Ice Hunt Page 29

  The Russians must have known they ran a good chance of losing the escapees in the warren of service tunnels and chutes. Their ploy had been brutal and swift. The grenade would either kill them or flush them out.

  A hand grabbed Matt’s shoulder.

  It was Greer. The lieutenant stared unblinking toward the melted ruins. “Move it.”

  Matt’s ears still throbbed. He barely heard the man, but he nodded.

  Together they crawled after the others.

  But where could they go? Death lay either way. The only question remaining was the method of their demise. Matt stared ahead, then behind.

  Ice or fire.

  12

  Raiding Parties

  APRIL 9, 2:15 P.M.

  USS POLAR SENTINEL

  The group of men and women awaited Captain Perry’s order. The Polar Sentinel hung at periscope depth under an open lead between two ice floes. Winds wailed just feet overhead, blasting at sixty miles per hour across the open plains, but here, submerged, it was deadly quiet.

  Perry turned to the radioman, a freckle-faced petty officer, who looked as pale as the white sheaves of paper in his hand. “And there remains no expectation of satellite contact?” Perry asked.

  The twenty-two-year-old radioman swallowed hard, but he bore the heavy weight of the group’s gazes. “No, sir. The magnetic storm is fiercer than the blizzard above. I’ve tried every trick I could think of.”

  Perry nodded. They were still on their own. The decision could not be put off any longer. Half an hour ago, the same radioman had rushed into the conn. He had picked up a message in Russian over the UQC. The underwater phones, while convenient for communicating short distances, offered no privacy, especially to a boat equipped like the Sentinel. The small submarine was not only fast and silent, but it had the best ears of any vessel in the sea.

  Sailing twenty miles away, they had intercepted the vague sonar communication between the Russian team’s leader and the captain of the Drakon. Their shipboard translator had made short work of the brief exchange. Perry had listened to the recording himself, heard the cold, hollow voice issue the order.

  Ignite the buried charges. Melt the entire base into the ocean.

  The Russians intended to lay waste to everything. The civilians, the remaining soldiers…all would be sacrificed, burned off the ice cap.

  Upon hearing this, Perry had immediately ordered the helm to find someplace to raise their antenna. Even though it was doubtful anyone could still respond in time, an emergency Mayday had to be sounded. The timetable was too short.

  But even this feeble effort had met with failure. Fifteen minutes ago, they had surfaced in a thin lead, hummocked by snowbanks on either side. The antenna array had been sent up into the topside blizzard, and the radioman went to work. But it was no use. Communications were still down.

  Dr. Willig stepped forward now. The Swedish oceanographer had become the spokesman for the civilians aboard. “Those are our people over there, our colleagues, our friends, even family. We understand the risk involved.”

  Perry studied the faces around him. His crew, manning their respective stations, wore expressions just as determined. He turned and climbed the step up to the periscope stand. He took a moment to weigh his own motivations. Amanda was over there…somewhere. How much of his judgment now was skewed because of his feelings for her? How much was he willing to risk: the crew, the civilians under his protection, even the boat?

  He read the determination in the others, but it was ultimately his responsibility. He could either continue their flight to the Alaskan coast, or he could head back to Omega and do what he could to rescue the personnel.

  But what challenge could the Sentinel offer the larger, fully armed Russian hunter/killer? They had only three weapons at hand: speed, stealth, and cunning.

  Perry took a deep breath and turned to the waiting radioman. “We can’t wait any longer. Float a SLOT in the lead here. Set it for continual broadcast to NAVSAT, looped with the recorded Russian message.”

  “Aye, sir.” The man fled back to his shack.

  Perry glanced at Dr. Willig, then faced his second-in-command. “Diving Officer, make your depth eight-five feet, thirty-degree down angle…”

  Everyone held his or her breath, awaiting his decision. Where would they go from here: forward or back?

  His next order answered this question. “And rig the boat for ultra-quiet.”

  2:35 P.M.

