me, and one trussed-up captive?

The third member of the party had no commentary to add. Major Smyslov stood by silently, his hands bound in front him and the safety rope knotted to his pack harness.

Play the glad game, Val, Smith replied. The Russians will never imagine us trying it.

With excellent reason!

We donÕt have a lot of choice in the matter. Val, you have the point and IÕll take the center slot. The farther down we go on the north side of the saddleback, the more broken and treacherous the ice will become. If a crevasse should open up under you, I can go on belay and haul you out.

All right, but a pox upon the man who came up with Ôladies first.Õ

Smith turned to confront his captive. Major, IÕm counting on you not being as suicidal as the MishaÕs political officer. I am going to point out, however, that should you feel tempted to try any shoulder blocking from behind on any crevasses or cliff edges... Smith gave the safety line a pointed tug. Wherever we go, you go.

This is understood, Colonel. SmyslovÕs face couldnÕt be seen inside the darkness of his parka hood, and his reply was emotionless.

Right, letÕs move out.

The slow and careful advance across the glacier began. Visibility in the snow-racked night was all but nonexistent. Valentina felt her way forward, one cautious and deliberate step at a time, probing ahead continuously with the spike end of her ice axe. Smith held to his line of advance via the glowing green screen of his handheld GPS unit, carrying the precious little device next to his skin between each position fix to keep the batteries alive.

As predicted, as the descent down the glacier face steepened, the buckled, fractured ice grew increasingly unstable, the risk of crevasses escalating geometrically. Their creeping rate of advance slowed even further as they were forced to sidestep a growing number of man-devouring cracks in the glacial surface. Finally, the inevitable happened.

Valentina was edging along, forty feet ahead, a shadow silhouetted against the lesser shadow of the glacier. Then, suddenly, she simply vanished, a great puff of snow geysering around her previous position. Smith felt the heavy thud of the snow bridge giving way into the crevasse, and he was already throwing himself backward, digging in with his heel crampons. He felt the shock and snatch of the safety rope going taut as he went on belay, but he had been fishing the line carefully and he hadnÕt given her slack enough to fall far.

It was a good belay, and SmithÕs brace held. With one hand twisted tightly in the line, he groped for the lantern at his belt, filling his lungs to ask if she was all right. But almost immediately he felt furious activity at the other end of the safety line.

Snapping on the lantern, he played the beam down the climbing rope to the point where it disappeared over the lip of the crevasse. He was just in time to see the head of ValentinaÕs climbing axe whip over the edge of the ice. In seconds she had kicked herself a foothold and was scrambling out onto the surface.

That was...rather interesting, she wheezed, collapsing beside Smith.

Smith shoved his snow goggles up onto his forehead and turned his light into her face. Are you okay?

Barring a brief experiment with stark terror, IÕm fine. Valentina pushed up her own goggles and tugged aside her snow mask for a moment of serious breathing. What a marvelous invention adrenaline is. This damn pack weighs as much as SinbadÕs Old Man of the Mountain, but when I was trying to get out of that bloody hole, it might have been a box of Kleenex!

She took another enormous gulp of air, resuming control. Jon...Colonel...darling...I donÕt mean to complain, but itÕs getting just a tiny bit dicky out here.

I know. He reached over clumsily and squeezed her shoulder. We have to get some rock under us. According to the photo maps thereÕs a place a little way ahead where we can get off this glacier and traverse across to the face of West Peak. From there, a ledge stair-steps down to the beach. It shouldnÕt be too bad.

Smith kept to himself the fact the photomaps were not nearly detailed enough to make a truly accurate assessment of the descent. This was yet another lesson in command presence. A good commander must always appear sure of himself and his decisions, even when he wasnÕt.

Switching off the lantern, Smith got himself under the load of his pack once more and stood up, offering Valentina a hand. Then he turned back to Smyslov, helping him to his feet as well. When the snow bridge had collapsed, Smith had felt the safety line behind him go taut. Smyslov had dropped into belay as well.

Thanks, Major. I appreciated the backup.

As you said, Colonel... The RussianÕs voice was still emotionless. Where you go, I go.

Ê

Eielson Air Force Base, Fairbanks, Alaska

The two Air Commando MV-22 Ospreys had been repainted in the mottled white and gray of arctic camouflage. With their wings and propeller/rotors folded back and their long air-refueling probes thrusting forward, the VTOL assault transports lay under the glare of the hangar arc lights like a pair of beached narwhales, their Air Force ground crews swarming around them.

Down one hangar wall, Army rangers and NBC warfare specialists, likewise clad in arctic camo, sat or sprawled. Some read paperbacks; others played pocket video games or tried to doze on the cold concrete, all phlegmatically engaged in the traditional military pastime of hurry up and wait.

Outside, on the floodlit tarmac of the parking apron, an MC-130 Combat Talon brooded, an auxiliary power unit thumping steadily under its broad left wing. In the green glow of the cockpit instrumentation, a bored flight engineer held the big tanker/transport at ready-to-start-engines.

