Ice Hunt Page 18

  “I’ll have to confer with COMSUBPAC,” Perry finished, “before I transport the detainees. Until then, I’ll keep them safe and sound.”

  “Very good, Captain. Good hunting.” Commander Tracy signed off.

  Perry replaced the receiver and turned to the radioman. “I need to reach Admiral Reynolds as soon as we return to Omega.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”

  Perry stepped out into the hall and ducked back into the conn.

  Commander Bratt eyed him from the diving station. “What’s the word from Prudhoe?”

  “It seems the key to the whole mess has landed in our laps.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I mean we’re heading back to the drift station. We have some new guests to entertain.”

  “The Russians?”

  Perry shook his head slowly. “Just get us back to the station.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Bratt readied the boat to dive.

  Perry tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together in his head. But too many pieces were still missing. He finally gave up. Perhaps he could catch a nap before they reached the drift station. He sensed he’d soon need to be at his most alert.

  He opened his mouth, ready to pass command over to Bratt, when the sonar watch supervisor announced, “Officer of the Deck, we have a Sierra One contact!”

  Instantly, everyone went alert. Sonar contact.

  Commander Bratt moved over to the BSY-1 sonar suite, joining the supervisor and electronic technicians. Perry joined him and eyed the monitors with their green waterfalls of sonar data flowing over them.

  The supervisor turned to Perry. “It’s another sub, sir. A big one.”

  Perry stared at the screens. “The Drakon.”

  “A good bet, Captain,” Bratt said from the nearby fire control station, reading target course and speed. “It’s heading directly for Omega.”

  9:15 A.M.

  ICE STATION GRENDEL

  Amanda shed her parka as she left the ice tunnels of the Crawl Space and reentered the main station. The heated interior was welcome after the freeze of the ice island’s heart, but it was still a damp warmth, bordering on the sweltering. She hung the parka on a hook by the door to the Crawl Space.

  Dr. Willig kept his coat on, but as a concession to the heat, he unzipped it and threw back the parka’s hood. He also pulled off his mittens, pocketed them, and rubbed his palms. The seventy-year-old oceanographer sighed, appreciating the warmth. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

  Amanda headed down the hall. “A big storm’s coming. If I want to return to Omega, I’ll have to set off now. Otherwise I’ll be stuck here for another day or two until the storm breaks.”

  “And I know you don’t want that.”

  She noted the smile hovering at the edge of his lips.

  “Captain Perry should be returning to Omega,” he said, and nodded to the single guard posted at the door. They had reduced the number of Navy men here, drawing personnel back to the sub for an exercise. “You wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  “Oskar,” Amanda warned, but she couldn’t keep a smile from her own lips. Was she so easy to read?

  “It’s okay, my dear. I miss my Helena, too. It’s hard to be apart.”

  Amanda took her mentor’s hand and squeezed it. His wife had died two years ago, Hodgkin’s disease.

  “Go back to Omega,” Dr. Willig told her. “Don’t squander time when you could be together.” By now they had drawn abreast of the Navy seaman guarding Level Four. Oskar glanced to him, then back to Amanda. “Still don’t want to tell me about what’s in there?”

  “You truly don’t want to know.”

  He shrugged. “A scientist is used to hard truths…especially one as old as this base.”

  Amanda continued past the door with Dr. Willig. “The truth will come out eventually.”

  “After the Russians arrive…”

  She shrugged, but could not keep a bitter edge from her voice. “It’s all politics.” She hated to keep secrets from her own researchers, but even more she knew the world had a right to know what had transpired here sixty years ago. Someone had to be held accountable. The delay in releasing the news was surely just a way to buy time, to blunt the impact, possibly even to cover it up. A deep well of anger burned in her gut.

  She reached the inner spiral staircase and climbed the steps. The plates vibrated underfoot. Movement drew her eye to the central shaft around which the stairs wound. A steel cage rose from below and passed their spot, climbing toward the upper levels. She turned to Dr. Willig. “They got the elevator working!”

