Robert Ludlum's The Arctic Event

by Robert Ludlum

  “Excellent!” Smyslov exclaimed. “Those are all metal-to-metal knife valves with single-use lead gaskets. Nothing will get past them. We still have full containment.”

  “Theoretically. I’m going into the bomb bay to do an eyeball inspection of the whole system to make sure.”

  There was some thumping and murmuring at the other end of the circuit, Valentina’s voice taking over from Smyslov’s. “Jon, are you sure that’s wise?”

  “It’s got to be done, and if I do it now, I won’t have to come back later.” Smith tried to sound offhand about it. In truth he wasn’t sure he could make himself come back later. Belly crawling into the freezing blackness beneath that concentration of megadeath was a singularly unappealing prospect.

  In fact, he had to do it right now, immediately, or see his nerve crack. “I’m going into the bay,” he said shortly.

  Backing his shoulders out of the entry hatch, he swung his legs in and dropped to the crumpled metal floor of the compartment. Sinking to his hands and knees, he began to squirm down the length of the bomb bay, hugging the starboard bulkhead to take advantage of the space offered by the curve of the containment vessel.

  Even at that, the crawl was claustrophobic in the extreme, complicated by the crash-buckled aluminum of the bay doors. Smith had to carefully plan each move, flowing himself over the torn metal, striving to protect the MOPP suit’s integrity. He couldn’t help but flinch each time his shoulder bumped the brooding mass of the spore-packed casing.

  The hood faceplate was fogging again, hampering his vision, and he had to partially feel his way ahead. He reached forward...and froze. Very slowly he lifted his head, trying to peer around the edges of the visor.

  “Major,” he said deliberately, “my right arm is fouled in a wire. The wire is connected to a series of rectangular metal boxes attached by some kind of metal clip to the side of the reservoir. The boxes appear to be one foot by four inches by three, and there are half a dozen of them spaced out along the near side of the casing. I can’t tell if another set is mounted symmetrically on the far side. They do not appear integral to the reservoir. The boxes and wiring are frost covered and undisturbed. They’ve been there for a while.”

  “You are all right, Colonel,” Smyslov replied promptly. “You are all right. Those are thermite incendiary charges. They are part of the bomber’s emergency equipment. They were intended to destroy the anthrax to prevent its capture should the plane be forced down in enemy territory.”

  “Fine. What do I do about them?”

  “You don’t have to do anything, Colonel. The charges are stable. They would have to be set off deliberately using a magneto box or a heavy battery, and if there are any batteries aboard the wreck, they would have been drained by the cold long ago.”

  “Thanks for telling me.” Smith untangled his arm and paused for a moment, panting.

  “This is odd,” Smyslov said. “The bomber’s crew must have deployed the incendiaries after the landing, with the intent of destroying the warload. I wonder why they didn’t fire them.”

  “They would have saved everybody a lot of trouble if they had.” Smith resumed his crawl to the rear of the bay. He had never considered himself a claustrophobe, but the bomb bay was getting to him, and badly. The cold metal walls kept folding around him, and it seemed increasingly difficult to breathe. He was getting a headache as well, the beating of his heart pounding at his temples. He had to force himself to focus on the job, checking the casing, inch by deliberate inch, for cracks or other damage and for spore leakage.

  He made the last yard to the rear of the bay, twisting onto his back to check the rear of the reservoir and the dispenser manifolds. The fogging of his faceplate was getting worse, and the flashlight seemed to be dimming. His head suddenly seemed to be exploding, and he gulped for air, cursing weakly. This was no good! He had to get out of here!

  “Jon, what’s wrong?” Valentina was back on the circuit.

  “Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just...tight in here. The containment vessel is intact. I’m starting back.”

  He tried to roll over and turn in the confined space. He couldn’t seem to make it around. He kept hanging up on things that hadn’t been there before, and his suppressed panic flared. He lost his grip on the flashlight and swore again as it rolled out of reach.

  “Jon, are you all right?” Valentina’s words were sharp this time, demanding.

