Ice Hunt Page 13

  “Surely it can’t have anything to do with us,” Craig said.

  Matt pictured the downed section of Cyclone fencing, the racing vehicles from the military installation. Someone had broken in, setting off alarms. And after the last two days, he could not dismiss the possibility that it was somehow connected to them. Disaster seemed to be dogging them ever since the reporter’s plane crashed. Someone sure as hell did not want the political reporter for the Seattle Times to reach that SCICEX station out on the ice.

  “Where can we go now?” Craig asked.

  “I’m running low on fuel,” Jenny cautioned, tapping an instrument gauge as if this would miraculously move the pointer.

  “Kaktovik,” John said gruffly.

  Jenny nodded at her father’s suggestion.

  “Kaktovik?” Craig asked.

  Matt answered, “It’s a fishing village on Barter Island, near the Canadian border. About a hundred and twenty miles from here.” He turned to Jenny as she banked the Otter westward. “Do you have enough fuel?”

  She lifted one eyebrow. “You may have to get out and push us the last few miles.”

  Great, he thought.

  Craig’s face had grown more pale and drawn. He had already experienced one plane crash. The reporter was surely getting sick of Alaskan air travel.

  “Don’t worry,” Matt assured him. “If we run out of fuel, the Otter can land on its ski skids on any flat snow.”

  “Then what?” Craig asked sourly, crossing his arms.

  “Then we do what the lady here says…we push!”

  “Quit it, Matt,” Jenny warned. She glanced back to the reporter. “We’ll get to Kaktovik. And if not, I’ve an emergency reserve tank stored below. We can manually refill the main tank if needed.”

  Craig nodded, relaxing slightly.

  Matt stared out at the burning coastline as it retreated behind them. He noted Jenny’s father doing the same. They briefly made eye contact. He read the suspicion in the other’s eyes. The sudden explosions were too coincidental to be mere chance.

  “What do you think?” John muttered.

  “Sabotage.”

  “But why? To what end? Just because of us?”

  Matt shook his head. Even if someone wanted to stop or divert them, this response was like killing a fly with a crate of TNT.

  Craig overheard them. His voice trembled. “It’s a calculated act of distraction and misdirection.”

  “What do you mean?” Matt studied the reporter’s face. It remained tight, unreadable. He began to worry about their passenger. He had witnessed post-traumatic stress disorder before.

  But Craig swallowed hard, then spoke slowly. Clearly he sought to center himself by working through this problem. “We passed on word about our attackers to Prudhoe Bay. Someone was going to investigate tomorrow. I wager now that will be delayed. The limited investigative resources up here—military and civilian—will have their hands full for weeks. More than enough time for our attackers to cover their tracks.”

  “So it was all done so someone could clean up the mess in the mountains?”

  Craig waved this away. “No. Such a large-scale affront would need more of a reason to justify it. Otherwise, it’s overkill.”

  Matt heard his own thoughts from a moment ago echoed.

  Craig ticked off items aloud. “The explosions will delay any investigation in the mountains. It will also divert us and offer up a new, more exciting story for us to follow. The burning of Prudhoe Bay will be headlines for days. What reporter would want to miss such a story? To be here firsthand. To have witnessed it.” The tired man shook his head. “First the bastards try to kill me, now they try to bribe me with a more tantalizing and promising story. They throw it right in my damn lap.”

  “Distraction and misdirection,” Matt mumbled.

  Craig nodded. “And not just directed at us. We’re small potatoes. I would bet my own left nut that this attack had been preplanned all along. That we’re only a secondary distraction. It’s the larger world the saboteurs really want to distract. After this attack, everyone will be looking at Prudhoe Bay, discussing it, investigating it. CNN will have reporters here by tomorrow.”

  “But why?”

  Craig met his gaze. Matt was surprised to see the tempered steel in Craig’s eyes. He recalled him pulling the flare gun on him. Even under stress, the reporter thought quickly. Despite his scared demeanor, there were hidden depths to this man. Matt’s respect for the reporter continued to grow.

  “Why?” Craig parroted. “It’s like I said. Distraction and misdirection. Let the whole world look over here at the fireworks”—he waggled his fingers in the air—“while the real damage is done out of sight.” The reporter pointed to the north. “They don’t want us to look over there.”

  “The drift station,” Matt said.