  He nodded. “Lee Bentley and his NASA team are having a field day with all this old machinery and gear. Boys and their toys.”

  Amanda shook her head. What was once defunct and frozen in ice was now thawing and returning to life. They wound their way up in silence.

  Once they reached the top level, she said good-bye to her friend and crossed to the temporary room she had used the previous night. She gathered her pack and changed into her thermal racing suit. With the dispute between the biologists and geologists settled for the next couple of days, she was free to return to Omega.

  As she headed out, a blue-uniformed woman crossed the common area, an arm raised to catch her attention. Lieutenant Serina Washburn was the only female among the Navy crew stationed up here, a part of the base team. She was tall, ebony-skinned, her hair shorn in a crew cut. Looking at her, one couldn’t help but think of the old Amazons of mythology, women warriors of grace and strength. Her demeanor was always serious, her manner quiet. She stepped before Amanda, half at attention, respectful.

  “Dr. Reynolds. I have a message relayed from Omega.”

  She sighed. What was wrong now? “Yes?”

  “A group of civilians landed at Omega this morning and are being held by the security team.”

  She startled. “Who are they?”

  “There are four of them, including a sheriff, a Fish and Game, and a reporter. Their identities have been checked and confirmed.”

  “Then why are they being held?”

  Washburn shifted her feet. “With the sabotage at Prudhoe Bay…” She shrugged.

  No one was taking any chances. “Do we know why they’re here?”

  “They know about this station.”

  “How?”

  The lieutenant shrugged. “All they’ll claim is that some danger is heading our way. Something perhaps tied to the explosions at the oil fields. They refuse to say more until they can speak to someone in authority. And we’ve been unable to raise Captain Perry.”

  Amanda nodded. As the base leader, she would have to look into it. “I was about to head back to Omega anyway. I’ll check into the matter once I’m there.”

  She stepped away, but the lieutenant stopped her with a hand. “There’s one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The reporter and the others are adamant about coming here. They’re raising a real stink about it.”

  Amanda considered refusing such a visit, but then remembered her frustration a moment ago with all the secrecy and politicking surrounding the discovery on Level Four. If a reporter was here, someone to document everything…and a sheriff, too…

  She weighed her options. If she returned to interview these strangers, the coming storm would trap them all at Omega. And once Captain Perry was back, he’d block the reporter from coming here. He’d have no choice, tied as he was by the commands of his superior. But Amanda was under no such constraint. She took a deep breath. It was a narrow window in which perhaps to break this political stalemate and allow a little truth to shine before the awful discovery was clouded in rhetoric and lies.

  Amanda faced the stern lieutenant. “Have the civilians brought here.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ll interview them here.”

  Washburn’s only reaction was to lift one eyebrow. “I don’t believe Lieutenant Commander Sewell will agre
e with that decision.”

  “They can be secured here just as readily as over there. If the commander wants them under guard, I have no objection. He can send as many men with them as he would like. But I want them brought over here before the storm hits.”

  Washburn paused a moment, then nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She turned and headed back across the central common area, aiming for the cabin that housed the station’s shortwave hookup to Omega.

  Amanda glanced around the station. Finally someone from the outside world would learn what was hidden here, a small bit of assurance that at least some of the truth would come out.

  Still a twinge of unease crept through her. Before she could trace the sudden anxiety, a tall shadow fell over her, startling her. It was one of the things she hated most about being deaf. She could never hear anyone approaching from behind.

  She turned to find Connor MacFerran looming over her, a bewildered expression on his face. “Have you seen Lacy?”

  “Ms. Devlin?”

  He nodded.

  She scrunched her nose in thought. “I saw her when I entered the Crawl Space. She was carrying her skates.” Amanda and the geology student shared a common interest in ice racing and had chatted for a bit.

  Connor checked his watch. “She should’ve been back from her run an hour ago. We were to meet…to…um, to go over some data.”

  “I haven’t seen her since we separated in the ice tunnels.”

  The Scotsman’s face grew concerned.

  “You don’t think she could’ve gotten lost down there?” Amanda asked.

