If we have hostiles on that island, Miss Russell, then theyOve got her whenever they want her. The historianOs reply was as bleak and gray as her eyes. ItOs a safe assumption they have the science station covered by now. If they see her trying to run for it, she wonOt make it ten yards. But if we keep her by the radio, she might serve as an intelligence source. ThereOs a chance she can get off a call when they come for her. She might be able to give us some idea of what weOre facing.

  So youOre considering her expendable, Randi said bitterly.

  Valentina shook her head. No, she replied softly. I consider Ms. Brown already expended.

  Randi fell silent.

  Throughout this last exchange, Smith had been studying the Russian member of his team from the corner of his eye. How about you, Major? Anything more to add?

  Smyslov fumbled a Chesterfield from a crumpled pack and flicked fire from his butane lighter. No, Colonel, he said, hissing out his first jet of smoke. I have no suggestions.

  CGAH, this is KGWI, the static-riven voice called plaintively from out in the dark. I am still standing by.

  Smith keyed the radio mike. Ms. Brown, this is Colonel Smith again. As I said, weOll be joining you shortly after first light tomorrow morning. WeOd like for you to stand by the radio until we can get there. WeOll be guarding this frequency continuously, and weOll be making check calls every fifteen minutes through the night. If you hear from the other members of your expedition, or if you hear or see anything unusual, you are to call us immediately. I say again, call us immediately. Do you understand? Over.

  Yes, Colonel. I understand…Colonel, thereOs something more going on, isnOt there? They arenOt just lost, are they?

  What could he tell her that could provide the least little bit of help or comfort? WeOll explain everything when we get there, Ms. Brown. WeOll find your people and weOll get this sorted out. You arenOt alone. We will get to you. This is CGAH, standing by.

  Understood. The voice at the other end of the circuit tried to sound brave. This is KGWI, standing by.

  Smith passed the hand mike back to the radioman. Sit on that frequency, sailor. You heard me say check calls every fifteen minutes. If anyone so much as pops a mike button, I want to know about it.

  Aye aye, sir, the Coast Guardsman replied, resettling his headset.

  Captain Jorganson, we need every mile you can gain toward Wednesday Island before first light.

  YouOll get it, Colonel, the Haley Os skipper replied. IOll be on the bridge if you need me.

  IOll be in the hangar bay preflighting the helicopter, Randi said shortly, starting for the radio room door.

  I will assist you, Randi, Smyslov said, following her out.

  Smith gave a minute, self-derisive shake of his head. To hell with it! It was inevitable that he would end up a son of a bitch in Randi RussellOs eyes.

  Val, weOre going to break cover, and IOm pushing the job of explaining the situation to Dr. Trowbridge onto you. IOve got to get on with the director. HeOs going to need an update.

  DonOt worry about my fellow academic. I can take care of him. The tall brunette regarded Smith and smiled, without humor but with empathy. Driving the bloody train isnOt the easiest of jobs, is it, Colonel?

  Smith forced the last hint of expression from his face. IOve been told itOs good for me, Professor.

  E

  Washington, DC

  It was an ordered and lonely upper-middle-class manOs bedroom in an unobtrusive town house in a quietly respectable Washington suburb. Totally unexceptional save for the bank of color-coded telephones on the Danish modern bedside table.

  The piercing squall of the gray agency phone blasted Fred Klein awake, the integral lighting circuit kicking on the golden-shaded bedside lamp at the first ring. Klein had the phone in hand before he was technically awake.

  Klein here.

  The voice at the other end of the line was hollow with distance and laced with static. This is Jon Smith, sir, aboard the Haley. We have a situation.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Klein listened without speaking as Smith brought him up to speed in a few terse sentences.

  From what I can see, sir, somebody else has gotten there first and is moving to secure the MishaOs payload.

  If they have, they must have come in by air or by submarine, and they are very good at maintaining a low profile, Klein replied. The last NSA reconsat pass over the Queen Elizabeth Archipelago indicates there are no other surface ships within five hundred miles of Wednesday and no visible activity on the island itself.

  Understood, sir. The second possibility is that we are seeing some aspect of the Russians Oalternative agendaO coming into play.

