site and the science station. At last, they had the full picture of all they were facing. Only it wasn't an attractive one.
Valentina opened the gun cleaning kit and took the model 70 across her knees. "What are we going to do about it, Jon?" she said, opening the bolt and dumping the shells out of the magazine trap.
"Frankly, that's an excellent question. We've got two bands of hostiles out there, both of whom outgun us and both of whom have a vested interest in killing us on sight."
Smith closed the heavy-duty zip on his medical kit and slouched back against the ice wall. "One valid strategy is to do nothing. We've got good concealment and shelter here, and last night's storm would have erased our trails. We've also been out of communication for too long. There was a Mike force standing by in Alaska, and it's probably inbound right now. If we sit tight and stay quiet for the next few hours, the odds are we won't be found until after the cavalry arrives."
Randi came up on one elbow. "But that concedes the anthrax to Kretek. He's expecting the arrival of outside forces. He's wired that into his planning. I heard his people talking about it. By timing off the weather and the flight distances, he figures he can get up to the wreck, pull the bioagent reservoir, and get out before he can be interfered with. And given the way he's outfitted, I think he has a pretty good chance of doing it."
Smith nodded. "I'll agree with that assessment. If Kretek is going to be stopped, we have to be the ones to do it."
Smith shifted his position and idly fished something silver out of his pocket, Smyslov's cigarette lighter/radio transponder. "Major, here's a question for you. Could you bring your Spetsnaz over to our side? In the face of the threat of the anthrax falling into terrorist hands, could you get them to help us against Kretek and his people?"
An expression akin to despair crossed the Russian's face. "I have been thinking of this as well, Colonel. But in the eyes of my government the bioweapons aboard the Misha are entirely secondary to the security of the March Fifth Event. That was made most clear to me in my own mission briefing. The Spetsnaz platoon commander will no doubt have been given specific orders to this effect from a higher command. I have no authorization to change those orders, and he will be aware of it. He will view you and your knowledge as the primary threat, not the anthrax."
"What about getting those orders changed?" Smith insisted.
The Russian shook his head. "Impossible within our time frame and probably impossible altogether. I would have to contact the Spetsnaz force, then I would have to arrange a rendezvous with the submarine that transported them here to get access to long-range communications. Then I would have to convince my superiors to overturn a fifty-year-old standing security policy." Smyslov grimaced a bitter smile and shrugged. "Even if I somehow succeeded in this miracle, the anthrax would be gone long before I could get the orders changed. In all probability you and the ladies would be long dead as well."
"How about working on the tactical level, leaving your government out of it? What are the odds of us convincing your platoon leader that it's in the best interest of all involved to focus on the anthrax threat?"
Again Smyslov shook his head. "You might find that degree of flexibility among the Special Forces commanders of your army, Colonel, but not of mine. In the Russian military, good junior officers do not think, they obey, and this Spetsnaz leader will be a very good junior officer."
"What about you, Major?" Valentina interjected, running a cleaning rod down the Winchester's barrel. "You're thinking."
Smyslov smiled wearily and shrugged. "Dear lady, I'm thinking maybe I am not such a good Russian military officer. Beyond that, you shot the hell out of that Spetsnaz platoon yesterday and you humiliated its commander. He is not going to view you with favor."
"I can empathize with his feelings." Smith idly flipped the top of the transponder lighter open and shut with his thumb, his eyes drifting around the green-lit interior of the little cave, taking stock of his available assets.
Randi ran her own mental inventory. Two rifles, one pistol, maybe two hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition, and four combatants, one of whom was disabled by cold and exhaustion, and another crippled