Covert One 7 - The Arctic Event

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Saddleback Glacier

Crouching inside the cave mouth, the Russian demolitions man studied the lava ceiling and the explosive charges heÕd planted, double-checking his placements. His orders had been explicit. He must collapse the entrance in a way that would present the appearance of a natural rockfall. It was an interesting technical challenge, especially in the roiling of the fall so that explosives-uncontaminated rock would face outward. It wouldnÕt do to leave detectable chemical traces. Lieutenant Tomashenko had been very insistent about this, and today would not be a good day to fail his platoon leader.

Satisfied, the demolitions man knelt and crimped an electric detonator cap to the end of the spliced bundle of primer cords. Some of the cord lengths led to the overhead charges; others ran deeper into the cavern within the mountain.

Pavel Tomashenko felt the cold sweat gathering down the center of his spine beneath his parka. He knew it was only partially due to the golden ball of the sun bobbing above the southern horizon. He was on the verge of losing this mission. Like a hockey goalie seeing the puck skimming past beyond his block, all he could do was try to stretch for that last critical millimeter.

He, his radioman, and the second member of his demolitions team stood out on the glacier some fifty meters from the mouth of the cave the Misha crew had used as a survival shelter and the Americans had used for a fortress.

Even standing out on the glacier face in the open daylight was an admission of crisis. Like any other commando unit, the Spetsnaz were normally creatures of secrecy and concealment. But Tomashenko had lost both the cover of night and weather to the more critical factor of time. He must act decisively now, utilizing the scraps remaining to him. With the clearing skies, the outside world would be reaching in to Wednesday Island.

Have you been able to contact the submarine? Tomashenko snapped, then silently berated himself for the display of nerves. If his radioman had been able to establish communications, he would have reported it at once.

No, Lieutenant, the stolid Yakut replied, crouching beside his tactical transceiver. There is no longer any interference, but there is no reply. They must not have found a lead in the ice for their antenna.

So be it. Tomashenko forced his voice into normality. We will try again at the noon schedule. It was just as well. It would give him a couple of additional hours to salvage this mess and conceal his failure. Get me through to White Bird team.

At once, Lieutenant.

Using the radio so promiscuously was another symbol of disaster, as was the splitting of his meager command. But again Tomashenko had no choice. He must clean up things here at the crash site, and at the same time he must find and eliminate those damn American intelligence operatives!

At the base of East Peak the senior demolitions man emerged from the cave mouth. Trailing the detonator wire behind him, he backed across the sun-brightened surface of the glacier toward TomashenkoÕs temporary command post. The number two demo man took the detonator box from the explosives sled and began setting it up.

Lieutenant, I have White Bird leader.

Tomashenko tore back his parka hood. Hunkering down beside the radioman, he accepted the headset and microphone.

White Bird, this is Red Bird. Report!

Red Bird, the radio-filtered voice whispered in the earphones. We have no contact. We have swept the south descents and the main trail approaches for a second time. We have found no trace of them. They are not on the glacier and they have not climbed down on this side of the ridge. They must have descended the north face, Lieutenant.

The descent Tomashenko had said was impossible the night before.

Very well, White Bird, he spoke curtly into the handset. Commence a sweep toward the west end of the island and the science station. Engage on contact. We will be joining you shortly. Red Bird out.

Understood. Executing. White Bird out. Tomashenko passed back the headset and mike. The Americans must have headed for the station. There was nowhere else to go. If so, there was still a chance they could be taken and eliminated. Even if it cost him another third of his command, the secret of the March Fifth Event would be kept.

The demolitions team had the charge leads wired into the detonator box now, and the lead man was cranking up the key. Ready to fire, Lieutenant.

Carry on. Blow it.

The demo man rested his gloved thumb on the detonator button and hesitated, looking over his shoulder at his platoon leader. Lieutenant, those men in the cave...Sergeant Vilyayskiy and our people. ShouldnÕt something be said...some words?

The dead are deaf, Corporal. Fire it!

The detonator box magneto zipped, and thunder rumbled deep within the belly of the mountain. Ten thousand tons of basalt fractured, shifted, and resettled, sealing the crew of the Misha 124 and the four lost members of the Spetsnaz platoon in a black rock eternity. A brief burst of lava dust jetted from the cave mouth, only to be overwhelmed by the cascade of disturbed ice and snow flowing down the flank of East Peak, erasing the last trace. Even those who had been inside the lava tube would have a hard time finding it again.

As the misting avalanche cloud dissipated, the demolitions leader spoke, his words flat. Your orders, Lieutenant?

Retrieve the detonator leads and letÕs move out. I want to join up with the search party as soon as possible.

The demo man gestured toward the wreck of the Misha 124 a half-mile distant across the saddleback. What about the plane?

We leave it as it sits. The Americans know of it, and to burn it now would only make for more questions. LetÕs move!

At that moment, the radio operator stiffened. Tilting his head he pressed his earphones tighter to his head. Lieutenant, I hear a signal on the transponder circuit! It is the radio tracer beacon Major Smyslov was carrying!

Tomashenko bent over the radiomanÕs shoulder. Are you certain?

It is the proper frequency and code pattern. It must be the same tracer.