  “Yes, damn it!” He gave up on the flashlight and tried to drag himself toward the dim patch of outside illumination at the far end of the bay. Cold sweat burned in his eyes, and his arms felt as if they were encased in solidifying concrete. His breath hissing through clenched teeth, he commanded his body to move. Only his body refused to obey.

  And then it reached him through his muddled mind. He wasn’t all right. He was dead.

  “Get away from the plane!” he shouted weakly, his lungs suddenly on fire.

  “Jon, what is it? What’s happening?”

  “The plane’s hot! I’ve been contaminated! There’s something else in here! It’s not anthrax! Abort the mission! Get away from here!”

  “Jon, hold on! We’re suiting up. We’re coming for you!”

  “No! The suits are no good! It penetrates! The antibiotics aren’t stopping it, either!”

  “Jon, we can’t just leave you!” Beyond Val’s frantic words he could hear Smyslov’s demanding questions.

  “Forget it!” He had to force each word with its own racking breath. “I’ve had it! I’m already dying! Don’t come in after me! That’s an order!”

  It had been bound to happen sooner or later. He’d dodged the biological bullet with Hades, with Cassandra, and with Lazarus. He had to take the fall sooner or later. That bit of his disintegrating consciousness that was still the researcher, the scientist, pushed its way forward. There was a last service he could render to those who would follow him into this black pit to learn and fight this thing.

  “Val, listen...listen! It’s respiratory. It hits through the respiratory system. My lungs and bronchial tubes are burning...No congestion or fluid buildup...no pulmonary paralysis...but I can’t get oxygen...accelerated pulse...vision graying out...strength...losing...Get away...That’s...order.”

  There was nothing left to breathe and speak with. They were calling to him over the radio, something about the MOPP suit. He couldn’t hear over the staggering hammer of his heartbeat in his ears. Was this how it had been for Sophia at the end, drowning in her own blood? No. At least Sophia hadn’t been so alone. He made a final effort to drag himself toward the light, just so he wouldn’t die in this hideous place. Then the light was gone, and the dark took him fully.

  An eternity passed, or maybe only a second.

  Smith became aware of fragments...Movement...Touch...Voices...Pressure on his chest...Lips, soft, warm, living, pressed against his, with urgency but without passion.

  Sensation returned within himself. The lift of his chest; air, cold, pure, pouring into his lungs like water from an iced pitcher. Life stirred with its bite, radiating outward. He could breathe. He could breathe! He lay there in the suddenly pleasant cool darkness, almost orgasmically relishing each inhalation.

  A small ungloved hand brushed back his hair, and those lips pressed against his again. Gently this time, pleasantly lingering.

  “I think respiration has been fully restored, Professor,” an amused, accented voice commented.

  “Just making sure,” a second lighter voice replied.

  Smith realized that his head was pillowed on a rolled sleeping bag. Opening his eyes, he found Valentina Metrace kneeling beside him, her parka hood thrown back and ice crystals glittering like stars in her black hair. She smiled down into his face and quirked one of her expressive eyebrows at him.

  Smyslov was looking over her shoulder, grinning as well. Smith realized he was lying on the deck in the forward compartment of the bomber. He was vague for a moment on just what they all were doing there; then full memory came cr
ashing back.

  “Damn it, Val! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Both brows lifted. “So I’m enjoying my work?”

  “That’s not what I mean!” he exclaimed, struggling to sit up. “This plane is a hot zone! There’s a contaminant—”

  “Easy, Jon, easy,” the historian replied, holding him down gently with her hands on his shoulders. “There is no contaminant. You’re fine, we’re fine, and the plane is fine.”

  “This is true, Colonel,” Smyslov interjected wryly. “I told you before, barring two tons of weaponized anthrax, there is nothing the least bit dangerous aboard this aircraft.”

  Smith sank back and found he was still in most of the MOPP suit. Beyond the glare of the electric lantern that filled the cockpit, he could see a lingering trace of daylight through the windscreen. He must have been unconscious for only a matter of a few minutes. “Then what the hell did happen to me?”

