The Arctic Event

by Robert Ludlum

  “Only one e-mail, sir.” The communications chief passed a single sheet of hard copy across the table. “On your personal address, in your house code.”

  Kretek flipped open the sheet and studied the message. Slowly a wolflike smile broke through the brush of Kretek’s beard.

  “It’s good news from the family, my friends,” he said finally. “Very good news, indeed.”

  The pretense of joviality passed, and he looked up, eyes distant and intent. “Crencleu, advise our Canadian point men that the arctic operation is on and that they are to proceed with preparations with all speed. Call in the selected force team and have them rendezvous at our point of departure in Vienna. Mikhail...”

  “Yes, sir,” his executive officer spoke crisply. It was obvious the old wolf was on the track once more, this time for the richest prize in the group’s history. Vlahovich had been unsure a few days before, when he had first heard of the arctic plan. It had seemed extreme, a wild long shot. But if it could be made to work, the payoff could be astronomical. Now even the dour Serb began to catch the fever.

  “Inform all headquarters sections to load and prepare to move out. I wish to be on the road in...” Kretek paused, and his eyes flicked toward the fireplace and the slim, silent figure standing beside it. The Albanian race had never been known for producing great beauties from among its women, and this little chit wasn’t much even at that, but she was here and she was young and she was paid for. “...an hour and a half.”

  He might as well get his money’s worth out of little Gleska before she and the rest of her family perished in their tragic house fire.

  Chapter Ten

  Seattle-Tacoma International Airport

  Fall meant fog in the Pacific Northwest. The landing lights of the jetliners sweeping in to the runways cut like slow comets through the sinking overcast, and the tops of the hotels along the airport strip faded out of existence in the gathering dusk, illuminated windows diffusing into a golden glow within the mist.

  As the bubble elevator climbed the exterior of the Doubletree Hotel tower, Jon Smith watched the sharp edges and details fade from the night. He wore knife-creased army greens, and he was alone for the moment. That would change presently. He was en route to link up with the other members of his team, one a stranger and the other not exactly a friend.

  He couldn’t blame Fred Klein for his personnel selection. The director’s choice had been a logical one. He’d worked with Randi Russell before. They had been thrown together on a number of missions, almost as if fate were perversely entangling their life paths. Smith recognized her as a first-class operator: experienced, dedicated, and highly intelligent, with a weirdly diverse set of talents and a useful capacity for total ruthlessness when required.

  But she came with a penalty.

  The elevator doors split and rumbled apart, and Smith stepped out into the dusty rose-and-bronze-themed entry of the rooftop restaurant and lounge. The hostess looked up from her podium expectantly.

  “My name is Smith. I’m here to join the Russell party.”

  The hostess’s brows lifted, and there was a moment’s open and curious appraisal. “Yes, sir. Right this way, please.”

  She led Smith across the low-lit lounge. Silenced by the dark carpeting underfoot, their steps didn’t break the murmur of subtle music and soft conversation. And then Smith understood the hostess’s flash of curiosity.

  Randi had selected a table in the sunken rear corner of the dining room, an isolated setting partially screened from the other patrons by a decorative planter wall. It was a table intended for privacy, suitable for the quiet planning conference to come.

  But it would also serve as a very suitable lovers’ rendezvous, and Smith was meeting with not just one exceptionally beautiful woman but with two.

  Smith smiled wryly to himself. He hoped the hostess would enjoy her ménage à trois fantasy. She would have no idea how totally wrong she was.

  “Hello, Randi,” he said. “I never knew you could fly a helicopter.”

  She looked up from the table and nodded coolly. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Jon.”

  The first few seconds were never easy. The old twist in the guts was still there. Although Dr. Sophia Russell had been the older sister, she and Randi had been like twins. With the passage of time, the resemblance had grown almost eerie.

  He wondered sometimes what Randi saw when she looked at him. Likely nothing pleasant.

  Randi wore black suede tonight, a jacket, skirt, and boots outfit that matched the flare of her good looks and complemented the multitinted gold of her hair. Her dark eyes held his for a fraction of an instant, then darted away. “Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, this is Professor Valentina Metrace.”

  These eyes were gray under a glossy fringe of midnight-colored hair, and they met his, level and interested, with a glint of humor in their depths. The professor was in black as well, black satin evening pajamas that molded to a slim yet pleasantly curved figure, hinting that there was not a great deal worn underneath them. “Checking into a motel must be hell,” she said, extending her hand to him. Her voice was low, with a hint of something like a British accent.

