The Arctic Event (23 page)

“Sears and Roebuck,” she whispered. “Sears...and...bloody...Roebuck!” Her voice rose to a strangled scream. “Smyslov, you son of a bitch! Where are you?”

“I am here, Professor.”

Smith stood up and turned at the quiet voice, and then he froze. Smyslov had come in behind them. He stood outlined in the glare of the flare Smith had left in the main part of the chamber, the ruddy light reflecting off the leveled Beretta automatic in his hand. “Put up your hands. Both of you. Please do not attempt anything. Other Russian troops will be here shortly.”

“What the hell is this, Major?” Smith demanded, slowly lifting his hands shoulder high.

“A very regrettable situation, Colonel. If you do not resist, you will not be harmed.”

“That’s a lie, Jon,” Valentina said calmly, coming to stand beside Smith, her voice and anger back under control. “The Russians’ alternate agenda is now fully in play. They can’t allow us to leave this cave alive.”

The Beretta’s barrel jerked in her direction. “That’s not...Something can be worked out...alternatives...” Smyslov gritted the words through clenched teeth.

“There are none.” Valentina’s words were understanding, almost kindly. “You know that. The Misha’s political officer made a cock-up of his job. There was too much left for us to find, and you couldn’t stop us from finding it. I
know,
Gregori, and, given a reference book or two, Colonel Smith could figure it out. We have to die, just like these other poor bastards in this cave had to die. There’s no other way to keep the secret.”

Smyslov didn’t reply.

“Since I can figure it out, how about letting me in on it now?” Smith asked, his eyes fixed on the shadowed features of the Russian.

“Why not indeed?” Valentina replied. “It all leads back to the attack doctrines of the Soviet Long Range Aviation Forces during the early Cold War...”

The gun muzzle elevated. “Keep silent, Professor!”

“There’s no sense in letting the colonel die in ignorance, Gregori.” Valentina’s tone was almost bantering but with a biting edge to it. “After all, you’re going to be putting a bullet through his brain here presently.”

She glanced across at Smith. “Remember, Jon, when I told you how all of the American bomber missions must, perforce, be one-way? The TU-4 Bull just barely had the range to reach targets in the northern states by flying over the Pole, but they didn’t have the fuel to get back again. The aircrews would have to bail out over the United States after dropping their bomb loads.

“With this as a given, the Soviets decided it was a matter of waste not, want not. The America bomber crews received special training. They were taught how to speak idiomatic American English. They were cycled through the KGB’s American town mock-up to adapt them to the nuances of the Western lifestyle, and they were instructed in espionage and sabotage techniques.

“It was intended that the surviving Soviet aircrewmen would merge with the masses of refugees that would be produced in the aftermath of a massive ABC attack on the United States. Once in place, they would spy, spread defeatist propaganda, and conduct sabotage, hastening the day of the theoretical Soviet triumph. Do I have that down properly, Gregori?”

Again there was no reply.

“And the wallet, the civilian clothes?” Smith prompted.

“All part of it, Jon. The KGB were meticulous about such details. The crews would be issued American-manufactured clothing purchased in the United States, real American currency, and superbly forged identification, complete down to the inconsequential little bits and pieces a person would routinely carry in a wallet or a pocket.

“But there was one problem.” Valentina’s voice flowed on, almost hypnotically. “The raving paranoia that raged inside Stalinist Russia. The party and high presidium knew that a fair proportion of their populace, including members of their most elite military formations, desired nothing more out of life than a suit of civilian clothes, a set of documents identifying them as anything other than a Soviet citizen, and a clean run at an unguarded border.

“While the Soviets might have loaded a live bioagent aboard a long-range bomber for a simple training mission, they would never have given the flight crew their American identity kits. The potential for defection would have been viewed as too great.”

Valentina’s hand stabbed at the wallet still held in Smith’s hand. “The clothing and identification would only have been issued for an actual combat operation. The real thing!”

Smith found himself staring at the wallet in his hand. “Are you saying what I think you are, Val?”