Get a bearing! Smyslov must still be alive and possibly pointing the way to his captors. As the radioman plugged the RDF loop into his set, Tomashenko squatted on the ice. Spreading out an island map, he readied a compass and a straightedge from his chart case.

Signal bearing approximately two six six degrees! Signal strength five!

TomashenkoÕs all-weather pencil slashed across the map. A little south of west. That bearing would put Smyslov either on top of East Peak or on the south coast between this position and the science station. It must be the science station! At signal strength five it might be three or four miles out. Maybe his luck was turning.

Radioman! Contact White Bird leader! Tell him the enemy is on the southern coast and they are heading for the station! Tell him to pursue with all speed! Corporal! Cache and conceal the radio and the other heavy gear, on the double! Light marching order! Weapons and ammunition only! WeÕll have these bastards yet!

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Wednesday Island Station

We destroy the station when we leave, Kretek ordered. We burn it all.

Is that necessary? Mikhail Vlahovitch looked up from the data file he had been glancing through. He was no man of science, and he did not understand the columns of carefully noted meteorological readings. But neither was he, by instinct, a wolverine.

It will muddy the waters and destroy evidence, Mikhail. Besides, the people who scribbled all of that down are dead. What will it matter to them?

No doubt you are right. Vlahovitch tossed the folder on the laboratory worktable. It was a wise time to be agreeable with his employer.

Through the lab hutÕs windows, men could be seen at work, gray shades moving through the rapidly thinning fog. Preparations for departure and the final big job were under way. Down at the helipad, heater tents had been erected around the HaloÕs engine pods, prewarming the heavy-lift copterÕs turbines for flight. The riggers were connecting the heavy nylon strap sling to the belly hard point, and the members of the demolitions team were laying out their ribbon charges on the snow, checking the connectors and fusing.

How do you think we are coming on time, Anton? Vlahovitch had to ask again.

IÕve told you, we have enough, Kretek replied irritably. They are coming, but if we make no more mistakes we will be well away before they arrive.

We should be ready to start engines within the next fifteen minutes. Vlahovitch hesitated. Anton, what do you wish to do about the boyÕs body?

Leave it in the bunkhouse. It would be excess weight, and when it is found it will confuse matters even further.

KretekÕs explosion of familial anger had passed, and his professional objectivity was returning. He would gladly kill his nephewÕs killer, but he couldnÕt be bothered with his corpse.

No one will know exactly what happened here, the arms dealer continued. He peered into his second in commandÕs face; his ice-colored eyes narrowed. At least, no one will know as long as that girl is indeed dead.

Vlahovitch ran his tongue across cracked lips, not liking the feel of that intent, cold stare. I told you, Anton, she was swept away in an avalanche.

You are sure?

That was how it looked.

That might be how it looked, Mikhail, but is that what actually happened? You saw no body!

How could we? Vlahovich lifted his voice. It was at the bottom of a two-hundred-foot cliff, in the dark, in the middle of a blizzard! Besides, if she didnÕt die then, she died later. She couldnÕt have survived last night dressed as she was.

Kretek maintained his glacial gaze for a moment longer, and then he smiled and gave Vlahovitch a bearlike slap on the shoulder. Pish, pish, pish, no doubt you are right, my friend. What does it matter when she died, as long as the bitch is dead? Come, letÕs be about the dayÕs work.

The two men geared up for the cold, zipping parkas, donning gloves and taking up arms. Kretek had claimed the MP-5 the blonde girl had carried. Waste not, want not. The Heckler and Koch was a fine weapon, decidedly superior to the Croation-made Agrams he had issued to his men. Still, as he slung the SMGÕs carrying strap over his shoulder, a muscle in his bearded jaw jumped. He did not like having thingsÑpeople, money, or opportunitiesÑtaken from him.

Kretek swept a shelf full of hard-copy files onto the lab hutÕs floor. Bracing a booted foot against the heater, he rocked it off its mounts. With a smoky clatter of falling stovepipe, it tipped onto its side, spraying burning coals. A score of flame tongues sprang up amid the scattered papers. The two men filed out through the snow lock, leaving the legacy of Wednesday Island Station to burn.

Outside, the quiet air seemed mild in comparison to the cold-fanged wind of yesterday. Directly overhead, the blue of a clear sky filtered down through the mist and the terrain around the station was swiftly regaining definition and color. As was frequently the case, the morningÕs sea smoke was dissipating as rapidly as it had come on. The menÕs voices lifted in exuberance, and their movements quickened in automatic response to the coming sun.

Kretek and Vlahovitch were just starting their trudge out to the landing ground when one of the perimeter sentries yelled an alarm.

A figure stood atop the antenna knollÑa small, slender figure clad in red ski pants and a floppy, oversized green sweatshirt, its hood drawn over her head. She looked down at the station and its startled inhabitants for a moment more; then she turned and was gone, dropping out of sight down the far side of the hill, a hasty burst of gunfire futilely chasing after her.

Kretek turned on Vlahovitch, massive fists engulfing the front of his lieutenantÕs parka. For a moment Vlahovitch thought he was a dead man.

