The Arctic Event

Smith tucked the mouth of the sleeping bag closer around the two women. “I’m responsible for her. Both for her being here and for her being who she is.”

“You’re responsible for all of us, Jon,” Valentina replied, looking up at him. “And may I say that’s a rather comforting thought at the moment.”

Smith gri

Taking the SR-25 and his medical kit with him, Smith moved up toward the mouth of the cave. En route he paused to fill an aluminum pan with ice fragments, balancing it atop the pellet stove.

Smyslov had finished walling off the entrance, leaving only an air vent at the top. Eliminating the wind chill gave their arctic clothing a chance to cope with the still air temperature, making the little cavern seem warm.

“How’s the arm doing, Major?”

Smyslov shrugged. “It isn’t a problem.”

“I’ll have a look at it anyway. You up on your tetanus shots?”

“I am good.”

With their backs to the opposing sides of the cave, Smith treated Smyslov’s arm. Working around the Russian’s blood-sodden sleeves, he removed the crudely applied field dressing. Cleaning and disinfecting the wound, he dusted it with sulfa powder and applied a fresh water-and-cold-proof bandage.

“You’re lucky,” Smith commented. “It’s a nice, clean penetration.” He lifted an eyebrow at the Russian. “In fact, it looks like it was made by one of Val’s knives.”

Smyslov grimaced. “It was, but with my approval.”

“What did happen up on that ledge while I was hanging at the other end of that safety line?”

Smyslov sketched out the chain of events from the icefall through Smith’s rescue. “Thanks for the assist.” Smith nodded. “It was greatly appreciated. Mind if I ask you a personal question, though?”

“Go ahead, Colonel.”

“Why didn’t you just cut Val’s throat and the safety rope?”

Smyslov was quiet for a moment. “That would have been in line with the standing orders I have received from my government,” he replied finally. “But you have a term in the American military for a situation such as I find myself in: ‘FUBAR.’ I believe it means ‘fucked up beyond all recall.’”

Smith applied a last strip of surgical tape. “It does.”

“Such is my current state,” the Russian continued. “I was placed within your team to prevent an international embarrassment for Russia and a shattering of relations between our nations. The Spetsnaz were inserted onto this island for that purpose as well. But now it is all FUBAR. Even had I chosen to kill you and the professor on the mountain, there would have been no realistic way to prevent this embarrassment and alienation. Things are too out of control now. Too chaotic. Your nation would investigate, and the truth would undoubtedly come out in the end. Probably it has been so from the begi

Again Smyslov gave a bitter smile. “You see? We are not all like the Misha’s political officer.”

Smith rucked Smyslov’s bloodstained parka sleeve down over the fresh dressing. “I’d already come to that conclusion, Major.”

He closed his medical kit and leaned back against the green ice wall of the cave, the SR-25 propped beside him. “I’ve also come to the conclusion that you’re right about the attack on the science station. The numbers don’t add up for it to have been Spetsnaz. I’ve got to assume our third faction is now present on the island, and given the way Randi was handled, that presence is nasty and formidable.”

“I would agree, Colonel.”

“Then, given that your mission to prevent the truth being revealed about the Soviet first strike is indeed FUBAR, would you agree that we again have common cause over our mission, preventing the Misha’s bioweapons from falling into the wrong hands?”

Smyslov smiled without humor. “My superiors might not agree, but personally, I should like not to fuck up entirely. That anthrax could find its way into the hands of the Chechen rebels or another of our domestic terrorist groups. It could be used against Moscow or St. Petersburg as easily as against New York or Chicago. This is what matters now.”

Smith extended his hand. “Welcome back, Major.”

The Russian accepted his handclasp. “It’s good to be back, Colonel. What are your orders?”

Smith glanced toward the rear of the cave. “Our best intelligence source concerning this new faction is unavailable for the moment. When and if we can talk with her, then we can make some plans. For now, how about a cup of tea?”

A few minutes later the two men hunched over steaming canteen cups, letting the warmth seep in through their fingers.

“I have to admit, Major,” Smith said, “that one question still keeps nagging at me. It’s the other half of the March Fifth equation: why the Soviet attack was recalled at the last minute.”

Smyslov shook his head. “I’m sorry, I ca

“You might as well tell him, Gregori,” Valentina’s voice issued from the mound of sleeping bags. “I’ve figured that bit out as well.”

Smyslov’s head snapped around. “How could you?”

Valentina’s sigh whispered in the ice cave. “Because I’m a historian and because I’m very good at playing co

“What was it?” Smith demanded.

“March fifth, 1953, was the day Joseph Stalin died.” Valentina twisted around so they could make out the pale oval of her face. “Or rather, the day he was assassinated. Your people did off the bastard, didn’t they, Gregori?”

For a long moment, the only sound was the nagging whine of the wind.

“We’ve always suspected,” Valentina went on. “As history currently records it, Stalin was stricken by a massive cerebral hemorrhage on the night of February the twenty-eighth, while he was in residence at the Kremlin. Supposedly he was incapacitated and rendered semicomatose by the stroke, remaining in that state until his death on March fifth. But the world has always wondered. It was held there was something ‘fu

The historian shifted her position, trying not to disturb Randi. “Of course, rumors and conspiracy theories cluster like flies around the death of any controversial national leader. Call it the ‘grassy knoll syndrome.’ But given Stalin’s decidedly notorious nature and the nature of the Soviet regime at the time, this conspiracy theory seemed a little more solidly founded than most.

“Now, with the truth about the Misha 124 and the Soviets’ aborted first strike coming out, the whole question is going to blow wide open again. I’m sorry, Gregori, but there is not going to be a plausible deniability here, and anything we guess will likely be worse than the reality.”

Disgusted, Smyslov looked up at the roof of the cave. “Shit!” Closing his eyes, he was silent for a few moments more before replying. “You are quite right, Professor. As you say, Stalin was stricken with a stroke, but he did not pass into a coma. He was partially paralyzed but he remained conscious, alert, and capable of giving orders. And his orders were for the immediate launching of the decisive finishing attack against the Western democracies.

“Who can say why? Possibly his mental capacities were diminished by the stroke. Possibly he foresaw his imminent death and he wanted to witness the final triumph of the People’s Revolution before he died. Or possibly he just wanted the world to end with him. Be that as it may, there were other members of the Politburo who viewed such an attack as national suicide.”