Ice Hunt Page 15

  This particular morning was spectacular. A steady southeasterly headwind had managed to sheer away the ubiquitous fogs and mists that usually clung to the cap. Below, and in all directions, lay a pristine world of crenellated white ice, jagged crystalline peaks, and sky-blue melt ponds.

  From the horizon, sunlight streamed in a rosy tide, stretching toward their flight path. Hues of orange and crimson rippled across the blue skies.

  “A storm’s coming,” a gruff voice said behind him. Jenny’s father had awakened with a yawn.

  Matt turned. “Why do you say that, John?”

  Before he could answer, Craig made a small sound of complaint from where he lolled sleepily in his seat. Clearly the reporter had no interest in the meteorological assessment of the elder Inuit. From behind Craig, Bane lifted his muzzled face and stretched with a jaw-breaking yawn. The wolf seemed as bothered as the reporter at being awakened.

  Ignoring them both, John leaned forward and pointed toward the northern skies. Twilight still clung to that section of the world. Near the horizon, it looked like smoke was billowing up. It swirled and churned.

  “Ice fog,” the Inuit said. “Temperature’s dropping even though the sun is rising.”

  Matt agreed. “Weather pattern’s shifting.”

  Storms up here were seldom mild. It was either clear and calm, like now, or a damnable blizzard. And while snowfall was seldom significant at these latitudes, the winds were dangerous, stirring up squalls of ice and surface snow that achieved blinding whiteout conditions.

  He swung to Jenny. “Can we make the drift station before it hits?”

  “Should.”

  It was the first word she had spoken since leaving Kaktovik. Something had upset her over at Bennie’s place, but she had refused to talk about it. She had eaten her meal as methodically as a backhoe chewing through a stubborn hillside. Afterward, she had disappeared into the hangar’s office for a short catnap. No more than half an hour. But when she returned from the back room, her eyes were red. It didn’t look like she had slept at all.

  Her father glanced to Matt, catching his eyes for a moment, almost studying him. When Jenny and Matt had been married, he and his father-in-law had grown as close as brothers. They had camped, hunted, and fished regularly. But like Jenny, after the loss of his only grandson, the man had hardened toward him.

  Yet, at the time of Tyler’s death, Matt had sensed no blame from the elderly Inuit. John, more than anyone, knew the severity of life in the Alaskan backcountry, the risk of sudden death. While growing up, he had been raised in a small seaside village along Kotzebue Sound near the Bering Strait. His full Inuit name was Junaquaat, shortened to John after he moved inland. His own seaside village had succumbed to starvation during the freeze of ’75, vanishing in a single winter. He had lost all his relatives—and such a fate was not uncommon. Resources in the frozen north were always scarce. Survival balanced on a razor’s edge.

  Though John did not blame Matt for Tyler’s drowning, he did harbor resentment for the ugly period that followed. Matt had not been kind to his daughter. He had been hollowed out by guilt and grief. To survive, he had gone deeper into the bottle, shutting her out, unable to face the blame in her eyes, the accusations. They had said things during that time that could never be unspoken. Finally, it had grown to be too much. Broken, beaten, unhealed, they had splintered—falling apart.

  John placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder now. His fingers squeezed ever so softly. In that gesture, Matt found a level of peace and acceptance. It was not only death that the Inuit people learned to survive, but grief also. John patted his shoulder and sat back.

  Matt stared, unblinking, at the icy glare of morning, more unsure of his heart than he had been in years. It was an uncomfortable feeling, as if something heavy had shifted loose inside him, disturbing his center of balance.

  Jenny spoke, checking her heading and speed with a finger. “We should be at the coordinates Craig gave in another half hour.”

  Matt kept his gaze fixed forward. “Should we radio the base in advance? Let them know we’re coming?”

  She shook her head. “Until we know what’s going on over there, the less forewarning the better. Besides, radio communication is still shoddy.”

  En route, they had been receiving bursts of communication across open channels. Word of the explosions at Prudhoe Bay had spread immediately. As Craig had predicted, news agencies were scurrying, and speculation was rampant.

