Ice Hunt Page 23

  Greer continued taking them deeper. “There’s an old weapons locker on the third level. Grenades, old rifles. We’ll grab as much as we can carry.”

  “Then what?”

  “We hide. We survive.”

  “I like the last part of your plan,” Matt said.

  As they reached the third level, gunfire suddenly sounded, echoing to them. It didn’t come from above them—but below.

  “Someone’s still here,” Craig said, eyes wide.

  “It sounds like it came from the level just under us,” Pearlson said.

  “Let’s go!” Greer led the way.

  As they set off, an explosion blasted from above. Everyone froze again.

  “The Russians,” Matt said.

  “Hurry!” Greer ordered and continued down the stairs.

  Voices called out above them. Orders shouted in Russian. Footsteps echoed, running.

  Craig and Matt fled down the steps after Greer. Pearlson and O’Donnell maintained their rear guard. They hit the fourth level. Here, instead of a common open area like the tiers above, the stairs opened onto a long hall.

  It was empty, too. But a set of double doors blocked the far end.

  “The Crawl Space,” Pearlson said behind them.

  “It’s a good place to hide,” Greer said. “A fucking maze. C’mon!”

  “But who was shooting?” Craig asked as they ran.

  Matt wanted to know, too.

  Greer frowned and growled, “Pray it’s our guys.”

  Matt took the lieutenant’s suggestion to heart. They needed reinforcements. But this, of course, begged another question.

  If it was the good guys, what were they shooting at?

  9

  Dead End

  APRIL 9, 12:02 P.M.

  ICE STATION GRENDEL

  In the gloom of the bone nest, the massive creature crept toward Amanda’s hiding place, hunched, suspicious, unsure. Its maw gaped open, teeth bloody. Claws still trailed shredded bits of Lacy’s racing suit.

  Pressing deeper into the crack in the ice, Amanda sensed an ultrasonic wailing from the grendel, which she felt in her jawbone, the roots of her teeth, the hairs on the back of her neck. It kept her frozen, like a rabbit in headlights.

  Go away, she begged with all her heart. She had been holding her breath for so long, stars began to glow across her vision. She dared not exhale. Small rivulets of cold sweat ran down her exposed face.

  Please…

  The grendel approached within a foot of her niche. Silhouetted against the glow from the outer cavern, the beast’s features were shadowed. Only its two eyes still captured some of the light reflected off the ice walls.

  Crimson…bloody…emotionless and as cold as the press of ice overhead.

  Amanda met that gaze, knowing she would die.

  Then the beast whipped its head around, back toward the exit tunnel. The creature’s sudden movement drew a startled breath from Amanda. She couldn’t hold it any longer. She tensed, fearing she had given herself away.

  But the beast ignored her and shambled fully around, facing the tunnel now. It cocked its head, one way then the other, plainly listening.

  Amanda had no way of knowing what it heard. Was someone coming? Was Connor still alive, screaming for help?

  Whatever it was, the grendel lashed its tail a few times, then dashed toward the tunnel, shooting its low form up and away.

  Amanda remained in her niche for one long, trembling shake, then fell out. She stumbled over to the tunnel on weak legs. Stars continued to dance across her vision, more from fear than anoxia. She hunched by the tunnel in time to see the shadowed bulk of the beast lope away, aiming toward the cliff.

  Fearing the silent unknown more than the beast, Amanda climbed up the slotted passage. She used her crampons for purchase on the slippery slope, ducking as the ceiling lowered. When she reached the end, she poked her head out.

  To the side, the grendel scaled the ice cliff, racing like a gecko up a stucco wall. It vanished over the edge, moving fast, clearly on the hunt.

  Amanda’s eyes settled on the blue poly-line still draped over the cliff’s edge.

  She stared at the rope.

  It was her only hope.

  Amanda rolled out of the slot and to her feet. She rushed to the cliff, praying the rope was still attached to whatever was left of Connor. The last she had seen, the geologist had the poly-line wrapped around his chest.

  She reached the cliff and wrapped her gloved fingers around the rope.