In the operations office at the rear of the hangar, the Air Commando flight crews clustered around a desk, looking on in awe as their task force commander accepted a telephone call.

Major Jason Saunders, a burly, brush-haired Special Operations veteran, barked back into the telephone handset. No, sir! I will not launch this mission before we have the weather for it...Yes, sir, I am fully cognizant of the fact that some of our people are in serious trouble up there. I want to get to them just as badly as you do, sir. But losing the rescue force because we executed prematurely is not going to do anybody any good!...No, sir, it is not just a matter of the weather at Wednesday Island or the weather here. ItÕs a matter of what weÕll hit in between...The only way we can reach that island is by using air-to-air refueling...Yes, sir, we are trained for it, but topping an Osprey off from a tanker aircraft is tricky under the best of conditions. Turbulence and icing are major concerns. Attempting it at night and inside an active polar storm front escalates the risks to the suicidal. If we fail to get fuel to the VTOLs, we could lose them and the landing teams over the pack. Or if we midair we could lose the whole damn force, tanker and all, and never get near that island.

The major took a deep, controlling breath. In my best professional judgment, we are dealing with an impossible operational scenario at this time. I will not throw my men and aircraft away on an act of futility! Not even on your orders!...Yes, sir, I understand...I am holding the entire force at ready-to-launch, and we are receiving met updates every quarter hour. I guarantee you we will be airborne within five minutes of getting the weather...The meteorologists are saying sometime after first light, sir...Yes, sir, Mr. President. I quite understand. We will keep you advised.

Saunders returned the phone to its cradle and collapsed face-forward onto the desktop. With his voice muffled by his crossed arms, he spoke to his squadron mates. Gentlemen, I am ordering you to never let me do anything like that again!

Ê

Anacosta, Maryland

The windowless office offered no direct hint to the state of the world outside, and only the digital clock on his desk and his bone weariness told the director of Covert One that it was the middle of the night. Klein pushed his glasses onto his forehead and rubbed his burning eyes.

Yes, Sam, he said into the red telephone. IÕve been in communication with the captain of the Haley. He managed to close to within fifty miles of Wednesday Island before encountering solid pack ice too heavy for his ship to penetrate. HeÕs been forced to fall back due to the gale conditions, but he intends to try again as soon as the weather improves.

Have they heard anything from Smith and his people? President Castilla inquired, sounding fully as tired as Klein.

The Haley Õs radio watch reports they may have picked up possible trace transmissions from the island partyÕs mobile transceiver this afternoon, but nothing decipherable. Clearly Smith has not been able to get the big station transmitter or the satellite phone back online. This could mean something or nothing. WeÕve had one good piece of news on this point. Air Force Space Command reports solar flare activity has peaked and ionospheric conditions are improving. We should have decent communications back by tomorrow.

And what about strategic reconnaissance? Castilla demanded.

WeÕve had one satellite over Wednesday since Smith and his team inserted, and a Navy Orion out of Dutch Harbor overflew the island this evening. Both passes were inconclusive. ThereÕs just too damn much snow in the clouds to give us a clean look at the ground, not even with infrared and thermographics. We have another sat pass scheduled for later tomorrow morning after the weather clears.

I keep hearing that same line from everyone, Castilla said bitterly. After the weather clears.

We are not yet entirely masters of our own destiny, Sam. There are still forces in this world we canÕt even start to fight.

As is quite apparent. There was a brooding pause at the White House end of the line. What about the FBI investigation of the Alaskan intercept incident? Is there any hint on who may have been responsible for it yet?

ItÕs a literal dead end, Mr. President. We know for certain we were dealing with a Russian Mafia cell, but they were apparently acting as independent contractors. As for the identity of the true instigators, we still have no clue. The only men who could have told us died in the crash.

The silence returned to the phone circuit.

Fred, Castilla said finally, IÕve decided to put the backup force on Wednesday Island. Smith and his team might just be suffering from fouled-up communications, but IÕm getting a bad feeling about this situation.

Klein suppressed his sigh of relief. Sam, I concur fully with that decision. In fact, IÕve been sitting here considering how I was going to phrase the request. I think we must have some kind of incident under way. Smith would have gotten a situation report out to us by now if he hadnÕt encountered trouble, bad communications or not.

Unfortunately, like everything else, the backup force is on hold until after the Christless weather clears! Castilla flared into the phone. I just hope thereÕs something left for them to back up.

Have you informed the Russians of your decision, Mr. President?

No, nor do I intend to, Fred. ThatÕs one of the reasons IÕve elected to go overt with the operation. General Baranov, our Russian liaison, has been on call and standing by ever since we initiated the Wednesday Island operation. HeÕs been practically hovering on the line. Now, and for about the last nine hours, heÕs become ÔunavailableÕ and his aide de camp is not authorized to say anything beyond hello when he picks up the phone. IÕm beginning to smell a considerable rat.

