James Cobb - The Arctic Event

Tomashenko started to ask the radio monitor if he had heard anything, but caught himself. If the signal had been heard, he would hear. Until that moment they must wait.

Wednesday Island Station

Randi Russell lay quietly in the darkness. Beyond the partition, in the main room of the bunkhouse, she could hear the heavy slumber breathing of Doctor Trowbridge, the sound she had been waiting for.

An hour before, she and Trowbridge had banked the fire in the bunkhouse and theoretically had turned in for the night. However, in the women’s quarters, Randi had only stretched out fully dressed atop Kayla Brown’s bunk, refusing sleep. Now, rolling silently to her feet, she began to prepare for the out-of-doors. She squeezed three pairs of socks inside the white thermoplastic “bunny boots.” Then came the parka and insulated overpants with the Lady Magnum and its speedloaders fitted into the holster pocket. Thin Nomex inner and leather outer gloves were pulled on, along with a white balaclava and finally the snow camouflage.

She worked in total darkness. Before shutting down for the night she had carefully positioned everything she would need and had mentally mapped out every move she would make.

Stepping to where she had left her pack, she removed a small plastic envelope from an outer compartment. Then, slinging her ammunition pouches and submachine gun, she took a folded Hudson’s Bay blanket from the sleeping room’s upper bunk.

Sliding open the door in the partition, she moved the length of the bunk room to the outside door, navigating unerringly by the faint rectangular lessening of black of the windows and the light brush of a fingertip on a table or countertop, easing each footstep soundlessly onto the floor. Trowbridge was still deeply asleep as she slipped through the snow lock.

Sinking onto her hands and knees, she crawled through the outer door, keeping low in the snow trench beyond the entry. Snaking down the compacted paths, she made her way to the foxhole she had molded for herself covering the bunkhouse. There she constructed her hunting hide.

The heavy Hudson’s Bay blanket went beneath her, insulation between her body and the ice. The contents of the plastic envelope went over her. It was a silvered foil survival blanket, incredibly warm for its cellophane-light weight. But unlike the usual blanket of its type, the backing on this one was not high-visibility orange but arctic camo white.

Covering herself with it, Randi merged with her surroundings, making of herself nothing but an unevenness in the snow’s surface.

Here, in the lee of the island, the night was almost still. Yet the wind could faintly be heard, roiling and gusting over the sheltering ridgeline. Even with her night-adapted vision, Randi could only make out the slightly variegated shades of darkness around her, the hut’s solid shadow geometrics against the slightly grayish black of the snow pack. Gradually, as the minutes and eventual hours passed, she began to note a faint wavering in these shades of night. She puzzled over it for a time, then realized the northern lights must be playing somewhere overhead, a meager hint of their illumination leaking through the cloud cover above the island.

It was cold, a bitter, infiltrating cold that gradually seeped through her armor of blankets and heavy clothing. Still, as silent, patient, and invisible as an arctic fox, Randi waited, breathing as lightly as she could to minimize her breath plume.

Under the survival blanket she cuddled the MP-5 close, not to protect the rugged weapon itself-it had been lubricated with an all-environment synthetic proof against arctic temperatures-but to keep the batteries of the tactical combat light clipped under its barrel warm and energized.

Time crawled past like one of the island’s glaciers. Still, she waited. If she was cold, then he was cold, and he would know there would be a warm coal fire and a cozy bed waiting for him inside, with no reason not to claim them.

Finally Randi heard the first ever-so-faint squeaking crunch of a boot step on snow. Her thumb moved half an inch, flipping the fire selector on her primary weapon from “Safe” to “Auto.”

An amorphous blob of total blackness moved slowly down the trail from beyond the camp. Gradually it defined itself as the upright form of a man carrying a slender, elongated shape in each hand. Moving with a stalker’s care, he approached the bunkhouse entry.

The thumb that had flipped off the MP-5’s safety moved to the button on the SMG’s handgrip.

The figure paused for a moment outside the snow lock, taking a final protracted look around and missing the faint bumpy irregularity in the snow a few yards away. Then he leaned the elongated object in his right hand against the door frame and transferred the one in his left hand to the right. Using the freed left hand, he reached for the door handle.

Randi heaved aside the thermal blanket and came up onto her knees, the MP-5 lifting to her shoulder. Her thumb pressed the switch of the tactical light, and the narrow, dazzling blue-white beam lashed out, encompassing and paralyzing the man who stood at the bunkhouse door, his ice axe half raised.

“Hello, Mr. Kropodkin,” Randi said, her voice as cold as the barrel of the leveled submachine gun. “Shall I cut you in two now, or should we wait until later?”

The MP-5 lay on the bunkhouse dining table, its muzzle aimed at the dark-stubble-bearded youth seated in the wall-side bunk. Randi Russell’s hand rested a short grab away from the SMG’s trigger. They had both shed their heavy outdoor snow gear, and she had used a set of nylon disposacuffs to bind Kropodkin’s hands behind his back. Now she stared at the man with ebon-eyed intensity.

“Where did you leave the bodies of the other members of the science team?”

“Bodies?” Kropodkin turned to the third party in the room. “Dr. Trowbridge, please. I don’t know what this madwoman is talking about! I don’t even know who she is!”

“I…don’t either, really.” Trowbridge blinked uneasily in the glare of the gas lantern, smoothing back his sleep-rumpled fringe of white hair. Still clad only in thermal long johns and socks, he had been jarred awake a few minutes before when Randi had prodded Kropodkin in through the snow lock.

“Don’t worry about who I am,” Randi said coldly. “Don’t even worry about standing trial for murder yet. Focus on staying alive long enough to be handed over to the authorities. Answering questions is your best chance. Now, who do you report to? Who’s coming for the anthrax?”

“Anthrax?” The Slovakian’s eyes darted once more to his only potential ally in the room. “Dr. Trowbridge, please help me! I don’t know what is happening here!”

“Please, Ms. Russell. Don’t you think we might just be getting ahead of ourselves here?” The academic fumbled his glasses onto his nose.

“I don’t think so,” Randi replied flatly. “This man killed the other members of your expedition in cold blood, the teammates he’d lived and worked with for over six months. He slaughtered them all like sheep, and I’ll bet for no better reason than money.”

Kropodkin’s jaw dropped. “The others…dead? I do not believe this! No! This is insane! I am no killer! Doctor, tell her! Tell this woman who I am!”

“Please, Ms. Russell!” Trowbridge’s voice strengthened in protest. “You have no grounds to make such…drastic accusations. We have no real proof that anyone has been killed here yet.”

“Yes, we do, Doctor. Last evening I found Kayla Brown’s body on the hill below the radio tower. Someone had used an ice axe on her. That one, I suspect.” Randi nodded toward the axe that lay on the table beside the submachine gun, the axe Kropodkin had been carrying. “I have no doubt DNA testing will prove the point. They’ll probably also find blood traces from Dr. Gupta and Dr. Hasegawa as well. You took out Creston and Rutherford by other means, didn’t you, Kropodkin?”