  Do you have any idea what it could be yet? Klein questioned. WeOre not showing anything from this end.

  IOm not sure, sir, but IOm getting odd vibes off Major Smyslov, Smith replied. I suspect heOs either lying about something or heOs not giving us the full story.

  Do you consider Smyslov a mission risk, Jon?

  There was a space of dead air. Potentially, yes. However IOm also keeping him with the team. He seems like a good officer and decent guy, and to date he has been an asset. He also seems to be giving off mixed signals. If we do have an alternate game plan in play, I donOt think heOs happy about it. Properly managed, he may continue to be an asset.

  Watch your back with him, Jon. The decent guys are the ones who can kill you the easiest.

  Understood, sir. I am taking appropriate precautions.

  Klein rubbed the last of the sleep grit from his eyes and fumbled for his glasses on the lamp table. What are your intentions at this time?

  To continue the operation as projected, sir. We will be landing on Wednesday at first light tomorrow.

  Under the circumstances, do you consider that prudent, Jon? WeOve currently got that arctic ranger platoon and a RAID biowar containment team standing by at Eielson Air Force Base, along with a couple of Air Commando Ospreys and an MC-130 tanker to lift them in with. We can commit them in support.

  No, sir, not at this time. The reply was decisive. IOm not ready for them. If the intent of this mission is to prevent an international incident, we canOt go completely overt yet. We donOt know enough to make the call.

  Maybe the anthrax is still aboard the Misha 124 or maybe it isnOt, Smith continued. Maybe we have hostiles on Wednesday or maybe the search party is just stuck on a glacier with a busted radio waiting for daylight to extract themselves. We donOt know. But there is one thing we can say for certain. If we go in with foot, horse, and artillery now, the operation will be blown beyond all recall. Any potential for controlling the situation will be gone. It will become almost impossible to keep this from going public.

  In spite of himself Klein chuckled dryly. IOm supposed to be making that speech, Jon. But what happens if you land on Wednesday and we do have hostiles present, and in force?

  Well, sir, weOll drop off the scope and then youOll know for certain. Klein could see the faint, wry smile that would go with the words. Mission accomplished.

  Carry on, Jon, and good luck.

  WeOll keep you advised, sir.

  The link broke. Klein returned the gray phone to its cradle and picked up the yellow one next to it, the direct link to the armed men in the small security and communications center in the town house basement.

  Please have my car and the launch standing by. I will be moving to headquarters. Then give me five minutes and put me through to the National Command Authority.

  The director of Covert One rose and started to dress.

  E

  The USS Alex Haley

  The hangar bay door had been retracted, and the cutterOs aviation detail moved through the glare of the overhead strip lighting and the frosty mist of their own breath. The Long Ranger, with its floats cradled on a service trolley and heater cords plugged into its sleek flanks, stood ready to be rolled out onto the helipad. To the southeast, beyond the stern of the ship, the horizon lay outlined in a thin, steely streak of gray, pitching lightly with the ice-suppressed roll of the sea.

  It had been a long, sleepless night, consumed in fifteen-minute bites between the radio checks with Wednesday Island, the decks shuddering and bucking underfoot as Captain Jorganson staged his last-ditch assault on the ice pack. It was good to be finally taking action.

  Because of weight and space considerations, the Long RangerOs interior had been stripped of everything but the two pilotsO seats. Jon Smith supervised the securing of the teamOs equipment to tie-downs on the cabin deck: the four backpacks and frames loaded with climbing and survival gear, the SINCGARS portable radio transceiver, and the hard-sided aluminum transport case loaded with the medical and field-testing equipment.

  A pair of Coast Guard deckhands lugged the final item into the hangar bay: a dark green sausage-shaped carrier bag made out of heavy-gauge nylon.

  HereOs the last of it, sir, one of the deckhands said uneasily as they set the carrier on the deck. Possibly his unease had to do with the prominent markings on the bag:

  US ARMY GRAVES REGISTRATION

  BAGS-BODY-ONE DOZEN.

