Ice Hunt Page 26

  They reached the plane, undid the storm ties, and yanked away the frozen chocks. Once ready, they climbed inside. Insulated from the wind, the cabin seemed fifty degrees warmer. Jenny climbed over to her pilot’s seat. Kowalski took the copilot’s chair. Tom and Bane shared the row behind them.

  The plane’s keys were still where she had left them. She switched on main power and ran a quick systems check. All seemed in order. She flipped toggles, disengaging the engine-block heaters from the auxiliary battery.

  “Here goes nothing,” Jenny said, powering up the twin engines. The familiar vibrato of power trembled through her seat cushion.

  The engine noise was lost somewhat on the winds, but Jenny could still discern the whine of the twin motors. How far did the sound carry? Were the Russians coming even now?

  She glanced to Kowalski. He shrugged as if reading her mind. What did it matter?

  She throttled up slowly, letting the engines warm. Beyond the windows, she could vaguely make out the props stirring up the blowing snow.

  After a full minute, she asked, “Ready?”

  No one answered.

  “Here we go,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard. It sounded, even to her, more like a prayer. She pushed the engines, the props chopped into the winds, and the Twin Otter broke from its spot on the ice. The plane slid on its skids, moving out.

  Jenny worked the controls to angle them away from the base. Her plan was to taxi into the wind, using the force of the storm to help her get aloft. It would still be a hell of a ride.

  “Hang on,” she began to say, but was cut off.

  “We’ve got company,” Kowalski said. He had craned around and was staring behind them.

  Jenny checked. Two glows, like a car’s headlights, shone behind them. Then the two lights split apart, sailing away from one another, but arcing toward the Otter.

  Hovercrafts.

  Jenny throttled up, generating a roar from the props. The plane sped ahead, but it was slow with the headwind pounding at the windshield. Normally a fierce headwind was perfect for a quick takeoff, but these winds gusted, battering the plane. “The Russians must have heard us.”

  “Or they posted infrared scopes and spotted the engines heating up out here.”

  A blast of rifle fire suddenly cut through the engine noise, sounding distant in the blanket of the storm. A few slugs struck the fleeing plane with sharp pings. But the tail assembly and storage spaces shielded the cabin.

  Jenny fought to increase their speed into the wind.

  “They’re coming around!” Tom called from the backseat.

  Jenny glanced to the right and left. Two glows could be seen, swinging up to get clear shots at the cabin.

  Damn, those bikes flew fast.

  She stared out into the storm breaking over her windshield, pressing against her, holding her back. This would never work. They didn’t have the time to fight the winds. She needed a new angle of attack—and there was only one other option.

  “Hold on!” she called out.

  She throttled down the port engine while kicking up the starboard. At the same time, she worked the flaps, one up, the other down. The Otter spun on its runners, like a hydroplaning car. It skidded on the ice, coming full around, pointing back the way they had come.

  “What are you doing?” Kowalski yelled, pushing off the window he had been pressed against.

  Jenny jammed both engines to full power. Props churned snow into a blur. The Otter leaped ahead, racing again over the ice.

  With the wind at their backs, the plane accelerated rapidly.

  Kowalski realized where they were heading. Back toward the base. “You don’t have the clearance. You’ll never get the lift you need.”

  “I know.”

  The pair of hovercraft whirled out and back, spinning around to give chase. A single bullet pinged against the Otter’s tail.

  “We’ll never make it,” Tom whispered.

  Jenny ignored them all. She raced ahead, watching her gauges, especially her speed. C’mon…

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the lights of the base appear ahead. Darker shadows marked the village of Jamesway huts.

  The Otter sped toward them.

  The vibrations of the runners over the ice lessened as the plane began to lift. Jenny held her breath. She didn’t have enough speed yet. The momentary lift was only from the storm winds. She was right. The runners hit again, shaking the plane as the skids rode across the uneven ice field.

  “Pull around!” Kowalski yelled. “We can’t make it!”

