James Cobb - The Arctic Event

Smith squirmed onto his left shoulder. “Okay, I see them. They are set vertically, in the green, and the wire seals are still in place.”

“Excellent!” Smyslov exclaimed. “Those are all metal-to-metal knife valves with single-use lead gaskets. Nothing will get past them. We still have full containment.”

“Theoretically. I’m going into the bomb bay to do an eyeball inspection of the whole system to make sure.”

There was some thumping and murmuring at the other end of the circuit, Valentina’s voice taking over from Smyslov’s. “Jon, are you sure that’s wise?”

“It’s got to be done, and if I do it now, I won’t have to come back later.” Smith tried to sound offhand about it. In truth he wasn’t sure he could make himself come back later. Belly crawling into the freezing blackness beneath that concentration of megadeath was a singularly unappealing prospect.

In fact, he had to do it right now, immediately, or see his nerve crack. “I’m going into the bay,” he said shortly.

Backing his shoulders out of the entry hatch, he swung his legs in and dropped to the crumpled metal floor of the compartment. Sinking to his hands and knees, he began to squirm down the length of the bomb bay, hugging the starboard bulkhead to take advantage of the space offered by the curve of the containment vessel.

Even at that, the crawl was claustrophobic in the extreme, complicated by the crash-buckled aluminum of the bay doors. Smith had to carefully plan each move, flowing himself over the torn metal, striving to protect the MOPP suit’s integrity. He couldn’t help but flinch each time his shoulder bumped the brooding mass of the spore-packed casing.

The hood faceplate was fogging again, hampering his vision, and he had to partially feel his way ahead. He reached forward…and froze. Very slowly he lifted his head, trying to peer around the edges of the visor.

“Major,” he said deliberately, “my right arm is fouled in a wire. The wire is connected to a series of rectangular metal boxes attached by some kind of metal clip to the side of the reservoir. The boxes appear to be one foot by four inches by three, and there are half a dozen of them spaced out along the near side of the casing. I can’t tell if another set is mounted symmetrically on the far side. They do not appear integral to the reservoir. The boxes and wiring are frost covered and undisturbed. They’ve been there for a while.”

“You are all right, Colonel,” Smyslov replied promptly. “You are all right. Those are thermite incendiary charges. They are part of the bomber’s emergency equipment. They were intended to destroy the anthrax to prevent its capture should the plane be forced down in enemy territory.”

“Fine. What do I do about them?”

“You don’t have to do anything, Colonel. The charges are stable. They would have to be set off deliberately using a magneto box or a heavy battery, and if there are any batteries aboard the wreck, they would have been drained by the cold long ago.”

“Thanks for telling me.” Smith untangled his arm and paused for a moment, panting.

“This is odd,” Smyslov said. “The bomber’s crew must have deployed the incendiaries after the landing, with the intent of destroying the warload. I wonder why they didn’t fire them.”

“They would have saved everybody a lot of trouble if they had.” Smith resumed his crawl to the rear of the bay. He had never considered himself a claustrophobe, but the bomb bay was getting to him, and badly. The cold metal walls kept folding around him, and it seemed increasingly difficult to breathe. He was getting a headache as well, the beating of his heart pounding at his temples. He had to force himself to focus on the job, checking the casing, inch by deliberate inch, for cracks or other damage and for spore leakage.

He made the last yard to the rear of the bay, twisting onto his back to check the rear of the reservoir and the dispenser manifolds. The fogging of his faceplate was getting worse, and the flashlight seemed to be dimming. His head suddenly seemed to be exploding, and he gulped for air, cursing weakly. This was no good! He had to get out of here!

“Jon, what’s wrong?” Valentina was back on the circuit.

“Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just…tight in here. The containment vessel is intact. I’m starting back.”

He tried to roll over and turn in the confined space. He couldn’t seem to make it around. He kept hanging up on things that hadn’t been there before, and his suppressed panic flared. He lost his grip on the flashlight and swore again as it rolled out of reach.

“Jon, are you all right?” Valentina’s words were sharp this time, demanding.

“Yes, damn it!” He gave up on the flashlight and tried to drag himself toward the dim patch of outside illumination at the far end of the bay. Cold sweat burned in his eyes, and his arms felt as if they were encased in solidifying concrete. His breath hissing through clenched teeth, he commanded his body to move. Only his body refused to obey.

And then it reached him through his muddled mind. He wasn’t all right. He was dead.

“Get away from the plane!” he shouted weakly, his lungs suddenly on fire.

“Jon, what is it? What’s happening?”

“The plane’s hot! I’ve been contaminated! There’s something else in here! It’s not anthrax! Abort the mission! Get away from here!”

“Jon, hold on! We’re suiting up. We’re coming for you!”

“No! The suits are no good! It penetrates! The antibiotics aren’t stopping it, either!”

“Jon, we can’t just leave you!” Beyond Val’s frantic words he could hear Smyslov’s demanding questions.

“Forget it!” He had to force each word with its own racking breath. “I’ve had it! I’m already dying! Don’t come in after me! That’s an order!”

It had been bound to happen sooner or later. He’d dodged the biological bullet with Hades, with Cassandra, and with Lazarus. He had to take the fall sooner or later. That bit of his disintegrating consciousness that was still the researcher, the scientist, pushed its way forward. There was a last service he could render to those who would follow him into this black pit to learn and fight this thing.

“Val, listen…listen! It’s respiratory. It hits through the respiratory system. My lungs and bronchial tubes are burning…No congestion or fluid buildup…no pulmonary paralysis…but I can’t get oxygen…accelerated pulse…vision graying out…strength…losing…Get away…That’s…order.”

There was nothing left to breathe and speak with. They were calling to him over the radio, something about the MOPP suit. He couldn’t hear over the staggering hammer of his heartbeat in his ears. Was this how it had been for Sophia at the end, drowning in her own blood? No. At least Sophia hadn’t been so alone. He made a final effort to drag himself toward the light, just so he wouldn’t die in this hideous place. Then the light was gone, and the dark took him fully.

An eternity passed, or maybe only a second.

Smith became aware of fragments…Movement…Touch…Voices…Pressure on his chest…Lips, soft, warm, living, pressed against his, with urgency but without passion.

Sensation returned within himself. The lift of his chest; air, cold, pure, pouring into his lungs like water from an iced pitcher. Life stirred with its bite, radiating outward. He could breathe. He could breathe! He lay there in the suddenly pleasant cool darkness, almost orgasmically relishing each inhalation.

A small ungloved hand brushed back his hair, and those lips pressed against his again. Gently this time, pleasantly lingering.

“I think respiration has been fully restored, Professor,” an amused, accented voice commented.