The Arctic Event - Страница 4

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That was why Castilla had Klein standing by during his conference with the Russian general.

A beverage cart had been wheeled out beside the table, and a pair of shot glasses, one filled with an amber fluid and the other with water, sat at each place.

“Bourbon and branch, Sam,” Klein said, lifting his own drink. “It’s a little early in the day, but I thought you might need one.”

“I appreciate the thought,” Castilla said, sinking into his chair. “You heard it all?”

Klein nodded. “I had a clear pickup on the shotgun mike.”

“What do you think?”

Klein smiled without humor. “You’re the National Command Authority, Mr. President. You tell me.”

Castilla grimaced and lifted his drink. “As it stands, it’s a mess. And if we aren’t exceedingly careful and extremely lucky, it’s going to grow into a vastly larger mess. For certain, if Senator Grenbower gets his hands on this, the Joint Counterterrorism Act is as dead as fair play. Damn it, Fred, the Russians need our help, and we need to give it to them.”

Klein lifted an eyebrow. “In essence we’re talking about American military aid to the former Soviet Union, monetary and advisory. That still doesn’t sit well with a lot of people.”

“A Balkanized Russia wouldn’t sit well, either! If the Russian Federation disintegrates, as it is threatening to do, we could find ourselves facing Yugoslavia squared!”

Klein took a sip of whisky. “You’re preaching to the choir, Sam. The Russian devil we do know is better than the several dozen we don’t. The question, again, is, how do you want to proceed?”

Castilla shrugged. “I know how I wish we could proceed: with a squadron of Strike Eagles armed with precision-guided thermite bombs. We incinerate the damn thing where it sits, along with anything it might be carrying. But it’s too late for that. The global media knows the aircraft exists. If we simply destroy the plane outright and without a viable explanation, every foreign affairs reporter on the planet will start digging. Before we know it we’ll be facing a congressional investigation-just what we and the Russians don’t want.”

Klein alternated a taste of whisky with a sip of branch water. “I think an investigation may be the first step, Sam. At least our investigation. Everyone could be getting ahead of themselves here-you, me, the Russians. There may not be a problem at all.”

Castilla lifted an eyebrow. “How do you figure that?”

“The emergency procedure the Soviet aircrew was supposed to follow: the jettisoning of the bioagent reservoir. For all we actually know, that load of anthrax may have been rotting on the bottom of the Arctic Ocean for the past half century.

“The discovery of the wreck of a fifty-year-old Soviet bomber on an arctic island, even if it had been outfitted as a biowarfare platform, would not be an insurmountable difficulty. As you pointed out, the plane itself would be just a Cold War anecdote. What supplies the ‘flash’ to the problem, what makes it politically indigestible, is the possible presence of the anthrax. We have to find out if it’s still aboard the aircraft. We have to find out fast and we have to find out first, before some war-bird enthusiast or extreme tourist decides to have a look inside that wreck. If the bioagent isn’t aboard the plane, then everyone can relax and we can turn the entire question over to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.”

“What’s your proposal, Director?” Sam Castilla was not Sam Castilla now. He was the President of the United States.

Klein opened a thin file folder that had been resting on the table beside him. It contained hard-copy printouts downloaded from the Covert One database in the few minutes following Baronov’s departure. “According to the information available from the leader of the scientific expedition on the island, no one has yet actually reached the crash site. They’ve only photographed it from long range. This could prove exceedingly fortunate both for them and for us.

“Mr. President, I propose that we insert a small Covert One action group equipped for mountain and arctic operations. We include a biowarfare specialist, an expert on Soviet-era weapons systems, and the appropriate support personnel. We have them assess the situation and advise us on what we’re actually facing. Once we have some solid intelligence to work with we can develop a valid response scenario.”

Castilla nodded. “It makes sense to me. When do we bring Ottawa into the loop? This island-Wednesday, I think it’s called-is in the Canadian Arctic. It’s their territory. They have a right to know what’s going on.”

Klein pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You know the old saying, Sam. ‘Two men can keep a secret as long as one of them is dead.’ If we want to be serious about security in this matter, we have got to limit dispersion.”

