The Arctic Event

“What’s happening?”

She forced herself erect, still panting from her sprint. “Our arranged mutual ambush worked magnificently…almost a draw. I hung back to tidy up and maybe acquire a spare weapon or two…but I was…interrupted…and had to take off.”

“By?”

“The other section of the Spetsnaz force. There were only six taken out in the firefight with the smugglers. Four more are coming in behind me, and I strongly suspect they are not pleased with current events.”

“Did they spot you?” Smith demanded.

“Not sure. Maybe.”

“How long do we have?”

“They stopped to check their dead. I think we’ve got about ten minutes.”

“Christ! Now they show up!” Smith paused to rub his aching eyes, wondering if he’d ever not be tired again. “All right. Major, you and Randi have got to get that helicopter ready to fly. Val, your rifle’s back at the Ranger. I want you to cover the helipad approaches from there. I’ll stay here and put the trail under fire.”

Valentina swiped a sweat-damp lock of hair back from her brow. “Jon, these fellows likely know the old German infantry trick of maintaining the unit firebase. The survivors will swap out their assault rifles for the squad automatic weapons taken from their dead. They may have lost seventy percent of their platoon manpower, but they’ll still possess eighty percent of their firepower.”

“That’s why I’d like that helicopter ready before they get here.”

“Jon, we are talking about three bloody machine guns!”

“That’s a given, Val. Get going!”

“Colonel,” Smyslov said slowly. “May I suggest an alternative?”

“I’ll be happy to consider one, Major.”

“Let me go out to meet them. Let me order them to stand down.”

Smith’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you said you didn’t have the authority for that.”

“I don’t, but I can try. Maybe I can reason with them”-Smyslov shrugged and gave his wry grin-“or maybe just bullshit them. Even if I fail, maybe I can buy you and the ladies enough time to get out of here.”

“Those Spetsnaz might not be too pleased with you at the moment, either, Major.”

The Russian’s face went sober again. “I suspect my entire government is not too pleased with me at the moment, Colonel, but we must stop Kretek from getting that anthrax. And maybe, this way, no more Russian soldiers will have to die.”

Smith hesitated. Now was no time to stop trusting. “Val, you help Randi with the helicopter. I’ll fall back and join you when you start engines. If I do not rejoin by the time you’re ready to take off, take off anyway. That’s an order! Your absolute priority will be to report the situation here on Wednesday Island. After that, act as you see fit. Go!”

She gave him a beseeching look but strangled down her protest. Obediently she dashed off toward the helipad.

Smith turned back to Smyslov. “Good luck, Major. I hope you’re a silver-tongued devil today.”

“I shall try to be, sir.” He drew Smith’s sidearm from his pocket and handed it back. “If I am not, you may have more use for this than I.”

Smyslov took a step back and came to attention, his European-style heel click muffled by the snow as his hand whipped up in a precise salute. “Colonel Smith, may I say it has been a privilege serving under your command.”

Smith’s rigid fingertips touched his brow in the response. “Anytime, anywhere, Major. The privilege has been mine.”

Randi fought back a momentary surge of dizziness as she leaned into the engine compartment. The mental haze of the previous night threatened a return, and she fought to stay focused on tightening the knobs of the battery reco

On the voyage north she had come to know this Long Ranger intimately, and she knew that it had been “polarized” by its leasing company to the best extent possible. All the gaskets and seals were cold-resistant plastics and composites. The lubricants were arctic environment multiviscosity synthetics. The fuel had been heavily laced with an antijelling agent, and the batteries were all ultraheavy-duty, deep-charge gel packs, the best on the market.

But it wasn’t enough.

The little aircraft’s power train and controls should be warmed inside a heating tent for several hours to bring them back up to a decent operating temperature, and the batteries freshened by a quick charger.

But the tent, heaters, and charger were burning in the supply hut, and there would have been no time for them anyway.

She took a final checking look around the interior of the battery compartment, then slammed the outside door, forcing herself to take deliberate care with each of the dzus fasteners.

Light ru

“What’s happening?” Randi demanded.

“The last batch of Spetsnaz are coming in. Maybe five minutes. Gregori’s gone out to chat them up, but I don’t think it’s going to work. Jon’s gone all self-sacrificial on us and is preparing to do his Horatio-at-the-bridge number. We are under orders to get this ridiculous contrivance ru

The sickness welling up within Randi didn’t all have to do with her recent bout of exposure. She swallowed the mouthful of chill saliva and forced her mind back to clarity. “Okay, do a walk-around. Drag those tarps farther way and make sure there are no foreign objects near us that could get sucked into the intakes.”

“Right.” There was no time for either of them to be fearful or concerned, or at least to admit to it.

Randi ran around to the pilot’s door and hauled herself up into the cockpit, the frozen leather of the seat biting into her thighs. She propped the preflight checklist against the windscreen; she didn’t dare to trust her memory. Then she hit the main switches. Behind the frost-hazed glass lenses, instrument needles stirred and lifted sluggishly.

There would be three crises to surmount. First, there must be enough power left in the batteries to force the cold engines to crank up and start. The second would come at the moment of ignition, when the frozen, brittle components of the propulsion train would either spin up to speed or fracture and explode.

The third and final crisis would occur after liftoff, when the helicopter’s flight controls would either work or fail, throwing them out of the sky.

And they would have only one chance at each.

Lieutenant Pavel Tomashenko moved with the steady, ground-devouring trot of the Zulu warrior or Special Forces soldier, his AK-74 cradled across his chest. His eyes sca

Even he was willing to admit to his failure as an officer and soldier. Again he had allowed his men to walk into a trap. The bulk of his command had been wiped out, and he had not even been near the fight. He was finished. He could expect nothing but disgrace and a court-martial. Better by far at least to die with his jaws locked in the throat of the enemies who had shamed him.

Burdened by the heavy RPK squad automatic weapons and their loads of ammunition, the two men of the demolitions team and the platoon radioman trotted behind him, stolidly unquestioning. They were Spetsnaz.

Ahead, Tomashenko saw the smoke of burning buildings rising from the area of the science station. He did not know what might be happening there. Nor did he know the identities of the strange body of armed men who had wiped out and been almost wiped out by his own advance scouting force. Nor did he know where they had come from. But through his binoculars Tomashenko had seen the last enemy survivor fleeing in this direction.

As they rounded the hill with the radio mast at its top, Tomashenko slowed their advance to a stalking walk, dispersing his remaining men with silent curt gestures. The science station’s huts were blazing, thick streamers of dark smoke smearing into the chill blue of the sky.