  Please, God…

  She tugged on the rope. It seemed to hold. She leaned out, testing her weight. It still held.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she mounted the wall. She climbed, hand over hand, crampons dug deep into the ice. Fear fueled her muscles. Fatigue was impossible. She clawed and kicked her way to the top.

  Reaching the edge, she heaved herself over and landed only inches from the macerated form of Connor MacFerran. His helmet lamp shone toward the ceiling, a beacon in the dark tunnels.

  Amanda twisted away. She crawled to her feet, trying to keep her eyes away from the ravaged wreckage. Like Lacy, his belly had been ripped open. Blood pooled around him, a frozen stain on the ice. It was this last that had allowed Amanda to scale the cliff. During her hour down below, the ruin of Connor’s body had frozen to the ice, becoming a bloody anchor for her escape.

  With a hand over her mouth and a prayer of forgiveness on her lips, she bent down and undid the geologist’s helmet. She needed his light. Working the chin strap, she could not look away from Connor. His left eye and nose were torn away, raked by a claw. His throat had been ripped out just at the collarbone. His beard was a frozen matt of blood.

  She finally freed the helmet, sobbing now.

  Then she stood and put the helmet on. It was too big. It hung crooked, but she snugged the chin strap. She faced down the long tunnel. There was no sign of the grendel.

  As she stepped away, a glint caught her eye. She turned. A small ice ax lay on the ground. It was Connor’s. He had worn it at his belt. He must have tried to use it to protect himself.

  She hurried and collected it. Though it was just a hand tool, it gave her a measure of relief.

  She returned to the tunnel, girding herself for the terrifying journey ahead. But as she fingered the handle to the ice ax, another memory was triggered. Earlier, when she had confronted Connor about searching for Lacy by himself, he had waved off her concern. Everyone was too busy, he had claimed. But then he had said something else. The words returned to her now.

  Besides, I have a walkie-talkie.

  Amanda spun around.

  She dropped back to Connor’s body. She searched his ripped goose-down vest, leaking feathers and stuffing, and found the small handheld radio.

  Kneeling, she twisted the dial. A small red battery light glowed. She pressed the walkie-talkie to her lips. “This is Amanda Reynolds.” She struggled to modulate her voice, trying to whisper, but fearing no one would hear her if she were too faint. “If anyone can hear me, I’m trapped in the Crawl Space. There is a large predator hunting the tunnels. It killed Lacy Devlin and Connor MacFerran. It is loose now, off somewhere…I don’t know where. I’m going to attempt to reach the upper levels. Please…please, if you read this, bring weapons. I will broadcast my location as soon as I can reach any of the marked tunnels.”

  She placed her fingers over the radio’s speaker. Please, someone be listening. She waited, trying to feel any vibration in the speaker, some sign that someone was communicating with her, but there was nothing.

  She stood again and faced the dark tunnel. The beam from her helmet lamp pierced ahead. She held the radio in one hand, the ice pick in the other.

  She had to get out of the Crawl Space.

  Then she’d be safe.

  12:15 P.M.

  ABOARD THE DRAKON

  His men had performed flawlessly.

  Captain First Rank Anton Mikovsky stood watch atop the submarine’s perisc
ope stand, hands behind his back. He wore his underway uniform: green tunic and pants, cuffs tucked into boots. Reports continued to flow from battle stations.

  All areas remained green.

  He was taking no chances. Word from the shore team confirmed that Ice Station Grendel had been secured. The Americans who had crashed through the station’s doors in a Sno-Cat were still missing. The group—five men—had holed away like frightened rabbits, vanishing into the depths of the station. But they would be found. It was only a matter of time. The rest of the station was empty, cleared out by the submarine they had heard taking on ballast less than an hour ago.

  Mikovsky knew his opponent. A United States research sub. The USS Polar Sentinel. It was no threat. It was an experimental model, unarmed. Surely by now it was fleeing with its evacuees. He was under orders not to pursue.

  His primary mission was to occupy the base, secure it, set up a communication station, then dive to patrol the waters against the real threat. In the Arctic, the enemy was the fast-attack subs that constantly patrolled under the polar cap.

  Their window on this mission was exactly twelve hours. Vhodi, vidi. Get in, get out. The confusion over at Prudhoe Bay would slow his opponents.

