James Cobb - The Arctic Event

“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.”