WeÕve suspected the Russians have been hiding something related to the Misha incident from the beginning. Maybe Smith found it.

But, damn it, they came to us! They asked for our help!

Klein sighed and flipped his glasses down onto the bridge of his nose. Again and again, Sam, we are dealing with the Russian government here. For a Russian political leader, konspratsia is like breathing; itÕs a survival mechanism. We are also dealing with the Russian culture. Remember what Churchill called them: ÔOrientals with their shirttails tucked in.Õ To assume their logics and motivations will always be the same as ours is a mistake.

But why would they risk alienating my administration now, with so much on the table between our countries?

It must be something... Klein paused for a moment, seeking for a word. ...extraordinary. IÕve had my people within the Russian Federation probing the Misha crash since the inception of this operation, and all theyÕve been able to ascertain so far is that a ferocious level of security is involved. TheyÕve also encountered a term, Ôthe March Fifth Event.Õ

The March Fifth Event? WhatÕs that?

As of yet we have no idea. ItÕs a euphemism for some larger scenario within the former Soviet regime. The crash of the Misha 124 is apparently only one facet of this larger whole. The term is used almost fearfully within the current Russian government.

Get me more, Castilla said flatly.

WeÕre already working the problem, but it may take a while. The Russians have the lid screwed down airtight on this thing.

Understood. CastillaÕs voice dropped an ominous octave. In the meantime weÕve stuck our necks way the hell out to accommodate President Potrenko on this. If heÕs backstabbing us now, whatever the reason, by God, he will rue the day...

I suggest we wait for Colonel SmithÕs sitrep, Mr. President, Klein interjected quietly. That should give us a better idea of where we stand.

I only hope heÕll be able to give us one, Sam. IÕll be standing by at the White House.

IÕll be remaining here at headquarters until we get a resolution, Mr. President. We will keep you advised.

Understood, Fred. ItÕs going to be a long night until morning.

Ê

The South Face, Wednesday Island

A polar environment demands that a dreadful knife-edged balance be maintained. Vigorous exercise and activity could keep the cold at bay, at least for a time. But not so much as to cause perspiration. Moisture destroys insulation. It can freeze and conduct temperature extremes. Sweat could kill you.

Randi Russell understood the mechanism and took care to stay within the boundaries of exertion as she swung wide around the Science Station and worked her way toward the ridge, moving fast but not too fast. As she semijogged through the darkness she grimly assessed her prospects.

They didnÕt look promising. Exercise or not, she was cold. The layers of clothing she possessed were adequate to ward off immediate hypothermic shock and to protect her from frostbite, but not over the long term. Exposure would become a critical factor within the next couple of hours. Furthermore, to keep warm she had to keep moving, and she recognized that her strength and energy reserves were already critically low.

Beyond that, twenty very nasty men on this island were out to kill her. Under other circumstances and with somewhat more lackadaisical security forces, she might hope pursuit might sensibly be put off until morning. But given she had just eliminated their employerÕs nephew, theyÕd be on her trail now and staying there.

Suddenly the sky lit up in the direction of the science stationÑa hazy globe of light bobbing into existence in the belly of the overcast. A parachute flare, a big one.

Randi wasnÕt particularly concerned. The blowing snow and sea smoke went opaque, absorbing the flare light, and the winds swept the flare to the south and away from her. It simply proved the point that they were actively in pursuit.

In a way, it was almost a favorable thing. It opened up possibilities. If there were men out here on the ice after her, there was the chance she might be able to ambush and kill one of them for his clothes and weapon.

Randi couldnÕt count on it, though. They would have seen Kropodkin. They would know what she was capable of. They would be afraid of her now, and their fear would make them more cautious and more dangerous.

Something else was certain. If Jon was anywhere in the vicinity, heÕd know something was up. If he realized a pursuit was under way, he would know who was being pursued, and he would come for her.

Randi paused in her in-place jogging, an odd random thought darting into her tired mind.

Jon would come for her.

Always at the core of her internal bitterness toward Smith there had been the sense that he had not been there for her fiancŽ or her sister, that somehow he had not done enough to save them. And yet, from all she had learned and judged of the man in their random encounters over the past few years, Randi knew, without the faintest shadow of a doubt, that if Jon Smith realized she was in trouble, he would come to her aid, against all odds or orders and without regard for his own life. That was simply who he was.

Would he, could he, have done any less for Mike or Sophie?

She lacked the time to ponder the past now. She thought she could make out faint probing fingers of light in the storm. Powerful hand lanterns were panning the snowÑthe hunting party from the camp, tracking her. And the cold was gnawing at her, triggering an uncontrollable burst of shivering. She had to move again. Randi faced into the wind cascading over the ridgeline and started to climb once more. Maybe she could find an avalanche she could push down on those bastards.

