She lifted her finger from the transmit key. Abruptly, electronic ice picks were driven into her ears, her headset filling with a piercing electronic warble.

  Damn! Shit! Hell! She swatted at the selector switch.

  Randi, what is it?

  WeOre being jammed! SomebodyOs just turned on a powerful cascade jammer out there!

  We have descending traffic to port! Smyslov yelled. HeOs turning in on us!

  The CenturionOs wing kicked up and over. Accelerating into a shallow dive, the plane cut across the helicopterOs flight path from left to right. In the dark rectangle of the planeOs open cargo door, a ruddy spark danced and sputtered. Pale streaks of light blazed past the cabin.

  Tracers.

  Breaking left! Randi screamed, throwing the cyclic hard over and smashing down on her rudder bar.

  The Long Ranger came up on one rotor tip and wailed into a diving turn of its own, cutting into and under the Cessna. The two aircraft flicked past one another like a pair of rapier blades.

  Lift and power sagged, and Randi twisted the throttle grip to its stop, stabilizing the helicopter onto its new course. Where is he? she demanded, looking around wildly for their attacker.

  Climbing out at four oOclock, Smith replied, looking aft out the side windows. It looks like heOs circling back, trying to get in behind us again. Can you lose him?

  She made a few rapid mental assessments and was not happy with the outcome. Not likely. ThereOs no way I can extend out over open water like this. HeOs got a good sixty knots on us. He can also outclimb us.

  Options?

  Limited! With his gun firing out of his side door like that, heOs got a very restricted firing arc. When he comes in on us I can evade by turning into him and diving under him, like I just did. But thatOll only work for as long as we have altitude! Once he pins us down against the surface of the sea he can circle above us like the Apaches circling a wagon train. HeOll cut us to pieces.

  The wave tops glittered below the Long RangerOs pontoons. They had not been flying at any great height to begin with, and their initial evasion had cost them a great deal of what theyOd had. Randi had the Long Ranger shuddering at a maximum power climb, but in this game of dogfighting beggar-my-neighbor she couldnOt regain what sheOd expended fast enough.

  Keep on that radio, Smith commanded. Try to get through to anyone.

  It is no good, Smyslov interjected grimly. He had been working the communications panel. That planeOs jammer is cutting right across all of our communications bands. While itOs active no one will be hearing or saying anything within twenty kilometers of us.

  Are you sure? Smith demanded.

  Smyslov gave a bitter, ironic grimace. Unfortunately, yes. I recognize the interference modulation pattern of the unit. The bloody thing is one of ours! ItOs a Russian army tactical electronic warfare system.

  There he is! Valentina Metrace called from her side of the helicopter. HeOs coming around again!

  Randi felt a hand reach around the seat back, yanking her Lady Magnum out of its pack holster. She didnOt have to look back to see who the hand belonged to.

  ThatOs not going to be much, Jon, she commented.

  I know. There was a grim tinge of humor in his reply. But itOs what weOve got. Randi heard the wind roar of the rear passenger window sliding open, and the chill blast of the slipstream on the back of her neck.

  Be careful you donOt hit the rotors, Randi yelled over the increased wind roar.

  IOll be lucky to hit anything!

  Hostile at eight oOclock, high angle! Smyslov chanted. Hostile is at nine oOclock, still climbing. Hostile is at ten oOclock…HeOs banking! HeOs turning in! HeOs coming in faster this time!…

  The tracer stream cut past the windscreen, and again Randi rolled the Long Ranger into its steep evasive break. As the helicopter rolled onto its side, there was a momentary frozen image of the attacking Cessna cutting past them, the planeOs gunner half-hanging out its cargo door.

  Like a Vietnam-era helicopter gunner, he was suspended from a monkey harness bolted into the door frame. Some kind of medium machine gun was strapped to his body, the belt feeding from an overhead magazine, making him a living flexible weapons mount. Looking down, he hosed death at the diving Long Ranger, the flash of an exhilarated grin glinting on his face.

  Covert One 7 - The Arctic Event

  Behind her, handguns crashed, both pistols firing at once, the piercing crack of SmithOs automatic and the heavier slam of her revolver. Ejecting brass flickered around the cockpit, and Randi caught a whiff of gun smoke as Smith got off half a dozen rounds before the target was past.

