Valentina Metrace’s brows lifted in a connoisseur’s 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. “It’s 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 don’t make them like this anymore.”
“A varmint gun,” Randi sniffed.
“It all depends on how you define ‘varmint,’ darling,” Valentina replied darkly. “Put a round of Swift in a man’s chest and you might as well be hitting him with a lightning bolt. Put one in his shoulder and you don’t get a hole; you get a sloppy amputation. I’ve 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 Smith’s 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 Winchester’s stock. “You can’t even begin to guess, my dear Colonel.”
“Would you have something in there for me?” Smyslov inquired, eyeing the growing array of armament.
“We didn’t pack anything, Major,” Smith said. “But I agree, you’re 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 pilot’s 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. They’ll 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 Smith’s team arm up. Now he stood forward.
“I’m going…” he started, then caught himself. “I would like to go with you to the island.”
“Under the circumstances I don’t think that’s feasible, Doctor,” Smith replied cautiously. “We don’t know what we’re going to find when we get there. The situation could be hazardous.”
The academic’s face tightened in resolve. “I don’t know what you’re going to find, either. That’s why I have to go. I don’t 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, I’m 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 colonel’s 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 shack’s been calling continuously, but there’s no answer.”
Some of the arctic cold pierced into Smith’s 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.”
Chapter Twenty-three
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 helicopter’s 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 weren’t 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, whatever’s hit your people, it wasn’t 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. I’ve established a very close working relationship with Bacillus anthracis in recent years, and whatever has happened, that isn’t it.”
Smith turned and stared into Trowbridge’s eyes from an eighteen-inch range, going on the offensive. “Doctor, if you and your people are concealing anything about what’s happening on that island, now would be an excellent time to come clean about it.”
The academic’s jaw flapped silently for a moment. “Me? What could we possibly have to conceal?”
“I’m not sure. That’s 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 it’s amazing the effect a seven-figure Swiss bank account can have on ethics and morals.”