“Oh, I am, Jon.” Her voice began to lift, growing more piercing. “This is why the Russians were so bloody shaken over the discovery of that old bomber. That’s why their official schizophrenia over the whole subject. The damn anthrax has been a secondary concern for them all along. What they’ve really been worried about is our learning the truth! That the Misha 124 was a pathfinder aircraft for an all-out strategic bombing attack on the United States using nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons! The Pearl Harbor of World War Three!”

She let the words hang in the chill air of the cavern for a moment; then she tilted her head and addressed Smyslov directly. “How about it, Gregori? I dare you to tell me I’m wrong.”

They could hear Smyslov’s breath rasp, the mist it produced swirling around his head in the back glow of the flare. “Nations make mistakes, Professor. Yours has made its mistakes. We have made ours, greater perhaps than some. Can you blame us for trying to hide the fact that we almost destroyed the world?”

“You’re making another mistake now, Major,” Smith said. “Killing us won’t make things any better.”

“Please, Colonel.” There was an earnestness in Smyslov’s reply. “I give you my word! I will communicate with my superiors. I will make every effort to protect you and Professor Metrace and Miss Russell. I will get the orders changed! We will find...some other way!”

“You’ll reopen a gulag just for us?” Smith smiled and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.” He lowered his hands and tucked the wallet into a parka pocket. “Put down the gun, Major. This thing is over. We’ve learned what we’ve come for.”

The barrel lifted, ominously steadying on Smith’s chest. “Don’t force me to act, Colonel. I may regret the situation, but I am still a Russian officer.”

“And that’s an American firearm, issued to you by us. Believe me, Major, it’s not going to do you any good.”

A hint of amusement crept into Smyslov’s voice. “I trust you are not going to attempt anything as puerile as telling me you have removed the firing pin.”

“Oh, no,” Valentina said, dropping her own hands. “You might have spotted a missing firing pin. But the Beretta 92-series automatic pistol does have an internal bar lock safety intended to prevent the accidental discharge of the weapon. If you diddle with it a bit, it can be made to prevent deliberate discharges as well. And yes, Gregori, in addition to my myriad other gifts, talents, and charms, I am a rather capable gunsmith.”

Smyslov made the only sane and sensible reply a man in his position could make. The hammer of the leveled Beretta fell at the pull of its trigger—a flat, futile snap that echoed lightly in the cavern. “So I see, Professor.”

“It wasn’t a matter of trust, Major.” Smith took a step toward the Russian. “It was a matter of being sensible.”

“I quite understand, Colonel.” Smyslov’s hand whipped back, and he hurled the inert automatic full into Smith’s face, following through with a headlong diving attack.

Smith had been fully expecting the move, and he ducked, letting the thrown pistol glance off a hunched shoulder. Still, Smyslov’s grappling charge caught him low, carrying him backward to pile up with a crash on the cave floor, the Russian landing on top of him.

To further complicate matters, the flare that illuminated the central cave chamber chose that moment to burn out, plunging them into a darkness broken only by the swath of light issuing from the electric lantern.

Smith was disoriented for a moment, but he could feel the shift of Smylsov’s weight and the bunching of his muscles as the Russian’s arm cocked back to strike. Smith twisted his head aside, felt the brush of the blow skidding past his chin, and heard the explosive curse as Smyslov’s fist slammed into the stone of the cave floor.

Smith tried to throw Smyslov off but failed, his movements hampered by his heavy swaddling of arctic clothing. Smyslov found himself hampered in the same way. He clawed for Smith’s eyes but found the move rendered ineffectual by his thick-fingered gloves. He tried again, going for a grip on Smith’s throat while he groped at his belt for his sheath knife.

Smith’s left hand came up and closed on the collar of Smyslov’s parka, giving him range and position; then he struck with the heel of his right hand, connecting under the Russian’s chin, the blow snapping Smyslov’s head back and raking destructively up and across his features.

The beam of the lantern swung around to cover the two struggling men, and a moment later there came the hollow clonk of a heavy blow being landed. Smyslov went abruptly limp.

“That took long enough,” Smith grunted, rolling the unconscious Russian onto the cave floor.

“I wanted to make sure who was on top, Jon,” Valentina replied, lowering the reversed model 70. “I didn’t want to do a Benny Hill and cold-knock you by mistake.”