  Jenny hummed under her breath and aimed directly for one of the dark buildings, a shadow in the glow of the base’s lamp poles. She prayed it was aligned like the barracks from which she and Kowalski had escaped.

  The plane sped toward it. Jenny held back just a pinch of power. She would need it.

  “What are you—?” Kowalski began, then finished with “Oh, shit!”

  Like the barracks, a snowbank had blown against the windward side of the Jamesway hut, a frozen wave banking almost to the roof.

  The Otter struck the icy slope, nose popping up. Jenny kicked the engines with the last bit of power. The runners rode up the bank, then shot skyward.

  The skids brushed against the corrugated roof of the building with a rasp of metal on metal—then they were away, airborne into the teeth of the storm.

  For the next few stomach-rolling minutes, Jenny fought for control of her craft. The plane bobbled, a kite in a storm. But while the winds were blowing fiercely, they were also steady. Jenny turned into the storm, using the wind’s rush over her wings to propel her upward. She eventually found her wings, and the Otter stabilized.

  Sighing, she checked her gauges: altitude, airspeed, compass. In these whiteout conditions, the instruments were all she had to go by. Beyond the windshield, there was no discernible way of telling sky from ice.

  “You’re fucking awesome!” Kowalski said, wearing a shaggy grin.

  Jenny wished she could share his enthusiasm. Still watching her instruments, she felt her gut tighten. The gauge on the reserve fuel tank was draining away. The dial swept from full, to half, to quarter. One of the stray bullets must have torn a line. She was blowing fuel behind her. She checked her main tank.

  It was holding fine—if you could call a mere eighth of a tank fine.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom asked.

  “We’re almost out of fuel.”

  “What?” Kowalski asked. “How?”

  Jenny pointed and explained.

  Kowalski swore fiercely once she was done.

  “How far can we get before we have to land?” Tom asked.

  Jenny shook her head. “Not far. Maybe fifty miles.”

  “Great…” Kowalski groaned. “Just far enough to land in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.”

  Jenny understood his anger. Out here, lost, without food or warm clothes, they would not survive long in the freezing cold.

  “What can we do?” Tom asked.

  No one answered.

  Jenny continued to fly. It was all she could do for now.

  1:29 P.M.

  ICE STATION GRENDEL

  With no more tricks to play, Matt and Amanda had only one course left, the most basic means of defense. “Run!” Matt yelled, giving Amanda a rough push.

  She let out a gasp, then leaped away like a startled doe.

  Matt did his best to keep up with her, but barefoot, it was like running with two freezer-burned steaks tied around his feet.

  They fled up the tunnels, but with every few steps, Matt was losing ground.

  “I know…I know this place!” Amanda yelled. “We’re not far from the exit!”

  Matt glanced over a shoulder.

  The grendel flew down the tunnel toward them—only ten yards away now. It loped after them, sinuous and lethal, claws casting up spats of ice. It must have sensed that its prey was close to escaping. All caution gone.

  “Get down!” This new shout came
from the tunnel ahead of them, cutting through the constant buzz.

  Matt swung around to see a bristle of weapons pointed his way.

  The Navy team!

  Amanda disappeared among them. Matt was too far behind. There was no way he could make it. He dove onto his belly, arms outstretched, ax held in both hands.

  The passage erupted with gunfire. Bullets whistled over his head. Ice chipped from the walls and ceilings, pelting him from stray shots and ricochets.

  Matt rolled to his back, staring back between his legs.

  The grendel crouched only a yard away, head bulled down. It clawed toward him, determined to reach its prize. A bellow rumbled through its chest. Steam puffed from its buried nostrils. Blood spilled over its sleek features as flesh was macerated by bullets.

  Matt backpedaled away, pushing with his bare feet.

  Under fire from three automatic weapons, the beast still fought toward him. One claw lashed out and snatched Matt’s pant leg, pinning it to the ice. Matt tugged, but it wouldn’t budge. For a heartbeat, he met the hunter’s eye.