  Craig grumpily sat straighter. “If we just drop in, how are we going to explain our sudden appearance at the base? Are we going to storm in as officers of the law? Investigative journalists? Fleeing refugees seeking asylum?”

  “Forget about storming in with any authority,” Jenny answered. “I have no jurisdiction up there. I say we explain all we know and warn those in charge. Whoever attacked us might not be far behind.”

  Craig studied the empty skies, clearly searching for any signs of pursuers. “Will the base be able to protect us?”

  Matt turned to Craig. “You know more about this Omega base than any of us, Mr. Reporter. What sort of Navy contingent is stationed there?”

  Craig shook his head. “I wasn’t given any specifics about my destination…just told to pack my bag, then shoved on the first Alaska Airlines flight leaving Seattle.”

  Matt frowned. There had to be at least a sub and a crew. Hopefully more personnel were stationed at the research base itself. “Well, whoever’s there,” he decided aloud, “with the storm coming, they’ll have to take us in. After that, we’ll make them listen to us. Whether they believe us or not, that’s a whole other can of worms. After the explosions at Prudhoe, suspicions will be high.”

  Jenny nodded. “Okay, we’ll play it that way. At least until we get a better handle on the situation.”

  John spoke up from where he was peering out the side window. “I see something off to the north a couple degrees. Red buildings.”

  Jenny adjusted course.

  “Is it the drift station?” Craig asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Jenny said. “Those structures are about six miles from the coordinates you gave me.”

  “That’s the data my editor gave me.”

  “It’s the currents,” Matt said. “They don’t call it a drift station for nothing. I’m surprised the station is even that close to the coordinates. Craig’s information has to be almost a week old by now.”

  Jenny buzzed toward the spread of red buildings.

  As they approached, details emerged. There was a wide polynya lake a short distance from the base. Steel bollards had been drilled into the ice surrounding the open water. Submarine docking bollards, Matt realized. Though presently the lake was empty. Beyond the polynya, he counted fifteen red buildings. He recognized them as Jamesway huts from his military days, the cold-weather version of the old Quonset huts. In the middle of the small village, an American flag fluttered atop a tall pole.

  “At least it’s a U.S. base,” Craig mumbled as Jenny banked over the site.

  “This has to be the place,” Matt muttered.

  A few vehicles were lined up on one side. Clear tracks led from the polynya to the cluster of Jamesway huts. But another track led straight out from the base, well trundled and beaten. Where did it lead? Before he could get a good look, Jenny circled around and prepared to land.

  Below, a few figures appeared from some of the buildings. All wore parkas and stared skyward. The plane’s engine must have been heard. Visitors were surely rare out here in the remote ZCI zone of the polar ice cap. Matt was relieved to see that the gawkers wore parkas of vibrant colors: greens, blues, yellows, and reds. Such colors were meant to be seen, to help find a mate lost in a storm.

  Thankfully there was not a single white parka among them.

  Jenny set the plane’s skis and dropped the flaps. She began a smooth descent to the tabletop ice field just north of the base. “Everyone buckle in,” she warned.

  The Twin Otter fell toward th
e ice. Matt gripped his seat arms. The plane swooped down, leveled off sharply, then skidded over the ice. The vibration of the skis over the slightly uneven surface rattled every bolt in the plane and the metal fillings in Matt’s back molars.

  But once she had touched down, Jenny quickly cut power and raised the flaps to brake. The plane slowed, and the vibration died down to a gentle bumping.

  Craig let out a sigh of relief.

  “Welcome to the middle of the Arctic Ocean,” Jenny said, and angled the plane around. She taxied back toward the base, now a short distance away.

  “The Arctic Ocean,” Craig echoed, eyeing out the windows suspiciously.

  Matt could relate to his misgivings. Since three years ago, he distrusted ice. Though the footing under you might look solid, it wasn’t. It was never a constant. It was an illusion of solidness, a false sense of security that betrayed when one least expected. You just had to turn your back for a second…a moment’s distraction…

  Matt continued to grip his chair arms as if he were still falling from the skies. He stared out at the world of ice around him. Here was his personal hell—not fiery flames, but endless ice.