  “You almost protected yourself to death.” Smyslov held up the hood of the MOPP suit. “It’s cold in here. The moisture in your breath condensed and froze in the filters of your breathing mask. It gradually cut off your air.”

  Valentina nodded. “Something similar happened in Israel during the first Gulf War. During the SCUD bombardment, when it was feared that Saddam might be using nerve gas, a number of Israeli citizens suffocated because they forgot to remove the filter caps on their gas masks. You were rebreathing your own carbon dioxide. Only with you the effect must have come on so gradually that you didn’t notice the buildup.”

  Smith looked back over his clearing memories. “Yes. When I started to have breathing problems I first thought I was just having a bad attack of claustrophobia. Then I thought...”

  “We know what you thought,” Valentina said softly. “You started to report the symptomology of your own death. But when you began to give us a very good clinical description of a man dying of suffocation, we realized what was going on. We tried to tell you to take off your mask, but you were too far gone to understand.”

  She nodded toward the glassed-in nose of the bomber. “We came in through the cockpit window, and Gregori dove into the bomb bay and hauled you out. A little mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and here you are.”

  Smith grimaced. “Pardon me while I feel incredibly stupid.”

  “I shouldn’t, Jon,” Valentina replied soberly. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like, climbing into that chamber of horrors. Just looking through that hatch was enough to make my skin crawl.” The historian shook her head in profound distaste. “I love fine weapons, but that...thing...isn’t a weapon; it’s a nightmare.”

  “I’m not going to argue the point.” Smith smiled up at her. “I suppose I should be making a stink over you and the major for disobeying my direct orders, but I can’t seem to work up much enthusiasm for it. Thank you, Val.”

  He extended a hand past her to Smyslov. “And thank you, Major.”

  The Russian gripped it firmly. “It is the duty of a good subordinate to point out factors in a situation possibly overlooked by his superior,” he quoted, still grinning.

  Smith tried to sit up again, this time succeeding with only a hint of dizziness. His strength seemed to be returning rapidly. “Well, we’ve got some good news and bad news. The bad news is that we still have the anthrax to deal with. The good news is that the containment vessel seems to be intact and undamaged. Just in case, we’ll stay on the antibiotics, but I don’t think we have any spore spillage to contend with. Val, how did—”

  She stood up abruptly, giving Smith a sharp but seemingly accidental bump as she got to her feet. “Thank God for that at least,” she chattered on. “Do you think it’s safe to fort up in the fuselage for tonight? It sounds like the weather is kicking up a bit outside.”

  “Yes...I think that might be a good idea,” Smith replied. “I suspect it will feel a little odd camping on top of a mound of anthrax, but I think it should be safe enough. What do you say, Major?”

  Smyslov shrugged. “I think it will still be bloody cold in here, but I think it will also be better than a tent out on that stinking glacier. I think we’d do better in the aft compartment though.”

  “Marvelous!” Valentina said, offering her hand to Smith. “Let’s get our gear together and start playing house. I could use a dollop of that medicinal whisky you promised.”

  Smith accepted her hand and heaved himself off the deck. “Now that you mention it, so could I.”

  Seated on the bare springs of the starboard crew bunk, Smith scowled at the walkie-talkie in his hand. “Wednesday Island Station, Wednesday Island Station. This is crash site, crash site. Randi, can you read me? Over.”

  The little SINCGARS Leprechaun tactical transceiver hissed and spat back in his face. “Isn’t that just the way of it,” Smith said in disgust. He snapped off the radio and folded the antenna back into the casing. “You can communicate instantly with the farthest corner of the world except for when you actually need to talk with someone.”

  “There is an entire mountain between us and the station.” Sitting cross-legged beside the tiny pack stove, Valentina carefully dropped a ball of hard-packed snow into the pan of water steaming atop it. Beyond melting a foot-wide circle in the frost on the overhead of the crew’s quarters, the little fuel-pellet burner was incapable of measurably affecting the temperature within the compartment, but it could produce hot water for an MRE and to refill the team’s canteens.

  To save their batteries, the only illumination in the compartment came from a pair of chemical light sticks clipped to the bunk frames, the soft, all-encompassing green glow giving an impression of warmth.

