James Cobb - The Arctic Event

“From me or from Professor Metrace.”

Randi snapped her head around to stare at Metrace. The dark-haired mobile cipher operative merely lifted an eyebrow and her glass, taking a final sip of her martini.

This situation was simply getting better and better. Being positioned as the junior member of the team could only further ruffle Randi’s feathers. What had his mountain warfare instructor warned him of the other day, that he was forgetting how to command? Well, by God, he had better start remembering right now.

“Professor Metrace is to be considered my executive officer on this operation. Should I not be available, she has full decision-making authority on all aspects of the mission. Is that understood?”

Randi’s eyes met his again, expressionless. “Fully, Colonel.”

Their meal came and went in near silence; Smith had the salmon while Randi Russell ate lightly at a dinner salad. The only one who truly seemed to enjoy her food was Valentina Metrace, consuming her steak and baked potato with a dainty, unconcerned fierceness.

She was also the one who dove back into the mission over their after-dinner coffee.

“One of our Keyhole reconnaissance satellites got a clear-weather pass over the Misha crash site,” she said, removing a set of photo prints from her shoulder bag. “It gives us a much better look at what we’re dealing with than the ground photography from the science expedition.”

Smith frowned at his copy of the overhead imaging. It could clearly be seen that the downed bomber was indeed an exact clone of a B-29. The slender, torpedolike fuselage and the lack of a stepped cockpit were unmistakable.

“Are you sure this is one of theirs?” Randi asked, mirroring Smith’s thoughts.

The historian nodded. “Um-hum. Most of the insignia paint has been storm scoured away, but you can just make out the red star on the starboard wingtip. There’s no doubt; it’s a TU-4 Bull. Specifically it’s the TU-4A strategic-strike variant, intended for the delivery of atomic or biochemical weapons. What’s more, this one was an America bomber.”

Smith glanced up. “An America bomber?”

“An aircraft specifically configured for attacks on targets in the continental United States. It’s been stripped and lightened to maximize its range.” Reaching across the table, Valentina traced a manicured fingernail down the spine of the aircraft. “You can see how all of the defensive gun turrets except for the tail stingers have been removed and the mounts fared over. Most of the armor will have been removed as well and auxiliary fuel tanks installed in the wings and aft bomb bay.”

She looked up from the photo. “Even so modified, the TU-4 had very decided limitations as an intercontinental delivery system. Striking over the pole from the nearest Soviet bases in Siberia, they could just barely reach targets in the northern-tier states. And the missions would all have been one-way. There would have been no fuel left for a return flight.”

“Missiles with men inside,” Smith mused.

“Essentially, but they were what Stalin had at the time.”

“And how did he get his hands on them in the first place?” Randi asked in puzzlement. “I gather these were our best bombers during the Second World War. We certainly didn’t just give them to the Soviets.”

“We did, but inadvertently,” the historian replied. “Early on during the strategic bombing campaign against the Japanese home islands, three B-29s were forced to land in Vladivostok because of battle damage or engine failure. The crews and aircraft were interned by the Russians, who, at the time, were neutral in our war against Japan. Eventually, we got our aircrews back, but the bombers were never returned.

“Instead Stalin ordered Andrei Tupolev, one of Russia’s greatest aircraft designers, to produce an exact copy of the B-29 for Soviet Long Range Aviation.”

She smiled ruefully. “It was the most incredible reverse-engineering project in history. Aviation historians who’ve had the opportunity to closely examine examples of the Soviet Bull were always puzzled over a small round hole drilled into the leading edge of the left wing. They could never figure out what it was for. When the Russians were asked about it they stated that they didn’t know what it was for, either. It had just been there on the B-29 airframe they had broken down for blueprinting.

“Come to find out, it had probably been a bullet hole made by the machine guns of a Japanese interceptor. But Stalin had specified that he wanted an exact copy of the Superfortress, and what Uncle Joe wanted, he got!”

Her finger continued to trace the outlines of the wrecked bomber’s wings. “She obviously hit flat and skidded across the glacier on her belly. And given the way these propellers are bent, all of her engines were still running when she went in.”

Smith scowled. “If she still had all of her engines, what forced her down?”

Valentina shook her head. “I, and the experts I’ve consulted, haven’t a clue. There is no indication of a midair structural failure, battle damage, or a collision. All of the control surfaces are present and accounted for, and there’s no sign of a fire before or after the crash. The best guess is that they were running out of fuel and the pilot set down on the island while he still had power for a controlled approach and landing.”

“Then wouldn’t they have had plenty of time to send a distress call before going down?” Randi inquired.

Professor Metrace shrugged slim shoulders. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But radio conditions around the Pole can be tricky. They could have encountered a magnetic storm or a dead zone that killed their transmissions.”

Their low-keyed discussion broke as a waitress approached and refilled their coffee cups. When it was safe to resume, Randi inquired about the plane’s crew.

“They lived, at least for a time.” Once more Valentina tapped the photo print. “This was an entirely survivable landing. The crew must have gotten out. There’s even evidence to that effect. The cowling of the starboard outboard engine has been removed. You can see it lying on the ice beside the wing. It was probably done to drain the oil out of the engine sump for use in a signal fire.”

“But what happened to them?” Randi insisted.

“As I said, Ms. Russell, they must have survived for a time. They would have had sleeping bags, arctic clothing, and emergency rations. But eventually…” Once more the professor shrugged.

The fog swirled thickly beyond the restaurant window beside them, a chill pang pulsing through the glass. It would not have been a good death, castaway in the cold and eternal polar darkness. But then, Smith knew of few good ways to die. “How large would the crew have been?”

“For a stripped TU-4, at least eight men. In the nose you’d have the aircraft commander, the copilot, the bombardier-weapons officer, who would also have served as the plane’s political officer, the navigator, the flight engineer, and the radio operator. Then, in the tail, you’d have the radar operator, possibly an observer or two, and the stinger gunner.”

A thought swirled momentarily behind Valentina’s steel-colored eyes. “I’d fancy having a look at the ammunition magazines of those tail guns,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“You’ll get the chance, Professor,” Smith replied.

“Make it Val, please,” she responded with a smile. “I only use ‘professor’ when I’m trying to impress a grants committee.”

Smith gave an acknowledging nod. “Okay, Val, is there any indication of the anthrax still being aboard?”

She shook her head. “Impossible to tell. In a bioequipped TU-4A, the reservoir would have been mounted here, in the forward bomb bay. As you can see, the fuselage is intact. The containment vessel itself would have been made of stainless steel and would have been built like a bomb casing, sturdy enough to survive at least a moderate crash impact.”