  “Captain.” The radioman of the watch strode over to him. “I was able to raise Omega base.”

  “Very good.” He climbed from the periscope stand and crossed to the communication shack. The radioman passed him the handset. “Captain Mikovsky here. I must speak to Admiral Petkov.”

  Through the static, words cut in and out. “Right away, Captain. The admiral has been awaiting your call.”

  On hold, Mikovsky planned his words. Admiral Petkov had remained behind at Omega, to interrogate the prisoners and search the U.S. base. Pektov wanted to make certain that whatever the Russian government sought inside Ice Station Grendel hadn’t already been transferred to the U.S. science labs at the research base.

  Mikovsky had never seen a man so driven, yet so calm at the same time. It was disquieting. There were currents that ran through the man that were icier than anything found out here in the arctic. Petkov’s nickname—Beliy Prizrak, the White Ghost—was disturbingly fitting. A week ago, when Mikovsky had first been granted this mission to captain a flagship alongside an admiral from the Northern Fleet, he had been thrilled and honored. He had basked in the envy of his fellow ranked officers. But now…now he was happy the admiral was off his boat.

  As if he heard him from afar, Petkov’s voice came on the line, stolid and emotionless. “Captain, what is your status?”

  He swallowed hard, caught off guard. “Grendel is secure, sir. The station was evacuated just as you suspected, but there are five hostiles unaccounted.” He quickly recounted the crash of the Sno-Cat into the station. “I’ve doubled the strike team to twenty men. They will perform a level-by-level sweep. I will forward the all clear for your arrival.”

  “I’m heading out there now. Has the nuclear charge been offloaded to the station?”

  “Y-yes, sir.” Mikovsky pictured the meter-wide titanium sphere. As ordered, it had been bolted to the floor on the deepest level of the station. “But, Admiral, there’s no need for you to come here until we’re entirely secure. Procedure—”

  “I don’t care if you find these Americans or not. Lock down the base, especially Level Four. I’m heading out with the hovercraft teams. Take your boat down immediately. Maintain deep patrol. Rendezvous scheduled at Grendel at sixteen hundred.”

  “Yes, sir.” He checked his watch. Less than three hours. “Drakon will surface-at-ice here again at exactly sixteen hundred.”

  “Very good.” The static went silent as the Ghost vanished into the ether.

  Mikovsky turned to the radioman. “Get me the strike-team leader.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A commotion drew his attention to the sonar team. They were bent over the various arrays, arguing.

  He crossed to them. “What’s wrong?”

  The sonar chief snapped up. “We’ve picked up an anomaly. But it makes no sense.”

  “What sort of anomaly?”

  “Multiple active sonar signals. Very weak.”

  “Coming from where?” Mikovsky’s mind instantly ran through possible sources: the U.S. research sub, the approach of a fast-attack submarine, perhaps even surface ships beyond the cap. The answer was even more disturbing.

  The chief looked up at him. “The signals originate from inside the station.”

  12:22 A.M.

  ICE STATION GRENDEL

  Pistol in hand, Matt followed Lieutenant Greer through the double doors, leaving behind the organized structure of the ice station for the free-form flow of ice tunnels, chutes, sudden cliffs, and caves. Craig stuck to his side, trailed by stone-eyed Pearlson and a wincing O’Donnell. They ran down into the depths of the maze.

  Greer had the only flashlight, found near the entrance. His light danced over the walls as he ran, igniting the dark ice to a shimmering blue. It was like racing through the bowels of an ice sculpture.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Craig asked.

  “Someone’s down here,” Greer said. “We need to hook up with them.”

  “How big is this Crawl Space?” Matt asked.

  “Big” was the only response.

  They continued to run, knowing the Russians weren’t far behind. Distance was more important than direction.

  Zigzagging down the tunnels, they fled deeper into the depths of the ice island. As they reached a crossing of passages, gunfire erupted again. Automatic fire, from up ahead. But which tunnel?

  They all stopped.

  “Which way?” Pearlson asked.

  The answer came a moment later. Light bloomed down to the right. Frantic and bobbling. More shots. Loud and deafening in the close spaces.

