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“Sure.”

“I mean it, Jake. Anything you need up there, you let me know. Gard Roberts can be a pissant.”

“I’ll remember, Walt. Thanks.”

As Nancy approached, Selby said, “Just leaving, pretty lady. As becomes my rank, character and influence, I shall engage in some serious drinking with the ever-ready warriors of the infamous 82nd.”

He winked at her and moved toward a group near the Christmas tree.

She handed Caffey a small glass of punch. “Here, you need to hold something. You look like a bored doorman the way you stand with your hands behind your back.”

“I feel like a doorman. Look, let’s slip out of here—”

“Not now. You haven’t met some of these people. There’s a Mr. Whorley from Congressman Gilbert’s staff and—”

“I met Whorley,” Caffey said with a strained smile. “I’ve been watching him watching you. The little prick’s spilled his drink twice trying to get a better look at your cleavage. Not that he has to try very hard. Did you have to wear that dress?”

“I don’t have my Eskimo sealskins yet, darling,” she said viciously. “What was so amusing with the general, if I might ask? Something about me?”

“We were talking about kids. Deedee, as a matter of fact.”

“Did you remember her?”

Caffey let out a sigh. “Nancy, please.”

“I don’t know how he ever got to be a general. He doesn’t act like one.”

“Walt Selby is the finest—”

“Yes, of course, dear,” she said, nodding impatiently. “Now, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Nancy raised up on her tiptoes to see. “Yes, there they are. Bill and Mary Tretton. They have a son at Harvard. Bill’s a major contributor to—”

“I’m leaving,” Caffey cut in. He drained his glass of punch. “My feet hurt and my shirt is soaking wet.”

“Jake, you can’t leave!”

“Watch.”

“If you think—”

Caffey turned to her. With quiet menace he said, “What I think is this, Nancy. I’m tired. I want to get out of these clothes and spend some time with our daughter before I have to leave this place. You stay here. You’re better at this than I am. It’s what you live for, anyway. So you just entertain until the punch gives out. I’ll be at home.”

“Goddamn you,” she said in a low breath.

“Yes, I love you too, dear.” He handed her the empty punch glass. “My flight leaves at 0130. I hope I see you before I go. I would kind of like one of those old-fashioned airport send-offs. You know, wife kisses husband with tear in her eye as he marches off to duty. I know it’s utter melodrama and shamelessly sexist, but what the hell… I’m a sonofabitch like George Pat-ton, a workaholic like George Marshall and an egomaniac like George Custer. What can you expect?” Then he kissed her lightly on the cheek and left.

JONES’S STRIP

NORTH SLOPE

0830 HRS

Remnants of a wind sock flapped violently as snow flurries whipped across the small runway. In the distance, above two abandoned metal hangars, the outline of Mt. Doonerak was barely visible through the haze. At the near end of the runway smoke escaped in swirling gusts from the chimney of a tiny log cabin attached to a Quonset hut. The only other sign of life was a Husky pawing for better refuge against the wind beneath the skeletal remains of a Cessna tail section.

The Pathfinder patrol leader gave a quick hand signal. Several meters away, what appeared to be a lump of snow moved. Then another. They made no sound in the lash of wind.

Arnold Jones adjusted the squelch on the shortwave set, making a face as a piercing bit of static blasted from the speaker. He was sitting before what his wife called his “radio things,” though more accurately they were a considerable investment in high-and low-band-frequency radio transceivers. Jones had been a ham operator for more than thirty-five years. He’d developed lasting friendships with people he’d never met from Cape Town to Perth. He’d spoken to Albert Schweitzer at his Lambarene hospital in 1948 and to Dr. V. E. Fuchs at the South Pole on his historic first land-crossing of Antarctica in 1958.

He’d talked to folks tens of thousands of miles away, but at the moment he was having trouble getting the powerful station at Fairbanks just 260 miles south of his little strip.

The voice Jones had lost finally returned but it was still weak, competing through storm-inspired static with severe high-band twang. “Fairbanks to Poppa seven-niner-zero. Fairbanks to—… ven-niner-zero.

You still—… oppa?”

“Hel-lo, Fairbanks,” he said with exaggerated enunciation. “You-are-weak-and-break-king-up. Howdo-you-read? Over.”

“Same-same,” came the fading voice. “Better—… this fast. What is your sit—… tion? Over.” Jones noted the wind gauge mounted on the wall over the radio. “Reading eighteen knots from the southwest. Gusts to twenty-five. Looks like a dandy on the way. Over.” He stared at the speaker several moments waiting for a response. The interference was heavy enough to cut with a knife.

“Say again direc—… please.”

Jones held the microphone closer to his lips. “Southwest-at-one-eight. Again. Southwest-at-eight-teen. One-eight-knots. Over.” Martha Jones walked sleepily from the bedroom. She went to her husband, yawned, folded the top of her flannel robe together and kissed him on the forehead. She was sixty-four yesterday and they’d celebrated the event last night in bed after a dinner of turkey and beans and red wine from California.

Just like they’d done every year since she was twenty-two.

Martha settled into a nearby chair. “Fairbanks?”

Jones nodded.

“I copy.” The radio voice crackled. “One-eigh — ots. You folks—… kay? Over.”

“Fine, thanks.” Arnold winked at his wife. “Over.”

“Tell them what a sexy old goat you are, Arnold William Jones,” Martha teased.

“I’m the one should still be in bed,” he whispered.

“Better throw another log on the fire, folks,” the voice announced in a sudden burst of clarity. “Better batten down up there. We’ve got a low-pressure front moving north through the Aleutians. Most—” The rest was drowned out as the interference reasserted itself.

“Young fella thinks we never saw a blow before, mother,” Jones said. He flipped on his microphone. “I-read-you-Fairbanks. Thanks-for-the-warning. Poppa-down. Seven-niner-zero-out.” Jones set the mike back in its place and switched off the sets. “Well, that’s it until Thursday.”

Martha walked to the kitchen side of the cabin. “Hungry?”

“Like a bear.” He rubbed his back. “Sore, too.”

“You’re an old man.” She started water in the sink. “Pancakes or eggs?”

“Both, I think. Suppose I could shave before breakfast?”

“Ten minutes, then I start without you.”

He got up from his chair and was nearly to the bedroom when the Husky suddenly started barking.

Jones stopped at a window, rubbed a circle in the foggy glass. “Damn.”

“What is it?”

“Wolves, I ‘spect. Storm’s got ‘em running in circles. Better give ‘em a shot to skedaddle.” He went to the fireplace and took down a high-powered rifle from the rack. “I’ll get Jude in. She’ll bark herself hoarse with a hunting pack in the vicinity.” He took a frayed parka from the peg beside the door, zipped it up and chambered a round in the rifle. “Be back in a jif.” The Pathfinder leader fired at nearly point-blank range as the man came out of the cabin. He’d been flattened against the side of the cabin beside the door, four or five feet out of range of the dog’s reach on its chain. The Husky was in a rage, up on its hind legs, straining against the tether, jumping, barking, its teeth flashing. The animal wasn’t so excited that he was there, the Pathfinder guessed, as that he was there with a weapon. When the door opened, the Russian darted to one side, leveling the submachine gun about waist-high and fired half a clip into the stranger, which nearly cut him in half. He never saw the man’s face. Another Pathfinder killed the dog as the leader and three others rushed inside. An old woman in a green robe turned toward him as he crashed in. Her expression was sudden surprise, not fright, and she began to raise a hand to her head when one of the others shot her. It was a quick burst.