Contents ( 55)
- In Memoriam
- Epigraph
- Cast of Characters
- Americans
- Russians
- Canadian
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Weapons and Acronyms
- Weapons
- Acronyms
- About the Author
- Also by Dale Brown
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
Minutes later, Pavel Voronin climbed into a taxi. He sat back with a pleased expression as it pulled away from Prague Castle. His meeting with the CIA had gone about as well as could be hoped. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his own phone, and texted a short report to Dmitri Grishin in Moscow. “Kryuchok nazhivlen. The hook is baited.”
Eleven
Kaktovik, on Barter Island, Alaska
The Next Day
Late in the afternoon, with the sun already low on the southwest horizon, a regularly scheduled Beechcraft 1900D twin-engine turboprop came in from the east on its final approach to the island’s airport. Streamers of freshly fallen snow sprayed out from under its landing gear when it touched down. The pilot, used to winter flying in northern Alaska, slipped the props into beta, carefully used reverse thrust until his forward vision was being affected by blowing snow, then applied his brakes gently to avoid sliding off onto the tundra. Carefully, he tested their action on the slick surface as his aircraft rolled down the runway, gradually increasing his pressure on the pedals to decelerate slowly and steadily. After the turboprop came to a complete stop, it turned through a complete circle and taxied over to a small metal shed and gravel-topped parking apron that were the tiny airport’s only permanent facilities.
Just four passengers deplaned from the Beechcraft, while its crew unloaded a few bags, boxes, and bundles of mail and other general cargo destined for Kaktovik and the Barter Island radar station. They were all lean, fit-looking men shielded against the harsh weather by colorful ski parkas and dark snow pants. Each man carried a large duffel bag and a small overnight backpack.
The town’s yellow airport bus was already parked just off the apron with its engine running to provide heat for the driver, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a broad, weathered face. His vaguely Asiatic features marked him as one of the local Inuits. Smiling genially, he climbed down off the bus to help his passengers load their heavy luggage. “Don’t usually get many tourists up here at this time of year,” he commented politely. “The polar bears are all back north on the pack ice, and all we got otherwise is a whole lot of nothing much to see. Unless you got a thing for whale bones. Got a lot of them lying around in one big heap.”
They all smiled ruefully. “As a matter of fact, that bone mound is why we’re here,” one of them explained. “We work for Fish and Wildlife and someone at headquarters back in D.C. wants an updated survey to pick up any significant changes from last season.”
The bus driver nodded at that. Among its many other responsibilities, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service managed the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, which included Barter Island. “Makes sense to map it out now, I guess,” he allowed. “While the bears aren’t around. They get seriously territorial when they’re scavenging on those bones and scraps of spoiled blubber and skin.”