  “I’d better go check. I know the course she runs.” He left, stalking away like a giant black bear.

  “Take some others with you!” she called to him. “Let me know when you find her.”

  He lifted an arm, either acknowledging or dismissing her.

  Amanda stared after him. Anxiety grew to worry. She hoped the young woman hadn’t injured herself. She headed back toward her cabin, zipping down her thermal suit. She spotted Dr. Willig at one of the tables.

  He waved a hand, motioning her over. “I thought you’d be gone already,” he said as she strode up.

  “Change in plans.”

  “Well, I was talking to Dr. Gustof.” Oskar motioned to the Canadian meteorologist, also seated at the table. Erik Gustof was recognizable by his Norwegian heritage. He wiped his clipped beard of sandwich crumbs and nodded to her. “He has been analyzing some of the data from his outlying arrays. The storm coming is building into a true blizzard. He’s registering winds in excess of seventy miles an hour.”

  Erik nodded. “A true barnbuster, eh? We’ll be locked down but good.”

  Amanda sighed. She remembered the warning of the newcomers: Danger is headed our way. It seemed these strangers knew what they were talking about, but she sensed it wasn’t the weather that was the real threat.

  “Are you all right?” Dr. Willig asked.

  “For now,” she answered numbly. “For now.”

  10:05 A.M.

  OMEGA DRIFT STATION

  Jenny pulled on her parka, eyeing their guards. Around her, the others also donned cold-weather gear, some supplied by the base personnel: mittens, scarves, sweaters. Matt tugged on a borrowed wool cap, since his patched green Army jacket had no hood. With his usual stubbornness, he had refused to exchange it for one of the Navy men’s parkas. Jenny knew her ex-husband would never part with this tattered bit of his past.

  “You’ll all need sunglasses, too,” Lieutenant Commander Sewell ordered.

  “I don’t have any,” Craig said, hiking his pack of cameras and personal gear higher on his shoulder. One of the Navy petty officers had gone earlier to the Twin Otter to fetch it.

  Half an hour ago, Sewell had returned with new instructions. He had been able to reach Omega’s civilian head, apparently the daughter of the admiral who commanded the Navy crew stationed here. A nice bit of nepotism, it seemed. Still, Jenny hadn’t complained. Dr. Reynolds had granted them permission to cross to the Russian base.

  Sewell passed Craig a pair of sunglasses from his own pocket. The commander would be staying here—as would one member of their own team.

  Jenny knelt and gave Bane a big hug. The wolf wagged his tail and nibbled her ear. Sewell had refused to allow the dog to accompany them. “You be a good boy,” she said.

  Thump…thump…thump…

  Matt stepped to her side and gave Bane a scratch behind an ear. “We’ll be back tomorrow, big guy.”

  Jenny looked askance at Matt. Bane was the last tie between them. A bit of love shared. When Matt caught her looking at him, they matched gazes, but it quickly grew awkward. He was the first to turn away.

  “I’ll take good care of your dog,” a Navy ensign said as Jenny stood. He held Bane’s leash.

  “You’d better,” Matt countered.

  The twenty-year-old lad nodded. “My dad has a husky team back home.”

  Surprised, Jenny studied the young ensign more closely. He was olive-complexioned, eyes bright with a blend of innocence, youth, and exuberance. He appeared to be native Indian, Aleut perhaps. She read his embroidered name patch. “Tom Pomautuk.” Her eyes widened with recognition. “You’re not Snow Eagle’s son, by any chance? Jimmy Pomautuk’s son?”

  His gaze flicked up to her with surprise. “You know my da’.”

  “He ran the Iditarod back in ninety-nine. Placed third.”

  A proud smile broke over his face. “That’s right.”

  “I ran that race. He helped me when I snagged up my team and turned my sled.” Jenny felt more confident leaving Bane in the hands of Snow Eagle’s son. “How’s Nanook?”

  His smile broadened more fully, if not a trace sadly. “He’s getting old now. He only helps dad on his tour runs. His days of leading the team are over. But we do have one of his pups in training back on Fox Island.”

