Arctic Gold

“In other words,” Fenton said, “they’re holding them hostage to ensure that we go along with Moscow’s agenda. They particularly want our assistance in reining in the Canadians and the Danes.”

“You’re kidding,” Rubens said.

“Unfortunately, I’m not.” Fenton gestured at a paper on Marcke’s desk, closely typewritten beneath the richly decorated letterhead of the Russian embassy. “Their ambassador gave us official notification this morning. Very politely worded, of course. But it amounts to a ransom demand just the same.”

“Publicly, we’ve been staying out of this brouhaha up north,” the President said, “and Moscow seems to have taken that as acquiescence on our part. They may see hostages-though they’d never actually call them that, of course-as a guarantee of our active support.”

It made sense in a weird way. Normally, the United States would have sided immediately with Canada, her old ally to the north, but in this recent exchange of confrontation politics over the Arctic, the U.S. had been keeping an uncharacteristically low profile. Cynics, both inside the Beltway and those writing op-ed columns, had pointed out that America had her own territorial ambitions in the Arctic. The North Slope oil fields provided just a glimpse of what riches might yet be hidden beneath the seabed north of Alaska.

The Russians might think that Washington’s support at the United Nations would resolve the issue in their favor. Holding a few Americans as “guests” while their legal status was determined might nail things down just that much more firmly.

“This situation has been brewing since the Russians planted that damned flag at the North Pole in ’07,” the President went on, “and the intelligence community has let me down big-time. Why the hell didn’t we see this coming?”

“Sir, in all fairness, our assets are stretched rather thin,” Bing said. She glanced at Thornton. “Between Iraq, the nuclear situation in Iran, Pakistan, and North Korea, and trying to contain al- Qaeda-”

“I don’t want fucking excuses, Donna!” the President said, his voice rising to a shout. “You people have been so busy playing Beltway power politics, trying to upstage each other, trying to cut each other out, pissing on the boundaries of your own turfs, you’re not delivering the results I need! This thing came out of nowhere and bit me in the ass, and I don’t like that one damned bit!”

“Sir,” Fenton said into the shocked silence following the presidential outburst, “you already have my recommendations for streamlining U.S. intelligence. It may be that by eliminating certain inefficiencies-”

“Inefficiencies my ass,” the President said. “I’m going to start eliminating some of the political deadwood around here and see what that does for inefficiencies!” He glared at them from behind the desk for a moment before continuing in a calmer voice. “Now, I’m going to say this just once. We are, all of us, on the same side, tough as it may be to recognize that fact sometimes. I want you people to stop the infighting and play nice. Pull together. Produce results I can use. Or I’ll fire the lot of you and put in people who give me what I need! Do I make myself clear?”

A mumbled chorus of, “Yes, sir,” rippled about the room. Rubens was surprised at the outburst, surprised and pleased. Marcke tended to present a laid-back and folksy outward charm that was both disarming and ingratiating, a tool he’d used to superb effect when it came time for rounding up votes, both at the polls and on the Hill. Only rarely was a steel core revealed beneath the country-boy demeanor, so rarely that the man was often castigated by the press for being wishy-washy.

“Okay? We’re on the same page? Good.” The palm of his hand slammed down on the polished oak desktop. “On to business. I’ve directed that one of our SSGNs be redeployed to the Arctic. Admiral Thornton? Tell the rest of them what you told me this morning.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Thornton cleared his throat. “Last evening, at the President’s instructions, we transmitted new orders to the SSGN Ohio, then en route for the eastern Med. Four hours later, she rendezvoused with the Pittsburgh, a Los Angeles attack sub, just south of Greenland. The two are proceeding north up the west coast of Greenland as we speak, with orders to proceed to the NOAA base and investigate the situation.

“On board the Ohio are thirty-two Navy SEALs and one of their ASDS minisubs. We do not believe the Russians have a military presence at their base in the Arctic. Not yet. The SEALs have been instructed to resolve the situation, using the threat of force if necessary.”

Rubens considered this. Thirty-two SEALs could handle any number of civilians, but how good was the intel that said there weren’t any military personnel at the site? Whoever had taken the Americans out of Ice Station Bravo must have had weapons simply to enforce compliance, and the volume of military radio traffic up there suggested a lot of movement and preparation. There were rumors of Russian submarine deployments in the region, and those might have naval troops on board. Besides, Mys Shmidta was only a three- to four-hour flight by helicopter to the south. If the Russians wanted a military presence on the ice cap, they would have one in very short order.

“I’m not sure a military option is our best choice at this time, Mr. President,” Donna Bing said. She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Perhaps we should give diplomacy more of a chance here.”

“Did you hear those intercepts from our listening station up there?” the President demanded.

“Yes, but-”

“Did you hear them?”

“Yes, sir.” She glanced at Rubens, an expression of pure venom.

“The Russians were just waiting for an excuse,” the President said. “Just waiting. Damn it, we are not going to take this lying down. If they think they can snatch our citizens out of international waters under some flimsy legalese pretext, they’re going to find themselves looking down the barrel of a gun!”

“Perdicaris alive,” Rubens said quietly, “or Rasuli dead.”

“Eh?” Marcke said. “What was that?”

“Perdicaris alive or Rasuli dead,” Rubens said again, more loudly. “One of your predecessors, sir. Teddy Roosevelt in… oh, it must have been 1904 or thereabouts. Just before the presidential election, anyway. Ion Perdicaris was a wealthy businessman representing American interests in Morocco who managed to get himself kidnapped by a Berber bandit leader named Rasuli. When Rasuli demanded a ransom from the United States-which harkened back to the old Barbary pirate way of doing business, actually-Roosevelt sent the U.S. Atlantic Squadron to Tangiers with instructions to free Perdicaris or kill Rasuli.” He smiled. “Perdicaris was released unharmed in short order. It turned out after the fact he wasn’t even an American citizen, but the Republican Party went wild at the news, and the affair helped elect Teddy.”

He didn’t add that Perdicaris had been released because a weak and vacillating Moroccan government, fearing the arrival of the U.S. fleet, had quietly paid Rasuli the seventy-thousand-dollar ransom. The story was too good to risk muddying the waters with extraneous details.

“Right, right. I seem to remember seeing a movie about that once,” the President said.

Rubens grimaced. “The Wind and the Lion,” he said. “As usual, Hollywood botched it pretty badly. Somehow, a dumpy, middle-aged Greek businessman got transformed into Candice Bergen.”

“If you please, Mr. Rubens,” Smallbourn said, “I fail to see what all of this has to do with the Arctic situation.”

“Mr. Rubens is reminding us, Roger, that we can’t give in to ransom demands,” the President said. “And that’s what the Russians are doing here… holding our people hostage in order to gain our compliance. We will not let that stand!”

“One of the captured agents, Mr. President,” Dean said, “is actually one of my people, a technical specialist on loan to the CIA.”

“And you’d like to have a hand in getting her back, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you suggest?”

“That depends on what you decide to do, sir. However, at a minimum I’d like one of my people up there. He could deploy certain devices with which to track and eavesdrop on the Russians, maybe find out where they’re holding the prisoners.”

“You have someone specific in mind, then?”

“Yes, sir. His name’s Dean. A former Marine.”

Collins made a face. “Charles Dean?” she said. “I’ve seen his folder. He’s old.”