“The Baranof Island entrance has been obliterated and has a radioactive seal. It will take two years to bring it to a level of contamination repair that would permit people to work there without full protective clothing.” Stroyev laughed softly.

Yusoff grunted. “And what about diplomatic blowback? Did you cover your tracks?”

“Of course. We even planted some communication chatter online from our Middle East agents, hinting at a terrorist cell. They’ll be chasing their tails for years. It’s over, Minister; they’re sealed in.” Stroyev laughed again. “No one will be climbing out of that hole anytime soon.”

“Then our friend Mironov is trapped and sealed in a tin can with our agent. Today is a good day.” Yusoff poured some vodka into a small glass.

“Well, Minster, maybe not trapped… just yet.” Stroyev’s words halted Yusoff’s glass at his lips.

“What?”

“Our agent has informed me that the Americans have drilled secret communication and supply tubes down to the underground sea all across the Alaskan continent. I think it would be good if we got to them before Mironov does,” Stroyev said.

Yusoff laugh was like grinding stones. “Trust that wily old fox to ensure he has a few rat runs hidden in his maze.” He put his glass down. “Listen carefully; you find those communication pipes. You make sure that if Mironov ever makes it to them, he is given nothing but dead air, understand?”

“Of course, Minister.” Stroyev’s voice had the appropriate level of servility.

“Contact me when you have news.” Yusoff disconnected the line and sat back. He quickly lifted his glass, downing the shot in a gulp. “So, we move our chess pieces around, Valery. But there is a difference; I have all the time in the world, and for you, the clock is ticking.”

Yusoff poured himself another glass and lifted it. “Salute, Valery.”

*   *   *

Sonya Borashev was on her feet; throat raw from screaming into the phone at subordinates, FBI insiders, colleagues, and anyone she thought needed an extra dose of urgency.

The nuclear explosion on the cliff-top site was centered directly over the access hole they had drilled. It was a tactical nuclear device, packed down to around one-point-one kilotons. But still, the size wasn’t the issue, it was the contamination – the detonation’s particle footprint meant it was a neutron bomb, a low-yield thermonuclear weapon where a burst of neutrons generated by a fusion reaction is intentionally allowed to escape the device’s housing, poisoning its surroundings.

Sonya paced, working through the options outlined to her: they could vacate the site, seal it, and leave it for the elements to clean up over a generation. Next option was a standard decon-job – that would shrink the time to make it habitable down to a few years. But then they’d need to rebuild the crane and other superstructure required, plus do all the work in Level-A HAZMAT suits.