  No chance! Missed the bastard! It was one of the rare times she ever heard him swear.

  She got the helicopter stabilized under its rotor disk and checked her gauges. We can do that once more, she reported; then we go into the water.

  It was a simple statement of fact.

  ThereOs a life vest under each seat, and a life raft slung under the fuselage. Smith was equally pragmatic with his reply as he reached forward to take another speed loader from the fanny pack. When we go in, IOll try for the life raft. Everyone else swim as far away from the copter as fast as you can. Stay together and donOt inflate your vests right off. HeOs going to strafe us, and youOre going to have to dive to evade.

  He was only going through the drill for formOs sake. Their survival time in the frigid waters of the straits could be counted in single-digit minutes.

  This would be a marvelous moment for a witty offhand comment, Professor Metrace added dryly. Any volunteers? The historianOs face was pale in the cockpit mirror, but she was holding it together in her own way. Randi had to smile. Her taste in men might be questionable, but even she had to admit, Valentina Metrace had style.

  Beyond the portside windows she could see the Cessna climbing into attack position once again. Last chance, Smith said. Any suggestions?

  There may be something… SmyslovOs distracted murmur came over the intercom circuit.

  Major, do you have an idea?

  Possibly, Colonel, but there is only a small chance…

  A small chance is better than none, Major, Smith snapped, and thatOs what we have now. Go!

  As you wish, sir! Behind his sunglasses Smyslov had his own eyes fixed on the enemy plane. Miss Russell, when he begins his next run, you must hold your course; your straight course; you must let him shoot at us!

  Randi spared him an instantOs disbelieving glance. You mean we give him a clean shot?

  Yes. Exactly! We must let him fire on us. You must hold your course to the last possible second; then you must not turn and dive; you must climb! You must cut directly across his flight path!

  That was insanity twice over. If he doesnOt shoot us down, weOll collide with him!

  Smyslov could only nod in agreement. Very possibly, Miss Russell.

  The Cessna banked, lifting into its wingover and final attacking dive.

  Randi, do it! SmithOs command rang in her ears.

  Jon!

  His voice mellowed. I donOt know what heOs thinking, either, but do it anyway.

  Randi bit her lip and held her course. She felt SmyslovOs hand drop onto her shoulder. Wait for him, the Russian said, tracking the pursuit curve of their attacker, calculating speeds and distances. Wait for him!

  A tracer tentacle lashed past the Long Ranger, weaving and groping for the helicopter.

  Wait for him! Smyslov said relentlessly, his fingers digging into her collarbone. Wait…!

  The airframe shuddered as high-velocity metal thwacked through its structure. A side window starred and exploded inward as death screamed through the cockpit.

  Now! Pull up! Pull up!

  Wrenching her controls back to their stops, Randi lifted the Long Ranger through the flight path of the Cessna Centurion. For an instant, the whole world off the port side was filled with the nose and shimmering propeller arc of the diving plane, hanging mere feet beyond their own rotor arc. And in that frozen instant the windshield of the Cessna exploded outward.

  Then it was past, and the helicopter was bucking and skidding wildly in the interlocking turbulence, on the very razorOs edge of departing controlled flight. Randi fought for the recovery, a thin, angry adrenaline-spurred cry slipping from her lips as she wrestled with the pitch and collective, striving not to lethally overstress the airframe. If she could fly the Ranger out of this, by God, she could fly it anywhere.

  The copter responded and steadied with a final shuddering bobble. They still had a valid aircraft. They still had life.

  Where is he? Randi panted.

  Down there, Smith answered.

  The white Cessna was falling away beneath them in a flat spin, a thin haze of smoke streaming from its cockpit. A moment later it belly-slammed into the sea, vanishing from sight in an explosion of spray.

  Well done, Randi, Smith continued. And you, Major. Exceptionally well done.

  IOll second that, Valentina Metrace added reverently. If you were a man, my dear Randi, IOd be yours for the asking.

  Thanks, but would someone mind telling me just what it was that I did? What happened to that guy?