  Thanks, Seaman. The sealing tag was still in place on the carrierOs zipper. The camouflage labeling had done its job well: no one had been inclined to fool with the carrierOs contents.

  Stepping over to the bag, Smith broke the seal and ran the zip open. As the hangar bay crew looked on soberly, Smith began to pass out the carrierOs true contents, the equipment that a routine crash identification and body recovery team wouldnOt have needed.

  White camouflage snow smocks and overtrousers. Fanny packs containing Army MOPP III biochemical warfare suits and filter masks. And the weapons.

  I see youOre an aficionado of the great spray-and-pray school, Professor Metrace murmured as Randi checked out a Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine gun.

  It works for me, Randi replied briefly, clearing the breach and snapping out the stumpy little weaponOs folding stock. Ammunition?

  Six magazines, Smith replied, handing her the loaded clip pouches. Lifting the next padded case out of the bag, he unzipped it and grunted in satisfaction. TheyOd gotten him the SR-25 tactical sniper heOd asked for. Protective lens caps were clipped over the rifleOs telescopic sights, and white camo tape had been lapped around the composite stock and foregrip.

  There was something oddly familiar about the feel of this particular weapon, and Smith checked its serial number. He wasnOt mistaken; it was the same SR-25 heOd dialed in with and carried through his mountain warfare course. Fred KleinOs meticulousness had struck again.

  Valentina MetraceOs brows lifted in a connoisseurOs appreciation. Great minds work alike, Jon. I suspected it would be mountain work as well.

  The last weapon out of the carrier was a civilian sporting rifle, and a study in contrasts. The powerful optics mounted on it were new, state-of-the-art, in fact, and the rifle itself showed meticulous care, but the scarred walnut stock also bore the patina of use and age.

  What is that? Smith inquired as Valentina drew the weapon from its soft case.

  Something from my own collection, she replied, flipping open the bolt in a practiced safety check. ItOs a Winchester model 70, a genuine pre-64 action mated with one of the first of the Douglas stainless steel barrels.

  Smoothly she lifted the elegant old rifle to her shoulder, test-sighting at the sunrise out of the open hangar doors. The scope is a Schmidt and Bender three-to-twelve-power, and the chambering is for .220 Swift. The muzzle velocity with a sixty-five-grain hollowpoint is over four thousand feet per second, the accuracy can only be described as supernatural, and bullet drop is simply something that happens to somebody else. As the saying goes, they donOt make them like this anymore.

  A varmint gun, Randi sniffed.

  It all depends on how you define Ovarmint,O darling, Valentina replied darkly. Put a round of Swift in a manOs chest and you might as well be hitting him with a lightning bolt. Put one in his shoulder and you donOt get a hole; you get a sloppy amputation. IOve put a full-patch slug cleanly through the brain case of a bull crocodile at three hundred yards with this old girl, and crocodiles have very thick skulls and very small brains.

  It was SmithOs turn to lift an eyebrow. You do have some very interesting hobbies, Professor.

  Valentina smiled enigmatically as she fed sharp-tipped cartridges into the shell carrier strapped around the WinchesterOs stock. You canOt even begin to guess, my dear Colonel.

  Would you have something in there for me? Smyslov inquired, eyeing the growing array of armament.

  We didnOt pack anything, Major, Smith said. But I agree, youOre likely going to need teeth. He glanced at Valentina. In fact, I asked the professor to look into that.

  She nodded back and slung her rifle over her shoulder. Stepping to the open door of the helicopter, she produced a pistol belt, holster, and clip carrier from the pilotOs seat. Nothing particularly sexy or exotic, Major, just Coast Guard standard issue, but it should do for you.

  Smyslov slid the Beretta 92F out of its holster. Balancing the big automatic in his hand he cycled the slide experimentally. Yes, this will do, he replied, his voice thoughtful.

  A conformal foam pharmaceuticals box was the last item in the carrier, a dozen large white-capped pill bottles fitting into its niches.

  These are our just-in-case, ladies and gentlemen, Smith said, passing a bottle of antibiotic capsules to each of his teammates before securing the remainder in his medical kit. Take three now as your loading dose, then two every twelve hours, without food. TheyOll be good for what might ail you.