  The hand was held palm down, not to be shaken but to have its slender fingers lightly clasped as a blood royal might accept the touch of a courtier.

  It was apparent that Valentina Metrace was an attractive woman who thoroughly enjoyed being an attractive woman and who enjoyed reminding men of the fact.

  The tension broke, and Smith took the offered hand for a moment. “The spelling of the first name helps,” he deadpanned.

  Smith ordered a pilsner to match Randi’s white wine and Professor Metrace’s martini. “All right,” he said, pitching his voice so it couldn’t carry to the next occupied table. “This is the word as it has been given. Tomorrow we’re out of here on the eight forty-five Alaskan Airlines flight to Anchorage. Our equipment kit and our helicopter are being pre-positioned there. We will also be joining up with our Russian liaison officer, a Major Gregori Smyslov of the Federation Air Force.

  “From Anchorage we’ll fly ourselves to Sitka. There we rendezvous with the USS Alex Haley, the Coast Guard ice cutter that will carry us within range of Wednesday Island.”

  “Who are we?” Randi inquired—a peculiar question for anyone not in their peculiar trade.

  “The cover story established for this operation will permit us to pretty much maintain our own identities,” Smith replied. “As Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, MD, I’ll be acting as the mission pathologist, attached to Department of Defense graves registration. My primarily concern will be with the recovery and forensic identification of the bodies of the aircrew.

  “Professor Metrace will also essentially be who she is, a civilian historical consultant working under contract with the DOD. Supposedly, her job will be the identification of the aircraft itself, should the wreck be of a U.S. Air Force B-29. Again, supposedly, Major Smyslov is to perform much the same duty should the plane prove to be a Russian TU-4. We’ll be maintaining the fiction that the bomber’s origins are still unknown, at least until we reach the crash site.

  “You’re the tricky one, Randi. As of this moment you are a civilian charter pilot flying for the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. The Wednesday Island expedition is a multinational scientific project, and NOAA and the U.S. Coast Guard are providing the logistical support. That includes the insertion and extraction of the personnel. You and the Alex Haley are being sent up there to pull the expedition out before the onset of the polar winter. Your own name is probably safe, and appropriate cooked documentation will be provided with the equipment kit.”

  Her gaze dropped away to the tabletop for an instant. “Is it possible for me to know who I’m actually working for?”

  Smith regretted the answer he had to give. “You are a civilian charter pilot flying for the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration.”

  He could feel Randi’s tension ramp u
p. By now, her superiors must have surmised that there was a new player in the covert operations game. A new elite outfit, working outside Langley’s authority but with the pull to tap the CIA’s resources at will. From past personal experience Randi must also have surmised that he, Smith, was part of that new organization. It would rankle a veteran operative to be left out of the loop in this fashion. Jon had no choice in the matter. Covert One remained “need to know,” and to put it bluntly, Randi Russell did not need to know, just to obey.

  “I see,” she continued stiffly. “I gather I will be taking my orders from you in this operation.”

  “From me or from Professor Metrace.”

  Randi snapped her head around to stare at Metrace. The dark-haired mobile cipher operative merely lifted an eyebrow and her glass, taking a final sip of her martini.

  This situation was simply getting better and better. Being positioned as the junior member of the team could only further ruffle Randi’s feathers. What had his mountain warfare instructor warned him of the other day, that he was forgetting how to command? Well, by God, he had better start remembering right now.

  “Professor Metrace is to be considered my executive officer on this operation. Should I not be available, she has full decision-making authority on all aspects of the mission. Is that understood?”

  Randi’s eyes met his again, expressionless. “Fully, Colonel.”

  Their meal came and went in near silence; Smith had the salmon while Randi Russell ate lightly at a dinner salad. The only one who truly seemed to enjoy her food was Valentina Metrace, consuming her steak and baked potato with a dainty, unconcerned fierceness.

  She was also the one who dove back into the mission over their after-dinner coffee.

  “One of our Keyhole reconnaissance satellites got a clear-weather pass over the Misha crash site,” she said, removing a set of photo prints from her shoulder bag. “It gives us a much better look at what we’re dealing with than the ground photography from the science expedition.”

  Smith frowned at his copy of the overhead imaging. It could clearly be seen that the downed bomber was indeed an exact clone of a B-29. The slender, torpedolike fuselage and the lack of a stepped cockpit were unmistakable.

  “Are you sure this is one of theirs?” Randi asked, mirroring Smith’s thoughts.