  Craig’s voice dropped to a mumble. “Something’s going to happen out there. Something no one wants the world to know about. Something that justifies setting fire to Prudhoe Bay.”

  Matt now knew why Craig had been sent north by his editor. The reporter had tried to blame the assignment on a tryst with the editor’s niece, a punishment for a transgression. But Matt didn’t buy it. The man knew his business. He had a calculating mind and a keen sense of political maneuvering.

  “So what do we do now?” Matt asked.

  Craig’s eyes flicked to him. “We fly to Kaktovik. What else can we do?”

  Matt crinkled his brow.

  “If you think I’m going out to that friggin’ drift station,” Craig said with a snort, “you’re nuts. I’m staying the hell away.”

  “But if you’re right—?”

  “I’ve pretty much grown a liking for my skin. The bastards’ fiery show may not have fooled me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take a hint.”

  “Then we tell someone.”

  “Be my guest. No one will hear you above the sound bites for days. By the time you can get someone to listen, to go check, it’ll all be over.”

  “So we have no choice. Someone has to go out there.”

  Craig shook his head. “Or someone could just hide in that little fishing village and wait for all this to blow over.”

  Matt considered the persistence of their pursuers, the explosion of Prudhoe Bay. “Do you really think they’d leave us alone out there? If they’re buying time to clean up their mess, that might include getting rid of us. They know our plane.”

  Craig’s determined expression sickened.

  “And we’d be sitting ducks in Kaktovik.”

  Craig closed his eyes. “I hate Alaska…I really do.”

  Matt sank back into his own seat. He looked at Jenny. She had heard it all. “Well?” he asked.

  Jenny glanced over her gauges. “I’ll still need to refuel if we’re going to travel so far.”

  “Bennie’s place at Kaktovik.”

  “We can be there in an hour. And away in another.”

  He nodded and stared north. Craig’s words echoed in his head: Something’s going to happen out there. Something no one wants the world to know about.

  But what the hell could it be?

  11:02 P.M.

  USS POLAR SENTINEL

  “We’ve been ordered to readiness, but not to deploy.” Perry stood atop the periscope stand. His officers had gathered in the control room. Groans met his words. They were Navy men, career submariners. They had all heard of the attack on Prudhoe Bay four hundred miles away. They were anxious to act.

  Word had reached them half an hour ago through the snail-paced ELF transmission, sound waves passing with mile-long amplitudes through the ocean waters, emitting one slow letter at a time. The real-time communication net of NAVSAT’s satellites or UHF were currently under electrical bombardment by a solar storm.

  His men had hoped to deploy to the Alaskan coast, to join in the investigation and help in the cleanup. Baby-sitting a bunch of scientists at such a time was intolerable. With a crisis on hand, practically in their o
wn backyard, all had hoped for a call to action.

  The latest orders from COMSUBPAC had arrived five minutes ago. Perry shared his officers’ disappointment.

  “Any word on the cause of the explosions?” Commander Bratt asked. His words were clipped with frustration.

  Perry shook his head. “Too early. Right now they’re still trying to put out the fires.”

  But among his own crew, varying theories were already being debated: ecoterrorists bent on saving the Alaskan wilderness from further exploration and drilling, Arabs with an interest in cutting off Alaska’s oil production, Texans for the same reason. And the Chinese and Russians got their fair share of the blame, too. More sober minds considered the possibility of a simple industrial accident—but that was not as entertaining.

  “So we simply sit on our frozen asses out here,” Bratt said gruffly.

  Perry stood straighter. He would not let morale sour any further.

  “Commander, until we hear otherwise, we’ll perform our duties as ordered.” He hardened his voice. “We’ll keep this boat at full readiness. But we won’t neglect our current assignments. The Russian delegation is due to arrive in three days to retrieve the bodies of their countrymen. Would you rather we leave the scientists here alone to deal with the Russian admiral and his men?”

  “No, sir.” Bratt stared down at his shoes. He was one of the few men aboard the Polar Sentinel who knew what lay hidden on Level Four of Ice Station Grendel.

  Their conversation was interrupted as the radioman of the watch pushed into the conn. He held a clipboard in his hand. “Captain Perry, I have an urgent message from COMSUBPAC. Flash traffic. Marked for your eyes only.”