  ABOARD THE DRAKON

  Captain Mikovsky stood watch over the helmsman and planesman as the two men guided the surfacing submarine up into the polynya. His diving officer, Gregor Yanovich, watched the depth gauge, sounding their rise.

  All was steady.

  Gregor turned to him. The officer’s eyes were haunted by worry. The man had been his XO for almost a full year. The two men had grown to know each other’s moods, even thoughts. Mikovsky read his officer’s internal wrangling now: Are we really going to do this?

  Mikovsky merely sighed. They had their orders. After the prisoners’ escape, the drift station had become more of a risk than an asset to their mission.

  “All vents shut,” the chief called out, glancing to his captain. “Ready to surface.”

  “Surface,” Mikovksy ordered. “Keep her trim and steady.”

  Switches were engaged. Pumps chugged, and the Drakon rose, surfacing quickly and smoothly. Reports echoed up from the sub. All clear.

  “Open the hatch,” he called out.

  Gregor relayed the order with a wave to the sailor stationed by the locking dogs. As the crewman set to work, the XO strode up to Mikovsky. “The shore team is ready to debark.” The man’s words were stilted, stiffly spoken, forced professionalism because of the grim task before them. “Orders?”

  Mikovsky checked his watch. “Secure the prisoners. Double-check that the incendiaries are deployed as instructed. Then I want all men back aboard in fifteen minutes. Once the last man is aboard, we’ll flood immediately and take her deep.”

  Gregor still stood, eyes no longer looking at Mikovsky, but off toward some imagined distance where what they were about to do could be fathomed and forgiven. But no one had eyesight that stretched that far.

  Mikovsky gave the final order. “As soon as the deck is awash, blow the V-class series. There must be no trace of the drift station.”

  2:50 P.M.

  ICE STATION GRENDEL

  As Jenny climbed the next ice ridge, clawing her way up, she was glad her father had stayed behind at Omega. The terrain here was brutal. Her mittens already bore cuts from the knife-sharp ice. Her fingers ached, and the calves of her legs burned. The rest of her was chilled to the marrow.

  With a gasp that was more of a moan, she pulled herself up to the lip of the ridge.

  Already straddling the ridgeline, Kowalski helped her over, and together they slid on their butts and hands down the far side. “You okay?” he asked, pulling her to her feet.

  She nodded, taking deep breaths of the frigid air, and turned as Bane and Ensign Pomautuk cleared the ridge next. The young man had to push the wolf’s rear to get him over the edge. Then they both slid and trotted down the far side.

  “How much farther?” Jenny asked.

  Tom checked his watch with a built-in compass. He pointed an arm. “Another hundred yards.”

  Jenny stared where he indicated. It seemed impassable. It had taken them an hour, and they had barely crawled into the outer fringe of the mountainous pressure ridges that topped the buried station. Ahead, the land was folded, cracked, uplifted, and shattered. It was like hiking through a jumbled pile of broken glass.

  But they had no choice.

  They trudged onward. Winds crashed overhead, sounding like waves breaking against a stony shore. Snow frothed and foamed in billows and currents.

  Jenny continued to use Kowalski’s bulk as a windbreak. The brawny seaman was like some clay golem, marching steadily through the snow and ice. She focused on his shoulders, his backs
ide, matching him step for step.

  Then Kowalski suddenly tilted, tumbling down to a knee, arms flying out as he fell. “Fuck!”

  His boot had shattered through a pocket of thin ice, revealing a small pool, no larger than a manhole cover. He sank to his thigh before catching himself on the edge. He rolled away, swearing a litany as he hauled his soaked leg from the freezing depths. “Fucking great! I can’t seem to stop falling in the goddamn water.”

  Despite his bravado, Jenny noted the glimmer of true fear in his eyes. She and Tom helped him up. “Just keep moving,” she said. “Your body heat and movement should keep you from icing up.”

  He shook free of their arms. “Where is this goddamn ventilation shaft?”