So if she didnÕt die then, she had to die later! KretekÕs glare burned red-eyed with the focused rage of a charging boar. I want her dead this time, Mikhail! For certain! Now! He converted his grip into a shove. Get after her!

At once, sir! Lazlo! Prishkin! Vlahovitch lifted his voice in a half-strangled shout. You and your fire teams, follow me! Move, you bastards! Move!

Unslinging his submachine gun, Vlahovitch fled as much as he started to chase, laboring up the hill toward the place where the figure had disappeared. You simply did not fail Anton Kretek in this kind of catastrophic fashion and survive. Even if he succeeded in catching and killing the girl now, the odds of his getting off Wednesday Island alive were not good. But if he failed to bring her head back, they were nonexistent.

Valentina Metrace kept to the hard-packed and flagged station trails. Wallowing in the soft unbroken drifts would be slow death. There were several inches of fresh snow in the bottoms of the trail troughs, but she had the legs and lungs to cope with it. She kept in trim by running two or more miles daily, and not mere roadwork, but steeplechase orienteering over broken ground. In the field, she could match the old ivory hunterÕs standard of twenty miles from dawn to dusk, walking and trotting, while carrying a light rucksack and a heavy-caliber rifle.

For this run though she was traveling light: clothes, knives, a single white camo survival blanket, and a steel signaling mirror. It enhanced her mobility edge over her more heavily laden pursuers.

After allowing herself to be seen, Valentina had angled down to the main trail along the islandÕs southern shoreline. Heading eastward, she alternated between an easy jog and a fast walk, carefully managing her breathing, ground coverage, and energy reserves. She had the edge here as well. She knew how far she had to go, how rapidly she needed to get there, and what was going to happen once she arrived.

She stayed focused on the trail ahead, taking care with each step and keeping to the easiest, safest, and most efficient path. For the moment a fall and a twisted ankle was all she needed to fear.

Looking back over her shoulder would be a waste of energy and distance. SheÕd had a good hundred yardsÕ lead at the start, and by the time her surprised pursuers could have reached the hilltop to acquire her trail, she would have lengthened that out.

The men coming after her would also be blown by their climb and would need to get their breath back. More time and space in her favor. As long as she kept moving, there was little chance they could get within pistol-caliber range before sheÕd drawn them into the target zone. All she had to do was to stay in their sight and keep them chasing and not thinking.

Of course, all this was predicated on JonÕs plan working and on RandiÕs observation that the arms smugglers hadnÕt brought a sniper with them. If either of them were wrong...There was no sense in worrying about it. If they were, sheÕd find out presently. As she ran along the landward edge of the piled shore ice she tossed a three-fingered Girl GuideÕs salute to the rocky point of land a mile ahead.

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South Coast, Wednesday Island

How are you doing? Smith glanced across the compacted snow foxhole.

I say again, IÕm just fine! Randi snapped back. God, Jon, donÕt hover!

YouÕre getting cranky, Smith approved. ThatÕs a good sign.

IÕm not... She caught herself, then grinned sheepishly. Really, IÕm okay. YouÕre a good doctor.

They were forted up atop a point of land that buckled outward from the southern flank of the island, a position that gave them both concealment and an overwatch of the shoreline to the east and west. Over the past few days the grip of the pack had solidified, the only differentiation now between the sea and shore being that the sea ice was the more broken and irregular.

He lifted an eyebrow. Thanks. IÕve been out of general practice for a while and I was afraid my technique was a little rusty.

Randi lifted a hand off the stock of ValentinaÕs model 70 and wriggled her gloved fingers. None of them have fallen off yet.

Still, I want you to see a good dermatologist when we get out of here. You might sluff some skin, and your hands are going to have to be watched for infection.

Randi sighed in a swirl of vapor. Jon, trust me, your technique isnÕt rusty in the least. You can fuss as well as any doctor I have ever known! Sophia would be proud of you.

There was a silent pause; then Randi took the awkwardness out of the moment with another smile. She really would be, you know.

The moment was broken by the scrabble of boots and gloves on ice. Staying low in a fast hands-and-knees crawl, Gregory Smyslov snaked into the foxhole beside them. The Russian had established a second observation post deeper along the point that provided a better view eastward.

It has worked, he said, panting a little. Spetsnaz. Coming toward us along the coast trail.

Where are they?

About a kilometer out, at the foot of the trail down from West Peak.

Smith glanced first at his watch and then toward a mound of snow at the edge of the foxhole. The cigarette lighter/transponder sat atop it, its antenna extended. ItÕs working. WeÕre tolling them in. And the timing should be pretty good. How many?

Six. They must have split their force again.

Damn! I was hoping for the whole platoon. Smith reached across and collected the transponder. Collapsing its antenna, he pocketed it. It had served its purpose.

The others are probably following, Smyslov added.

Maybe, but they might not get here in time to do us or themselves any good. Let me have the glasses.

Smyslov unslung the binocular case and passed it to Smith. Coming up on his knees, Smith aimed the field glasses westward toward the science station, tracking along the flag-marked coastal trail.

Can you see her yet, Jon? Randi inquired.

Not yet...Wait a minute. Yeah! There she is. SheÕs running.

