But far from being irritated, Slater felt like a weight had been taken off his shoulders. His life was his own now — and he had made some definite plans for it.

The chopper headed straight for the sea and followed the coastline north. Slater leaned his head back and stared out the window. He was still weak from the ordeal and needed to put on a few more pounds, but he’d come to grips with what had happened and made a kind of peace with himself. Maybe he couldn’t save the world anymore; maybe it was better just to save a little piece of it. He couldn’t wait for the right time to tell Nika.

In the weak afternoon light, he could see on the horizon the familiar plateaus of Big and Little Diomede, and the icy blue channel between them that marked the meeting point of the United States and Russia. The sky was clear — a pale gray the color of a pigeon’s wing — but as they neared the island, he could see that the wind, the never-ending wind, was busy as usual, stirring the fog around its rocky shores.

Hard to believe that such a short time had passed since he had first made this approach. It felt like ages.

As the helicopter came closer, he noted that there were two or three Coast Guard vessels lying offshore, and that the colony itself was far more extensively lighted, fenced, and occupied than when he had left it. To accommodate the chopper, there was even a circular helipad, marked with reflectors, slapped down between the old well in front of the church and the green tents that Slater’s own crew had erected.

“Hang on,” the pilot announced over the headphones, as the chopper, slowing down to make its landing, was buffeted by the gusts off the Bering Strait and the whole aircraft wobbled. Slater held on to the straps, and no sooner had the wheels touched down and the engines been cut, the rotors spinning to a stop, than he saw Professor Kozak and Sergeant Groves running to open the hatchway door.

“It is so good to see you,” Kozak said, slapping him on the back, as Groves clasped his hand in a firm grip.

“A lot’s changed around here,” Groves added, shepherding them all out from under the chopper’s blades.

“I could see that from the air,” Slater replied. Indeed, as he looked around now, he could see that several walkways had been laid down, running between extra tents and aluminum Quonset huts. Aerials were poking up everywhere, and an additional battery of generators was humming away under a covered port. Several Coast Guardsmen were scurrying among the various structures.

“How’re you feeling?” Groves asked, but before he could even answer, Kozak interjected, “You are well, yes? You must be, or they would not have let you go.” The professor looked him up and down, and regardless of what he might have been thinking, said, “Yes, you appear very well.”

Slater smiled; Kozak was such a bad liar. He knew that he still looked like he’d just been in a bar brawl. The bruises on his face had faded to a faint blue, but many of the cuts and abrasions had yet to heal completely, and unless he walked carefully, his fractured ribs gave him a jolt.

“And Nika?” Kozak asked. “How is she?”

“On her way back to Port Orlov,” Slater replied.

“They are lucky that she is their mayor,” Kozak said.

“You can say that again,” Groves said, chuckling. “But she’ll be governor before you know it. There’s no stopping that one.”

And then, as if all of their thoughts had pivoted in the same direction like a covey of birds, there was a moment of deep silence.

“Dr. Lantos was a very brave woman,” the sergeant finally said, and Kozak, solemnly crossing himself, added, “And a very good scientist.”

“None better,” Slater agreed. Whatever else had been lifted from his shoulders, the death of Eva Lantos had not; it would always weigh heavy on his conscience.

Off in the direction of the cemetery, there was the rumble of heavy machinery — to Slater it sounded suspiciously like a cement mixer — but before he could ask about it, Rudy, the fresh-faced young ensign, hurried toward them.

“Welcome back, Dr. Slater,” he said, saluting quite unnecessarily. “Colonel Waggoner, the acting commander, has ordered that you report to HQ immediately upon arrival.”

Ordered. It was funny how little import the word carried for Slater now.

“Better make sure you straighten your tie and shine your shoes,” Groves said dryly.

Slater knew that there was no love lost between what was left of his own team and the new regime.

“It’s this way,” Rudy said, starting in the direction of the largest Quonset hut, where the lab tent — altogether gone now — had once stood. How, Slater wondered, had they disposed of the deacon’s remains? To do so safely, a host of critical precautions had to have been taken. But were they?

“Frank,” Kozak said, snagging his sleeve, “we must talk. As soon as you have time.”

Rudy stopped and called out, “Dr. Slater? I’m afraid it’ll be my ass in a sling.”

“It’s very important,” Kozak added, in a low but urgent tone.

Slater figured it probably had something to do with the geological studies he’d been completing, but what could be that pressing? The graveyard, he had been advised, had been cordoned off — for good this time — and the whole island made a secured site. But scientists, he also knew from experience, always assumed their own work to be critical. “First thing,” he assured him, before turning to follow his impatient escort.

The headquarters was bustling with activity, and the far end was reserved for Colonel Waggoner’s office. He had the square jaw, the square shoulders, and the square head that Slater had encountered all too often in his military career. He was standing up and on the SAT phone when Slater was shown in, and he motioned brusquely at a chair positioned across from his desk.

Shades of being sent to the principal’s office, Slater mused.

When Slater had been made to sit there long enough for the point to have been made, Waggoner ended his call and said, in an admonitory tone, “Guess you’ve noticed that we made a few changes. We run this operation pretty differently now.”

“You should have waited,” Slater said. “There are safety protocols that need to be observed.”

The colonel looked taken aback. “We have an AFIP officer on-site, handpicked by Dr. Levinson in Washington.”

“Who?”

“Captain Stanley Jenkins, M.D.”

“He’s a good choice,” Slater said, relieved. He’d never worked with him personally, but he’d read the man’s reports from the field and knew he was an up-and-comer. “Do whatever Captain Jenkins tells you to do and you won’t go wrong.”

Waggoner looked even more put off. “Dr. Jenkins is here in an advisory capacity only, and he takes his orders from me. Maybe you’ve forgotten how the military branches of our government work since your court-martial, Dr. Slater.”

It was a cheap shot, but Slater let it pass.

“As for your associates, Professor Kozak and Sergeant Groves, I have asked them to restrict their movements to the base. Kozak’s been completing some ground studies inside the colony walls. I can’t say what the hell they’ll be good for, but they keep him away from the cemetery and out of my way. As for you, the debriefing will take place at 0900 hours tomorrow morning, so collect any notes or data you might have left lying around here and bring them. Also, make sure you gather up your remaining gear because as soon as we’re done, you and your pals will be flown off the island. There will be no further access.”

After ordering Slater, in addition, to restrict himself to the common areas within the perimeter of the stockade, he dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. Slater had the impression that the colonel had waited his whole life to sink his teeth into an operation of this importance — though how long the Coast Guard would maintain its sole jurisdiction here was an open question — and he could tell he would brook no interference.