“That’s a hell of a way to treat a neighbor, Fred. We’ve had our disagreements with the gentlemen up north, but they are still an old and valuable ally. I don’t want to risk further damage to that relationship.”

“Then let’s try this,” Klein replied. “We advise Ottawa that we’ve been approached by the Russians about the possibility that this downed mystery plane might be Soviet. We say that we aren’t sure about this. There’s a chance that it still could be one of ours and that we want to insert a joint U.S.-Russian investigation team to establish just who the aircraft belongs to. We’ll keep them advised as to what we discover.”

Klein lifted another sheet of hard copy from the file. “According to this, NOAA and the U.S. Coast Guard are supplying logistical support for the multinational science expedition on the island. The team leader is Canadian, and he’s already acting as the on-site representative for the Canadian government. We can suggest using him as our designated liaison as well. We can also ask for the expedition leader to keep his people well away from the downed aircraft until the arrival of our team, to prevent the disturbance of…say…historic relics and forensic evidence.”

“That could kill several birds with one stone,” Castilla agreed.

“The Canadian government’s resources are stretched very thin across their arctic frontier,” Klein continued. “I suspect they’d be quite content to have us tidy up this little question for them. If there isn’t an anthrax problem, then what they don’t know can’t hurt us. If there is a problem, then we can bring in the Canadian prime minister for the development-of-resolution phase.”

Castilla nodded. “I think that will be an acceptable compromise. You mentioned a joint Russian-American team. Do you think that’s advisable?”

“I suspect it will be unavoidable, Sam. They’ll want to be hands-on with anything that concerns their national security, past, present, or future. As soon as we inform Baranov that we are initiating an investigation of the crash, I’m willing to bet he’s going to insist on there being a Russian representative with our people.”

Castilla tossed back the last of his whisky, making a face at its bite. “That brings us to the next big question. Are the Russians giving us a square count on this? We know they sure as hell weren’t on the Bioaparat incident.”

Klein didn’t answer for a protracted moment. “Sam,” he said finally, “whether he answers to a czar, a premier, or a president, a Russian is a Russian is a Russian. Even post-Berlin Wall, we are still dealing with a nation where conspiracy is instinctive and paranoia is a survival mechanism. Right now, I’m willing to wager you a bottle of this good bourbon that we are not being told the whole story.”

Castilla chuckled under his breath. “Wager not taken. We’ll work to the assumption that an alternative agenda will be in play. It will be up to your people to discern just what it is.”

“I already have a couple of good primary ciphers in mind, but I may have to pull in at least one outsider specialist to back them up.”

The President nodded. “You’ve got your usual blank check, Fred. Pull in your team.”

Chapter Four

Huckleberry Ridge Mountain Warfare Training Center

Throughout the morning, small-unit war had raged across the alpine meadows and forested slopes of the Cascade range. Rock scuffed, devil’s club burned, and with their camo face paint streaking with sweat, Jon Smith and the other three members of his trainee fire team dropped into cover behind a rotten fir log.

The ridge crest lay perhaps fifty yards beyond and above their position in the tree line, up an open slope dotted with ghost-pale snags and shaggy with low brush cover. Just beyond that crest would be another open slope and another tree line and, just possibly, another fire team similar to their own. Another group of classmates designated for the day as part of Red Force, the enemy.

Nothing moved save for a few dried grass stems in the hint of a breeze. Smith, his eyes fixed on the ridge crest, began to struggle out of his rucksack harness. “I’ll be back in a minute, Corporal. I want to see if we might have some company over on the far side.”

“What do you want us to do, sir?” His assistant team leader, a gangly young paratrooper from the Eighty-second Airborne, inquired. He and the other two members of the combat patrol lay spaced out in the forest duff beside the log.

“Just sit tight,” Smith replied, distracted. “There’s no sense in anyone else breaking cover.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

Smith slithered over the top of the log. With his rifle resting across his forearms, he began to belly-slither up the slope to the crest. He’d already plotted his crawl path through the open terrain, a weaving course that would take best advantage of the deepest brush clumps and largest downed logs to maximize his concealment.