Valentina opened the gun cleaning kit and took the model 70 across her knees. “What are we going to do about it, Jon?” she said, opening the bolt and dumping the shells out of the magazine trap.
“Frankly, that’s an excellent question. We’ve got two bands of hostiles out there, both of whom outgun us and both of whom have a vested interest in killing us on sight.”
Smith closed the heavy-duty zip on his medical kit and slouched back against the ice wall. “One valid strategy is to do nothing. We’ve got good concealment and shelter here, and last night’s storm would have erased our trails. We’ve also been out of communication for too long. There was a Mike force standing by in Alaska, and it’s probably inbound right now. If we sit tight and stay quiet for the next few hours, the odds are we won’t be found until after the cavalry arrives.”
Randi came up on one elbow. “But that concedes the anthrax to Kretek. He’s expecting the arrival of outside forces. He’s wired that into his planning. I heard his people talking about it. By timing off the weather and the flight distances, he figures he can get up to the wreck, pull the bioagent reservoir, and get out before he can be interfered with. And given the way he’s outfitted, I think he has a pretty good chance of doing it.”
Smith nodded. “I’ll agree with that assessment. If Kretek is going to be stopped, we have to be the ones to do it.”
Smith shifted his position and idly fished something silver out of his pocket, Smyslov’s cigarette lighter/radio transponder. “Major, here’s a question for you. Could you bring your Spetsnaz over to our side? In the face of the threat of the anthrax falling into terrorist hands, could you get them to help us against Kretek and his people?”
An expression akin to despair crossed the Russian’s face. “I have been thinking of this as well, Colonel. But in the eyes of my government the bioweapons aboard the Misha are entirely secondary to the security of the March Fifth Event. That was made most clear to me in my own mission briefing. The Spetsnaz platoon commander will no doubt have been given specific orders to this effect from a higher command. I have no authorization to change those orders, and he will be aware of it. He will view you and your knowledge as the primary threat, not the anthrax.”
“What about getting those orders changed?” Smith insisted.
The Russian shook his head. “Impossible within our time frame and probably impossible altogether. I would have to contact the Spetsnaz force, then I would have to arrange a rendezvous with the submarine that transported them here to get access to long-range communications. Then I would have to convince my superiors to overturn a fifty-year-old standing security policy.” Smyslov grimaced a bitter smile and shrugged. “Even if I somehow succeeded in this miracle, the anthrax would be gone long before I could get the orders changed. In all probability you and the ladies would be long dead as well.”
“How about working on the tactical level, leaving your government out of it? What are the odds of us convincing your platoon leader that it’s in the best interest of all involved to focus on the anthrax threat?”
Again Smyslov shook his head. “You might find that degree of flexibility among the Special Forces commanders of your army, Colonel, but not of mine. In the Russian military, good junior officers do not think, they obey, and this Spetsnaz leader will be a very good junior officer.”
“What about you, Major?” Valentina interjected, running a cleaning rod down the Winchester’s barrel. “You’re thinking.”
Smyslov smiled wearily and shrugged. “Dear lady, I’m thinking maybe I am not such a good Russian military officer. Beyond that, you shot the hell out of that Spetsnaz platoon yesterday and you humiliated its commander. He is not going to view you with favor.”
“I can empathize with his feelings.” Smith idly flipped the top of the transponder lighter open and shut with his thumb, his eyes drifting around the green-lit interior of the little cave, taking stock of his available assets.
Randi ran her own mental inventory. Two rifles, one pistol, maybe two hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition, and four combatants, one of whom was disabled by cold and exhaustion, and another crippled by conflicting interests.
It didn’t make for an impressive army.
“Well, Sarge,” she heard Smith murmur under his breath. “If I can pull this one off, I guess you’ll say I’ve learned how to command.”
“What did you say, Jon?” Randi inquired, puzzled.
“Nothing.” The repetitive click-ching click-ching of the lighter top filled the interior of the cavern.
Valentina slid the bolt back into the model 70. “Here’s a lovely thought,” she said. “Perhaps when Kretek and company arrive at the crash site they’ll waltz into a Russian ambush just as we did.”
“A lovely thought indeed,” Smith replied. “Only our friends up at the wreck are probably miles away from the crash site by now, hunting for us.”
Silence returned, except for the rhythmic click-ching of the lighter top. Then it stopped. Thumb still extended, Smith sat dead still for a long moment, staring intently into nowhere.
“Jon, what’s wrong?”
The lighter top snapped shut decisively a final time, his features going back to their fixed focused impassiveness. “Randi, do you think you’re up to moving?”
She sat up in the sleeping bag. “I can go wherever you need me to.”
“Right, then. Major, let’s get the gear together. I want to be out of here in ten minutes. We have some positioning to do. Ladies, a favor, please. When you get dressed, exchange your outer clothes, Randi’s for Val’s. Got it?”
“You have a plan, my dear Colonel.” Valentina made it a statement, her eyes bright with interest.
“Just possibly, my dear professor. It says in the Bible that a man can’t serve two masters at the same time. But it doesn’t say a damn thing about his not being able to fight two enemies.”
Chapter Forty-six
Over the Arctic Ocean
The patterns of pack ice below and boiling cumulus clouds above were frost white, while the sea and sky shone a steely blue. Intermittently the MV-22 Osprey VTOL bucked and shuddered like a heavily laden truck on a potholed road. The storm front had passed, but the turbulence of its passage lingered.
With the Combat Talon tanker holding its course ahead and above the Osprey, Major Saunders stalked the refueling drogue streaming from the larger aircraft’s wingtip. It was an exceptionally precise piece of flying machinery. With its wingtip engine pods rotated into horizontal flight mode, the danger of putting the shuttlecock-shaped drogue through the arc of one of the Osprey’s huge prop-rotors was very real. The result, to say the least, would be spectacular.
The intermittent jolts of clear-air turbulence and the fuel gauge bars dipping toward empty only compounded the challenge. Saunders had given his wingman first pass at the tanker, and it had taken the number two VTOL over twenty minutes to make the hookup, burning through most of Saunders’s meager fuel reserve.
The long refueling probe extended from above the cockpit of the Osprey like the horn of a techno-unicorn. For the dozenth time, the Air Commando leader aligned it with the bobbing, weaving mouth of the drogue as a Stone Age hunter might aim a spear. With his knuckles white on the joystick and throttles, he waited for the instant his target might hold steady. It came, and he nudged the throttles forward.
This time, the probe slipped smoothly into the drogue and locked, linking the fuel-starved VTOL with its tanker. Beneath the wing of the big MC-130, command lights shifted pattern to green. “We have locks, pressure, and transfer,” Saunders’s copilot announced.