Ê

The North Face, Wednesday Island

Smith flexed an all-environment chemical glow stick, breaking the inner capsule. Shaking its green luminescence to life, he clipped it to an outer cargo pocket of his snow smock. He could only hope that none of the Spetsnaz force had a line of sight on them. For this next evolution they had to be able to see.

A second pale green specter materialized in the swirling snow as Valentina lit off another chemical light. In the combination of the two glows they could just make out the irregular edge of a glacial precipice a few yards away.

They had reached the interface. They could descend no further on the broken, tumbled ice of the glacier. They must cross to the solid rock of West Peak, if the mountain would accept them.

Smith shrugged off his pack and drew a flare and an ice screw from its side pouches. Kneeling, he cranked the screw into the surface of the glacier, angling it away from the edge. Clipping his safety line to the anchor, he stood and edged carefully to the unstable shoulder of the ice. Striking the flareÕs igniter, he pitched the hissing red ball of flame into the black void below. He watched as it bounced and sputtered down the edge of the jumbled icefall to hang up on a ledge perhaps 120 feet down. In the ruddy glare he could make out the darkness of basalt, the peak facing. But beyond the ledge was the void of another, deeper drop-off.

The photomaps were right. Smith lifted his voice over the wind. There is a ledge down there.

Valentina edged to his side, her hand on the safety line. ItÕs not really all that much of a ledge, is it?

It widens out and descends the farther west you go, like it does on the south side. IÕm just glad thereÕs a valid traverse we can use to reach it. I wasnÕt sure thereÕd be one.

ValentinaÕs hood turned toward him. What would you have done if there hadnÕt been?

LetÕs just say IÕm pleased the subject isnÕt going to come up. Once we get on that ledge it shouldnÕt be too much of a problem to drop down to the shoreline.

The operative word in that sentence, Jon, is Ôonce.Õ

We can make it. Smith forced his confidence again, eyeing the descent. At this point, the glacier ice began its final cascade down the near vertical north wall of the central ridge, a frozen waterfall that extruded slightly from the mountain face. With luck they could work their way down to the ledge in the joining angle between rock and ice.

IÕll lower you first, Val, then the packs, then Smyslov. IÕll rappel down last.

He saw Valentina shoot a glance back toward the Russian, who stood defiantly leashed a few feet away. Jon, might I have a few private words with you?

Of course.

They stepped away from the edge of the glacier, moving down the back trail until they were behind Smyslov. It was hard to tell with the darkness and the bulky clothing, but the Russian seemed to stiffen as they moved past him.

Valentina lifted her snow goggles and pushed down her ice-encrusted snow mask, her face underlit by her glow stick. We have a problem here, she said, keeping her voice modulated to be just audible over the wind.

Just one? Smith replied with grim humor.

She tilted her head toward SmyslovÕs back, not smiling. IÕm serious, Jon. WeÕve got to be able to move. HeÕs slowing us down and heÕs complicating a situation thatÕs quite sticky enough as is.

I know it, but we donÕt have much of a choice in the matter. He shifted his own mask and goggles, granting her the right of reading his own facial expressions. We canÕt just turn him loose. If he rejoined the Spetsnaz force he could be a valuable asset for them, and the deck is already stacked against us.

I quite agree, Jon. We canÕt allow him to return to his Russian friends. Her expression was as arctic as the environment. But we canÕt very well keep him as a pet. As we lack a convenient POW camp to drop him off at, that leaves us with only one option...

Which I am not yet ready to consider.

She frowned. Jon, civilization is a marvelous institution and all that, but be practical. We are up against the wall here, literally! If itÕs that whole Hippocratic oath thing, I can deal with it. Gregory and I can go for a little walk to admire the sceneryÑ

No, Smith replied firmly.

Jon, we canÕt affordÑ!

IÕm not sure if heÕs an enemy yet, Val.

Jon, her voice lifted in protest, I was there this afternoon when the bolshi bastard tried to drop the hammer on you! That doesnÕt make him a friend!

I know it. Trust me on this. SomethingÕs telling me that Smyslov isnÕt sure just what he is yet himself. I want to give him the chance to decide. This is a command decision, Val. ItÕs not open for discussion.

What if he decides heÕs a ÔthemÕ and not an ÔusÕ?

Then, as the book says, we will reassess the situation and take appropriate action as the tactical conditions dictate.

And what if hanging onto Smyslov gets us dead, Jon?

Then I will have royally fucked up my job, and the failure of this mission will rest entirely with me.

She started a heated response, hesitated, than smiled wryly. Well, as long as youÕd be willing to admit to it, she replied, redonning her snow mask. But if you get us killed before you take me to bed properly at least once, I shall throw an absolute hissy and not speak to you for an entire week.

Smith laughed aloud in spite of himself and their situation. Thank you for that motivation, Val, he replied, giving her shoulders a light squeeze. Now, letÕs get this descent out of the way.

