The Arctic Event

A thought swirled momentarily behind Valentina’s steel-colored eyes. “I’d fancy having a look at the ammunition magazines of those tail guns,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“You’ll get the chance, Professor,” Smith replied.

“Make it Val, please,” she responded with a smile. “I only use ‘professor’ when I’m trying to impress a grants committee.”

Smith gave an acknowledging nod. “Okay, Val, is there any indication of the anthrax still being aboard?”

She shook her head. “Impossible to tell. In a bioequipped TU-4A, the reservoir would have been mounted here, in the forward bomb bay. As you can see, the fuselage is intact. The containment vessel itself would have been made of stainless steel and would have been built like a bomb casing, sturdy enough to survive at least a moderate crash impact.”

“Could it have leaked?” Randi inquired. “The reservoir, I mean. Could the crew have been exposed to the anthrax while in flight? Maybe that’s what forced them down?”

Smith shook his head. “No. That couldn’t have been it. Bacillus anthracis is a comparatively slow-acting pathogen. Even with a high concentration of inhalational anthrax in a closed environment, the incubational period would still be at least one to six days. Anthrax also responds well to massive doses of prophylactic antibiotics. By 1953 the Russians would have had access to penicillin. A biowar crew would have been equipped to handle an accidental exposure. Anthrax only gets ugly if you aren’t set up to deal with it or if you don’t recognize it for what it is.”

“How ugly?”

“Very. Without immediate treatment, the mortality rate for inhalational anthrax is ninety to ninety-five percent. Once the germinated spores infest the lymph nodes and start to elaborate toxins, even with full antibiotic and supportive medical care, there’s still a seventy-five percent probability of death.”

Smith sat back in his chair. “Needless to say, I’ll have enough doxycycline in my kit to treat a small army, along with a serum that can give a short-lived immunity. Working at USAMRIID I’ve also been inoculated with the anthrax vaccine. Have either of you?”

The two women looked at him, wide-eyed, shaking their heads.

Smith smiled grimly. “Oh, well, if you see any fine, grayish-white powder lying around, better let me deal with it.”

Valentina Metrace lifted her elegantly sculpted eyebrows. “I wouldn’t think of denying you, Colonel.”

“My preliminary briefing indicated that there might be two metric tons of this stuff aboard that plane,” Randi said. “That’s over four thousand pounds, Jon. What would that translate to in area effectiveness?”

“Let’s put it this way, Randi. You could carry enough anthrax spores in your purse to contaminate the entire city of Seattle. The Misha 124’s warload would have been adequate to blanket the entire East Coast.”

“Given a perfect distribution pattern of the agent, that is,” Professor Metrace interjected. “That’s always been the problem with any biological or chemical weapon. They tend to clump on you, and you end up wasting ninety percent of it.”

The historian’s high-fashion appearance contrasted radically with her topic of discussion, but the absolute surety with which she spoke left little doubt as to her expertise. “The Russians used a dry aerosol dispersal system with the TU-4A. Essentially the bomber was a giant crop duster. Ram airs in the engine cowlings would scoop up and compress the slipstream, cha

“A crude system with poor metering control as compared to wet dispersal, but it had the advantages of being simple and comparatively light in weight. Depending upon your drop altitude and the prevailing winds, a strip of land a dozen miles wide by several hundred long could have been rendered lethally uninhabitable for decades.”

“For decades?” Randi looked startled.

Valentina nodded. “Anthrax spores are tough little bastards. They love organic, nitrogen-rich environments like common garden-variety dirt, and they remain virulent for a positively obscene length of time.”

She paused to take a sip of coffee. “There was a small island off the coast of Scotland that Great Britain used for anthrax bioweapon experimentation during the Second World War. This island was only recently declared safe for human reoccupation.”

“Small areas, like individual buildings, can be decontaminated using chemical agents. Common off-the-shelf chlorine bleach works wonders against anthrax. But for large areas, like an entire city or agricultural land…” The historian shook her head.

“If the anthrax is still aboard the aircraft, it may have lost virulence after half a century,” Smith added. “But it’s also been sealed inside a containment vessel and exposed to the polar cold. In effect, it’s been refrigerated in a dry, oxygen-free environment, as perfect for long-term preservation as you could hope for. I’m not prepared to say what state those spores may be in.”

Valentina Metrace employed her expressive eyebrows once more. “There’s one thing I am prepared to say, Colonel. I wouldn’t want to be the one to have to pull the cork and look inside.”

Smith rode the exterior elevators down to the lobby level, the night and its myriad of street and building lights snapping back into clarity as the glass-bubble car dropped out of the fog layer.

He wished he could clarify his thoughts as easily. This upcoming operation looked challenging but straightforward, one that could be dealt with by simply being careful enough and deliberate enough not to make mistakes.

But there was still the sensation of being back in a fog bank. Everything in his immediate vicinity was clear and straightforward, but there was also a wall beyond which he couldn’t see, and a feeling of things hidden.

What had Director Klein told him? “Assume there are other agendas in play. Watch for them.”

He would have to stay braced for whatever might come looming out of the mist.

At least he’d have good people backing him. Valentina Metrace was…interesting. They certainly hadn’t made professors like that back when he was going to college. There was a story to be learned about her. And as one of Klein’s mobile ciphers, she had to be exceptionally good at whatever it was she did.

And he’d have Randi again. Fierce, valiant, and self-contained, there could be no doubting her. Past all personal pain or anger she would not fail him. She would do whatever she might be tasked with, or die trying.

And that was the problem within himself. Smith had seen so much of Randi Russell’s life and world die, he sometimes had the feeling he was destined to oversee her death as well. Or be responsible for it. It was a personal nightmare that had grown every time they had been thrown together on an operation.

Angrily he shook his head. He must not take the counsel of that particular fear. If it was to be, then it would be. In the meantime they had a job to do.

The elevator door chimed and slid open. His rented Ford Explorer was parked out in the hotel’s front lot, and as Smith passed through the lobby he diverted for a moment. Entering the glass-walled combination newsstand and gift shop, he purchased both a USA Today and a Seattle Times, as part of an agent’s instinct for staying aware of his environment.

Back in the lobby he paused to study the headlines, and his operator’s hackles rose.

It must have been a slow news day. On the front page of the Times there was a brief Department of Defense press release. It concerned the joint U.S.-Russian investigation team being sent to the crash site of the polar mystery plane, complete with its departure time from Seattle, its route, and means of travel.