  Matt read the fire in there.

  The grendel’s lips snarled back. It might die, but it would take him with it.

  Matt swung his ice ax—not at the beast but over his head, as far as his arm could reach. The pick end jammed into the ice. With his other hand, he unbuckled his pants and ripped loose the top button. Using the ax as an anchor, he hauled himself out of his pants and rolled from the beast.

  Stripped to his thermals, he crawled away. The beast roared behind him, a haunted sound that crossed all spectrums, eerie and forlorn.

  Matt reached the row of men.

  Hands grabbed him, hauled him to his feet.

  He looked back at the beast. It had also rolled around, half climbing the walls to turn. It fled away from the stinging attack and vanished around the far bend.

  Matt joined Amanda, and together they approached the others: a cluster of scientists and a handful of Navy personnel.

  Craig gaped at him. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

  “We’re not out of this yet.”

  Bratt organized his command: Greer, O’Donnell, Pearlson, and Washburn. He explained their situation.

  Amanda stared hard at Bratt. “The Polar Sentinel left?”

  “Captain Perry had no choice.”

  Amanda seemed to shrink back, stunned. “What are we going to do?”

  Bratt answered, “We can’t stay down here. We’re running low on ammunition. We’re going to have to take our chances with the Russians.”

  “Sir, I know a few places we could hide on Level Three,” the tall black lieutenant said. She nodded back up the tunnels. “There are service shafts and storage spaces. Also an old weapons locker. If we could make it there without being seen…”

  “Anywhere’s better than these fuckin’ tunnels,” Greer said.

  Bratt nodded. “We’ll have to be careful.”

  Matt would be happy to be out of these ice passages himself. The nagging buzz was beginning to ache his ears.

  He suddenly jolted.

  Oh, God…

  He swung around. His ears had been ringing from the close-quarter rifle fire. Only now that it had faded did he feel it.

  The creature had been driven off—but the buzzing continued.

  He saw the look of recognition in Amanda’s eyes.

  “We’re not alone!” Matt yelled.

  Flashlights suddenly shot up, poking down other tunnel openings. Pair after pair of red eyes reflected back at them.

  “They’re the thawed group from the caves!” Bratt called out, waving everyone back. “They finally got around that damned carcass.”

  “The rifle fire must have drawn them!” the biologist yelled in terror, pulling back.

  “Out!” Bratt yelled. “We don’t have the firepower to hold off this many!”

  Together, they ran up the tunnel in a mad rush.

  The sudden movement drew the beasts, like cats after fleeing mice.

  “This way!” Amanda screamed.

  The double doors to the station appeared ahead.

  In a mad rush, they hit the doors. Matt held the way open and waved the civilians through. “Move, move, move!”

  The Navy personnel kept up a rear guard, then quickly followed into the station.

  As the doors were slammed shut, a shot rang out ahead of them. Matt ducked from a ricochet off the metal wall.

  It seemed their gunfire had drawn more than just grendels.

  “Halt!” a soldier in a white parka barked at them in heavily accented English. He and four others had a post at the other end of the hall. Assault rifles were trained on them. “Drop weapons! Now!”

  No one moved for a breath.

  Amanda had been continuing forward, deaf to the command, but Matt grabbed her elbow. She glanced to him.

  Matt shook his head. “Stay with me,” he mouthed.

  “Do as they say,” Bratt ordered, tossing aside his rifle as example. Other weapons clattered. “Keep moving forward. Get away from the doors.”

  “Keep hands in air!” the Russian yelled at them. “Move in single line to here!”

  With a nod from Bratt, they followed their captor’s instructions.

  Quickly forming a line, they hurried down the long hall. They hadn’t taken more than ten steps when something huge hit the double doors behind them. The metal doors buckled.

  Everyone froze.

  “Down,” Bratt ordered.

  They dropped to hands and knees. Matt pulled Amanda down with him.

  A single shot fired, perhaps in startled reflex. But the aim was good. O’Donnell was a moment too slow in dropping with the others. The back of his head exploded, showering bone and blood. Then his body toppled backward, limbs flung out.