Ê

The South Face, Wednesday Island

Randi wanted more snow and more wind, badly. As she had feared, there wasnÕt storm enough to completely cover her trail. Looking back, she could see the flare glows and light beams following her half-erased tracks. There must be at least half a dozen of them, and they were driving her steadily higher up the face of the ridge.

She wasnÕt dodging gunfire yet. That was good. It meant they didnÕt have a visual on her. But she couldnÕt see or plan for more than a yard or two ahead, and she was losing orientation in the swirling night. Randi could no longer place herself in relation to the rest of the island. She was just somewhere on the central ridge. It was only a matter of time before she found herself trapped on a dead-end ledge or in a no-exit pocket.

She must find rock, bare rock, amid a universe of ice and snow, to lose her trail on. Then she had to find some kind of shelter. She was getting tired, so incredibly tired. She stumbled over a snow-covered pile of rubble and fell, striking her shoulder against a massive boulder.

No, not a boulder. Too big. A cliff face. God, if she could only just see where she was! If she could just lie here for a second and close her eyes... Jon, dammit, where are you?

She snapped her eyes open and forced herself to her hands and knees. Move, you stupid bitch! DonÕt you remember? ThereÕs no one in the world you can depend on but yourself. Everyone else dies on you. Move! YouÕre losing time and distance! The lights are getting closer.

Randi got to her feet and moved on, her right hand brushing the cliff face as a guide. What the hell did the world look like around her? All she could see were differing shades and textures of darkness.

They were well above the science station now. The cliff face was on her right, so she must be going west. Off to her left would be essentially nothing, the downslope. How steep would the drop-off be along here? Somehow it felt like another cliff edge. So she was on a ledge or shelf, then. What was ahead? That was impossible to say, but the ledge seemed to be tilting outward in an ominous trend.

She didnÕt have to look back. She knew what was behind her.

Randi could be sure of only one thing. She wasnÕt going to be taken. If she reached a dead end, she must find a way to make her pursuers kill her.

She heard the rattle of a machine-gun burst, and she instinctively threw herself facedown on the ledge before she realized there were no bullet strikes nearby. They werenÕt that close yet. Someone back there was getting trigger-happy.

RandiÕs relief lasted only a second. From somewhere above her she both heard and felt a deep, almost explosive crump. The reverberations of the gunfire had broken a snow cornice loose. Avalanche! Where? In front of her? Behind her? On top of her? It was impossible to tell beyond close. She cowered and threw her arms over her face.

There was a brief whispering rumble, and the ledge trembled. Feathery plumes of sprayed snow engulfed her, but there was no crushing impact, no frozen flood sweeping her away. After a wired, panicky moment she relaxed and dropped her arms. It had been only a small one. A few tons of freed snow at most, and it had passed a few yards ahead. She shook off the thin haze of snow that had caked atop her, and got back to her feet.

The question now was, could she get over the mound of loose snow that would be heaped on the ledge without losing herself over the side? Too bad it hadnÕt fallen between her and the search party. It might have done her some good then.

RandiÕs mind locked up for a second, then raced. The slide had done her some good. Possibly it had given her a chance.

What if her pursuers found her tracks leading up to the edge of the slide and then stopping? Would they think she had been swept away? They couldnÕt be happy with being out here tonight, either. Maybe an excuse to quit the search would be all theyÕd need.

She took two or three strides forward to reach the edge of the loose slide snow. This would be it. She would have to go straight upslope from this point, and it didnÕt matter what the cliff face might look like even if she could see it.

And then there was the other problem: her lack of gloves. So far sheÕd been able to protect her hands inside the overlength sleeves of the outer shirts she wore. But she would need them to climb with. How long would she have before she started to take skin damage at this temperature? Two minutes? Three?

There was one positive. The face immediately above her couldnÕt be too high. The falling snow had reached the ledge in only a couple of seconds. She looked over her shoulder. The flashlights were growing brighter. She had to act, now!

Randi pulled the sleeves back from her hands and sprang upward as far as she could. Her nails scrabbled across ice-sheathed rock; one tore in a stab of pain; then she caught a handhold. Breath hissed between her clenched teeth. She hauled herself upward by arm strength alone, not letting her boots touch and mark the cliff face. Supported by her left hand for a moment, she darted her right upward, and a merciful universe let her find another grip.

Once more she hauled herself upward, shoulder muscles cracking. She was high enough to use her boots now without leaving obvious marks, and she could start hunting for and using toeholds as well. She had rock climbed before, for pleasure, but there was nothing pleasant about this. Her hands were already on fire with the cold.

Come on, Randi! YouÕve only got your eyes closed because the Utah sun is too bright. ItÕs ninety degrees in Zion National Park and youÕre wearing shorts and a halter top and you can feel the climbing harness hugging you, keeping you safe. YouÕve got just a few yards left to go and youÕre at the top and you can dangle your feet over the edge and laugh and drink a cold Diet Pepsi from the cooler.

