The Arctic Event

Chapter Fifteen

Off the Alaskan Peninsula

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

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

“How did they spot us?” Smith demanded.

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

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

“That’s a distinct possibility, Jon.” Director Klein’s voice remained controlled. “We’ve known from the start that the Misha warload would be a major prize for any terrorist group or rogue nation. That could explain the attack on your aircraft. But that’s only one possible explanation. We don’t know nearly enough to close out any options on this incident.”

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

“I don’t know, but I’d suspect it’s on the Russian side. We’ve been holding all the information on the Misha 124 tightly compartmentalized. Literally the only people stateside who know the whole story are the President, myself, Maggie, and the members of your team.”

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

Klein’s voice grew emotionless. “I said we can’t close out any possibilities, Jon.”

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

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

“Understood, sir. That brings us back to the question of who’s on our ass.”

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

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

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

“Was he aboard the plane that hit us?”

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

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

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

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

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

God, Smith sneered at himself. And just this morning he’d been saying that this shouldn’t be a shooting job? “What are your orders, sir?”

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

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

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

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

“Very good, sir. There’s one other point I need to bring up: our liaison, Major Smyslov.”

“A problem with him, Jon?”

“Not with the man himself. He saved our collective asses today. Only after today’s events, I’m fairly sure he realizes that we’re not your average bunch of army doctors and government contract employees. And fair being fair, it’s pretty obvious Major Smyslov is not your average Russian Air Force officer.”

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

“Thank you, sir. Is there anything else?”

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

The sat phone link broke.

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

“Okay, Chief, I’m out of your hair for a while,” Smith said as he left the radio shack.

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

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

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

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

“Good evening, Colonel,” she said, glancing up from a paperback Danielle Steel, reminding him there was an individual present who wasn’t supposed to know they were on a first-name basis.

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

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

“Colonel Smith, I don’t think you’ve had a chance to meet my fellow academic yet, Dr. Rosen Trowbridge. Dr. Trowbridge, this is our team leader, Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith.” A studied sweetness in Professor Metrace’s voice spoke beyond her words.

Smith nodded pleasantly. He’d caught and registered the vibrations radiating from the man as well. “Good evening, Doctor. I haven’t had a chance to apologize yet for the sudden change of our sailing schedule. I hope it didn’t inconvenience you too badly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t disagree with that, Colonel. Just as long as it is recognized that the university expedition was there first and that we have priority.”

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

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

Smith kept his gaze locked on Trowbridge until the academic backed down. “Of course, you’re correct, Colonel. I’m sure we’ll be able to accommodate everyone involved.”

“I’m sure we will.”

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

“If it doesn’t interfere with their official duties within the university expedition,” Trowbridge interjected hastily.

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It was the major point of concern, Colonel.”

Smith nodded and flipped to the next page.

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

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

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

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

Smith flipped the folder shut. He wasn’t prepared to make any assumptions on nationality, race, sex, or potential political orientation. That was a fool’s game, for greed or fanaticism could wear any face. Covert One and a variety of other intelligence and law enforcement agencies would be hard at work dissecting the past lives of these six individuals. When he arrived on Wednesday Island it would be his duty to dissect their here and now.

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

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

“I think he’s out on deck absorbing a little nicotine,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jon Smith’s silhouette detached itself from the shadows down deck and came to lean on the cable rail beside Smyslov. “And now that I’ve performed that duty, please feel free to tell me to go to hell.”

Smyslov chuckled dryly and flipped the glowing cigarette butt over the side. “We haven’t invented lung cancer in Russia yet, Colonel.”

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

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

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

“To speak the truth, Colonel, I don’t know what to think.” And it was the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally Smyslov spoke. “Colonel, can you tell me if my government has been notified of today’s attack?”

“I really can’t say for sure,” Smith replied. “My superiors have been advised of the situation, and they’ve informed me that all available resources are being put to use to identify our attackers. I’d presume that includes Russian resources.”

“I see.”

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

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

“As you like. The offer stands.” Smith’s voice mellowed. “So tell me, Major, hearts, bridge, or poker-which is your game?”