“I did nothing to the radio! I did nothing to anything.” His words were mushy through his bruised and swollen lips. “Or anyone.” The malevolent glitter lingered in his eyes as he met Randi’s eyes, but his words were plaintive. “Dr. Trowbridge, can’t you keep this madwoman off me until I can be turned over to the proper police? I’m not eager for another beating.”
“Please, Ms. Russell,” Trowbridge began in a weary monotone, “if the authorities are on their way, can’t this be put off…”
Randi gave an impatient shake of her head. “All right, Doctor, I’ll drop it.”
All morning Trowbridge had been moving and speaking like a man trapped in a nightmare, with Randi as one of the premiere monsters. A modern, upscale urbanite, he lived in a world where violence and death were essentially abstracts, something to be clucked over in a television news bite or enjoyed vicariously in media entertainment. Now he was being confronted with the genuine article, up close and personal. And like the victim of a violent car crash or natural disaster, the academic was slipping steadily deeper into a state of emotional traumatic shock. Randi recognized the symptoms.
What was worse, she was the heavy in the scenario. So far, she had been the visible purveyor of the violence. In a popular culture caught up in the fad of elaborate conspiracy theories and X-File fears, she was the figurative “woman in black.”
Stefan Kropodkin represented normality. He was the honor student, the eager face in the front row of the classroom, the recognized and comfortable name on the test paper and expedition roster. Randi was the “agent working for the shadowy government agency,” the twenty-first-century incarnation of the boogeyman.
She could see the fear in Trowbridge’s eyes every time he looked at her. She could also see Kropodkin working that fear. Any denials of the scenario she might make would be an act of futility.
Lord, what a total mess!
Catching up the MP-5, she crossed into the radio shack. Settling down before the open console, she checked the components and settings of the big sideband set for the hundredth time, making the final futile gesture of switching it on to listen to the soft hiss issuing from the set.
Randi closed her eyes and rested her face in her hands.
It had to be the antennas! The receiver circuits were working, but they weren’t picking up the clamor of the solar storm. At this gain the static should be blasting the speakers off the walls.
When Kropodkin had disabled the set, it also must have been from outside. Again, the antennas. But it hadn’t been anything as simple as just cutting the leads. She had been meticulous in following and checking the cable between the laboratory hut and the radio mast, checking for breaks. She had run every inch of the cable through her hands, looking for the old saboteur’s trick of shorting the leads with a pin pushed through the insulation. She had made sure the all-weather connectors were screwed down tightly…
Randi sat up abruptly in the chair. The connectors.
A second later she was in the main room of the hut, hauling on her heavy outdoor shell clothing as rapidly as she could.
“What is it?” Trobridge demanded, rising from his seat by the coal stove.
“Maybe something positive for a change, Doctor,” Randi replied, zipping her parka and hauling on her gloves. “We’ll know in a few minutes. In the meantime keep an eye on Kropodkin while I go out.”
She glanced at the suddenly alert youth in the corner. “On second thought, just don’t go near him, for any reason, until I get back. I won’t be long.”
That expression of indignant truculence crossed Trowbridge’s face, and his mouth opened in the beginning of a knee-jerk protest.
“I said, don’t go near him!” she snapped.
Randi took a moment to make sure that the nylon disposacuffs binding Kropodkin’s wrists were still tight, and then, slinging the submachine gun, she was out through the snow lock.
She hastened up the knoll behind the camp. A half foot of fresh snow had fallen and been windblown during the early morning hours, clogging the trails and making the climb to the base of the radio mast a plowing struggle. Reaching her objective, she dropped to her knees at the foot of the mast. Shoveling aside the white overburden with her mittened hands, she exposed the antenna power booster box at the mast’s base. Exposed also were the weatherproof connectors that linked the cable from the radio shack to the booster box. There were two of them, the heavy main cable bifurcating into the separate leads for the satellite phone and the sideband transceiver.
Each connector was a heavy-duty screw-on piece of hardware, fully weatherproof, of a golden-tinted alloy. Randi struggled with them, and they resisted stubbornly. Swearing under her breath, she tore off her mittens and strained on the connectors with her thin undergloves. Abruptly the first connector yielded.
A shredded fragment of plastic film fluttered to the snow. Randi recognized the simple mechanism of the sabotage now. Kropodkin had unscrewed the connectors and had wrapped the thin plastic around the male end, carefully packing it in around the central prong. Screwing the female half down over the nonconductive plastic had created an insulating barrier that had broken the connection. With the excess plastic trimmed away, there was no outside hint of the tampering.
Randi swore again, both at Kropodkin and at herself. She opened the connector for the satellite phone and cleared that as well. She reassembled them both, then sat with her back against the radio mast, resting for a minute.
She’d done her job, or rather her jobs. She had learned the fate of the station crew and had secured the culprit responsible, and she had regained their contact with the outside. She could let the ship know what was going on here and expedite the arrival of their reinforcements.
Granted the weather would cooperate. Randi felt the chill grip her hands, and she drew her overmittens back on. It was growing colder, with ice crystals condensing out of the rapidly lowering overcast. Faintly, in the distance, she could hear a rising wind booming over the ridgeline.
Within a matter of minutes they were going to be socked in tight. If conditions continued to deteriorate, Jon and the others might not be able to make it down from the saddleback tonight, much less expect help showing up from Alaska.
But every cloud, even those of a polar storm, had a silver lining. If the good guys couldn’t make it in to Wednesday Island, then neither could the bad. Perhaps she could truss Kropodkin and Trowbridge up in their bunks tonight and get a little sleep.
Even the thought was soporific. The thin sift of snowflakes seemed to weigh her eyelashes down, and even here, on the ice sheathed hillside, her head began to sink down on her chest.
And then, dimly, beyond the faint rumble of the wind over the mountain, Randi became aware of something else. Her head snapped up. It wasn’t truly a sound at first, more of a heavy vibration in the air. It grew in gradual intensity until it became a thudding roar that echoed between the land and the overcast.
Randi scrambled to her feet, the island seeming to shudder around her. Like a scorpion instinctively lifting its tail, she slipped the MP-5 from her shoulder and into her hands.
A huge form condensed out of the sea smoke. Two mammoth Tumanski gas turbines howled atop a great, sleek glass-nosed fuselage fully the length of an airliner. Fifty-foot rotor blades whipped the air, creating the rhythmic rib-rattling thud Randi felt in her chest.
It came in low from the south, squeezing in beneath the cloud cover; the ferocious rotor blast whipped up a tornado of displaced snow, forcing Randi to cower and shield her face as the monster passed directly over her head at a meager hundred-foot altitude.