The Cold Edge

  THE COLD EDGE

  A Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller #6

  Trevor Scott

  SALVO PRESS

  An Imprint of Start Publishing LLC

  New York, New York

  Also by Trevor Scott

  Fractured State (A Novella)

  The Nature of Man

  Discernment

  Way of the Sword

  Drifting Back

  Fatal Network (Jake Adams #1)

  Extreme Faction (Jake Adams #2)

  The Dolomite Solution (Jake Adams #3)

  Vital Force (Jake Adams #4)

  Rise of the Order (Jake Adams #5)

  The Cold Edge (Jake Adams #6)

  Without Options (Jake Adams #7)

  The Stone of Archimedes (Jake Adams #8)

  Boom Town (Tony Caruso #1)

  Burst of Sound (Tony Caruso #2)

  Hypershot (Chad Hunter #1)

  Global Shot (Chad Hunter #2)

  Strong Conviction

  The Dawn of Midnight

  Duluthians: A Collection of Short Stories

  The Hobgoblin of the Redwoods (A Young Adult Mystery)

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and not intended to represent real people or places.

  THE COLD EDGE © 2012 by Trevor Scott.

  This edition of THE COLD EDGE © 2013 by Salvo Press.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Salvo Press, 609 Greenwich Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10014.

  Published by Salvo Press,

  an imprint of Start Publishing LLC

  New York, New York

  Please visit us on the web at

  www.start-media.com

  Cover iStock Photos by Chris Schmidt, London, and SCM Studios.

  ISBN: 978-1-62793-439-8

  Visit the author at: www.trevorscott.com

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to the people of Norway and Sweden for your hospitality. Although I didn’t make it as far north as Svalbard, I hope I captured the essence of the area after growing up in the frozen tundra of Northern Minnesota. A special thanks to one pretty, young waitress at Blomonn Restaurant & Bar in Lillehammer, Norway, for convincing me to try the whale. After doing so, I finally understood Melville’s Ahab.

  PROLOGUE

  Spitsbergen Island, Svalbard Archipelago, Norway

  October 9, 1986

  Swirling lights of blue and orange and green and red marked the Northern sky above the thick glacier, as if aliens or some unearthly force was about to invade this remote island halfway between the northern tip of Norway and the North Pole.

  One man sat on a snowmobile in Arctic clothes, the wind biting into any exposed skin around the edges of his goggles, while a second man adjusted a small satellite dish hitched up by wire to a cumbersome SAT phone the size of a small briefcase.

  “Any time now,” Korkala said from the snowmobile, as he adjusted the volume on the phone. John Korkala was the CIA’s assistant station chief in Oslo, and his colleague, Steve Olson, the military attaché, an Air Force captain and communications officer.

  “Just about there.” He made a final adjustment and the phone went hot with a squawk.

  “Got it.”

  Captain Olson stood and gazed at the strange swirling of the Aurora Borealis. He had seen them in his youth in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, but nothing like this. They appeared to be encased in a lava lamp. “Check out this crazy sky.”

  Korkala didn’t even raise his eyes away from the phone. “Seen them a hundred times. Let’s focus here.”

  It was early evening, but the sun had not come out all day. And at this time of year, it was so low on the horizon the entire island would be lucky to see an hour or two of fog-obscured glowing. Two days ago they had flown five hours from Oslo on a commercial flight to Longyearbyen, the capital and largest city of some twenty-five hundred people, mostly Norwegians, stayed one night in a hotel, and then flown by a charter helicopter to the even more remote Pyramiden, a Soviet mining settlement. From there they had rented the snowmobile from a rather skeptical Russian, who wondered why two Americans would want to venture out onto a barren ice field as winter approached. Their cover story? They were preparing for an expedition to the North Pole next summer. The story was as good as any, since many explorers had used the remote islands as a staging point before heading to the Pole.

  “Damn it,” Korkala said, shaking the SAT phone.

  Olson stepped closer, the snow squeaking beneath his Sorrel pack boots. “What’s up?”

  Korkala tried to adjust the phone to grab a signal again. Nothing. “We lost it.” He jumped from the snowmobile, pulled the binoculars from his chest and crawled to the top of the snow drift that hid them from activity nearly a mile down a glacial valley. There were two snowmobiles and four men, as far as they could tell, working around the wreckage of a plane that was scattered for a hundred yards, much of the parts already covered by the treacherous blowing snow. A few days, Korkala knew, and the entire wreckage could be lost in the glacier, swallowed up by the ever-changing environment.

  Olson crawled up next to the CIA man. “What you suppose is so important?”

  That was the problem. They had no way of knowing. The Oslo station had gotten word from the Helsinki office that a Soviet plane had gone down on Spitsbergen. Details were sketchy, but when known KGB officers had passed through Oslo days ago, Washington had insisted on an escort. Something wasn’t right. They could have been simply recovering codes and destroying communications equipment on the aircraft, but Korkala and Olson would have to get closer to even determine the aircraft type. The Why would have to follow the What.

  Korkala ignored the Air Force captain. “Let’s find out. Make a direct approach.” He backed away from the edge and scurried toward the snowmobile. He unhooked the trailer skid and took a seat on the snowmobile.

