Outside, the quiet air seemed mild in comparison to the cold-fanged wind of yesterday. Directly overhead, the blue of a clear sky filtered down through the mist and the terrain around the station was swiftly regaining definition and color. As was frequently the case, the morning’s sea smoke was dissipating as rapidly as it had come on. The men’s voices lifted in exuberance, and their movements quickened in automatic response to the coming sun.
Kretek and Vlahovitch were just starting their trudge out to the landing ground when one of the perimeter sentries yelled an alarm.
A figure stood atop the antenna knoll-a small, slender figure clad in red ski pants and a floppy, oversized green sweatshirt, its hood drawn over her head. She looked down at the station and its startled inhabitants for a moment more; then she turned and was gone, dropping out of sight down the far side of the hill, a hasty burst of gunfire futilely chasing after her.
Kretek turned on Vlahovitch, massive fists engulfing the front of his lieutenant’s parka. For a moment Vlahovitch thought he was a dead man.
“So if she didn’t die then, she had to die later!” Kretek’s glare burned red-eyed with the focused rage of a charging boar. “I want her dead this time, Mikhail! For certain! Now!” He converted his grip into a shove. “Get after her!”
“At once, sir! Lazlo! Prishkin!” Vlahovitch lifted his voice in a half-strangled shout. “You and your fire teams, follow me! Move, you bastards! Move!”
Unslinging his submachine gun, Vlahovitch fled as much as he started to chase, laboring up the hill toward the place where the figure had disappeared. You simply did not fail Anton Kretek in this kind of catastrophic fashion and survive. Even if he succeeded in catching and killing the girl now, the odds of his getting off Wednesday Island alive were not good. But if he failed to bring her head back, they were nonexistent.
Valentina Metrace kept to the hard-packed and flagged station trails. Wallowing in the soft unbroken drifts would be slow death. There were several inches of fresh snow in the bottoms of the trail troughs, but she had the legs and lungs to cope with it. She kept in trim by running two or more miles daily, and not mere roadwork, but steeplechase orienteering over broken ground. In the field, she could match the old ivory hunter’s standard of twenty miles from dawn to dusk, walking and trotting, while carrying a light rucksack and a heavy-caliber rifle.
For this run though she was traveling light: clothes, knives, a single white camo survival blanket, and a steel signaling mirror. It enhanced her mobility edge over her more heavily laden pursuers.
After allowing herself to be seen, Valentina had angled down to the main trail along the island’s southern shoreline. Heading eastward, she alternated between an easy jog and a fast walk, carefully managing her breathing, ground coverage, and energy reserves. She had the edge here as well. She knew how far she had to go, how rapidly she needed to get there, and what was going to happen once she arrived.
She stayed focused on the trail ahead, taking care with each step and keeping to the easiest, safest, and most efficient path. For the moment a fall and a twisted ankle was all she needed to fear.
Looking back over her shoulder would be a waste of energy and distance. She’d had a good hundred yards’ lead at the start, and by the time her surprised pursuers could have reached the hilltop to acquire her trail, she would have lengthened that out.
The men coming after her would also be “blown” by their climb and would need to get their breath back. More time and space in her favor. As long as she kept moving, there was little chance they could get within pistol-caliber range before she’d drawn them into the target zone. All she had to do was to stay in their sight and keep them chasing and not thinking.
Of course, all this was predicated on Jon’s plan working and on Randi’s observation that the arms smugglers hadn’t brought a sniper with them. If either of them were wrong…There was no sense in worrying about it. If they were, she’d find out presently. As she ran along the landward edge of the piled shore ice she tossed a three-fingered Girl Guide’s salute to the rocky point of land a mile ahead.
Chapter Forty-nine
South Coast, Wednesday Island
“How are you doing?” Smith glanced across the compacted snow foxhole.
“I say again, I’m just fine!” Randi snapped back. “God, Jon, don’t hover!”
“You’re getting cranky,” Smith approved. “That’s a good sign.”
“I’m not…” She caught herself, then grinned sheepishly. “Really, I’m okay. You’re a good doctor.”
They were forted up atop a point of land that buckled outward from the southern flank of the island, a position that gave them both concealment and an overwatch of the shoreline to the east and west. Over the past few days the grip of the pack had solidified, the only differentiation now between the sea and shore being that the sea ice was the more broken and irregular.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Thanks. I’ve been out of general practice for a while and I was afraid my technique was a little rusty.”
Randi lifted a hand off the stock of Valentina’s model 70 and wriggled her gloved fingers. “None of them have fallen off yet.”
“Still, I want you to see a good dermatologist when we get out of here. You might sluff some skin, and your hands are going to have to be watched for infection.”
Randi sighed in a swirl of vapor. “Jon, trust me, your technique isn’t rusty in the least. You can fuss as well as any doctor I have ever known! Sophia would be proud of you.”
There was a silent pause; then Randi took the awkwardness out of the moment with another smile. “She really would be, you know.”
The moment was broken by the scrabble of boots and gloves on ice. Staying low in a fast hands-and-knees crawl, Gregory Smyslov snaked into the foxhole beside them. The Russian had established a second observation post deeper along the point that provided a better view eastward.
“It has worked,” he said, panting a little. “Spetsnaz. Coming toward us along the coast trail.”
“Where are they?
“About a kilometer out, at the foot of the trail down from West Peak.”
Smith glanced first at his watch and then toward a mound of snow at the edge of the foxhole. The cigarette lighter/transponder sat atop it, its antenna extended. “It’s working. We’re tolling them in. And the timing should be pretty good. How many?”
“Six. They must have split their force again.”
“Damn! I was hoping for the whole platoon.” Smith reached across and collected the transponder. Collapsing its antenna, he pocketed it. It had served its purpose.
“The others are probably following,” Smyslov added.
“Maybe, but they might not get here in time to do us or themselves any good. Let me have the glasses.”
Smyslov unslung the binocular case and passed it to Smith. Coming up on his knees, Smith aimed the field glasses westward toward the science station, tracking along the flag-marked coastal trail.
“Can you see her yet, Jon?” Randi inquired.
“Not yet…Wait a minute. Yeah! There she is. She’s running.”
In his magnified field of view he could make out Valentina trotting along, seemingly at ease, the red and green of her clothing, or rather Randi’s clothing, making her stand out against the sun-washed white of the terrain. Again the timing was about what he had hoped for. Elevating the glasses farther, he could make out the knoll with its radio mast that overlooked the science station. Smoke seemed to be rising from behind the hill, and on the side facing them flyspeck figures moved. A line of men hastened down toward the shoreline, pursuing that other small, colorful dot that moved toward Smith’s position.