  “It looks like we’ve stirred up a welcoming party,” Jenny said as she cut her engines and the twin props slowly rotated down.

  Matt swung his attention back to the base. A group of six snowmobiles rumbled out toward them. They were manned by men in matching blue parkas. He spotted the Navy insignia.

  Base security.

  One of the men stood up in his snowmobile and lifted a bullhorn in his hand. “Vacate the aircraft now! Keep your hands empty and in plain sight! Any attempt to leave or any hostile action will be met with deadly force!”

  Matt sighed. “The Welcome Wagon sure has gone to hell these days.”

  6:34 A.M.

  ICE STATION GRENDEL

  Amanda stared at the chaos, amazed at the amount of work that had been done in a single night. Not that day or night really had much meaning in the station, especially in the dark ice tunnels of the Crawl Space. In the detached isolation of her silent world, she watched the drama play out.

  “Careful with that!” Dr. Henry Ogden barked across the frozen lake. Even from here, Amanda could read his lips and exaggerated expression.

  Under his supervision, a pair of graduate students struggled to raise a light pole. It was the fourth to illuminate the cliff face. Nearby, the generator, which was running the lights and other assorted equipment, trembled in bad humor atop its rubber footpads. Power cords and conduits snaked across the ice lake’s surface.

  Small red flags marked off sites on the lake. The rocky cliff face itself was no less assaulted. Steel ladders leaned against it. More flags checkered its surface.

  Sites of specimens, Amanda imagined. She stared at the sections of the lake cordoned off with string and flags. She knew what specimens lay frozen under those spots. The grendels…as they had come to be called.

  News of the discovery had spread quickly. While Amanda was sure Dr. Ogden had not divulged the information himself, such a secret could not be kept long among a group of isolated scientists. Someone had clearly talked.

  All around the huge cavern, research students and senior members of the biology staff labored together. But Amanda also spotted several scientists from other disciplines, including her dear friend Dr. Oskar Willig. The Swedish oceanographer was the elder statesman of the entire Omega group. His accomplishments and credentials were numerous and well-known, including the Nobel Prize in 1972. His unruly gray hair was equally as distinguishable, making him easy to spot.

  She crossed toward him, stepping around the piles of sample bottles and boxes. At least someone had sanded the floor and strewn a few rubber mats over some of the busier work areas. Dr. Willig knelt on one of these mats, staring down into the ice.

  He glanced to her as she walked up. “Amanda.” He grinned and sat back on his heels. “Come to see the mascot of the station, have you?”

  She returned his smile. “I caught the creature feature last night.”

  He climbed to his feet with an ease that belied his age. He was a wiry, fit seventy-year-old. “It’s a tremendous discovery.”

  “The legendary Grendel itself.”

  “Ambulocetus natans,” Dr. Willig corrected. “Or if you are to believe our notable colleague from Harvard, Ambulocetus natans arctos.”

  She shook her head. Arctic subspecies…it seemed Dr. Ogden was not wasting time staking his claim. “So what do you think about his assertions?”

  “Intriguing theory. Polar adaptation of the prehistoric species. But Henry has a long way to go between theory and proof.”

  She nodded. “Well, he has enough specimens to work with.”

  “Yes, indeed. He should be able to thaw—” Dr. Willig started and peered over a shoulder.

  Amanda followed his gaze. He had heard something. It didn’t take long to spot the commotion that drew his attention and interrupted their conversation.

  Henry Ogden and Connor MacFerran were nose to nose. The brawny Scottish geologist loomed over the shorter biologist. But Henry was not about to give ground. He stood with his hands on his hips, leaning forward, an angry Chihuahua before a pitbull.

  Dr. Willig turned back to her so she could read his lips. “Here we go again. This is the third head butting since I came down here an hour ago.”

  “I’d better see what’s going on,” Amanda decided reluctantly.