  “What about the SAT dish?” Olson asked.

  “Get on. We’ll come back for it.” He turned the key and then pulled the starter cord. Nothing. It had been giving them problems since they rented it from the Russian earlier in the day. He pulled again. Still nothing. Finally it cranked over on the third try, the lights coming on immediately.

  “Should we turn the lights off?” Olson yelled above the whining engine.

  “No,” Korkala yelled back. “That would be more suspicious. Get on. We’ll say we’re lost.”

  The Air Force captain straddled the seat behind Korkala and held onto the side handles. He barely sat down when the assistant station chief thumbed the throttle and the snowmobile surged off.

  It took them only a few minutes to round the outcropping drifts, angle down the hill toward the glacial plain, and then slow down as they approached the men working at the debris field. All were wearing pure white suits, just like them.

  Korkala stopped near the other two snowmobiles and shut down the engine.

  One of the men approached, his flashlight shining into both of their eyes.

  Glancing through goggles at the debris, Captain Olson saw the tail of the aircraft, which had settled against a snowy outcropping. He whispered into Korkala’s ear, “MiG twenty-five. What the hell is that doing here?”

  “Be ready,” Korkala said, swinging his legs off the seat and moving toward the Soviet KGB officer. “Thank God we saw you,” he said in Russian to the man, who stopped a few feet away, hands in bulky mittens at his side.

  Confusion on the Russian’s face, his eyes shifted behind large goggles.

  The other three men started to approach and
the captain saw the hunting rifle for the first time at the side of one man’s leg.

  “What are you doing here?” the Russian asked Korkala.

  “We’re lost and running low on fuel.”

  The three other Soviet officers stopped ten feet away, hands in pockets, except for the man with the rifle, whose naked finger was pressed against the trigger guard.

  Something was wrong. The Soviet officer wasn’t buying the story.

  Everything seemed to move in slow motion. First, the rifle started to rise. Then hands started coming out of pockets.

  But Korkala was the first to pull his 9mm handgun, his first shot entering the closest Soviet in the neck, bringing instant blood spurting outward. The next few shots struck the man with the rifle, first in the chest and then in the forehead.

  By now the captain had rolled off the snowmobile and retrieved his gun from inside his coat, also a 9mm handgun.

  The next few seconds lingered. Bullets flew in each direction. The cold air filled with clouds of gunpowder.

  When silence finally came, Olson looked down at his gun—it was out of rounds, the slide back and steam rising from the exposed barrel. He dropped an empty magazine and fumbled in his jacket, found another full magazine, and slammed it into the handle. Then he released the slide, sending a round into the chamber, the hammer cocked, and rose up from behind the snowmobile.

  Slowly he stepped through the squeaky snow, his gun pointed toward the Soviets. But they were all down, their bodies merely white lumps in the snowy glacier, spots of red seeping through the white. His eyes reluctantly went down and saw Korkala lying face down.

  Olson knelt down and touched the side of Korkala’s neck. No pulse. He rolled him over and saw that most of his face was gone, having taken a bullet in the mouth. Damn it.

  The captain went slowly to the Soviets, checking each man. They were all dead. He felt light-headed. Then the pain came. As he returned his gun to the holster under his left arm, he felt the moisture. He had been hit in the left shoulder. But he was breathing all right. It had not struck his lungs.

  He put pressure on his wound and then turned on his headlamp and shuffled toward the MiG debris. The first thing he noticed was that the pilot had gone down with the plane. He was still strapped into the cockpit, which had rammed into a snow bank and was nearly covered already with new snow.

  The Soviets had been gathered near the main fuselage, the captain remembered. Had this aircraft been carrying a nuke? Maybe they had been about to destroy it.

  No. Captain Olson had worked on nukes and he didn’t see any sign of a large weapon. In fact, the wings had sheared off and blown quite extensively. Probably external fuel tanks. This MiG was on a long mission. But what kind of mission?

  Moving to the main fuselage, Olson found where the Soviets had been working. They had removed a panel and exposed a compartment. Inside was a silver container of some sort, encased in foam rubber, which had been partially cut open by the Soviets.

  The captain tried to grasp the container with his free hand, but it was starting to go numb. He’d need both hands. With a great deal of pain, he was able to pull the container from the spray-foam padding. It was a one-foot cube, perfectly intact. He swirled it around and found no way to open it. What the hell was it?

  As he turned to go, his mind seemed to swirl as his eyes centered on the Aurora Borealis, which nearly filled the sky now. With great determination, he shuffled back toward the snowmobile. He thought about his friend, John Korkala, and realized he was in no condition to drag him anywhere. They would have to come back for him.

  Looking up for stars in the sky, all he saw was the morphing, shifting clouds, a distorted distraction of his current reality. He had to move. He was getting weaker and had more than twenty miles to travel across the rough, desolate terrain to reach the nearest village. And he wasn’t sure he should even go there, since it was the Soviet mining settlement. How could he explain a bullet wound? Or the absence of his partner?

  Somehow he got onto the snowmobile, the square box on the seat at his crotch, turned the key and pulled the cord. Nothing. Damn it. He pulled and pulled until it finally turned over and sputtered to life.

