The helo banked and edged around the flank of the stark icy massif of the volcano, buffeted by the winds that would swirl about its frozen summit. White clouds streamed over the top of the ragged highlands, deeply cratered with the old cinder cones that had once been volcanic hot spots. Fedorov had good sea legs, but he hated flying, particularly in these grim arctic conditions where any mishap over the ocean would likely mean a freezing death within minutes. As the chopper swept in, descending, they saw a drab, empty lowland connecting the more rocky handle of the island in a narrow neck that seemed to be swamped by seawater, but the lagoon was actually ice water from the summer runoff.
“Cameras on, please,” said Fedorov as he held a pair of high power field glasses to his eyes. This time they would not broadcast a signal back to Kirov, to preclude the possibility that it might be intercepted and spoofed. They were recording direct to disk. Their first observation of the unknown surface action group to their south had been at extreme long range, a live video feed, and the men aboard never got close enough to verify the footage filmed with their own eyes. This time it would be different.
Fedorov could see the black volcanic soil resolve to rusty brown and dreary green as the lowland slowly gained elevation further south. He had visited this station several times in the past, once with Rodenko, who helped with the compilation of the ship’s weather report. The new Met station was painted out in exactly these colors, so it would be difficult to spot from a distance. The station at Olonkin should be much easier to pick out, he thought, as its buildings were all silver aluminum siding. Yet, as the helo descended, it was what he did not see that set his heart thumping with anticipation. There was no road running along the dark, muddied shore of the island, and no sign of any buildings at all. The long brown air strip at the edge of the low island neck was not there either.
“There,” said Fedorov over the whirl of the helo props. He pointed to an area just beyond the thick volcanic head of the island, right where it joined to the flat lowland handle. “That metal framework there. Can you get closer?”
The pilot descended, and they saw what looked like the old steel framework of a roof structure, its wood beams burned away and dark stains of smoke evident on the brighter metal. Then they saw a man emerge from behind a pile of black basalt and volcanic rocks with a husky dog restrained by a leather leash. He seemed to be staring up at them, his goggled eyes shielded by a thick gloved hand. Another man emerged with a rifle, and Orlov frowned.
“Can you set us down here?” said Fedorov.
“Why here?” asked Orlov. “Where is the weather station?”
“Admiral’s orders,” said Fedorov, playing the only trump card in his hand with the gruff Chief. His heart was racing, amazed at what he was sure he was discovering. There would be no further argument after this, he thought. Even Karpov would be convinced.
“The place looks like a war zone,” said Orlov. He pointed to obvious signs in near the area that looked like freshly cratered soil.
“Very well,” said Orlov. “Secure this area after landing, Sergeant Troyak. And disarm that man!”
The helo set down on a flat muddy area and the cold arctic air swept in when the marines slid back the rear doors and leapt out in their white parkas and thick caps with heavy ear muffs. They carried a carbine variant of the AK-74M airborne compact assault rifle, fully automatic, with 60 round casket magazines. The troops fanned out, with two men dropping low to take up overwatch firing positions, their weapons aimed at the Norwegians, who gaped in awe at the scene, their eyes still mostly on the amazing sight of the helicopter with its twin overhead counter-rotating props.
To them it looked like some huge insect, a dark wasp buzzing fitfully in the cold air. The strange overhead rotors swirled, kicking up flecks of snow and frosting them with the icy wash of their rotation. Yet there was no mistaking the gleaming metal of a long cannon protruding from the nose of the craft. They stared, utterly amazed at what they were seeing. Only the dog continued barking, prompting Orlov to lunge at the animal, which only made the situation worse.
The single armed Norwegian noted the odds and quickly lowered his rifle. The marines fanned out, surrounding the zone, and Sergeant Troyak shouldered his weapon, saluting the Norwegians briskly to offer the barest courtesy before stepping up and impudently searching the first man’s pockets. The husky snarled and growled, but Troyak ignored it completely, not intimidated in the slightest. Fedorov leapt out, intent on getting to the underground station to see if he could get some photos. He pulled out the digital camera the Admiral had handed him before he left the bridge, giving him a wink as he said “let’s see if NATO can spoof this!”
He spotted a small anemometer, spinning over the crumbled ruins to measure wind speed along with a wind sock, and quickly made his way to the rickety lean-to, seeing a third man there, which he placated with a friendly smile, as he snapped off photos. The man gave him an incredulous look, and Troyak, having searched the first two men, was soon at Fedorov’s side to fish into the pockets of this last man. He handed Fedorov a small dog-eared notebook, and the navigator also noticed a newspaper folded between two pieces of antiquated weather equipment, a barometer and a stolid wooden box which he took to be a hygrometer to measure the moisture in the air.
Again, it was what he did not see that set his mind racing. If this was a field post set up for special measurements, there was no modern equipment here, no satellite phones, digital gauges or monitors, no wireless equipment, though he did see what looked like an old tube-style radio set, which he photographed. There were no ultraviolet sensors or radiation detectors either. He reached for the newspaper, tucking it quickly into his parka, then pulled out two chocolate bars and a pack of cigarettes and handed them to the dumbfounded Norwegian in compensation. Two more photos of the equipment and he had all he needed to find here.
“Let’s go,” he said to the Sergeant, “I want to look for the main facility.” He nodded warmly to the Norwegians and ran back to the helo.
Troyak’s men slipped back, two by two, until the Sergeant boarded last, eying the Norwegians darkly as he did so. He had taken the man’s rifle as well. A moment later the KA-226 revved up its twin rotors and rose in a swirl of wind, ascending quickly and then angling speedily off to the south. Fedorov looked back, seeing the three Norwegians clustered together as they left, pointing and talking amongst themselves, and he waved with a wry smile.
They continued searching for some time, yet saw no sign of any other building or installation on the pan- handle. Fedorov had a map detailing the locations of the modern day airfield, roads and ‘Olonkin City,’ as it was called which was really just a scattering of ten to twelve linked buildings. Nothing was there.
“Where is the weather station?” said Orlov.
“It should be right there,” Fedorov pointed to an empty stretch of land near southernmost end of the lowland flats between the two more elevated segments of the island.
“Are you sure you have the right place?”
“I'm a navigator, Mister Orlov,” said Fedorov. “I can read a map.”
“You can’t tell me NATO has hidden this facility just for this exercise. What is going on here?”
They flew down as far as Kapp Wein, Cape Vienna as it was called, with its distinctive off-shore rock formations. “Let’s get home,” said Fedorov. “There’s nothing more to see here and the weather isn’t getting any better. May I use the radio, sir? The Admiral ordered me to report as soon as we concluded our investigation.” He was looking with great interest on the identity card the Siberian sergeant had taken from one man. It was an old style card, unlaminated, with no barcode or digital tape to be scanned, and no hologram for security. It was just a typewritten card, and from the looks of it an old style typewriter had been used. The name was Ernst Ullring.
“Very well,” said Orlov. “Pilot, take us back to Kirov.”
Fedorov was on the radio at once. He had little to say, as the Admiral had given him clear instructions.
“You see this book you lent me?” the Admiral had said to his navigator. “You need only tell me whether I should be wasting my time with it or not.”
Fedorov was to use an encrypted channel and he spoke a few brusque sentences. “Scout one reporting, repeat. Scout one reporting. You may wish to do some further reading, sir. We are inbound now, ETA 0400 hours.”
Part IV