  It was…pah, what are the words… Smyslov slumped in his seat, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. …target fixation. The machine gunner, he was firing his weapon from a body harness. He did not have a fixed gun mount with fire interrupters to keep him from shooting into his own airframe. Once he had you targeted, he focused on trying to hold his tracers on you for the kill. When you cut across his nose as you did, he swung with you, and turned his gun barrel right into his own cockpit.

  And before he could get off the trigger heOd killed his own pilot and shot himself down, Smith finished. Fast thinking, Major.

  Smyslov lifted his hands. Merest memory, Colonel. Once, over Chechnya, I had a muzhik door gunner with pig shit for brains who nearly blew the back of my head off.

  Randi sighed and glanced at the Russian. IOm glad he missed.

  E

  Kodiak, Alaska

  The spruce-shaggy slopes of Barometer Mountain mirrored themselves in the waters of St. PaulOs Bay as the Long Ranger skimmed into the harbor at Kodiak. Angling past the trawlers that crowded the docks of the fishing port, the copter headed for the Coast Guard Base. The USS Alex Haley lay moored beside the base pier, and the big cutter was standing by to receive them. Her own helicopter had been offloaded, and her hangar bay doors gaped wide, a wandsman standing by on her afterdeck helipad to walk them aboard.

  The Haley was a singleton, one of a kind within the Coast GuardOs white-hull fleet. A staunch and stolid ex-Navy salvage ship, she did duty as both the regulation-enforcing scourge of the huge Kodiak Island fishing fleet and its rescuing angel of mercy. Sailing in the wake of legendary predecessors like the Bear and the Northland, she was the law north of the Aleutians. Also, with her powerful engines and ice-strengthened hull, she was one of only a handful of ships able to dare the Northwest Passage with winter looming.

  Gingerly, Randi eased the Long Ranger aboard, compensating for the ground effect variant as she sidled over the cutterOs deck. The pontoons scuffed down on the black pebbly antiskid, and she cut the throttles. For a long minute, as the turbines whined down, Smith and his people luxuriated in the sheer stability of the shipOs deck. Then the cutterOs aviation hands were ducking under the slowing rotor arc, and two officers in crisp khakis were approaching from the hangar bay.

  Colonel Smith, IOm Commander Will Jorganson. As stolid and stocky as his ship, Jorganson was a fit, balding middle-aged man with intent sea-faded blue eyes and a strong, dry handshake. This is Lieutenant Grundig, my executive officer. WeOve been expecting you. Welcome aboard the Haley.

  You have no idea how glad we are to be here, Commander, Smith replied with a degree of irony. After the cramped interior of the helicopter, the open, breeze-swept freedom of the helipad felt wonderful. This is my assistant team leader, Professor Valentina Metrace; my pilot, Ms. Randi Russell; and my Russian liaison, Major Gregori Smyslov of the Russian Federation Air Force. Now, I have two questions I need immediate answers for, Commander. The first and most critical is, how fast can you get this ship under way and headed north?

  Jorganson frowned. WeOre scheduled to sail at 0600 tomorrow.

  I didnOt ask when we were scheduled to sail, Smith said, meeting the Coast GuardsmanOs eyes. I asked how fast you can get under way.

  The cutter captainOs scowl deepened. IOm afraid I donOt understand, Colonel.

  I donOt either, Commander. ThatOs why we have to get out of here right now. I trust that you have received specific orders from the commandant of the Seventeenth Coast Guard District concerning my authority on this mission under certain curcumstances?

  Jorganson stiffened. Yes, sir.

  Those circumstances exist, and I am invoking that authority. Now, how fast can you get us under way?

  Jorganson had indeed received his packet of sealed orders concerning the Wednesday Island evacuation, and the two-starred signature underneath them had been exceptionally impressive. We are fully fueled and provisioned, Colonel. I have personnel ashore that IOll need to recall, and my engine room crew will need time to heat up the plant. One hour, sir.

  Smith nodded. Very good, Captain. Now, my second question leads into the reason for all of this. Is your onboard aviation detail set up to assess and repair battle damage on an aircraft?

  That finally shook JorgansonOs stoicism. Battle damage?

