James Cobb - The Arctic Event

It had been a long, sleepless night, consumed in fifteen-minute bites between the radio checks with Wednesday Island, the decks shuddering and bucking underfoot as Captain Jorganson staged his last-ditch assault on the ice pack. It was good to be finally taking action.

Because of weight and space considerations, the Long Ranger’s interior had been stripped of everything but the two pilots’ seats. Jon Smith supervised the securing of the team’s equipment to tie-downs on the cabin deck: the four backpacks and frames loaded with climbing and survival gear, the SINCGARS portable radio transceiver, and the hard-sided aluminum transport case loaded with the medical and field-testing equipment.

A pair of Coast Guard deckhands lugged the final item into the hangar bay: a dark green sausage-shaped carrier bag made out of heavy-gauge nylon.

“Here’s the last of it, sir,” one of the deckhands said uneasily as they set the carrier on the deck. Possibly his unease had to do with the prominent markings on the bag:

US ARMY GRAVES REGISTRATION

BAGS-BODY-ONE DOZEN.

“Thanks, Seaman.” The sealing tag was still in place on the carrier’s zipper. The camouflage labeling had done its job well: no one had been inclined to fool with the carrier’s contents.

Stepping over to the bag, Smith broke the seal and ran the zip open. As the hangar bay crew looked on soberly, Smith began to pass out the carrier’s true contents, the equipment that a routine crash identification and body recovery team wouldn’t have needed.

White camouflage snow smocks and overtrousers. Fanny packs containing Army MOPP III biochemical warfare suits and filter masks. And the weapons.

“I see you’re an aficionado of the great spray-and-pray school,” Professor Metrace murmured as Randi checked out a Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine gun.

“It works for me,” Randi replied briefly, clearing the breach and snapping out the stumpy little weapon’s folding stock. “Ammunition?”

“Six magazines,” Smith replied, handing her the loaded clip pouches. Lifting the next padded case out of the bag, he unzipped it and grunted in satisfaction. They’d gotten him the SR-25 tactical sniper he’d asked for. Protective lens caps were clipped over the rifle’s telescopic sights, and white camo tape had been lapped around the composite stock and foregrip.

There was something oddly familiar about the feel of this particular weapon, and Smith checked its serial number. He wasn’t mistaken; it was the same SR-25 he’d dialed in with and carried through his mountain warfare course. Fred Klein’s meticulousness had struck again.

Valentina Metrace’s brows lifted in a connoisseur’s appreciation. “Great minds work alike, Jon. I suspected it would be mountain work as well.”

The last weapon out of the carrier was a civilian sporting rifle, and a study in contrasts. The powerful optics mounted on it were new, state-of-the-art, in fact, and the rifle itself showed meticulous care, but the scarred walnut stock also bore the patina of use and age.

“What is that?” Smith inquired as Valentina drew the weapon from its soft case.

“Something from my own collection,” she replied, flipping open the bolt in a practiced safety check. “It’s a Winchester model 70, a genuine pre-64 action mated with one of the first of the Douglas stainless steel barrels.”

Smoothly she lifted the elegant old rifle to her shoulder, test-sighting at the sunrise out of the open hangar doors. “The scope is a Schmidt and Bender three-to-twelve-power, and the chambering is for.220 Swift. The muzzle velocity with a sixty-five-grain hollowpoint is over four thousand feet per second, the accuracy can only be described as supernatural, and bullet drop is simply something that happens to somebody else. As the saying goes, they don’t make them like this anymore.”

“A varmint gun,” Randi sniffed.

“It all depends on how you define ‘varmint,’ darling,” Valentina replied darkly. “Put a round of Swift in a man’s chest and you might as well be hitting him with a lightning bolt. Put one in his shoulder and you don’t get a hole; you get a sloppy amputation. I’ve put a full-patch slug cleanly through the brain case of a bull crocodile at three hundred yards with this old girl, and crocodiles have very thick skulls and very small brains.”

It was Smith’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “You do have some very interesting hobbies, Professor.”

Valentina smiled enigmatically as she fed sharp-tipped cartridges into the shell carrier strapped around the Winchester’s stock. “You can’t even begin to guess, my dear Colonel.”

“Would you have something in there for me?” Smyslov inquired, eyeing the growing array of armament.

“We didn’t pack anything, Major,” Smith said. “But I agree, you’re likely going to need teeth.” He glanced at Valentina. “In fact, I asked the professor to look into that.”

She nodded back and slung her rifle over her shoulder. Stepping to the open door of the helicopter, she produced a pistol belt, holster, and clip carrier from the pilot’s seat. “Nothing particularly sexy or exotic, Major, just Coast Guard standard issue, but it should do for you.”

Smyslov slid the Beretta 92F out of its holster. Balancing the big automatic in his hand he cycled the slide experimentally. “Yes, this will do,” he replied, his voice thoughtful.

A conformal foam pharmaceuticals box was the last item in the carrier, a dozen large white-capped pill bottles fitting into its niches.

“These are our just-in-case, ladies and gentlemen,” Smith said, passing a bottle of antibiotic capsules to each of his teammates before securing the remainder in his medical kit. “Take three now as your loading dose, then two every twelve hours, without food. They’ll be good for what might ail you.”

“May I have some of those as well, Colonel?”

Parka clad, Dr. Trowbridge had been standing back with the others in the hangar bay, watching Smith’s team arm up. Now he stood forward.

“I’m going…” he started, then caught himself. “I would like to go with you to the island.”

“Under the circumstances I don’t think that’s feasible, Doctor,” Smith replied cautiously. “We don’t know what we’re going to find when we get there. The situation could be hazardous.”

The academic’s face tightened in resolve. “I don’t know what you’re going to find, either. That’s why I have to go. I don’t know why this is happening or why all of this was allowed to happen, but I have responsibilities. Those are my people on that island! I helped to organize and fund this expedition. I picked the membership. Whatever has happened, I’m responsible!”

My people. Smith was coming to understand those words quite well. He was opening his mouth to reply when a crewman entered the hangar bay and double-timed across to the helicopter.

“Begging the colonel’s pardon, sir, But Captain Jorganson wishes to advise you that Wednesday Island Station has missed its last radio check.”

Smith whipped up his wrist and shoved back his parka sleeve, checking his watch. “How long ago?”

“Ten minutes, sir. The radio shack’s been calling continuously, but there’s no answer.”

Some of the arctic cold pierced into Smith’s guts. Damn it! Kayla Brown had almost made it to a new day.

“Thank you. You may inform Captain Jorganson we will be launching immediately.” Smith turned back to Dr. Trowbridge. “Three capsules now,” he said, opening his medical kit, “then two every twelve hours, without food.”

Over the Arctic Ocean

The sky now flamed behind the Long Ranger, a gold and scarlet ribbon across the southern horizon. It served as a vivid contrast wedged between the stark black water and white ice of the fissured pack and the lowering gray of the cloud cover. The sunrise in the south was subtly perturbing, a disruption in the natural order of things that emphasized the alienness of the world they were penetrating.