In his magnified field of view he could make out Valentina trotting along, seemingly at ease, the red and green of her clothing, or rather RandiÕs clothing, making her stand out against the sun-washed white of the terrain. Again the timing was about what he had hoped for. Elevating the glasses farther, he could make out the knoll with its radio mast that overlooked the science station. Smoke seemed to be rising from behind the hill, and on the side facing them flyspeck figures moved. A line of men hastened down toward the shoreline, pursuing that other small, colorful dot that moved toward SmithÕs position.

ValÕs pulling in her share! Five...six...eightÑdamn, not as many as IÕd like there, either.

Smith swiveled around 180 degrees and ran a scan down the east shore. There was the other half of the equation, the Spetsnaz force. Only one man followed the compacted pathway; the other five had fanned out on either side, scuffling along on snowshoes. The Russians were closer than the force advancing from the science station, but they were also moving slower. And so far, with the point blocking their line of sight, neither converging force had become aware of the other. Smith mentally computed times and distances. Yeah. It was going to be just about as good as they had any right to expect.

Ladies and gentleman, he said, lowering the binoculars, itÕs coming together. Randi, give Val the word.

Randi gave the stainless steel signaling mirror a final quick buff on her sleeve. Squinting through the tiny sighting hole in its center, she acquired the dot on the snow that was Valentina Metrace. Angling the mirror, she produced a single flash that might be mistaken for a sun strike off the snow were you not looking for it.

After a few moments the pursued dot glinted back.

SheÕs acknowledged, Randi reported.

Right. ThatÕs all we can do here. LetÕs move out.

I donÕt like this, Jon, Randi spoke vehemently under her breath. I donÕt like this part at all!

IÕm not crazy about it myself. Through the glasses he could make out Val as a human figure moving effortlessly as if she were out for a morningÕs jog. Leading your troops into battle is easy, Sarge. Having to leave them there, on their own, thatÕs the real bear.

She doesnÕt even have a gun, damn it!

She didnÕt seem to think sheÕd need one. Smith slammed the binoculars back into their case.

I do hope you realize that woman is just a hopeless showoff, Randi said, binding on her bear-paw snowshoes.

Oh, yes, most definitely. And speaking about guns... Smith drew his sidearm from the holster pocket of his parka, passing the automatic to Smyslov, butt first. You might find use for this today, Major. This one works, guaranteed.

Smyslov grinned and accepted the P-226, stowing it in his pocket. That is good to hear. I had a most disappointing experience with an American firearm not long ago.

Valentina Metrace was a predator and huntress by both instinctive nature and personal preference. But as a successful predator, she also understood what was required of a successful, i.e., survivable, prey animal.

Staying alive as prey mandated you not only knew when to run but when, where, and how to hide, and the moment to break trail and disappear was almost upon her.

The single mirror flash from the top of the point had told her Jon SmithÕs plan was on track. The Spetsnaz were moving into the killing zone from the other side of the point. Two flashes would have meant a scrub and for her to keep going, pulling her pursuers under the fire of the long guns atop the point.

As it was, their unknowing allies, the Spetsnaz, would hopefully do the job for them.

Smith had orchestrated his engagement well. On the landward side a thirty-foot cliff rose above a narrowed boulder-strewn beach, while to seaward the point acted like the prow of a ship, building up an exceptionally jagged and tumbled pile of pressure ice. It was a natural choke point and a superb killing ground, leaving neither force room to maneuver or successfully disengage.

All she had to do now was to squirm out from between their two fires, and the pressure ice jumble provided a magnificent maze to disappear into.

Now Valentina started looking back. The men chasing her were perhaps a quarter mile behind and slowly closing. SheÕd been deliberately sandbagging her pace, allowing them to overtake her, dangling the prospect of bringing her within gun range as a lure.

It was working.

She had no clear idea of how close the Spetsnaz were, so she dare not waste any time. The instant she rounded the tip of the point, breaking the line of sight with her pursuers, she broke laterally into the sea ice, scrambling over the man-high pressure ridge at the beach edge.

Crossing from the trail, Valentina carefully plotted each step and handgrip, hopping from one slab of snow-bared ice to the next like a person crossing a stream on stepping-stones, striving to minimize the trail she left. It would be impossible to leave no trace at all. Her pursuers would see where her boot tracks stopped on the main trail, but she was striving for confusion, to hold this one facet of the enemy in the killing zone for the arrival of the second.

Working her way roughly twenty yards offshore, she swung westward again, like a canny white-tail buck circling behind its stalking hunter. Out here, the sea ice was a living thingÑsofter, green-tinged, buckling and breaking with the rise and sink of the tides and the drag of the currents. Whipping out the survival blanket she carried, Valentina donned it as a camouflage cloak, wearing the white side out. Sinking down, she wormed along on hands and knees, staying below the outer edge of the pressure ridge.

She moved silently, but once she was almost startled into a yelp when a mushy emerald puddle of ice crystals erupted in front of her and she found herself literally nose to nose with an equally unnerved ring seal. Snorting in her face, the seal plunged back through his breathing hole, leaving her to reestablish her own breathing.