  Sewell interrupted them. “You all need to set out if you’re going to miss this storm.”

  Jenny gave Bane another pat. “You mind Tom.” She stepped away.

  “I don’t like leaving Bane with a stranger,” Matt grumbled beside her.

  “You’re welcome to stay here with him,” Jenny said, skirting past Matt and heading with the others toward the door.

  Matt followed, a sullen shadow at her back.

  The group pushed out into the deep freeze, leaving behind the fluorescent interior lighting for the gloom of the overcast day. The sun was a dull glow, an eternal gloaming, trapped between day and night. Since this morning, the horizons had closed in around the station, socked by the ice fog. This is how Jenny always pictured Purgatory: an endless white gloom.

  With her first breath, the cold reached inside Jenny’s chest. It was ice water filling her lungs. She coughed reflexively. The temperature had already dropped. In such cold, any exposed bit of skin was in immediate risk of frostbite. Each nostril hair became an icy bristle. Even tears froze in their ducts. It was an impossible place to survive.

  Once she cleared the lee of the Jamesway hut, winds gusted and tore at her clothing, seeking warm skin. Upon the sharp breezes, Jenny could smell the storm in the air.

  As a group, they hunched off toward the two parked Sno-Cats.

  A distant boom echoed and rolled over the ice.

  Craig glanced around him. “What was that?”

  “Fracturing ice floes,” Jenny answered. “The storm is stirring up the ice.” Other crackling booms erupted, like thunder from over the horizon. She could feel it through her boots. It was going to be a hell of a storm.

  Once they reached the vehicles, two Navy seamen led Jenny and her father toward one vehicle. Craig and Matt headed to the other with their own armed escort. Despite the cooperation evidenced by allowing them to visit the Russian ice base, Sewell was hedging his bet, splitting them up, assigning guards to them at all times.

  One of the guards stepped to the first Sno-Cat and pulled open the door. “Ma’am, you and your father will take this one.”
br />   Ducking her head, Jenny climbed into the cabin of the second idling Sno-Cat, grateful to get out of the wind.

  The driver, uniformed in a blue parka, was already in his seat. He nodded as she slid beside him on the bench seat. “Ma’am.”

  She frowned back at him. If one more person called her ma’am today…

  Her father took the spot on the other side of her. The two guards hauled themselves into the backseat.

  “Sorry we can’t run the heater,” the driver said to them all. “To cover the thirty miles, we’re gonna have to conserve.”

  Once everyone was settled, the driver started the tread-wheeled vehicle across the ice. He followed the trundled track of the other Cat as they headed out from the base. Once under way, the driver tapped a button, and a rockabilly tune twanged from the tiny speakers.

  A groan rose from the seaman in the backseat. “Trash this hayseed shit. Don’t you have any hip-hop?”

  “Who’s driving this rig? I could put in the Backstreet Boys.” The threat was clear in the driver’s voice.

  “No, no…that’s all right,” the other conceded, and slumped back in his seat.

  They continued away from the base, all lost to their own thoughts. Snow crunched under the treads.

  As the driver hummed to the music, Jenny glanced behind. After a quarter mile, the red buildings of the base had grown ghostly in the morning fog, swirling into and out of focus with the winds. Snow was beginning to squall up, too.

  She began to twist back around when motion caught her attention—not from the base, but out farther. A dark shadow rose through the whiteness, like some breaching whale. She stared a moment longer, unsure what she was seeing out there on the ice.

  Then the winds swept the fog clear for a moment. She watched a black conning tower rise past a jagged line of pressure ridges. Its surface steamed in the subzero air like a living creature. From its sides, small spots shone. Tinier red pinpoints of light dazzled and traced over the ice and through the fog. Vague figures scrambled along the ice ridge.

  “Is that your submarine?” Jenny asked.

  Both seamen swung around. The music critic, the one with the best view, jolted up from his seat. “Fuck!” He tore open the back door. “It’s the goddamn Russians!”