Just a few yards more.

She found a horizontal fissure she could stand in for a moment, and she beat her fists against the rock to force feeling back into them. She couldnÕt let them go completely numb yet. She had to be able to touch her way up!

Voices! Reflecting lights. The search party! Limpetlike, Randi plastered herself against the rock face. They had reached the slide. They were on the ledge directly below her.

This would be it. Would they buy into her accidental death, or would they suspect the trick? Would a light beam play up the cliff face, followed by a stream of bullets or just one carefully aimed shot?

Her hands! Dear God! Her hands!

They were having an argument down there! Come on! Come on! Before I fall off and land on top of you! Who was going to win? The tired or the dedicated? IÕm dead, damn it! Buried under an avalanche! Your red-haired bastard boss should be satisfied with that!

They were moving. They were going back. They were leaving. After an eternity they were leaving. And no one had looked up.

Randi had to continue the climb, and she had to pray there really was only a short distance to go. She had no feeling left beyond her wrists, and she was not going to get down from here without either falling to her death or losing her hands.

Just a few yards more.

Another hunt for a foothold. She didnÕt care anymore if it was solid or not. A levering of her trembling body up another foot or two, again...again...Reach up once more and find something to hook those numb claws over. Something...soft. Fresh banked snow, the trailing edge of the broken cornice. The top! A final push and she was burrowing wormlike through the cliff-edge drift. She was out. SheÕd made it!

Randi came up onto her knees. Fumbling dully, she pulled her nonexistent hands back up the sleeves of the overshirts. Crossing her arms over her chest inside the shirts, she thrust her hands into her armpits. Shivering and rocking in place, she waited in dread. Slowly, slowly, she began to feel pain, the terrible fiery pain of returning circulation. It felt wonderful! And she knelt there for a long time savoring the agony, tears streaming from her eyes.

But she could feel the tears freezing. As the deadness left her hands she became aware once more of the deeper overall cold saturating her. The wind was stronger, more piercing up here, the snow being driven harder before it.

That should mean something to her, but to RandiÕs failing mentality it didnÕt. The deadly, stealthy enemy hypothermia was on her now.

Move. She had to move. Tapping the last dregs of her energy reserves, she forced herself to her feet. With her arms still crossed under her shirts, she tried to bulldoze ahead through the snowbanks. Why was the wind so much worse here? She muzzily groped at the thought. Of course, she must be right on top of the ridge. There was nothing to windward to block it anymore.

But what did that mean? Why was that important?

Randi bulled forward another yard, another step, struggling through snow and blackness; then, suddenly there wasnÕt anything under her left boot. She heard the crump of another collapsing cornice, and the snow around her came alive. She was falling with it, sinking into it, drowning in it.

But why was that important?

Ê

The North Face, Wednesday Island.

The climbing rope uncoiled as it arced outward and down to the target ledge, sinuously outlined in the light of the dropped flare.

IÕm going to double-line you down. Jon Smith twisted a loop of the rope through a carabiner on Valentina MetraceÕs climbing harness. IÕll be supporting most of your weight on the safety line. He snapped the second rope into place. All you have to do is back down the bergschrund and keep the main line untangled as it feeds.

Fine. No problem. WhatÕs a bergschrund?

Smith smiled patiently in the glow of their lum sticks. ItÕs the interface between the mountain and the glacier. His beard-darkened features looked tired but also confident, as if he had every certainty in the world she could pull this off. Valentina wished she could feel the same.

IÕll take your word for it. And then?

IÕll use the main rope to lower the packs and rifles to you. Haul the gear well away from the glacier side. It looks a little unstable and we might have an icefall or two.

She felt her eyes widen, and she glanced toward the glacial lip. An icefall?

Again came that steadying smile. Then again, we might not. But be ready to duck, just in case.

You may rest assured! Valentina knew flippancy was inappropriate at the moment, but she had used it as an effective screen for personal self-doubts and fears for so long, it was a difficult habit to break.

IÕll send Smyslov down next. Secure him well clear of the glacier face as well. And Val, remember, he is a prisoner.

She started to flare but caught herself. After all, sheÕd been the one to inject that concern into the proceedings. ThatÕs now a given, Jon.

Good enough. After that, IÕll rappel down to join you on the ledge. Then weÕre out of here and on our way.

Valentina suspected that for all SmithÕs confidence it likely wasnÕt going to be all that easy.

The black drop down the trough between stone and ice, with the winds clawing at her and nothing at her back but a long fall, was easily one of the most terrifying things she had ever done, and she had lived a life that held many moments of terror. Yet she could view the act almost in the abstract. Valentina Metrace had long ago learned to compartmentalize her fears, locking them up to scream and weep in their own little mental cage while the remainder of her being dealt with the necessities of survival. She could do the same with pain, compassion, or any number of other emotions when needs required. As with her sophisticateÕs humor, she found it a useful mechanism.