Then she heard the voices to shoreward. Her hunters had come to the break in her trail. That was it. The time for running was over. Drawing the white protective sheeting closer, she merged into a notch in the pressure ridge. Drawing her legs up tightly against her chest and wrapping her arms around her knees, she assumed the pu ning mu position, the hiding like a stone of ninjutsu. She also drew the neck of the sweatshirt up and over her mouth and nose, breathing down into the garment to kill her breath plume. Valentina Metrace became just another block of ice.

The pack beneath her creaked and sighed. The voices faded to an occasional fragmented mutter. By now the arms smugglers must have figured out what she had done and where she had gone. By now someone would be standing atop the pressure ridge, scanning with binoculars.

HeÕd be looking for color and movement. If she denied her hunters both, sheÕd be immune, at least for a time. Unfortunately Randi Russell had given these men the slip in much this same way before. It was questionable that theyÕd just give up twice. TheyÕd look. TheyÕd think. TheyÕd talk it over for a minute. Then theyÕd start probing into the sea ice after her.

At least until the Russians walked in on them.

Valentina focused on breathing without chest movement. This was no worse than sitting it out in a leopard blind, only she couldnÕt see, and she was the one being set for. She pushed her other senses out beyond the second skin of the survival blanket, listening for the rasp of exertion breathing or the vibration of a footfall on ice. Her fingers eased into the sleeve of her sweater, their tips touching the hilt of the knife strapped to her forearm.

Jon and the others should be well on their way by now. TheyÕd be moving toward the station along the base of the ridge. With this batch of guns drawn off and theoretically engaged by the Spetsnaz, theyÕd have a better chance when they put the station and landing ground under sniper fire. Divide and conquer. Good strategy, Jon.

She gulped and wished she could sneak a mouthful of snow. LetÕs see, what to do should the Spetsnaz not show? DonÕt wait to be fallen over. Jump and knife the nearest man. Drop the second closest with a throw. Commandeer a submachine gun and ammunition. Keep to the cover of the pressure ridge, maximize casualties, and buy Jon and Randi their time yourself.

There, that was something of a plan anyway.

Where in the hell were those bloody Russians? WasnÕt that just the way of the world? There was never a Bolshevik around when you needed one.

Someone nearby gave a startled yell and an SMG chattered. Valentina went stark stiff for an instant, then realized there had been no shock of a bullet impact. Another automatic weapon repliedÑthe sharper, more piercing crackle of a small-caliber assault rifle. Valentina recognized an AK-74. The Spetsnaz had just put their foot in it!

More shouts followed. A scream trailed off. The exchange of gunfire built explosively.

Valentina allowed herself a full, deep breath. Blinking for a moment in the snow-refracted sunlight, she slipped out from under the camo blanket. Drawing one of her knives, she began to slither on her belly through the buckled ice, moving toward the heart of the burgeoning firefight.

JonÕs orders had been specific. When their enemies engaged each other she was to fall back and disengage immediately. But Valentina had decided upon a loose definition of immediate. She intended to linger a bit, extending military assistance to both sides of the conflict.

At the first crash of automatic weapons fire, Jon Smith had drawn up sharply and looked back. Then, when it was returned and built in volume, he managed a grin. That was a battle, not an execution.

TheyÕd been double-timing along the base of the central ridge, keeping out of sight of the shoreline trail. It had been snowshoe work and hard going, but theyÕd already covered a fair portion of the distance back to the science station. Now if they could only make the high ground overlooking the helipad and KretekÕs helicopter without being seen, theyÕd stand a chance of bitching somebodyÕs works.

The question marks were Val and Randi. Would Val be able to get clear and rejoin, and could Randi keep it together? Randi was slumped against Smyslov with her eyes closed and with the concerned Russian half-supporting her as she gasped for breath. She was carrying neither pack nor weapon, and he couldnÕt doubt her will. But running in snowshoes was murderous even for someone who hadnÕt already been half-killed by hypothermia.

Randi?

She looked up, her shadow-rimmed eyes fierce. Go! she whispered. Just go!

Three plumes of smoke rose over Wednesday Island Station. All three huts had now been torched. The remaining security teams had been pulled in tight around the Halo, the flight and demolition men were on board, and the heating tents around the engines had been stricken. Kretek paced warily beside the big aircraft, his sense of unease growing.

He glanced down at the submachine gun he carried. The MP-5 was a professionalÕs weapon, and the woman who had carried it had been a consummate professional. What of the others he had been told of? This history professor, the Russian and American military officers. Had they been of the same breed as the lethal little blonde? What of the team leader, this Jon Smith? Obviously it was the crudest of cover names. Who was he really?

For the thousandth time KretekÕs eyes swept the high ground above the station, tasting the blood from his cold-cracked lips. He could smell more than the smoke of the burning huts. He could smell the stink of an operation going rotten.

This was wrong. HeÕd acted without thinking when heÕd sent Mikhail after the girl. Appearing above the camp at that moment had been too convenient, and he had snapped at the dangled bait too rapidly. Somebody was setting something up.

On an ordinary job, any other job, he would abort and run. But this was the job. The one that would never come again.

Abruptly he stopped his pacing and yelled up through the HaloÕs open fuselage door, Prepare to start the engines.

One of the demolitions men leaned out of the hatch. I havenÕt rigged the time fuse on the other helicopter yet, sir.

