Chapter 1

THE ARCTIC OCEAN, NEAR THE 170th PARALLEL

The boat sat motionless on the calm sea. The sapphire blue sky of the Arctic midnight, with its multitude of twinkling bright stars, conspired to mock the weak sun on the distant horizon. Around the boat, glacial cliffs towered.

“Can anyone make out the registry?” the young man asked.

He was a stocky blond with a Geiger counter in one hand and binoculars in the other. He stood at the railing of the Rainbow Warrior; an old fishing boat converted to the flagship vessel of the Green movement. At the railing were his two confederates: an intense, dark-haired woman named Sylvia, and a bear-like Russian named Belov. All wore heavy parkas, mufflers and fleece lined hats and gloves.

The boat of which the blond man spoke was a salvage vessel, moored just inside a small, natural harbor. The Rainbow Warrior lay just outside, all lights extinguished.

“Not me,” said the Russian in a thick accent. “I think my eyeballs are frozen solid.” He lowered his binoculars and rubbed the hollows of his eyes. A crackling sound accompanied the loss of rhyme encasing his eyebrows. He blew inside each glove to warm his palms, flexing his nerveless fingers. The glove leather creaked.

In the distance, a group of men on the salvage vessel lowered and swung out a boom. Floodlights illuminated divers in the water. For his part, the young blond could not fathom how anyone could dive in water technically below freezing. Just the thought made him shudder. His binoculars trained on a pair of wet-suited divers submerged with hoist cables.

“How about you, Sylvie?” the blond man said.

The dark-haired woman threw him a glare. She obviously did not like the man, nor his use of a nickname. All three seemed on edge.

“It’s blacked out,” she said. “Whatever they’re up to, it’s no goddamned good.”

The Russian grunted agreement.

The sound of an engine echoed across the intervening distance and the same two divers guided hoist cables out of the water. The blond lowered his binoculars and checked the yellow radiation detector.

“Background radiation is nearly a hundred times normal,” he said tightly. “They’re harvesting reactor cores. They must be.”

“We don’t know that!” objected the Russian. “There’s no evidence of--”

The blond man cut him off. “How about a thirty-year-plus history of Soviets dumping nuclear waste and old reactors into the Kara, the Barents, the Sea of Japan, so why not the Arctic? Who knows how many of these graveyards there are, Belov?”

“I swear, I was not there. I had a cold that day,” said in the Russian, clearly amused.

The woman cut brusquely across their conversation. “Something’s wrong!”

The men refocused on the salvage ship, where crewmen raced across the deck and divers scrambled onto the platform. A klaxon sounded and suddenly the Geiger counter in the blonde’s hand squealed, readings off the scale. Startled, he dropped it on the deck.

“Shit!” the woman exclaimed.

Water boiled up beneath the salvage boat and sailors began to scream. No sooner had the last of the divers struggled onto the platform than the sea erupted, hurling them back into the water. The vessel heaved, the over-stressed keel snapping with the sharp clap of a cannon. A colossal explosion followed, sending huge chunks of the ship rocketing skyward on fiery tails. Half a dozen of these chunks splashed down around the eco-warrior’s, throwing up gouts of water.

“Chain reaction!” the woman yelled. “Hold on tight!”

A violent shock wave rocked the Rainbow Warrior, rolling it forty-five degrees to starboard. The three observers were hurled away from the railing down the sloping deck, toward the icy sea below. All three scrambled for handholds as huge blocks of ice, blasted from the cliff above the salvage vessel’s position, plummeted onto and around the ship.

With a cry, the blond slid feet first through the railings on and came to an abrupt halt, a foot above the water. He stared in disbelief at the binoculars’ leather strap, caught on the point of a sprung deck plate, temporarily saving his life. He scrambled back aboard as the ship struggled to right itself again.

Halfway up the deck, the woman named Sylvia clung fiercely to an instrument mounting protruding from the deck. The instrument was now gone. The Geiger counter, caught on the coming of the forward hold, squealed madly. Smoke poured from below decks; the Russian was nowhere to be seen.

“Sylvia! Are you all right?” It was the blond, making his way slowly toward her across the canted deck as the ship righted itself. The woman turned and looked toward the carnage that had once been a two-hundred-foot-long vessel. Only the stern remained visible, slipping slowly beneath the waves. Above it, the face of the glacier seemed to be burning.

“Look at that! The ice can’t burn! It can’t burn!”