  He rode slowly back toward the location where they had left the SAT phone equipment and the trailer sled. By the time he had hooked up the trailer and strapped the small satellite dish onto the back, he was feeling weak and cold. He was sure the actual temperature had dropped, but also knew he had lost a lot of blood. It had soaked down his shirt and gotten into his pants. He could feel it down to his knees.

  He would never make it twenty miles on this snowmobile. Sure he had grown up driving snowmobiles in Michigan, and could drive as fast as the machine would go in these conditions. But the wind had picked up now, blowing snow obscuring his view beyond a dozen feet. He could be swallowed up in a glacial crevasse without him knowing what had happened. No, he had to go somewhere to get out of this weather. At least until morning. Needed to get the bleeding to stop.

  Then it came to him. Just before they had found the crash site, they had seen a rock overhang that could have been the entrance to a cave or at least a protected area from the blowing snow.

  It took the captain fifteen minutes to find the rock overhang. He had gone right past it a few times, since the snow had drifted against the front. Eventually he was able to pull the snowmobile and the trailer entirely under the rock. With some clarity of thought, he decided to bury the cube in the back of the crevasse. He had no idea what it was, but if the Soviets had sent four officers to pick it up, it must have been important.

  Satisfied that he would be safe there until morning, he pulled out his sleeping bag and crawled inside boots and all. Wrapped up and curled into a ball, he was chilled for a moment but eventually started to warm. His thoughts drifted like the snow to his wife and two small children. He would have to endure. Have to make it through the night. Have to. For them.

  Then he went to sleep for the last time.

  1

  Oslo, Norway

  Present Day

  The hotel door slammed with a resounding thud, startling Jake Adams from his nap. He looked around and found himself on the floor in the center of the room, an empty bottle of Schnapps a foot from his head. His mind drifted back, remembering vaguely how he had checked into the posh Grand Hotel on Oslo’s most favorite Karl Johans Gate, the pedestrian enclave between the country’s Parliament and The Royal Palace, across from the national theatre.

  The room was mostly dark, with only a sliver of light at the edges of the curtains. His eyes tried to adjust to the movement—legs and feet. He knew those nice black leather pumps. Had purchased them for his girlfriend Anna at a shop in Vienna, his current place of residence.

  The shoes stopped a yard away and the right foot started tapping on the low-pile gray carpet.

  Jake rolled to his side and finally caught the expression on Anna’s face. Disturbed? Concerned? No, definitely pissed off.

  “What?” Jake said, scratching the hair on his bare chest. Coming to a sitting position, head spinning, he realized he had no clothes on at all. “What?” he repeated.

  Her foot stopped tapping, but she crossed her arms over her chest. Okay, now she was mad as hell.

  “I thought we were on vacation,” Jake protested. He knew he should have just kept his mouth shut at this point. Take the ass chewing like a man. Usually he knew precisely when he screwed up, but now he was baffled beyond the norm.

  “Vacation assumes you have worked,” Anna finally said in German.

  Damn. She spoke English during normal conversation, mostly to learn the idioms and idiosyncrasies of the language, muttered perfect, sensual French during sex, and her native Austrian German when she was either working or royally pissed off at him for some reason or other. Her German could travel anywhere from kinder-kind to Hitleresque. Now he thought he saw a small mustache forming above tight lips.

  “That’s cold,” he said, sticking with English. “Listen
, I made a hundred thousand Euro on that last case.”

  “Three months ago,” she said, still in German.

  Okay, so it wasn’t about the money. He should have known that much anyway. As an officer in the Interpol stationed in Vienna, Anna made less per year than he had hauled in for one-month of work. Maybe that did piss her off. Maybe it was the fact that he had done nothing in the last three months but drink beer, wine and schnapps, when he wasn’t out at the range shooting his guns, walking to stay in shape, and lifting weights. All right, most of the walking was from the apartment the two of them had shared over the past two years to the bar six blocks away, the trip always faster on the way there than the way back.

  “You look like hell, Jake,” she said. “Take a shower and get dressed.” A tear streaked her alabaster face, rolling off the high cheek bone until she caught it with her fingers and briskly wiped it away.

  Jake got to his feet, unsure what to do, and even more unsure if he could stay standing. He had not neglected her. Had not taken her for granted in any way. If anything, the reverse was true. She had traveled so much in the past year, they had spent more time away from each other than together. Yet he knew when it was time to fold the cards and shut up. He shook his head and made his way to the bathroom. Hadn’t he just taken a shower that morning? What time was it now? He caught a look at the clock radio on the nightstand just as he entered the bathroom. Crap. No wonder she was pissed. He was supposed to meet her at 1800 at the restaurant downstairs. It was 1830 now.

  He took a quick shower, toweled off and came back in the room. Anna had picked up after him and placed his fresh clothes on the bed.

  As she glanced at his clean, naked body, Jake thought he saw a new attitude in Anna. Maybe she had calmed down.

  She sat onto the end of the bed and threw his underwear at him, which he caught and slipped on.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must have overslept.”

  “Passed out.” English. That was better.