Still, 120 feet could take a century to descend. Twice, loose ice slabs broke loose beneath her boots, crunching and clattering away to shatter on the ledge below. In each instance she paused, took a deliberate, steadying breath, and continued.

Finally, she stood on rock once more. The target ledge left a great deal to be desired. At its glacier-side end, it was barely as wide as a man was tall, and slick with glaze ice. Yet it was still an improvement over dangling at the end of a rope. Pressing back against the cliff face, she unlatched from the main line and gave it a signaling tug. It slithered back up the edge of the glacier and out of her light stickÕs illumination.

Valentina closed her eyes to the wind- and snow-wracked blackness of the night and took a moment to slap down that shrieking, weeping thing in the back of her mind.

A few minutes later the first of the packs skidded down to the ledge. Signaling for more slack on the safety line, she dragged the equipment to a wider section of the ledge, beyond her judged reach of any avalanche, methodically repeating the process with the other packs and the cased rifles as they were lowered. Pausing, she studied the mound of equipment and weapons for a moment. This wasnÕt a particularly auspicious environment for controlling a hostile and potentially dangerous prisoner.

Damn it, Jon, she murmured, this could have been so much easierÑjust scrick, and over and done with.

She took a piton and a rock hammer from the gear stack and hunted for a fissure in the cliff face at about head height. Finding one, she sank the piton into it. Taking a short hank of loose rope from one of the packs, she ran it through the fixed ring of the piton, whipping a loop and slipknot into one end.

Looking up, Valentina saw a pair of green glows at the top of the glacier. JonÕs light stick and a second, starting the descent of the glacier edge, moving slowly and painfully. Smyslov was on his way down. Supporting the RussianÕs full weight, Smith was feeding the line through the belaying point a few jerky feet at a time.

Again Val wondered about both men, but especially about Jon Smith. Her professional survivorÕs instincts told her Smith was wrong about the Russian, that Smyslov was a foolish risk to be taking. And yet, maybe that was one of the things that drew her to Jon. Scruples were perforce rare within the profession. Maybe this was a man strong enough not to be totally expedient.

With a clatter of dislodged ice chips, Smyslov backed off the glacier face and onto the ledge, his bound hands gripping the main rope. Valentina flipped her safety line aside and came in behind the Russian.

She slid the M-7 utility knife/bayonet out of her harness sheath and lightly pressed the tip of its heavy blade into the small of his back. IÕm right behind you, Gregori. IÕm going to take you off the climbing rope now and IÕm going to tuck you out of the way for a little bit. Colonel Smith wants to keep you alive, so letÕs both work toward that goal, shall we?

I am agreeable, the Russian replied, his voice flat. What do you think about it?

I think I am under Colonel SmithÕs orders. Cautiously she used her free hand to reach around in front of Smyslov, to unclip the climbing rope from his harness. But I wouldnÕt push the point. Now, I will step in close to the cliff face, and you will turn around slowly, facing outward, and step past me. Please recall itÕs still a long way down and IÕm the one on the safety line. All right, letÕs go.

They accomplished the maneuver like a cautious dance step, Smyslov moving past her down the ledge. Taking a grip on his climbing harness with one hand, Valentina followed, the knife poised and aimed at the base of his spine.

Valentina caught the metallic glint of the piton she had driven into the rock face. She let Smyslov move under it.

Stop...Face the cliff...Easy, now.

Smyslov obeyed. Valentina swiftly looped the slipknot over SmyslovÕs disposacuff-bound wrists. Hauling on the free end of the line, she lifted his wrists to the piton. She ran a second loop around the join of the disposacuffs and drew both tight, snubbing the rope off.

That should keep you out of mischief, she said, sheathing her knife.

Why? Smyslov asked, his voice toneless.

Why what?

Why go through all this? Why not simply kill me?

I must confess, Gregori, the thought has occurred, she replied, leaning against the cliff face for a moment. But Jon doesnÕt fancy the idea for some reason. When you called your Spetsnaz friends down on us last afternoon...Was it just last afternoon?...And when you tried to shoot Jon in the cave, that would have been quite good enough for me, but not for our colonel. He seems to think you are not totally beyond redemption. Or possibly he just doesnÕt play the game that way.

He is a good man, Smyslov murmured over the rush of the wind.

Probably better than you or I or anyone else on this island. A wistfulness crept unbidden into her reply. HeÕll die being a good man one of these days. Well, weÕll be back with you shortly. I do hope you wonÕt mind hanging around for a bit.