  “Always the diplomat.”

  “No, always the baby-sitter.” She left Dr. Willig and crossed to the warring researchers. They barely noted her arrival, continuing their argument.

  “…not until all the specimens are collected. We’ve not even begun the photographs.” Henry had his face almost pressed against the geologist’s.

  “You can’t hog all the friggin’ research time down here. That cliff is volcanic basalt with pure carboniferous intrusions. All I need to do is core a few samples.”

  “How few?”

  “No more than twenty.”

  The biologist’s face darkened. “Are you mad? You’ll tear the whole thing down. Ruin who knows how much sensitive data.”

  Amanda barely followed their discourse, missing much as she read their lips, but she gained as much information from the gestures and body postures. A fistfight was about to break out. She could smell the territorial bloom of testosterone.

  “Boys,” she said calmly.

  They glanced to her, to her crossed arms, to her stern expression. Each took a step back.

  “What’s this all about?” she asked slowly.

  Connor MacFerran answered first. His lips were harder to read because of his thick black beard. “We’ve been patient with the biology team. But we have just as much right to sample this discovery. An inclusion of this magnitude”—he waved to the cliff face—“is not the sole ownership of Dr. Ogden.”

  Henry stated his case. “We’ve only had the one night to prep the site. Our collection is more delicate than the bulldozing techniques of the geologists. It’s a simple case of priority. My sampling won’t harm his specimens, but his sampling could irreparably damage mine.”

  “That’s not true!” Though Amanda could not hear Connor’s voice rise, she caught it from the color of his cheeks and the way his chest puffed. “A couple cores in areas free of your damn molds and lichens won’t harm anything.”

  “The dust…the noise…it could ruin everything.” Henry turned his full attention to Amanda. “I thought we had decided all this last night.”

  She finally nodded. “Connor, Henry’s right. This cliff face has been here for fifty thousand years. I think it could last another couple of days for the biology team to collect their samples.”

  “I need at least ten days,” Henry cut in.

  “You have three.” She faced the broad-shouldered Scotsman, who wore a sloppy grin of satisfaction. “Then you can start collecting cores—but only where Henry says you can.”

  The large man’s g
rin faded. “But—”

  She turned away. It was the easiest way to cut someone off when you were deaf. You simply stopped looking at them. She faced Henry now. “And you, Henry…I suggest you concentrate on clearing out a section of cliff face within three days. Because I will authorize drilling in here by that time.”

  “But—”

  She turned her back on both of them and saw Dr. Willig grinning broadly at her. MacFerran stalked off in one direction, heading toward the tunnel exit. Henry marched off in the other, ready to harangue his underlings. That bit of détente should buy her at least twenty-four hours of strained peace between the biologists and geologists.

  Dr. Willig crossed to her. “For a moment, I thought you were going to spank them.”

  “They’d have enjoyed it too much.”

  “Come.” The elderly Swede motioned. “You should see what Dr. Ogden is really protecting.”

  He took her hand, like a father might a daughter. He led her toward a familiar cleft in the volcanic rock face. Her feet began to drag. “I’ve been in there already.”

  “Yes, but have you seen what our argumentative scientist is doing?”

  Curiosity kept her feet moving. The pair reached the opening in the cliff. This morning, Amanda had changed out of her thermal sailing suit and simply wore jeans, boots, wool sweater, and a borrowed Gore-Tex parka for her journey into the icy Crawl Space. As they reached the tunnel entrance, she finally noted how warm it was. A steady flow of humid air rolled from the mouth of the cleft.

  Dr. Willig led the way, still holding her hand. “It is really quite amazing.”

  “What is?” The warmth distracted her…as did the slightly rank odor carried on the damp flow of air. Water sluiced in small trickles over the rock under her boots. It dripped from the ceiling, too.

  Within six steps, they reached the cave beyond the cleft. Like the greater cavern outside, this space had been invaded by modern technology. A second generator vibrated in a corner. Space heaters lined both walls, facing inward. Two light poles blazed in the center, illuminating the space in too great detail.