James Cobb - The Arctic Event

The overall air of the room should have been masculine, yet it wasn’t. A subtle stylistic femininity had been imprinted upon it-subtle, yet dynamic and profoundly individualistic.

Sinking down behind the desk, the professor found a recorded message light glowing on her answering machine: a call on her unlisted private number. She pushed the caller ID key, and an Anacosta, Maryland, area code flashed up. Her brow cocked. She didn’t need to contact Covert One. Her alternate employers were trying to contact her.

Russian Long Range Aviation Headquarters,

Vladivostok, the Russian Pacific Maritime Provinces

Major Gregori Smyslov braced a hand against the dashboard as the GAZ command car lurched over the potholed base road. Glancing out of the moisture-streaked side window, he frowned at the passing vista of dilapidated barracks and abandoned operations buildings under a sodden lead-colored sky. Serving here must have really been something…once.

The huge air base complex was a ghost of what it had been. Only a few of the hundreds of hardstands lining its broad runways were still occupied. Where once entire regiments of sleek swept-wing Sukhois and Tupolevs had staged, only a couple of understrength squadrons remained on alert, nervously watching the Chinese border.

The remainder of the vast facility hadn’t even been mothballed, just abandoned to the wind and the rot and the foxes.

Smyslov was a New Russian. He could recognize the elemental fallacies at the heart of Communism that had led to the collapse of the USSR, and he still had the hope of seeing the eventual success of a free and democratic Russia in the twenty-first century. But he could understand the bitterness in the hearts of some of the old hands. They could remember the days of power, of respect-days when they weren’t a joke in the eyes of the world.

The command car drew up in front of the Pacific Air Forces headquarters building, a massive windowless bastion of rust and water-stained concrete. Dismounting, Smyslov dismissed his driver. Turning up the collar of his greatcoat against the chill hiss of the rain, he strode up the puddle-mottled walkway to the main entrance.

Just short of the great bronze doors he paused and knelt, picking up a stony fragment from the pavement. It was a small chunk of concrete, freshly flaked from the facing of the headquarters building. Such disintegration was an endemic problem with much of the old Soviet architecture. Smyslov applied pressure, and the concrete crumbled between his gloved fingers. The Russian officer smiled without humor and shook away the wet, sandy remnants.

He was expected. After verifying his identification, a respectful sentry accepted his uniform cap and greatcoat, and a second led him deeper into the core of the headquarters. Even this building seemed only partially occupied, with many of its offices darkened and its echoing gray corridors nearly empty.

Smyslov cleared through a second security checkpoint, and the sentry handed him off to a tense staff officer, who led him on to the innermost sanctum of the complex.

The well-appointed wood-paneled office belonged to the commanding general of all Pacific Zone Long Range Aviation Forces, but the man seated behind a massive dark mahogany desk had more authority than even that.

“Major Gregori Smyslov of the Four forty-ninth Air Force Special Security Regiment, reporting as ordered, sir.”

General Baranov returned the salute. “Good afternoon, Major. As you have no doubt been advised, you never received those orders. You are not here. I am not here. This meeting has never taken place. Is this understood?”

“I understand, sir, fully.”

Baranov’s cold gray eyes drilled into his. “No, Major, you do not, but you will presently.” The general gestured to the chair positioned before the desk. “Please be seated.”

As Smyslov sank into the appointed chair, the general drew an inch-thick folder onto the center of the desk’s black leather blotter, flipping it open. Smyslov recognized his own zapiska, his service record. And he knew what its facing page would say.

Name: Smyslov, Gregori Andriovitch

Age: 31

Height: 199 centimeters

Weight: 92 kilograms

Eyes: Green

Hair: Blond

Birthplace: Berezovo, Uralsky Khrebet, Russian Federation

The photograph that accompanied the facing sheet would show a strong, not unpleasant mixture of blunt and angular features and narrow, rather good-humored eyes.

What else might be contained in the zapiska, Smyslov did not know. It might be his life, but it was the Air Force’s concern.

General Baranov flipped through a few of the pages. “Major, your regimental commander thinks highly of you. He feels you are one of the best officers under his command, if not one of the best in our service. Looking through your records, I am inclined to agree.”

The general flipped another page of the file, looking not down at it but into Smyslov’s face, as if attempting to match what he had read with the man behind the words.

“Thank you, General,” Smyslov replied, carefully keeping his voice neutral. “I have always endeavored to be a good officer.”

“You have succeeded. That is why you are here. I trust your regimental commander briefed you on the Misha 124 affair and of your duties related to it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what were you told?”

“That I was to be attached to a joint Russian-American investigation team being dispatched to the Misha crash site, as the Russian liaison. I will be operating with a Colonel Smith of the United States Army, and certain other American specialists. We are to investigate the downed aircraft and ascertain if any active biological warfare agents remain aboard it. We are also to ascertain the fate of the Misha aircrew and to recover their bodies. All aspects of this mission are to be held in the highest state of security.”

Baranov nodded. “I have recently returned from Washington, where I established those mission parameters and arranged for you to be attached to the American investigation group. What else were you told?”

“Nothing, sir. I was only ordered to proceed here”-the corner of Smyslov’s mouth quirked in spite of himself-“to this meeting that is not taking place, for a final-phase briefing on this assignment.”

“Very good. That is as it should be.” Baronov nodded with deliberation. “Tell me this, Major. Have you ever heard of the March Fifth Event?”

March fifth? Smyslov considered, frowning. There was a girl he had known when he’d been attending the Gagarin Academy, the busty little redheaded barmaid. Her birthday had been March fifth, hadn’t it? But that couldn’t possibly be what the commanding general of the Thirty-seventh Strategic Air Army could be concerned with.

“No, sir. I have no idea what you mean.”

Baranov nodded again. “That is also as it should be.”

The general levered himself up from behind the desk and crossed the office to a second door. “Come with me, please, Major.”

The second door opened on a small, windowless briefing room, a gray steel map table centered in it. A single file folder was, in turn, centered on the table. A diagonal orange stripe ran across the file’s gray cover, with a second bloodred bar down the spine.

As a security officer, Smyslov instantly recognized the document coding: Ultrasecret. Access by presidential authorization only.

Smyslov found himself wishing he still had his greatcoat. The office and the briefing room suddenly seemed colder.

Baronov gestured toward the file. “This is the March Fifth Event. It is possibly the single most critical state secret held by your motherland. Any unauthorized revelation of the contents of this file means an automatic death sentence. Is that understood?”