A wide, jagged fissure opened above the flames, and from it belched a red-black waterfall, igniting as it encountered the fire below. The blazing fluid hit and spread across the water, burning with a caustic stench, and a sickening, oily yellow-green glare.

“Oh, my God,” the woman muttered. “It’s bleeding! The fucking glacier is bleeding.”

SOUTH NAPLES, FLORIDA

The Florida night was anything but arctic. At the Llewellyn household in South Naples, the windows of the master bedroom were open, but the curtains barely stirred. A battery powered fan on a bedside table labored to circulate stagnant air. The bed was void of occupants but showed recent occupation. A person touching the sheet would find it suspiciously damp. A surprised “Hey!” emanated from the floor, followed by a low giggle.

“I thought we got on the floor to cool off, dear.”

“Oh, gee. I’m sorry. I’ll stop,” answered a man’s voice.

“I didn’t say stop.”

Swathed to their waists in a sheet were a naked man and a naked woman. Both exhibited signs of recent sexual activity. The woman’s long black hair was back in a ponytail, but her disarrayed bangs lay plastered to her forehead. Her body glistened with a fine patina of sweat, slowly drying. She tickled the light crop of hair on her husband’s chest with her left hand; “Mmmm,” she said, softly, using her right hand to tickle something else.

“I like that. Don’t stop.”

“You’d like it even better if I-” The telephone rang, rudely cutting off her words.

Keith exclaimed: “Its the power company calling back! About time, too,” he muttered, reaching for the handset. It was the third time in two years that the transformer on the pole at the curb had short-circuited. At least it hadn’t caught fire this time.

Jill glanced quickly at the bedroom door. Was it locked? She jumped up to make sure, and as she crossed the room, she felt her husband watching her backside, enjoying the sensation. Eighteen years of marriage hadn’t affected his appreciative looks.

“Hello. This is Keith Llewellyn, yes.”

Jill turned to face him, an eyebrow lifting quizzically. “Who?” she mouthed.

Keith shrugged uncertainly. “Yes, I can wait.” Cupping the receiver, he cocked his head and said, “It’s the military?” making a question of it. He removed his hand and nodded resolutely as the caller identified himself and stated his purpose for calling.

“I can, yes, but how soon?” he replied. “Today?” He raised his eyebrows in astonishment as Jill shook her head emphatically. “Sorry,” he mouthed to her. Then, blinking in surprise, he offered Jill the phone.

“Me? You’re kidding.” She took the handset. “Dr. Llewellyn, here.”

“Dr. Llewellyn, this is Colonel McReady at Northern Command.”

“Hello, Colonel.”

“I apologize for the late call and the abruptness of the request, but we need your services, right away.”

“So, I gathered,” she said, eyes rolling sarcastically.

McReady continued: “Something unusual has occurred above the Arctic Circle and we need you there without delay. Are you able to travel?”

“My husband and I, both?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re aware I have a 14-year-old daughter, Colonel?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Arrangements are being made as we speak.”

“Great. How much time do we have?”

“Look out your bedroom window, ma’am.”

Bright light flooded through the open window and the curtains flapped wildly. Caught in a whirlwind of dust and noise, Jill spied the undercarriage of a helicopter outside, then the body of the machine, painted in green and gray camouflage. It settled, spotlights spearing the side of the house. Jill shrieked and dropped from sight, covering her bare breasts. Now the military gets efficient? she thought.

A startled exclamation sounded down the hall as Tina awoke to the lights and thundering roar of the rotor blades and engines. Go! she motioned her husband, while shouting into the handset, “Thank you so much for the wonderful invitation!” before slamming it down.

Fucking Boneheads!

Ten minutes later, Keith, obviously excited, asked: “Are we ready?”

Jill exploded: “No we are not ready! I can’t believe we’re even considering this trip!” She flung sweaters, jeans, underwear, anything readily available into a suitcase. A gaudily printed T-shirt was half-tucked into her unzipped jeans. She wore no brassiere, and her nipples were exclamation points against the thin fabric. The young airman at her front door some minutes ago had stared at them quite unabashedly, grinning in surprise. Jill had wanted to punch him.

“Where’s Tina?” she demanded.

Keith straightened and blinked.

“She’s not outside, is she? You didn’t let her go outside!” Aghast, she rushed to the open window, and there on the front lawn, clothes billowing in the wash of the still turning main rotor blades, was Tina, a hand protecting her eyes, the other placed provocatively on her left hip. Across the street, standing on his front porch was a confused-looking Dean Torkleson. He ogled the brightly lit helicopter while his 15-year-old son Jamie ogled Tina. She wore only her pajama combo of T-shirt and shorts.