  “Here comes trouble,” Matt said, pointing his Beretta down the tunnel.

  Shouts could be heard now.

  The Navy patrol raised their weapons.

  Around a bend in the tunnel, the light bloomed brighter, illuminating a running figure. A young man stumbled into view, slipping and sliding despite the sandy floors. He scrambled, arms out, as if grasping for help. He was clearly not military, evident from his shoulder-length brown hair, North Face parka, and Thinsulate dry pants.

  He fell toward them. Matt expected the man would beg for help. Instead he ran right through them. “Run!” he yelled in passing.

  More figures appeared, racing at full tilt: an older bald man, a twentysomething girl, and another young man. A tall, striking black woman in military blue led this group.

  “Washburn!” O’Donnell called out when she came into sight.

  “Pick up your balls and get moving!” she barked back at him.

  More gunfire blazed behind the group. Muzzle fire framed the last figure, another sailor. He dropped to one knee, firing a barrage behind him. Lit by a flashlight’s beam, the distant tunnel glowed like a blue snake winding deep into the ice.

  “What’s the matter?” Greer asked.

  Beyond the kneeling gunman, Matt spotted a darkness flowing up the tunnel.

  What the hell?

  Washburn led her charges to them. She screamed to be heard over the gunfire. “We have to get out of these tunnels…now!”

  “We can’t,” Greer said as Washburn pounded to them. “The Russians—”

  “Fuck the Russians!” Washburn said, panting hard. “We’ve got a hell of a lot worse on our asses!” She waved the others ahead of her.

  The gunfire died. The other sailor was on his feet and sprinting toward them. He fumbled to replace his rifle’s spent magazine. “Go, go, go!”

  Greer jabbed a finger at O’Donnell and Pearlson. “You and you. Take the civilians back up.”

  O’Donnell nodded. He grabbed Craig by the elbow and took off with the panicked folk. Matt shook off Pearlson’s attempt to do the same.

  The seaman shrugged and headed up on his own, but he called over his shoulder back t
o his lieutenant. “What about the Russians, sir?”

  Fuck the Russians. Matt was still stunned by the woman’s response.

  Greer’s reply was more useful. “Take them as far as the Crawl Space exit. Then wait for us!”

  The only acknowledgment was a quick turn on a heel, and the group continued their headlong flight up the tunnel.

  The last Navy man reached them.

  “Commander Bratt,” Greer said, sounding surprised.

  “Prepare to lay down cover fire!” Urgently, Bratt spun around, dropping to a knee. He ripped a fresh magazine from his coat and slapped it home.

  Greer joined his senior officer, standing behind him, rifle pointed over Bratt’s shoulder. He passed his flashlight into Matt’s free hand.

  Matt glanced between the retreating party and the two stationary gunmen. He debated which was best—to stay or go. His only other choice was to flee blindly down some side tunnel and get lost. No option seemed wiser than another, so he simply stood his ground.

  He stepped to Bratt’s other shoulder.

  Bratt glanced up at him, then away. “Who the hell are you?”

  Matt raised his pistol, pointing it past the officer. “Right now, I’m a guy covering your ass.”

  “Then welcome to the party,” Bratt grumbled back.

  “What’s coming?” Greer asked on the other side.

  “Your worst goddamn nightmare.”

  From beyond the reach of the flashlight, red eyes reflected back at them. Matt’s head began to buzz oddly, like mosquitoes whirling in his skull.

  “Here they come!” Bratt said, sucking in a breath.

  A massive snowy-skinned creature striped in red…no, blood…thundered into view. It filled the tunnel, weeping red from multiple gunshot wounds. Gouged tracks furrowed its sides. The side of its face was raw hamburger. But it kept coming.

  What the hell was it?

  Other shadows could be seen in brief glimpses behind it.

  The lead beast charged toward them. Claws tore at the ice.

  The buzzing grew louder in Matt’s skull.

  Then a barrage of rifle fire erupted, startling Matt to react. He aimed the 9mm pistol, but he knew the gun was useless. No more than the Alaskan grizzly, such a meager weapon would never bring down this creature. Several of the fresh wounds had been direct strikes between the monster’s eyes.