  “Not far!” Tom led the way from here, Bane trotting at his side. Kowalski followed, grumbling under his breath.

  Jenny, a step behind, heard a slight sloshing sound behind her. She glanced over a shoulder. The broken chunks of ice bobbled up and down, disturbed from below. Just the currents.

  She continued after the others.

  After another five minutes of hiking, Ensign Pomautuk’s assessment proved true. They rounded a pinnacle of ice and found a true mountain of a peak blocking their way.

  “We’ve reached the outer edge of the submerged ice island,” Tom said.

  Jenny stared underfoot. It was hard to believe she was walking on top of an iceberg, a monster extending a mile deep.

  “Where’s this ventilation shaft?” Kowalski asked, teeth chattering.

  “Over there,” Tom said, pointing to a black tunnel opening near the base of the mountain. It was too square to be natural, about a yard on each side. A brass grate had once locked it closed, but it had been peeled open, half buried in snow.

  Polar bears, Jenny thought, hunting for a den. She approached warily.

  Tom crossed without fear and dropped to his hands and knees. “We have to be careful. It’s fairly steep. Forty-five degrees. We should rope up for safety.”

  Jenny fished the Maglite flashlight from her pocket and passed it to the ensign. He flicked it on and shone it down the tunnel.

  “It looks like it makes an abrupt right turn about ten yards down,” Tom said, pointing the flashlight. He slipped the coil of rope from around his shoulder. “Like one of the entrances to our snow houses.”

  Jenny leaned closer. It was typical of Inuit architecture to build one or two sharp turns in the entrance shaft of an “igloo.” The turns blocked the snow-laden winds from a direct path into the home.

  “Fuck it! Let’s just get the hell inside.” Kowalski shivered beside Jenny.

  As Jenny straightened, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck suddenly quivered. As a sheriff, she had developed keen senses, a survival trait. They were not alone. She swung around, startling Kowalski with her sudden movement.

  “What—?” he began, turning with her.

  From around the pinnacle, something sloshed into view. It was heavy, with a bullet-shaped head, black eyes, claws digging in the ice. It lifted its muzzle and scented the air toward them.

  Jenny stared, frozen. What the hell was it?

  Bane jammed forward, barking a warning. His shoulders bunched, hackles bristled, head bent low.

  The creature crouched at the threat. Blubbery lips rippled back to reveal the jaws of a great white.

  That was enough for Jenny. Having grown up in Alaska, she knew that if it had teeth, it was going to try to eat you.

  “Get inside!” she yelled, and grabbed Bane by his scruff. “Go!”

  Tom didn’t have to be told twice. He knew how to jump at orders and demonstrated his skill now. He dove down the shaft, belly first, sliding on the slick ice.

  Jenny backed to the shaft’s opening, dragging Bane.

  Kowalski waved her inside. She lost her hold on Bane as she turned. The wolf trotted a few steps away and began to bark again. She reached for him, but she was blocked.

  “Leave the dog!” Kowalski growled, manhandling her inside. He followed at her heels, leaving her no choice.

  She slid down the steep ice chute.

  “Bane,” she shouted sharply back. “Heel!”

  She glanced over her shoulder, but her view was blocked by Kowalski’s bulk. The momentum of their slide slowed as they neared the sharp turn in the tunnel.

  “Crawl! Move it!” he urged her.

  The shaft suddenly darkened behind them.

  “Shit! It’s following us!”

  Jenny reached the sharp turn in the tunnel and glanced back. The creature clawed its way down the passage, scooting and undulating on its smooth belly, moving fast.

  Bane raced only a few steps ahead of it, bounding down the shaft.

  “Move!” Kowalski yelled, and tried to shove her around the corner.

  But this time she held her spot, struggling with her parka. She ripped the emergency flare gun free from her pocket. “Get down!” She pointed it up the shaft.

  The seaman flattened himself.