She edged back down the ledge to the glacier interface, the bergschrund, as Smith had called it. Then she remembered his final instruction. She went back to the gear cache for a second piton. Returning to the glacier face, she dropped to her knees on the ledge, searching for a belaying point. It wasnÕt easy; her light source was feeble, and the ledge seemed a solid slab of stone. Finally she found a narrow crack near the lip of the ledge, and she took care to drive the piton in as deeply as possible. Not wanting to unhitch herself from the safety rope, she hooked a snap carabiner through the piton ring and latched a loop of the line through that, leaving herself enough slack for free movement. Standing once more, she moved below the glacier face and gave the main rope a signal tug.

At the top of the glacier, she saw the ball of green luminance that marked Jon Smith start its bounding descent down the ice extrusion.

Not long now and he would be with her. A hundred feet to go...seventy...fifty...

Valentina heard a creaking groan, the yielding of inorganic matter on a massive scale, followed by a series of explosive cracks. She threw herself back against the cliff face, pressing spine to stone just as the entire vertical edge of the glacier fractured and dissolved into a thundering cascade of tumbling, grinding ice.

Val was aware of the strike and brush of ice fragments, none of them quite large enough to bludgeon her or carry her away. The big stuff, the car- and truck-sized slabs of glacier, were tipping outward, their weight and momentum carrying them beyond the shelf of rock. Then a streak of green light plummeted past en route to oblivion, and she dimly heard her own scream of denial over the grating roar of the icefall. Then something seized her with irresistible force, snatching her off her feet and hurling her to the ledge. Her head slammed into stone; white light blazed behind her eyes; then blackness took her.

Consciousness returned with the sound of an accented voice calling her name. She found herself lying facedown on the rock shelf, unnervingly near the edge, and with something stabbing uncomfortably into her stomach. Her head rang with the blow she had taken, but her thick parka hood had kept her skull from fracturing. She didnÕt think sheÕd been unconscious for long, but the cold of the stone and the wind were already creeping into her. Groggily she tried to stand but found she couldnÕt. It was as if she were glued down on the ledge. A moment of befuddled exploration revealed why.

It was the safety line, and the thing that was prodding her so uncomfortably was the piton and carabinier that she had looped it through. Drawn taut, the line ran from her climbing harness, through the carabiner, and over the lip of the ledge. ValentinaÕs last few seconds of memory returned, and she recalled the avalanche and SmithÕs chem light falling past her.

Jon!

There was no answer from the black void beside her. The lifeline hung rigid, a dead weight hanging suspended from its end. She pushed and writhed, trying to draw back from the edge against the merciless drag of the rope, only to find she couldnÕt gain even an inch.

It was futile. Under ideal circumstances she might have been able to lift the hundred and eighty-odd pounds dangling at the end of the rope, at least for a short distance, but conditions were far from ideal. Sprawled on an ice-glassy slab of rock, there was nothing to give her leverage or purchase. She was hopelessly pinned.

Again she heard her name being called. A dozen yards farther down the ledge she could see Smyslov leaning back against his restraints, trying to see what was happening.

IÕm here, Gregori, and from the look of things IÕm not going anyplace.

What has happened?

She hesitated for a moment, then realized her list of available assets and allies was ominously short. In a few terse sentences she described the situation.

You should not have secured the lifeline like that, he said.

Do bloody tell, Valentina grunted, again straining against the drag on the rope.

Is the colonel all right?Õ

I donÕt think so. He hasnÕt answered me and I donÕt feel any movement at the other end of the line. IÕm hoping he was just knocked out by the icefall.

You must get him up and out of there, Professor, Smyslov called back.

I know it, but I canÕt get enough slack on the safety line to tie it off! If I cut loose, heÕs gone!

Then you must drive in a second piton and secure your climbing harness to it. You will then be able to unharness without losing the colonel.

Valentina gave up on fighting the lifeline. ThatÕs an excellent idea. Only I donÕt have a second bloody piton!

Then use the spike of your rock hammer.

She looked around within the arc of her reach and the glow of her light stick and swore again. I managed to lose that, too.

Professor, he could be injured or dying!

I know that, damn it!

Smyslov said no more. Panting, Valentina rested the side of her head against the frozen stone. They would all die if she didnÕt do something. Trapped here, the storm and the inevitable, invasive cold would finish them all.

There was an answer, of course, obvious, simple, and easily done.

She could free herself by cutting the safety rope.

But as Jon had phrased it, that was an option she was not yet ready to consider.

She had her knives, three of them: the utility blade at her belt and her two throwing knives in the slip sheaths strapped to her forearms. Maybe she could use one of them as an ad hoc piton. But she lacked a hammer to drive the blade in solidly, and the hilts werenÕt meant for the task. One slip or fumble, and Jon would be deadÑgranted that he wasnÕt already.

That left Smyslov, the man she had quite been prepared to kill. But how had Jon phrased it? IÕm not sure if heÕs an enemy yet, Val.

Logic would indicate that he must be. But logic also indicated that her only alternatives were to cut JonÕs safety line or allow all three of them to perish on this mountainside.

Gregori, how good a judge of human nature do you think the colonel is?