“I can appreciate that.” Smith got to his knees and examined the prostrate Russian. Removing his glove, he checked the carotid pulse. “He’s still with us. He’s out but not too deep.”

“Do you view that as a positive or a negative?” Valentina inquired.

“I’d call it a positive. He still has things he can tell us. Beyond that, the poor bastard’s right—he is a Russian officer just following orders. In the meantime it sounds like he may have invited friends. Can you hold the cave mouth while I secure the major here?”

“Not a problem.” She hurried for the entrance tunnel.

By the lantern light Smith dug a Mylar survival blanket and a couple of pairs of disposacuffs out of his pockets. Binding Smyslov’s wrists and ankles, he rolled the Russian onto the insulating sheet of the blanket. Glancing around, Smith noted a sizable stump of candle stuck in a wall niche by its own wax. A half century old or not, it still burned when Smith lit it, providing a scrap of long-term illumination within the cave.

Kneeling down once more, he rechecked Smyslov’s vital signs. Pulse strong, breathing regular, and the slight puffiness at the back of his head indicated that the swelling from Valentina’s butt stroke was developing outward. He’d live and should regain consciousness shortly. Even though Smyslov had declared himself a member of the opposing camp and had pulled that trigger on him, Smith didn’t bear a personal grudge. Smyslov was a soldier in the service of his nation, just as Smith was. It was the fortunes of war, and now, likely, it
was
war. One with no guarantees of victory for either side.

Smith caught up his own rifle and started for the cave mouth.

Valentina was lying prone behind the frozen rubble of the snow wall, using the telescopic sights of the model 70 to scan the glacier.

“Any activity?” Smith dropped beside her and drew back the bolt of the SR-25.

“I haven’t seen anything yet,” she replied, lifting her face from the rifle scope. “Of course, that may not mean all that much.”

Smith took her meaning. As both the ninja of medieval Japan and the Apache warrior of the American Southwest had proved, it was completely possible to be invisible in plain sight. It was just a matter of knowing how to go about it.

“I did find this just outside of the cave mouth, though.” Valentina held up a silver cigarette lighter.

“Smyslov’s?”

“So I would suspect. Look...” She turned the lighter upside down and squeezed some concealed catch. There was a soft snick of a releasing spring, and a short spike antenna extended from what had looked like the filler cap. “A radio transponder beacon operating on a preset frequency. When the penny dropped with its loud resounding clang, friend Gregori only had to push the button to call down the wolves.”

“That’s a pretty small transmitter,” Smith replied, uncasing his binoculars. “They must be close by. I wonder what’s holding them back.”

“It could be they’re waiting for their Judas goat to give them the final high sign.” Valentina pressed the antenna back into the lighter/transponder, then snuggled in behind her rifle sights again. “I wonder why he tried to take us alone as he did. Grandstanding?”

“It’s just barely possible he was trying to keep us from getting killed, Val,” Smith replied.

“Oh, really? You think?”

“I like to maintain a positive worldview.”

From the protection of the shadowed interior the two scanned the approaches to the cave mouth for long, silent minutes. Nothing seemed to move on the ice save for an occasional wisp of snow slithering past in the wind. Then the tracking barrel of the model 70 stopped and steadied like a pointer dog fixing on a game bird.

“Jon.” Valentina’s voice was casual. “At our two o’clock, about two hundred and fifty yards out, just beside that little uplift.”

Smith swung his binoculars onto the called target. It took him a few moments to pick up the low ridge in the glacier surface. There was nothing out there that looked like a man. But there was a small drift built up at the foot of the ridge. There was nothing exceptional about the lump of snow. Nothing outstanding. But there was something subtly wrong just the same. The drift’s contours didn’t quite match the fractile flow of its surroundings.

“I think there’s something there,” Smith said finally, “but I can’t be sure.”

“Neither can I. So let’s...just...make sure.” There was a piercing whip-crack report as the vicious little .220 round screamed on its way. The “snowdrift” quivered under the impact of the hypervelocity hollowpoint. Then as Smith looked on, a dot of color became apparent on the whiteness. Spreading, it became a stain, the red of the spilling blood darkened by the overcast.

Valentina flipped open the Winchester’s bolt, ejecting the spent brass. “Well, now we know.”