  Smith nodded. ThatOs correct. While we were en route to your ship, someone tried to shoot us down. We were intercepted over the Passages by a light plane equipped with a military-grade radio jammer and a machine gun. If it werenOt for a bright idea by Major Smyslov and some brilliant flying by Ms. Russell, youOd be sailing to search for a downed helicopter.

  But…

  I donOt know, Captain, Smith repeated patiently. But someone is obviously trying to prevent my team from reaching Wednesday Island. Accordingly, I think it behooves us to get the hell up there just as fast as we can.

  WeOll take care of it, sir. Jorganson nodded, his professional composure returning. The same for your helo. Whatever needs to be done will get done.

  The captain turned to his waiting first officer. Mr. Grundig, recall all hands and make all preparations for getting under way. Expedite! Set your sea and anchor details and advise Chief Wilkerson that he will be ready to turn shafts in forty-five minutes!

  Aye, sir! The exec disappeared through a watertight door in the white-painted deckhouse.

  The Coast Guard commander looked back to Smith. Do you have any instructions about Dr. Trowbridge, Colonel?

  Trowbridge? Smith groped mentally for the name.

  Yes, sir, heOs the off-site director of the university research program on Wednesday. HeOs up at the Kodiak Inn now. He was scheduled to ride up with us for the recovery of the expedition.

  Smith recalled the name now, and he considered his options. Dr. Rosen Trowbridge was listed as the chairman of the organizing committee for the Wednesday Island science program, a fund-raiser and an academic administrator, not an explorer. On the one hand, he would be another complication in a situation that was already growing increasingly complex.

  On the other, he might prove a useful information source on the personnel, assets, and environment on Wednesday.

  If he can make it down here by the time weOre ready to sail, he can come.

  E

  Off the Alaskan Peninsula

  With bright ice crystal stars overhead and an occasional distant shore light to starboard, the USS Alex Haley swept through the deepening autumn night, her engines rumbling at a steady fast cruise. The big ice cutter had a four-hundred-mile run to the southwest along the Alaskan coast before she could make her turn north at Unimak Island for the true long haul up through the Bering Sea.

  Her cramped radio room smelled of ozone and cigarette smoke and was sultry with the waste heat radiating from the equipment chassis. The use-worn gray steel chair creaked with SmithOs weight and the roll of the ship, and the handset of the scrambled satellite phone was slick with perspiration. Smith had the radio shack to himself, the regular radio watch having been evicted in the face of security.

  How did they spot us? Smith demanded.

  ItOs not difficult to guess, Fred KleinOs distant voice replied. Pole Star Aero-leasing provides helicopters and light transport aircraft for a number of survey and science operations in the Canadian and Alaskan Arctic, including the Wednesday Island project. When the press release about your expedition to the Misha crash site hit the media, the hostiles must have staked out the most likely equipment sources. You were caught in an airborne version of a drive-by shooting.

  Then somebody else must know about the anthrax aboard the Misha 124.

  ThatOs a distinct possibility, Jon. Director KleinOs voice remained controlled. WeOve known from the start that the Misha warload would be a major prize for any terrorist group or rogue nation. That could explain the attack on your aircraft. But thatOs only one possible explanation. We donOt know nearly enough to close out any options on this incident.

  Smith ran a hand through his sweat-dampened dark hair. IOll concede that point. But how did it get out? Where did it leak?

  I donOt know, but IOd suspect itOs on the Russian side. WeOve been holding all the information on the Misha 124 tightly compartmentalized. Literally the only people stateside who know the whole story are the President, myself, Maggie, and the members of your team.

  And as my people were the ones damn near killed in this intercept incident, I think we can safely eliminate them as a sellout source.

  KleinOs voice grew emotionless. I said we canOt close out any possibilities, Jon.

  Smith caught the caution. Smyslov…Professor Metrace…Randi. He fought back the instinctive denial. Klein was right: ItOs inconceivable! made a wonderful set of famous last words.

  The director continued. The other remaining option is that we had a leak on site, through one of the members of the Wednesday Island team itself. We have been assured that none of the expedition members have visited the downed bomber. Somebody may be lying. That will be something else for you to investigate, Jon.