  May I have some of those as well, Colonel?

  Parka clad, Dr. Trowbridge had been standing back with the others in the hangar bay, watching SmithOs team arm up. Now he stood forward.

  IOm going… he started, then caught himself. I would like to go with you to the island.

  Under the circumstances I donOt think thatOs feasible, Doctor, Smith replied cautiously. We donOt know what weOre going to find when we get there. The situation could be hazardous.

  The academicOs face tightened in resolve. I donOt know what youOre going to find, either. ThatOs why I have to go. I donOt know why this is happening or why all of this was allowed to happen, but I have responsibilities. Those are my people on that island! I helped to organize and fund this expedition. I picked the membership. Whatever has happened, IOm responsible!

  My people. Smith was coming to understand those words quite well. He was opening his mouth to reply when a crewman entered the hangar bay and double-timed across to the helicopter.

  Begging the colonelOs pardon, sir, But Captain Jorganson wishes to advise you that Wednesday Island Station has missed its last radio check.

  Smith whipped up his wrist and shoved back his parka sleeve, checking his watch. How long ago?

  Ten minutes, sir. The radio shackOs been calling continuously, but thereOs no answer.

  Some of the arctic cold pierced into SmithOs guts. Damn it! Kayla Brown had almost made it to a new day.

  Thank you. You may inform Captain Jorganson we will be launching immediately. Smith turned back to Dr. Trowbridge. Three capsules now, he said, opening his medical kit, then two every twelve hours, without food.

  E

  Over the Arctic Ocean

  The sky now flamed behind the Long Ranger, a gold and scarlet ribbon across the southern horizon. It served as a vivid contrast wedged between the stark black water and white ice of the fissured pack and the lowering gray of the cloud cover. The sunrise in the south was subtly perturbing, a disruption in the natural order of things that emphasized the alienness of the world they were penetrating.

  Red sky at morning… Valentina Metrace murmured the first half of the old weather rhyme. With the helicopterOs passenger seats pulled, she, Smith, and Trowbridge did as well as they could hunkered in among the gear lashed to the deck.

  Smyslov gave up on the overhead radio panel. Nothing from the station. We should be within the reach of their short-range sets by now.

  What about auroral interference? Smith inquired.

  Building again, but the ship is still receiving us. And if the ship can hear us, we should be able to hear Wednesday.

  Why werenOt we told? Dr. Trowbridge spoke up suddenly. This was criminal! Leaving our expedition members exposed to biological weapons without a word of warning! This can be nothing but criminal!

  Your people were warned, Smith replied, repeatedly, as the communications logs will show, to stay well away from the crash site. And we were assured, repeatedly, by your office, that they were doing so. Besides, whateverOs hit your people, it wasnOt anthrax.

  Can you be so sure of that, Colonel? Trowbridge challenged.

  Yes, I can, Smith replied patiently. Let me remind you, Doctor, that I am a physician, one with a particular expertise in this field. IOve established a very close working relationship with Bacillus anthracis in recent years, and whatever has happened, that isnOt it.

  Smith turned and stared into TrowbridgeOs eyes from an eighteen-inch range, going on the offensive. Doctor, if you and your people are concealing anything about whatOs happening on that island, now would be an excellent time to come clean about it.

  The academicOs jaw flapped silently for a moment. Me? What could we possibly have to conceal?

  IOm not sure. ThatOs the problem. Could your expedition members have paid an under-the-table visit to that downed bomber? Could they have learned about its possible cargo of bioagent? Could they have passed that discovery on to somebody off island?

  Trowbridge gave a very good impression of a man totally stunned by a concept. No! Of course not! Had we had any idea that anything like that was present on the island, we would have…we would have…

  Started looking for a buyer on eBay? Valentina Metrace neatly double-teamed Trowbridge. As the academic twisted to face her, it was her turn to lock him up with a chill gaze. Doctor, I can name you half a dozen rogue states that would cheerfully empty their national treasuries to possess a bioweapons arsenal to call their very own, and itOs amazing the effect a seven-figure Swiss bank account can have on ethics and morals.