“For Christ’s sakes!” Jill muttered furiously.

“What’s the matter?”

“You know what the matter is!” Tina had the raging sexual curiosity of a 14-year-old, and the requirement to push every button her mother possessed. The two fought constantly--currently over the two hickeys on Tina’s neck, and one in another place that her father didn’t know about-and Tina was irrevocably grounded.

Indicating the suitcase, she said hurriedly: “I’m going downstairs. Grab this, will you?” On the way to the door, she deftly scooped up her brassiere and donned it in the hallway. With a bemused expression, Keith shut the suitcase and zippered it closed. The stereotypical father of a teenage child, over-matched and underpowered, he understood nothing.

Outside, Jill headed directly for her daughter. The copter pilot, an attractive young man in camouflage fatigues, struggled to keep his attention off the girl and on the clipboard in his hand. He was only marginally successful. He exchanged words with the copilot and Jill could well imagine how the conversation went. Her anger grew with every footfall. “Tina!” she yelled sharply.

Tina looked around and then laughed as the wash from the rotors uprooted a pink flamingo lawn ornament in the Torkleson’s yard and sent it sailing across the street. Mr. Torkleson took off after it at a stumbling run, making Tina laughed even harder. Jamie Torkelson joined in, and as Jill reached her daughter, she grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.

“Will you get inside!”

Tina yanked free of her mother’s grasp. “God, Mom, un-ruffle, okay? It’s no big deal!”

Jill felt a sudden white-hot anger and her right hand tingled. My God, she thought, I almost slapped her. She stepped back, appalled at herself, as Tina deliberately turned and strode over to the helicopter. “Hi!” she said loudly.

The pilot looked up, uncertainly, and then eyed Jill. “Hello,” he said. “Kinda late for you to be up and outside, isn’t it, kiddo?”

Tina looked stung. “I’m old enough,” she said, thrusting out her chest. Jill wanted to laugh, while simultaneously feeling rooted to the spot in embarrassment.

Keith appeared at the front door with two suitcases, two down parkas, a small instrument case in his right hand and an overstuffed backpack over his left shoulder. He looked from Jill to his daughter, then hurried over to where Tina stood by the cockpit.

“Evening, Lieutenant,” he said.

“Hi, Doctor. Sorry about the rush.”

“No problem,” Keith said. Dropping the suitcases, he draped a parka over his daughter’s shoulders. “This is hardly an appropriate fashion statement, Tina.”

Tina replied, “That depends on what I’m trying to say,” drawing a grin from both pilots. A glare from Keith sent them back to the clipboard again.

“Gives us a minute, okay, guys?”

The pilot nodded.

“What’s with you and your mother?” Keith demanded, shepherding Tina back toward the shelter of the porch and the open doorway.

“Nothing,” Tina muttered sullenly.

“We have to go away for a day or two--”

“What else is new?”

“--and I don’t want any problems with the warrant officer this time.”

“Let me go stay with Aunt Julia!” she pleaded.

“Your Aunt Julia’s rarely home and I don’t want you by yourself in the city.”

Tina let out a loud snort.

“Here you’re safe,” he said, spreading his arms in an all-encompassing gesture. “Nothing ever happens here.”

She smiled at the sight of the helicopter behind him gearing up for take-off, the glowering neighbor with the pink flamingo in his hand.

“Really--you’ll be okay, Tina?”

“I’ll be fine, Dad. Go on.”

Keith looked around. “You’ll keep an eye on things for us, Mr. Torkleson?” he called out.

Tina groaned, then laughed as the neighbor’s son enthusiastically answered: “Yes, sir! We sure will, sir!”

Bending to shove the lawn decoration back into the ground, Torkleson scowled at his son and called across the street: “Um ... no problem, Llewellyn. Be happy to.”

Keith kissed Tina on the forehead. “Any troubles, there’s a list of phone numbers on the refrigerator door. Ms. Handler will be here any minute now to look after you.” As he spoke, an Army-gray sedan pulled to the curb and discharged a harried-looking woman in uniform from the passenger’s side door. Catching Keith’s eye, she nodded curtly and grabbed a purse and a carryall from the rear seat, and then hurried across the lawn. Tina grumbled, “I don’t need an effing babysitter, Dad.”