  He waved the lieutenant forward and retrieved the clipboard and top-secret log. “Flash traffic? Are we hooked back into NAVSAT?”

  The lieutenant nodded. “We were lucky to retrieve the broadcast intact. They must have been continuously broadcasting to slip through one of the breaks in the solar storm. The message is being repeated more slowly over VLF.”

  Broadcasting on all channels. What could be so important?

  The radioman stepped back. “I was able to send out confirmation that the message was received.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant.” Perry turned his back on the curious faces of his officers and opened the clipboard. It was from Admiral Reynolds. As Perry read the message, an icy finger of dread traced his spine.

  FLASH***FLASH***FLASH***FLASH***FLASH***FLASH

  384749zAPR

  FM

  COMSUBPAC PEARL HARBOR HI//N475//

  To

  POLAR SENTINEL SSN-777

  //BT//

  REF

  COMSUBPAC OPORD 37-6722A DATED 08 APR

  SUBJ

  GUESTS ARRIVING EARLY

  SCI/TOP SECRET—OMEGA

  PERSONAL FOR C.O.

  RMKS/

  (1) POLAR SATELLITE CONFIRMS RUSSIAN AKULA II CLASS SUBMARINE SURFACED WITH ANTENNA UP AT 14:25 AT COORDINATES ALPHA FIVE TWO DECIMAL EIGHT TACK THREE SEVEN DECIMAL ONE.

  (2) UNIT DESIGNATED AS DRAKON, RUSSIAN FLAG SUBMARINE. ADMIRAL VICTOR PETKOV ABOARD.

  (3) RUSSIAN GUESTS MAY BE ARRIVING EARLY. INTELLIGENCE REMAINS SCANT ON REASON FOR THE ACCELERATED TIMETABLE. WITH RECENT EVENTS AT PRUDHOE, SUSPICIONS REMAIN HIGH ACROSS ALL BOARDS. SABOTAGE CONFIRMED. SUSPECTS STILL UNKNOWN.

  (4) POLAR SENTINEL TO REMAIN AT ALERT STATUS AND TO PATROL WITH MAXIMUM EARS UP.

  (5) GUESTS TO BE TREATED AS FRIENDLY UNTIL OTHERWISE DISCERNED.

  (6) PROTECTION OF UNITED STATES INTERESTS BOTH AT OMEGA DRIFT STATION AND ICE STATION GRENDEL REMAINS PRIORITY MISSION FOR POLAR SENTINEL.

  (7) TO SUPPORT SUCH INTERESTS, DELTA FORCE TEAMS HAVE BEEN ORGANIZED AND ROUTED TO THE ARCTIC. OPERATIONAL CONTROLLER, SENT BY LR, HAS BEEN SPEARHEADED IN ADVANCE TO AREA. INFORMATION TO FOLLOW.

  (8) GOOD LUCK AND KEEP YOUR TAP SHOES POLISHED, GREG.

  (9) ADM K. REYNOLDS SENDS.

  BT

  NNNN

  Perry shut the clipboard, closed his eyes, and ran the notes through his head.

  The admiral had coded his own message into the encryption. LR was short for “Langley Reconnaissance,” which meant the Central Intelligence Agency was involved. So the Delta Teams were being deployed under CIA leadership? Not a good thing. Such an organizational platform led to one hand being unaware of what the other was doing. It also stank of black ops maneuvering. Information to follow meant that even Pacific Submarine Command was cut out of the loop. A bad sign.

  And at the end: Keep your tap shoes polished, Greg. Again the informality in the use of his first name was as good as a long line of exclamation marks. During one of the Navy’s formal dinner parties, Admiral Reynolds had used that same phrase when the faction representing COMSUBLANT, the Atlantic Submarine Command staff, had arrived at the hall. The Pacific and Atlantic submarine teams were fiercely competitive with each other, leading to challenges, war games, and rivalries that stretched across careers. Keep your tap shoes polished was shorthand for “get ready because the shit’s about to hit the fan.”

  Perry turned to his XO. “Commander, clear the boat of civilians. Get them back to Omega and rally the men still on shore leave.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Once the Sentinel is secured, ready her to dive on my command.”

  The chief of the watch spoke up from his station. “So we’re heading to Prudhoe Bay?”

  Perry searched the hopeful faces of his bridge crew. He knew there was no need to head to Prudhoe Bay to get into the action; his men would realize soon enough.

