The Arctic Event

Chapter Thirty-eight

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. “I’ve 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. He’s 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’s radio watch reports they may have picked up possible trace transmissions from the island party’s 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. We’ve 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.

“We’ve 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. There’s 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 can’t 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?”

“It’s 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, “I’ve decided to put the backup force on Wednesday Island. Smith and his team might just be suffering from fouled-up communications, but I’m getting a bad feeling about this situation.”

Klein suppressed his sigh of relief. “Sam, I concur fully with that decision. In fact, I’ve 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 hadn’t 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 there’s something left for them to back up.”

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

“No, nor do I intend to, Fred. That’s one of the reasons I’ve 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. He’s been practically hovering on the line. Now, and for about the last nine hours, he’s become ‘unavailable’ and his aide de camp is not authorized to say anything beyond hello when he picks up the phone. I’m beginning to smell a considerable rat.”

“We’ve 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; it’s a survival mechanism. We are also dealing with the Russian culture. Remember what Churchill called them: ‘Orientals with their shirttails tucked in.’ 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. I’ve had my people within the Russian Federation probing the Misha crash since the inception of this operation, and all they’ve been able to ascertain so far is that a ferocious level of security is involved. They’ve also encountered a term, ‘the March Fifth Event.’”

“The March Fifth Event? What’s that?”

“As of yet we have no idea. It’s 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.

“We’re already working the problem, but it may take a while. The Russians have the lid screwed down airtight on this thing.”

“Understood.” Castilla’s voice dropped an ominous octave. “In the meantime we’ve stuck our necks way the hell out to accommodate President Potrenko on this. If he’s backstabbing us now, whatever the reason, by God, he will rue the day…”

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

“I only hope he’ll be able to give us one, Sam. I’ll be standing by at the White House.”

“I’ll be remaining here at headquarters until we get a resolution, Mr. President. We will keep you advised.”

“Understood, Fred. It’s going to be a long night until morning.”