The Arctic Event

As a security officer, Smyslov instantly recognized the document coding: Ultrasecret. Access by presidential authorization only.

Smyslov found himself wishing he still had his greatcoat. The office and the briefing room suddenly seemed colder.

Baronov gestured toward the file. “This is the March Fifth Event. It is possibly the single most critical state secret held by your motherland. Any unauthorized revelation of the contents of this file means an automatic death sentence. Is that understood?”

“Yes, General.”

“You are now authorized access. Read it, Major. I will return for you shortly.”

Baronov departed, locking the briefing room door behind him.

Smyslov circled the table, the room growing colder still. Sinking into a gray metal chair, he drew the file to him, his mind racing. March fifth? March fifth? There was something else about that date that he couldn’t quite pull in, perhaps from a history class. Something foreboding.

He opened the untitled file.

The general gave the younger officer forty-five minutes. The file was not extensive, but Baranov recalled how, when he had been granted his authorization, he had gone through the documents twice in stu

In due course, Baranov rose from the desk again and unlocked the briefing room door. Major Smyslov still sat at the table, the closed file on the table before him. His face was pale under his tan, and he did not look up. His lips moved in a whisper. “My God…my God.”

“It was much the same with me, Gregori Andriovitch,” Baranov said gently. “There are perhaps thirty other men in the entirety of Russia who know of the full contents of that file. You and I are the thirty-first and the thirty-second.”

The general closed and secured the soundproof door behind him and took the chair across from Smyslov.

The younger man looked up, mastering himself. “What are my orders, General? My true orders.”

“Firstly, Major, I can now tell you that the anthrax reservoir is still aboard the aircraft. Obviously, it was never jettisoned. However, that is far from our primary concern in this affair. The March Fifth Event is!”

Smyslov’s eyebrows arched. “I can see how that could be, sir.”

“Attached to the American investigation group, you will be our point man on Wednesday Island,” Baranov continued. “You will be our eyes and ears. We will be relying upon you to assess the situation there. But you will not be operating alone. A Naval Spetsnaz platoon, trained and equipped for arctic warfare, is being dispatched to the island by nuclear submarine. They will land shortly before your arrival, and they will deploy and remain in concealment. You will be given means to communicate with them, and they will await word from you.”

“What…word am I supposed to give, General?”

“Concerning the March Fifth Event, Major. The Misha 124’s political officer was under orders to destroy any and all evidence of the event at the crash site. However, he was also to destroy the aircraft and its anthrax warload as well. This plainly was not accomplished. Beyond this, all communication with Wednesday Island was lost before any confirmation of this sterilization was received.”

“So the Misha 124’s crew was never rescued?” Smyslov asked, his voice quiet.

“It was not feasible,” Baronov replied with grim simplicity. “It is our profoundest hope that they eliminated all evidence of the March Fifth Event before…Your mission is to verify that this was accomplished. If such is the case, or if you can successfully destroy this evidence yourself, then the joint mission with the Americans to destroy the anthrax can proceed as overtly pla

“But what if this evidence has not been or ca

“If the Americans learn of the March Fifth Event, Major, then they do not leave the island alive. You and the Spetsnaz platoon will see to this.”

Smyslov came out of his chair. “You ca

“Word of the Event must not be allowed to reach the world at large, Major, under any circumstances.”

Smyslov groped for words, for alternatives. “General…I can fully understand the critical nature of the situation, but why not have the Spetsnaz go in immediately to procure this evidence before the Americans can arrive.”

“Because we are walking on a razor’s edge here! The Americans know of the Misha 124’s existence. They have learned it is one of our Tupolev-4s. They know now it was a strategic biological weapons platform. If we committed our Spetznaz team now, they could not help but disturb the crash site! The Americans will know we raced in ahead of them. They will be suspicious! They will know we were attempting to conceal something. They will begin to ask questions that must not be asked!”

Baronov lifted his hands in frustration. “The world has changed, Major. We need the Americans as allies, not enemies. If they learn of the March Fifth Event, we shall be enemies once more.”

“Begging the general’s pardon, but won’t the murder of their perso

The flat of the general’s hand slapped down on the steel tabletop. “The elimination of the Americans is to be considered an absolute last-resort contingency, a final option to stave off total disaster! We will be relying on you, Major, to ensure that option need not be exercised!”

Baronov sighed a tired old man’s sigh and leaned back in his chair. “But if it must be done, it must be done. It is a matter of proportion and perspective, Gregori Andriovitch. If we find ourselves at odds with the United States again, the Russian Federation may yet survive. But if the world and our own people learn of the March Fifth Event, the Motherland, as a nation, is finished!”

Chapter Eight

Anacosta, Maryland

The big diesel cruiser materialized out of the Potomac mists and stood in toward the marina, ignoring the bright yellow PRIVATE NO TRESPASSING signs posted on the ends of the finger piers. A pair of marina employees, nondescript, long-haired young men in deck shoes, dungarees, and nylon windcheaters, stood by to accept the cruiser’s lines as it nosed alongside.

Nothing untoward hinted that both the pier hands carried automatic pistols under their jackets or that the cruiser’s helmsman had a submachine gun racked out of sight below the lip of the cockpit.

The rumble of the cruiser’s engines broke into an idling whine as the propeller clutches disengaged and the bow and stern lines were deftly snubbed off. A set of boarding steps were positioned, and the yacht’s lone passenger emerged from its streamlined cabin.

With a nod to the pier hands, Fred Klein disembarked and strode down the fog-dampened planks of the dock. Crossing the broad graveled expanse of the marina’s dry-storage area, past the silent, tarpaulin-shrouded shapes of beached pleasure craft on their trailers and stands, Klein continued toward what appeared to be a large windowless warehouse.

The dark green metal prefab building looked new. It should. It had not been there two years before. In all probability, in another year’s time, it or at least its contents would be repositioned somewhere else.

This was the headquarters and operations center of Covert One.

Concealed television cameras tracked Klein’s approach, and magnetic locks clicked open as he came to stand before the heavy steel fire door.

“Good morning, sir.” The duty “doorman” accepted Klein’s hat and topcoat, neatly hanging them up beside the racked assault shotgun. “It’s a clammy kind of day out there.”

“That it is, Walt,” Klein replied amiably. “Maggie in the shop yet?”

“About half an hour ago, sir.”

“One of these days I’ll beat her in,” Klein murmured in ritual. He continued down the length of the institutional-buff central corridor. No one passed him in the hall, but an occasional murmur of voices or muffled whine of electronics leaked from behind the double row of anonymous gray doors, hinting at the quiet functionality of the headquarters.