“Right.” He left her the SR-25 and his cartridge belt and backed to the bend in the tunnel on his hands and knees. Beyond the bend he stood and switched on the hand lantern. For a moment he considered the generator set and the Russian transmitter, then disregarded the notion. The batteries were decades dead, and the available gasoline had been reduced to wax and varnish. Even if they could get the set operational, whom could they call who would make any difference? The only way out of this mess would be one of their own making.

Smith descended into the main cavern, working toward the small puddle of light produced by the candle he had left burning.

“Colonel?”

“It’s me, Major.”

Smyslov was awake and had worked himself to a sitting position on the survival blanket. Smith knelt down and steadied the bound man with one hand. “How are you doing? Any dizziness? Double vision?”

“Nothing bad.”

“How about the cold? Getting to you? Is your circulation being cut off anywhere?”

“No. Not bad.”

“How about some water?”

“Yes, please.”

Smith gave Smyslov a swallow from his canteen. The Russian rolled the water around in his mouth and spat a glob of congealed blood to one side. “Thank you. A cigarette?”

“It’s against my principles, but under the circumstances…” Smith went through Smyslov’s pockets until he found the Russian’s smoking materials. “What does this one do?” he asked, holding up the butane lighter.

“It lights cigarettes,” Smyslov replied laconically.

“Good enough.” Smith slipped the filter tip between Smyslov’s lips and kindled it.

“Thank you,” the Russian said around the smoke. “What’s happening? I have heard gunfire.”

“Your people made a try for us,” Smith replied, returning the canteen to its pocket.

“Is the professor all right?”

“Yeah. But your side’s lost two so far.”

Smyslov closed his swollen eyes. “Shit! This was not supposed to happen!”

“What was supposed to happen, Major?”

Smyslov hesitated.

“Damn it, this situation’s already blown!” Smith said urgently. “I’m open to the possibility that something is going on here that neither of our countries really wants to have happen. Give me something to work with and maybe we can stop this thing!”

Smyslov shook his head. “No, Colonel, I’m sorry, but it is already too late. The escalation has begun. It is now inescapable.”

“Then answer me one question. Why?”

Smyslov sighed heavily. “My government has always known that the Misha 124 had gone down on Wednesday Island. They also knew that the anthrax was still aboard the aircraft and that the aircrew had survived the crash. They had succeeded in establishing radio communications with our Siberian bases. They called for rescue. But the Politburo felt that a rescue mission would present…difficulties. There were no atomic submarines at the time. Wednesday Island was beyond the range of the ski planes then available, and trying to reach the island by icebreaker would draw the attention of the Canadian and American militaries. It was feared that the United States might learn of our aborted attack on North America and you would retaliate with your own nuclear first strike. Accordingly the Misha’s political officer was ordered to eliminate all evidence of the bomber’s mission.”

“Including the crew?”

Smyslov nodded, not meeting Smith’s eyes. “Yes. The crew was considered the greatest security risk. It was feared that when they realized that no help was forthcoming from the Soviet Union, they might try to contact the Western powers for rescue. Cold and starvation are not pleasant ways to die. The Misha’s political officer was instructed to…deal with this potential threat to the state.”

“Including himself?”

Smyslov shrugged. “He was a political officer of the Strategic Attack Forces of the Soviet Union. Such men were fanatical party members. He would consider dying for the glory of Mother Russia and the Communist Revolution the greatest of honors, even if that death came by his own hand at the party’s order.”

“But the aircraft commander apparently didn’t take too well to the whole glorious-death concept.”

Smyslov half-smiled. “Apparently. The Soviet government feared that something had gone wrong when they received no final acknowledgment from the political officer verifying that he had carried out his duty, but there was nothing more they could do. They chose, as the saying goes, to ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ They hoped the wreck would simply never be found.”

“But it was.”

“Quite so, and apparently intact. My government knew the wreck would be investigated. I was attached to your team to learn if the political officer had succeeded in eliminating the evidence of the Misha 124’s mission. If not, I was supposed to see to its destruction myself. But the political officer and I have both failed. An alternative plan is now in effect to ensure the truth never reaches the outside world.”

Smith tightened his grip on Smyslov’s shoulder. “Can you order the troops outside to stand down? Or can you contact someone who has the authority to call this mess off before we take any more casualties out here?”

“I wish I could, Colonel. But the Spetsnaz have their orders from a higher authority, and I am outside their chain of command. Wednesday Island is now to be sterilized. All evidence of the Misha’s mission is to be eliminated, including the investigation team. To my government, the threat of the anthrax is lesser than the threat represented by the truth about the Misha’s mission.”

“But why?” Smith demanded. “Why all of this for something that happened over fifty years ago?”

There was a sad irony in Smyslov’s voice as he replied. “In my culture we would say ‘only fifty years ago.’ You Americans are mayflies. You forgive and forget quickly. One day you make war on a nation, and the next you are giving them foreign aid and arranging for tourist groups. It is not so in Russia and in the nations surrounding Russia. Our memories are long, and we nurse the bitter ones.

“If word got out that Russia had come within a hairsbreadth of unleashing a nuclear holocaust upon the world, even after half a century, there would be a reaction: anger, fear, retaliation-things my government does not want or need. Within your own country, there are political leaders who would remember the Cold War and would work to cut off the aid we are receiving from you. Even among our own people there would be outrage, enough perhaps to fuel further secessionism and a final collapse of our national authority.”

“And your government thinks there won’t be repercussions for killing a team of American agents and a group of innocent civilian scientists?” Smith demanded.

Smyslov shook his head. “I will not attempt to justify my nation’s actions to you, Colonel, but our leaders are afraid, and frightened men sometimes do not react sensibly.”

“Christ!” Smith rocked back on his boot heels.

“I hope you will believe me when I say this, Colonel, but I am sorry, truly sorry, you and the others were caught up in this.”

“I’m sorry, too, Major.” Smith caught up the lantern and rose to his feet. “But I’m like the bomber commander. I don’t intend to lie down and die for the convenience of the Motherland.”

“I understand. We are soldiers, the two of us. We each do what we must.”

Smith played the lantern beam in Smyslov’s face. “Could you at least tell me why the attack was launched and then recalled at the last second?”

“I cannot do that, Colonel.” Smyslov’s face was impassive as he squinted into the light. “That is a state secret even greater than that of the Misha 124.”

Smith stepped back from his prisoner. There was nothing more to be gained here, and his time was running out.

There was one possibility he had yet to fully investigate. Smith began a slow and deliberate examination of the walls of the cavern, probing with the lantern beam into the numerous crevices and fissures in the jagged lava rock. He had almost despaired of finding anything when, high up on the tumbled rear slope of the cave, beyond the cove where they had found the bodies of the aircraft commander and political officer, he spotted something that sheened palely.