"Then wouldn't they have had plenty of time to send a distress call before going down?" Randi inquired.
Professor Metrace shrugged slim shoulders. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But radio conditions around the Pole can be tricky. They could have encountered a magnetic storm or a dead zone that killed their transmissions."
Their low-keyed discussion broke as a waitress approached and refilled their coffee cups. When it was safe to resume, Randi inquired about the plane's crew.
"They lived, at least for a time." Once more Valentina tapped the photo print. "This was an entirely survivable landing. The crew must have gotten out. There's even evidence to that effect. The cowling of the starboard outboard engine has been removed. You can see it lying on the ice beside the wing. It was probably done to drain the oil out of the engine sump for use in a signal fire."
"But what happened to them?" Randi insisted.
"As I said, Ms. Russell, they must have survived for a time. They would have had sleeping bags, arctic clothing, and emergency rations. But eventually..." Once more the professor shrugged.
The fog swirled thickly beyond the restaurant window beside them, a chill pang pulsing through the glass. It would not have been a good death, castaway in the cold and eternal polar darkness. But then, Smith knew of few good ways to die. "How large would the crew have been?"
"For a stripped TU-4, at least eight men. In the nose you'd have the aircraft commander, the copilot, the bombardier-weapons officer, who would also have served as the plane's political officer, the navigator, the flight engineer, and the radio operator. Then, in the tail, you'd have the radar operator, possibly an observer or two, and the stinger gunner."
A thought swirled momentarily behind Valentina's steel-colored eyes. "I'd fancy having a look at the ammunition magazines of those tail guns," she murmured, almost to herself.
"You'll get the chance, Professor," Smith replied.
"Make it Val, please," she responded with a smile. "I only use 'professor' when I'm trying to impress a grants committee."
Smith gave an acknowledging nod. "Okay, Val, is there any indication of the anthrax still being aboard?"
She shook her head. "Impossible to tell. In a bioequipped TU-4A, the reservoir would have been mounted here, in the forward bomb bay. As you can see, the fuselage is intact. The containment vessel itself would have been made of stainless steel and would have been built like a bomb casing, sturdy enough to survive at least a moderate crash impact."
"Could it have leaked?" Randi inquired. "The reservoir, I mean. Could the crew have been exposed to the anthrax while in flight? Maybe that's what forced them down?"
Smith shook his head. "No. That couldn't have been it. Bacillus anthracis is a comparatively slow-acting pathogen. Even with a high concentration of inhalational anthrax in a closed environment, the incubational period would still be at least one to six days. Anthrax also responds well to massive doses of prophylactic antibiotics. By 1953 the Russians would have had access to penicillin. A biowar crew would have been equipped to handle an accidental exposure. Anthrax only gets ugly if you aren't set up to deal with it or if you don't recognize it for what it is."
"How ugly?"
"Very. Without immediate treatment, the mortality rate for inhalational anthrax is ninety to ninety-five percent. Once the germinated spores infest the lymph nodes and start to elaborate toxins, even with full antibiotic and supportive medical care, there's still a seventy-five percent probability of death."
Smith sat back in his chair. "Needless to say, I'll have enough doxycycline in my kit to treat a small army, along with a serum that can give a short-lived immunity. Working at USAMRIID I've also been inoculated with the anthrax vaccine. Have either of you?"
The two women looked at him, wide-eyed, shaking their heads.
Smith smiled grimly. "Oh, well, if you see any fine, grayish-white powder lying around, better let me deal with it."
Valentina Metrace lifted her elegantly sculpted eyebrows. "I wouldn't think of denying you, Colonel."
"My preliminary briefing indicated that there might be two metric tons of this stuff aboard that plane," Randi said. "That's over four thousand pounds, Jon. What would that translate to in area effectiveness?"
"Let's put it this way, Randi. You could carry enough anthrax spores in your purse to contaminate the entire city of Seattle. The Misha 124's warload would have been adequate to blanket the entire East Coast."
"Given a perfect distribution pattern of the agent, that is," Professor Metrace interjected. "That's always been the