  He rapped the metal clipboard on his thigh. “Just keep your tap shoes polished, men. We’ve got some fancy footwork ahead of us.”

  11:32 P.M.

  KAKTOVIK, ALASKA

  Jenny stalked around the parked Twin Otter, inspecting it with a flashlight. A scatter of bullet holes peppered one wing, but there was no structural damage. Nothing else needed immediate attention, and she could patch the holes with duct tape. She sipped from a coffee cup as she completed her circuit of the aircraft.

  They had landed at the darkened snow strip of the tiny Kaktovik airport half an hour ago. Matt and the others had gone inside the nearby hangar, where a makeshift diner had been built in one corner. She could see them through a grease-rimmed window, bent over mugs of coffee and talking to the young Inuit waitress.

  Only Bane remained at her side as she tended the refueling and checked her plane. The large wolf had made his own circuit of their parking space, lifting a leg here and there to yellow the snow. He now followed at her heels, tongue lolling, tail wagging.

  Ducking around the rear of the plane, she returned to Bennie Haydon’s side. The squat fellow leaned against the fuselage, a cigar clamped between his teeth, one hand resting on the fuel hose. Huskily built, he wore a Purolator cap tucked low over his sleepy eyes.

  “Should you be smoking out here?” Jenny asked.

  He shrugged and spoke around his stogie. “My wife won’t let me smoke inside.” Wearing half a grin, he nodded to the waitress.

  Bennie had been with the sheriff’s department, servicing the patrol fleet, until he saved enough to move out here with his wife and start his own repair shop. He also ran a sight-seeing company out of the same hangar and flew folks in ultralights over the nearby Alaskan National Wildlife Reserve. The small nimble aircraft—really no more than a hang glider with lawn-mower engine and propeller—were perfect for traversing the raw country by air, buzzing the caribou herds or flying low over the tundra. At first it had been only the occasional tourist, but after the growing interest in ANWR for oil exploration, he now transported geologists, reporters, government officials, even senators. His single ultralight had quickly grown into a fleet of a dozen.

  Bennie glanced to a gauge on the fuel hose. “Topped off,” he said, and began to crank the hose and detach it. “Both tanks.”

  “Thanks, Bennie.”

  “No problems, Jen.” He tugged the hose free and beg
an to drag it away. “So you going to tell me about them bullet holes.”

  Jenny followed the mechanic back toward the hangar. “It’s a long story without any real answers yet.”

  Bennie made a thoughtful noise at the back of this throat. “Sort of like you and Matt.” He nodded toward the window. In the midnight gloom, the bright interior shone like a beacon.

  Jenny sighed and patted Bane as the wolf followed beside her.

  Bennie glanced over to her, spooling the hose line. “You know he quit drinking.”

  “Bennie, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He shrugged again and puffed out a large cloud of cigar smoke. “I’m just saying.”

  “I know.”

  The small door to the hangar banged open. Belinda, Bennie’s wife, stood in the doorway. “You two coming in out of the cold? I have eggs and caribou strip steaks frying.”

  “In a second, hon.”

  Bane didn’t have such patience. With his nose in the air at the scent of frying meat, the dog sauntered toward the door, tail wagging furiously.

  Belinda let him pass with a pat on the head, then pointed at the glowing tip of Bennie’s cigar. “The dog’s welcome, that isn’t.”

  “Yes, dear.” He gave Jenny a look that said, See what I have to put up with. But Jenny also saw the love shining between both of them.

  Belinda closed the door with a sorry shake of her head. She was a decade younger than her husband, but her sharp intelligence and world-weary maturity spanned the gap. She was native to Kaktovik, her family going back generations, but she and her parents had moved to Fairbanks when she was a teenager. It had been at the beginning of the black gold rush—a flood of oil, money, jobs, and corruption. Indians and native Inuit, all anxious for their share of the wealth, flocked to the cities, abandoning their homelands and customs. But what they found in Fairbanks was a polluted, blue-collar town of construction workers, dog mushers, Teamsters, and pimps. Unskilled natives were ground under the heels of progress. To support her family, Belinda became a prostitute at the age of sixteen. It was after her arrest that she and Bennie had met. He took her under his wing—literally. He showed her the skies above Fairbanks and another life. They eventually married and moved here with her parents.