  The fuselage at least provided still air shelter from the wind whining across the glacier. The environment within the wreck would at least be tolerable for the night.

  “What bunk do you want, Professor?” Smyslov asked, detaching his sleeping bag from his pack frame. “Ladies have first choice.”

  “Thank you, kind sir,” Valentina replied. “But please indulge yourself. I’m taking the deck.”

  “I’m doing the same,” Smith added, taking the last swallow of coffee from his canteen cup. “They apparently built aviators on a small scale in those days.”

  “As you wish.” Smyslov started to unroll his sleeping bag into the lower port-side bunk. “Tell me, Colonel, now we know we do have anthrax to deal with. How do we proceed?”

  “Well, I think your people had the right idea; we just take it a step farther. Since we still have full containment, I’d say we simply bring in a demolition team and pack the fuselage with a couple of tons of thermite and white phosphorous. We incinerate the whole damn thing right where it sits.”

  “We most definitely do not!” Valentina exclaimed, looking up from the stove.

  “Why not?” Smith asked, puzzled. “If we can just concentrate enough heat rapidly enough around that casing, we should be able to burn every spore before there’s any chance for them to spread.”

  “Oh, good Lord! The blind who will not see!” She gestured expressively around the compartment. “Given its superb condition, this plane is a historic treasure! Come spring, if we can get an ice breaker and a helicrane in here, we could lift it off the glacier essentially intact! It could be restored. In fact...”

  The idea flared behind her eyes, “In fact, with the components of this crash and the TU-4 that’s on static display at the Gagarin Institute, I’ll wager we could assemble one complete airworthy aircraft.”

  She turned to face Smyslov, suddenly as excited as a schoolgirl with a new bicycle. “You’ve been to the Institute! You’ve seen the Bull they have in the air museum there! What do you think?”

  The Russian officer looked up, bemused. “I really wouldn’t know, Professor, but I’m sure it would take a great deal of money.”

  “You leave the fund-raising to me, Gregori! I know of a number of wealthy war bird fanatics who would give an arm and a leg to see the Fifi, the Commemorative Air Force’s Superfortress, doi
ng a joint flyover with a genuine Russian B-29-ski. Champlain alone would be good for at least a quarter of a million!”

  Smith couldn’t help but be impressed with her vibrant enthusiasm. Valentina Metrace obviously was a cobbler who stuck to her last. He whistled softly and aimed a thumb forward toward the bomb bays. “I’m afraid we still have certain other priorities here.”

  Valentina waved a hand arily. “Details, details! I don’t care what breed of germ we might have to tidy up. No one is casually putting the torch to this aircraft if I have anything to say about it. This is history!”

  “That will be for the powers that be to decide, Val,” Smith smiled. “Not me, I’m very pleased to say.”

  Smyslov looked over his shoulder at Smith, his expression intent. “What do we do next, Colonel?”

  “We know the anthrax exists and is still a factor, so reporting that is our priority.” Smith set the empty canteen cup on the deck. “Tomorrow morning, if we have decent weather, I intend to make one fast sweep around the crash site to look for the survival camp of the Misha’s crew. Then we hike for the science station. If we can’t make radio contact with the outside from the station, then I’ll send Randi back to the cutter in the helicopter to report.”

  Smith studied Smyslov’s back as the Russian unrolled his sleeping bag in the crew bunk. “I’m also going to commit the reinforcement group and secure the island, Major. That’s going to mean bringing the Canadians on board, and a general escalation of the whole scenario. I know we promised your government that we’d try and keep this low-key, but now, with both the anthrax and the disappearance of the station staff to contend with, we may have no choice but to go overt.”

  “I fully understand, Colonel. There is indeed no choice.”

  Smyslov’s reply was unexpressive, and Smith had to wonder if the Russian was speaking in agreement with his words or with some thought of his own.

  “Ah, me! That’s all for tomorrow’s worry list,” Valentina said, glancing toward the hatch set in the rear bulkhead. “In the meantime, there is something else I need to have a look at.”