Free The Arctic Event by James H. Cobb

marina employees, nondescript, long-haired young men in deck shoes, dungarees, and nylon windcheaters, stood by to accept the cruiser’s lines as it nosed alongside.
    Nothing untoward hinted that both the pier hands carried automatic pistols under their jackets or that the cruiser’s helmsman had a submachine gun racked out of sight below the lip of the cockpit.
    The rumble of the cruiser’s engines broke into an idling whine as the propeller clutches disengaged and the bow and stern lines were deftly snubbed off. A set of boarding steps were positioned, and the yacht’s lone passenger emerged from its streamlined cabin.
    With a nod to the pier hands, Fred Klein disembarked and strode down the fog-dampened planks of the dock. Crossing the broad graveled expanse of the marina’s dry-storage area, past the silent, tarpaulin-shrouded shapes of beached pleasure craft on their trailers and stands, Klein continued toward what appeared to be a large windowless warehouse.
    The dark green metal prefab building looked new. It should. It had not been there two years before. In all probability, in another year’s time, it or at least its contents would be repositioned somewhere else.
    This was the headquarters and operations center of Covert One.
    Concealed television cameras tracked Klein’s approach, and magnetic locks clicked open as he came to stand before the heavy steel fire door.
    “Good morning, sir.” The duty “doorman” accepted Klein’s hat and topcoat, neatly hanging them up beside the racked assault shotgun. “It’s a clammy kind of day out there.”
    “That it is, Walt,” Klein replied amiably. “Maggie in the shop yet?”
    “About half an hour ago, sir.”
    “One of these days I’ll beat her in,” Klein murmured in ritual. He continued down the length of the institutional-buff central corridor. No one passed him in the hall, but an occasional murmur of voices or muffled whine of electronics leaked from behind the double row of anonymous gray doors, hinting at the quiet functionality of the headquarters.
    At the far end of the passageway lay the command suite.
    The outer office was Maggie Templeton’s techno-lair. The entire room was a computer workstation, dominated by a large desk with no less than three twenty-one-inch flat-screen monitors positioned upon it. A second set of large-screen displays were inset on the far office wall. Her pet bonsai tree and a silver framed photograph of her late husband served as the sole reminders of Margaret Templeton’s essential humanity.
    The blonde looked up from her master display and smiled as Klein card-swiped his way through the security entry. “Good morning, Mr. Klein. I hope it was a smooth voyage today.”
    “It can never be smooth enough for me, Maggie,” Klein snorted. “Someday I’m going to hunt down the sadist who came up with the brilliant notion of putting the headquarters of the world’s worst sailor at a yacht club.”
    She chuckled, “You have to admit, it makes for an excellent cover.”
    “Not really; my being green and nauseated all of the time could give it all away. What have we got this morning?”
    Templeton instantly toggled over to her professional mode. “The Trent Bravo insertion appears to be going well. The team leader is reporting that his personnel and equipment are on the ground inside of Myanmar and that his point man has successfully made contact with the leadership of the Karen National Union.”
    Klein nodded. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he polished a few fog droplets from his glasses. “Anything new with the Wednesday Island operation?”
    “Jon will be linking up with the American members of his team in Seattle tonight and with his Russian liaison in Alaska tomorrow. The equipment set has been pre-positioned, and the helicopter procured from Pole Star.”
    “Any problems with Langley seconding Ms. Russell to us?”
    “Only the usual moaning, whining, bitching, and complaining.” Maggie looked up