  A flurry of Russian commands followed, yelling at each other.

  “Goddamn it,” Bratt swore on the floor, his face purpling with rage.

  Matt glanced between the trigger-happy Russians and the buckled door. Neither choice was good.

  The Russian in charge stepped forward. “What trick—?”

  Something again charged the door, hitting it like a runaway train. Hinges ripped clean, and both doors flew into the hall.

  Accompanying the doors, a grendel barreled into the hall. Others followed.

  Chaos ensued as everyone surged forward on the floor.

  Shots rang out, wild with fear.

  “Stay down!” Bratt yelled. “Crawl forward.”

  They would never make it. If they didn’t catch a stray bullet like O’Donnell, they’d be ravaged by the beasts.

  “Over here!” Amanda yelled. She had rolled to the wall and reached up to a door handle above her head. A bullet came close to shaving off a finger, but she managed to yank the handle. Using her other hand, she hauled the door open. The thick steel hatch now acted as a shield against the bullets. “Inside!”

  They all tumbled after her.

  Greer was last, diving through, a grendel at his heels.

  Amanda slammed the door shut behind him as the beast struck. The concussion knocked her into Matt. He steadied her, but she shoved to the door.

  In the dark, Matt heard a metal bar slide home.

  Muffled as they were by the thick hatch, the echo of the gun battle still reached them. Occasional heavy bodies collided with the walls and door.

  As the battle waged in the hallway, they all lay panting on the floor, huddled in a mass just inside the doorway. Matt took a moment to pull out his moosehide boots and cram them over his aching, frozen feet.

  “We should be safe for the moment.” Amanda spoke from the darkness. “This door is solid plate steel.”

  “Where are we?” Matt asked, lacing his boots.

  “The heart of the station,” Bratt answered. “Its main research lab.”

  A light switch was flipped and bare bulbs flickered to life.

  Matt stared around the clean and orderly lab. Steel tables were aligned
with military precision. Glass-fronted cabinets housed beakers and polished tools. Refrigeration units lined one wall. Other smaller rooms opened off the main lab, but they were too dark to see into.

  As Matt’s gaze circled the room, another chain of lights flickered into existence. Each bulb flared, one after the other, illuminating a curving concourse that arced away into the distance. The corridor seemed to follow the outer wall, probably circled the entire level.

  Matt bore witness to what each bulb illuminated. “Oh, dear God…”

  Act Three

  Feeding Frenzy

  11

  Timeless

  APRIL 9, 1:42 P.M.

  OUT ON THE ICE…

  Bundled in a white parka, Viktor Petkov rode through the heart of a blizzard. His hands were encased in heated mittens, his face protected from the winds by the furred edge of his hood, a thick wool scarf, and a pair of polarized goggles.

  But no amount of clothing could keep the cold from his heart. He was heading to the gravestone of his father, a frozen crypt buried in the ice.

  He straddled the backseat of the hovercraft bike, harnessed in place. The skilled driver, a young officer under Mikovsky, handled the vehicle with a reckless confidence that could only come from youth. The craft flew over the ice, no more than a handspan above the surface, a rocket against the wind.

  The storm continued its attempt to blow them off course, but the driver compensated, maintaining a direct line toward the lost station using the bike’s gyroscopic guidance system.

  Viktor stared out at the snow-blasted landscape. Around him lay nothing but a wasteland, a desert of ice. With the sun blanketed by clouds and snow, the world had dissolved into a wan twilight. It sapped one’s will and strength. Here, hopelessness and despair took on physical dimensions. With winds wailing in his ears, the eternal desolation sank into his bones.

  Here is where my father spent his last days, alone, exiled, forgotten.

  The craft swung in a slow arc, following the shadow of a pressure ridge, the spines of a sleeping dragon. Then, out of the continual gloom, a misty light grew.

  “Destination ahead, Admiral!” the driver called back to him.