Because of its proximity to the parked Halo, the smaller Jet Ranger couldnÕt be blown until after they were in the air.

Then get on with it! Kretek snapped back impatiently. WeÕre taking off.

What about Vlahovitch and the others?

At that instant the faint ripple of distant gunshots reverberated over the knollÑautomatic weapons exchanging fire, many of them.

Everyone froze in place, listening. Then Kretek broke the lock with his bellow. Everyone aboard! Everyone aboard now! Get those goddamned engines started! WeÕre getting out of here!

The gas turbines began to crank with their hollow baritone moan, the huge rotor blades sweeping past overhead. The security perimeter collapsed in on the helicopter, men hurling their weapons through the open side hatch and scrambling in after them. Kretek was last aboard as displaced snow started to swirl, tornadolike, around the mammoth heavy lifter.

Kretek raced forward to the cockpit. Get us in the air! he yelled, leaning in between the pilotsÕ seats. Take us to the crash site!

The pilot twisted in his seat, looking back at his employer. ArenÕt we going after the others? He was a former Canadian naval aviator who had been cashiered for wife beating. He had fallen a great distance, but he still remembered how things had once been done.

The sea is frozen, Kretek said, glaring out of the windscreen. They can walk home.

They were half a mile short of the station when they saw the gleaming red bulk of the Halo lifting from behind the antenna knoll. The big machine swung parallel to the ridge, climbing under full power. Instinctively, Smith and the others went facedown flat on the snow, camo-merging into their background. The aircraft thundered almost directly overhead, heading for the central peaks and the saddleback between.

Damn it! Smith raged, scrambling to his feet and staring after the departing helicopter. IÕd hoped splitting them up would keep them pinned! TheyÕre bailing out on their own men!

Randi shook her head, coming up onto her knees. They donÕt give a damn, Jon. TheyÕre criminals, not soldiers. They well and truly donÕt give a damn.

What do we do now, Colonel? Smyslov asked.

We fall back to Plan B.

What is Plan B?

That depends on whatÕs left at the station. LetÕs go!

Mikhail Vlahovitch fumbled the little Belgian-made pocket grenade out of his parka, feeling the bullets hitting on the far side of the ice slab he crouched behind. Pulling the pin, he let the safety lever flick free, counted two, and pitched overhand. He waited for the flat crack of the grenade detonation, then lunged out from behind the slab, rolling across the frozen beach to get the angle on the men who had been firing on him.

Vlahovitch came up onto his knees, saw a wounded Spetsnaz trooper kneeling beside a second downed man, and leveled the Agram, emptying the submachine gun in a single prolonged figure-eight burst that engulfed both the wounded and the dying.

As the bolt clicked open on an empty chamber, Vlahovitch was caught by the silence. His had been the last gun firing. The only sounds remaining were the creak and whine of the pack ice and the hiss of his own breath. Staggering, he got to his feet, drawing a fresh clip out of his belt pouches.

The Russians had come out of nowhere while Vlahovitch and his men had been distracted by their search for the woman. The Spetsnaz had apparently been taken as much by surprise by the presence of the arms smugglers as the reverse. It had been an unexpected-meeting engagement, inevitably the most chaotic and savage of battles.

Lazlo, he yelled, ejecting the empty and forcing the reload into the AgramÕs magazine well. Lazlo!...Vrasek!...Prishkin! To me!

No one answered. Blood streaked the ice. The scattering of bodies lay unmoving. Their men and his.

Lazlo!...Prishkin!

He turned in place slowly, looking around. It was a wipeout. A mutual massacre. He was the only one left of either side.

Lazlo?

Then he heard the distant, rhythmic thudding of rotors. It was the Halo. He couldnÕt see it from the base of the point, but he could follow the sound of its flight. It was heading up to the glacier. Kretek was going after the anthrax, and Vlahovitch knew without the faintest shadow of a doubt that he wouldnÕt be coming back.

And Vlahovitch finally acknowledged something else that he had known down deep in his belly for a long time: that Anton Kretek would eventually betray and abandon him like this.

Kretek, you bastard! He almost burst his throat with the scream.

HeÕs not a very nice man really. The voice was conversational, feminine, and coming from directly behind him.

Vlahovitch spun to find the woman standing some twenty feet away. She hadnÕt been there a few moments before, but she was there now, her materialization as silent as the arrival of a stalking cat. She wore the red ski pants worn by the blonde they had captured the day before, and the green sweatshirt she had stolen from the body of KretekÕs nephew, the overlong sleeves rolled up. But this wasnÕt the brown-eyed American blonde. The thrown-back hood of the shirt revealed high-pinned raven black hair and chill gray eyes, and the accent to her words was vaguely British. She stood relaxed with her arms held loosely crossed over her stomach.

But then, you really arenÕt a very nice man, either, she went on. And then she smiled.

A strange, uncontrollable horror welled up within Vlahovitch. There was no justification for it. He was a man cradling a loaded machine gun, and she an unarmed woman. Yet he was stricken with the fear a condemned prisoner feels when he hears the approaching footfalls of his hangman. He brought up the Agram, trying to draw back the SMGÕs bolt, his terror making him fumble.