  The historian nodded. “Um-hum. Most of the insignia paint has been storm scoured away, but you can just make out the red star on the starboard wingtip. There’s no doubt; it’s a TU-4 Bull. Specifically it’s the TU-4A strategic-strike variant, intended for the delivery of atomic or biochemical weapons. What’s more, this one was an America bomber.”

  Smith glanced up. “An America bomber?”

  “An aircraft specifically configured for attacks on targets in the continental United States. It’s been stripped and lightened to maximize its range.” Reaching across the table, Valentina traced a manicured fingernail down the spine of the aircraft. “You can see how all of the defensive gun turrets except for the tail stingers have been removed and the mounts fared over. Most of the armor will have been removed as well and auxiliary fuel tanks installed in the wings and aft bomb bay.”

  She looked up from the photo. “Even so modified, the TU-4 had very decided limitations as an intercontinental delivery system. Striking over the pole from the nearest Soviet bases in Siberia, they could just barely reach targets in the northern-tier states. And the missions would all have been one-way. There would have been no fuel left for a return flight.”

  “Missiles with men inside,” Smith mused.

  “Essentially, but they were what Stalin had at the time.”

  “And how did he get his hands on them in the first place?” Randi asked in puzzlement. “I gather these were our best bombers during the Second World War. We certainly didn’t just give them to the Soviets.”

  “We did, but inadvertently,” the historian replied. “Early on during the strategic bombing campaign against the Japanese home islands, three B-29s were forced to land in Vladivostok because of battle damage or engine failure. The crews and aircraft were interned by the Russians, who, at the time, were neutral in our war against Japan. Eventually, we got our aircrews back, but the bombers were never returned.

  “Instead Stalin ordered Andrei Tupolev, one of Russia’s greatest aircraft designers, to produce an exact copy of the B-29 for Soviet Long Range Aviation.”

  She smiled ruefully. “It was the most incredible reverse-engineering project in history. Aviation historians who’ve had the opportunity to closely examine examples of the Soviet Bull were always puzzled over a small round hole drilled into the leading edge of the left wing. They could never figure out what it was for. When the Russians were asked about it they stated that they didn’t know what it was for, either. It had just been there on the B-29 airframe they had broken down for blueprinting.

  “Come to find out, it had probably been a bullet hole made by the machine guns of a Japanese interceptor. But Stalin had specified that he wanted an exact copy of the Superfortress, and what Uncle Joe wanted, he got!”

  Her finger continued to trace the outlines of the wrecked bomber’s wings. “She obviously hit flat and skidded across the glacier on her belly. And given the way these propellers are bent, all of her engines were still running when she went in.”

  Smith scowled. “If she still had all of her engines, what forced her down?”

  Valentina shook her head. “I, and the experts I’ve consulted, haven’t a clue. There is no indication of a midair structural failure, battle damage, or a collision. All of the control surfaces are present and accounted for, and there’s no sign of a fire before or after the crash. The best guess is that they were running out of fuel and the pilot set down on the island while he still had power for a controlled approach and landing.”

  “Then wouldn’t they have had plenty of time to send a distress call before going down?” Randi inquired.

  Professor Metrace shrugged slim shoulders. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But radio conditions around the Pole can be tricky. They could have encountered a magnetic storm or a dead zone that killed their transmissions.”

  Their low-keyed discussion broke as a waitress approached and refilled their coffee cups. When it was safe to resume, Randi inquired about the plane’s crew.

  “They lived, at least for a time.” Once more Valentina tapped the photo print. “This was an entirely survivable landing. The crew must have gotten out. There’s even evidence to that effect. The cowling of the starboard outboard engine has been removed. You can see it lying on the ice beside the wing. It was probably done to drain the oil out of the engine sump for use in a signal fire.”

  “But what happened to them?” Randi insisted.

  “As I said, Ms. Russell, they must have survived for a time. They would have had sleeping bags, arctic clothing, and emergency rations. But eventually...” Once more the professor shrugged.

  The fog swirled thickly beyond the restaurant window beside them, a chill pang pulsing through the glass. It would not have been a good death, castaway in the cold and eternal polar darkness. But then, Smith knew of few good ways to die. “How large would the crew have been?”

  “For a stripped TU-4, at least eight men. In the nose you’d have the aircraft commander, the copilot, the bombardier–weapons officer, who would also have served as the plane’s political officer, the navigator, the flight engineer, and the radio operator. Then, in the tail, you’d have the radar operator, possibly an observer or two, and the stinger gunner.”

  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 in
dication 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.”