The first thrown knife sank into his right shoulder, paralyzing his arm. The second struck in the center of his chest, driving through his breastbone and into his heart.

Valentina Metrace allowed herself that single, deep, deliberate breath. An enemy was dead and she and her friends were alive, and that was how it should be. She knelt down beside VlahovitchÕs body, reclaiming her knives. She cleaned each blade with a handful of snow, drying them on the clothing of the arms smuggler before resheathing them.

SheÕd started to salvage the manÕs weapon and remaining ammunition when a new factor intruded. From this position, she had a fair view down the eastern side of the point. Standing, she shielded her eyes against the growing sun glare and peered down the revealed reach of the shoreline trail. Oh, dear, she murmured under her breath.

Ê

Wednesday Island Station

Jon, look! Randi exclaimed, pointing. They didnÕt torch the copter!

From their position atop the antenna knoll they could look down on the ruins of the science station. All three of the prefab huts were in flames, but beyond the camp, at the helipad site, the Long Ranger sat apparently intact under its protective shroud of snow-covered tarpaulins.

Smith kicked free of his snowshoes and unslung the SR-25. If they didnÕt wreck it some other way we may still be in business. LetÕs go, but keep your eyes open for any stay-behinds.

Weapons readied, they dropped down off the hill to the station area. The low-lying smoke stank of burning plastic and hot metal, and there was a faint tinge of roasting pork to it that all three recognized but none commented on.

It took only a few moments of wary inspection to prove that the stationÕs ruins were deserted. TheyÕve pulled out, Randi commented, lowering ValentinaÕs rifle, bag and baggage.

They must have bolted when they heard the firefight. They realized more was going down around here than theyÕd figured. Smith looked across at her. How about it, Randi? What are the chances theyÕre aborting?

She shook her head. I think the guy running this show, Kretek, would be willing to risk everything at this point but the anthrax. I think heÕs operating in bull-in-the-china-shop mode now. HeÕs going for it.

Then so do we. LetÕs look at the copter.

They had to circle wide around the blazing lab hut. As they did so Smith almost tripped over a form half-buried in the snow.

Ah, hell!

It was the body of Professor Trowbridge, casually kicked aside out of the camp walkways and frozen solid in an undignified sprawl. Smith was glad the previous nightÕs snowfall had encrusted the dead manÕs face so that he didnÕt have to look down into TrowbridgeÕs accusing eyes.

IÕm sorry, Jon, Randi spoke quietly, coming to stand beside him. I kind of made a hash of things here.

ItÕs not your fault. I set up the situation. I let him come with us.

The final lesson, Sarge. When you command, you donÕt just live with your decisions for today, but forever.

He asked to come, Jon, she said, looking at the still form, and it was his call to make. None of us knew what was waiting for us here.

I guess thatÕs true enough. He glanced at her, a grim half-smile crossing his face. Does it make you feel any better?

She shook her head. Not really.

They moved on.

When they reached the helipad, they found only a single set of tracks leading up to the Long Ranger through the fresh snow. They also found an ugly brick-sized package strapped around one landing gear strut with electricianÕs tape. Smith and Smyslov froze when they saw it, but Randi dropped to her knees beside the float, intently examining the charge. ItÕs plastique, she reported after a moment, and it hasnÕt been fused. Let me have a knife, please.

Smith passed her his bayonet. They were probably interrupted by the firefight.

She carefully cut through the tape binding the charge to the helicopter. Standing, she pitched the explosives as far beyond the wind berm as she could. It stands to reason that if they were going to blow up the Ranger they wouldnÕt bother with sabotaging it as well.

ThatÕll be for you and the major to check out. Smith looked back toward the burning camp. Where in the hell was Val? After she finished her decoy run she was supposed to rejoin. How long will it take for you to get this ship airworthy?

Randi frowned and brushed back her parka hood. ItÕs been sitting out here cold-soaking for two days. The book says at least two hours for warm-up, prep, and preflight in this kind of environment.

The book doesnÕt exist on this island.

Right. IÕll see what I can do. Major, help me get the tarps and engine covers off.

Smith twisted the handle on the Long RangerÕs side hatch. Sliding it open, he peered inside the cabin. Everything looked intact and as they had left it, including the big aluminum case of lab equipment they had left strapped to the deck. A fat lot of good that had done them.

He unslung his pack and swung it into the cabin, laying ValentinaÕs model 70 beside it. The sight of the rifle reminded him again of the weaponÕs owner.

SheÕd been so sure she could pull off an escape and evasion on her own. What if sheÕd been wrong? Smith felt his guts knot. He didnÕt want her to become another of those failed things heÕd have to live with.

Colonel, look! Smyslov threw aside one of the engine covers and pointed. A small figure had appeared beyond the burning huts, coming around the knoll and runningÑno, staggeringÑalong the shoreline trail. Smith caught up his own rifle and ran to meet her, Smyslov following a few steps behind.

They intercepted her just short of the huts. Are you all right? Smith demanded as Valentina half-collapsed in the curve of his arm.

Fine, she gulped and wheezed, bracing her hands against her knees. Just winded...but we have...complications, Jon...Complications.

WhatÕs happening?

She forced herself erect, still panting from her sprint. Our arranged mutual ambush worked magnificently...almost a draw. I hung back to tidy up and maybe acquire a spare weapon or two...but I was...interrupted...and had to take off.

By?

The other section of the Spetsnaz force. There were only six taken out in the firefight with the smugglers. Four more are coming in behind me, and I strongly suspect they are not pleased with current events.

Did they spot you? Smith demanded.

Not sure. Maybe.

How long do we have?

They stopped to check their dead. I think weÕve got about ten minutes.

Christ! Now they show up! Smith paused to rub his aching eyes, wondering if heÕd ever not be tired again. All right. Major, you and Randi have got to get that helicopter ready to fly. Val, your rifleÕs back at the Ranger. I want you to cover the helipad approaches from there. IÕll stay here and put the trail under fire.

Valentina swiped a sweat-damp lock of hair back from her brow. Jon, these fellows likely know the old German infantry trick of maintaining the unit firebase. The survivors will swap out their assault rifles for the squad automatic weapons taken from their dead. They may have lost seventy percent of their platoon manpower, but theyÕll still possess eighty percent of their firepower.

ThatÕs why IÕd like that helicopter ready before they get here.

Jon, we are talking about three bloody machine guns!

ThatÕs a given, Val. Get going!

Colonel, Smyslov said slowly. May I suggest an alternative?

IÕll be happy to consider one, Major.

Let me go out to meet them. Let me order them to stand down.

SmithÕs eyes narrowed. I thought you said you didnÕt have the authority for that.

I donÕt, but I can try. Maybe I can reason with themÑSmyslov shrugged and gave his wry grinÑor maybe just bullshit them. Even if I fail, maybe I can buy you and the ladies enough time to get out of here.

Those Spetsnaz might not be too pleased with you at the moment, either, Major.

The RussianÕs face went sober again. I suspect my entire government is not too pleased with me at the moment, Colonel, but we must stop Kretek from getting that anthrax. And maybe, this way, no more Russian soldiers will have to die.

Smith hesitated. Now was no time to stop trusting. Val, you help Randi with the helicopter. IÕll fall back and join you when you start engines. If I do not rejoin by the time youÕre ready to take off, take off anyway. ThatÕs an order! Your absolute priority will be to report the situation here on Wednesday Island. After that, act as you see fit. Go!

She gave him a beseeching look but strangled down her protest. Obediently she dashed off toward the helipad.

Smith turned back to Smyslov. Good luck, Major. I hope youÕre a silver-tongued devil today.

I shall try to be, sir. He drew SmithÕs sidearm from his pocket and handed it back. If I am not, you may have more use for this than I.

Smyslov took a step back and came to attention, his European-style heel click muffled by the snow as his hand whipped up in a precise salute. Colonel Smith, may I say it has been a privilege serving under your command.

SmithÕs rigid fingertips touched his brow in the response. Anytime, anywhere, Major. The privilege has been mine.

Randi fought back a momentary surge of dizziness as she leaned into the engine compartment. The mental haze of the previous night threatened a return, and she fought to stay focused on tightening the knobs of the battery reconnects.

On the voyage north she had come to know this Long Ranger intimately, and she knew that it had been polarized by its leasing company to the best extent possible. All the gaskets and seals were cold-resistant plastics and composites. The lubricants were arctic environment multiviscosity synthetics. The fuel had been heavily laced with an antijelling agent, and the batteries were all ultraheavy-duty, deep-charge gel packs, the best on the market.

But it wasnÕt enough.

The little aircraftÕs power train and controls should be warmed inside a heating tent for several hours to bring them back up to a decent operating temperature, and the batteries freshened by a quick charger.

But the tent, heaters, and charger were burning in the supply hut, and there would have been no time for them anyway.

She took a final checking look around the interior of the battery compartment, then slammed the outside door, forcing herself to take deliberate care with each of the dzus fasteners.

Light running footsteps came around from the far side of the helicopter, and Valentina Metrace appeared.

WhatÕs happening? Randi demanded.

The last batch of Spetsnaz are coming in. Maybe five minutes. GregoriÕs gone out to chat them up, but I donÕt think itÕs going to work. JonÕs gone all self-sacrificial on us and is preparing to do his Horatio-at-the-bridge number. We are under orders to get this ridiculous contrivance running now!

The sickness welling up within Randi didnÕt all have to do with her recent bout of exposure. She swallowed the mouthful of chill saliva and forced her mind back to clarity. Okay, do a walk-around. Drag those tarps farther way and make sure there are no foreign objects near us that could get sucked into the intakes.

Right. There was no time for either of them to be fearful or concerned, or at least to admit to it.

Randi ran around to the pilotÕs door and hauled herself up into the cockpit, the frozen leather of the seat biting into her thighs. She propped the preflight checklist against the windscreen; she didnÕt dare to trust her memory. Then she hit the main switches. Behind the frost-hazed glass lenses, instrument needles stirred and lifted sluggishly.

There would be three crises to surmount. First, there must be enough power left in the batteries to force the cold engines to crank up and start. The second would come at the moment of ignition, when the frozen, brittle components of the propulsion train would either spin up to speed or fracture and explode.