  Jenny aimed past the wolf’s ear and fired. The flare flamed across the distance, earning a startled yip from Bane as it sailed past him, and exploded against the muzzle of the beast.

  The beast roared as light burst around it, blinding all its senses. It pawed at its stung face.

  As Bane leaped to their side, Jenny rolled away. Crawling and sliding, she headed after the vanished ensign with the flashlight.

  Kowalski kept a watch behind them until they rounded the corner. “It looks like it’s heading back out.” He faced Jenny. “Found you too damn spicy for its liking.”

  The way quickly became steeper. They were soon sliding headlong down the chute. Jenny did her best to brake herself with boots and hands, but the walls were slick.

  After a minute, Tom called out to them, his voice echoing, “I’ve reached the end! It’s not much farther.”

  He was right.

  The light brightened, and Jenny found herself dumped out of the shaft into a large ice tunnel. Kowalski followed, landing almost on top of her, then Bane. Jenny rolled out of the way and stood, rubbing her hands. She stared around her. How far down into the ice island were they?

  Tom stood by one wall. His finger traced a green diamond painted on the wall. “I think I know where we are…but…” He swung his flashlight back to the floor. Someone had spilled red paint.

  Bane, his hackles still raised, sniffed at the marking.

  Jenny climbed to her feet. Not paint…blood.

  It was still fresh.

  Kowalski shook his head. “We should’ve never left that damn drift station.”

  No one argued with him.

  2:53 P.M.

  OUTSIDE OMEGA DRIFT STATION

  Master Sergeant Ted Kanter lay in the snowdrift, half buried, dressed in a polar-white storm suit, covered from head to foot. He stared through infrared binoculars toward the U.S. research base. He had watched the Russian submarine surface fifteen minutes ago, steaming into the blizzard gale.

  He lay only a hundred yards from the station. His only communication to the outside world was the General Dynamic acoustic earpiece clipped in place. He wore a subvocal microphone taped to his larynx. He had made his report and continued his watch.

  He had been ordered to remain at alert but to make no move.

  Such had been his orders since arriving.

  A quarter mile away, two white tents bivouacked the remainder of the Delta Force advance team, minus his partner, who lay hidden in a snow mound a couple yards away. The six-man team had been stationed here for the past sixteen hours, flown in and dropped in the dead of night.

  His team leader, Command Sergeant Major Wilson, designated Delta One for this mission, was with the rest of the assault team at Rally Point Alpha, four miles away. Their two helicopters were covered with Arctic camouflage, hidden away until the go-order was given.

  In position this morning, Kanter’s team had watched from close quarters as the Russian submarine had arrived with the dawn. He monitored as the soldi
ers swamped the drift station and commandeered it. He had watched men killed, one shot only forty yards from his position. But he could not react. He had his orders: watch, observe, record.

  Not act, not yet.

  The mission’s operational controller had left standing orders to advance only once the go-code was transmitted. Matters had to be arranged, both political and strategic. In addition, the mission objective, nicknamed the “football,” had to be discovered and secured. Only then could they move. Until that moment came, Kanter followed his orders.

  Fifteen minutes ago, he had watched the Russians leave the boat. He had counted the shore party, then added that number to the complement of hostiles previously stationed here, keeping track of the Russian forces.

  Now men were returning. He squinted through his scopes and began counting down as the men returned to the sub and vanished through hatches. His lips tightened.

  The pattern was clear.

  He pressed a finger to his transmitter. “Delta One, respond.”

  The answer was immediate, whispering in his ear. “Report, Delta Four.”

  “Sir, I believe the Russians are clearing out of the base.” Kanter continued to subtract forces as additional men climbed over the nearby pressure ridge and headed to the docked sub.

  “Understood. We have new orders, Delta Four.”

  Kanter tensed.

  “The go-code has been activated by the controller. Ready your men to move out on my order.”

  “Roger that, Delta One.”

  Kanter rolled back from his hiding spot.

  Now the true battle began.

  2:54 P.M.

  USS POLAR SENTINEL

  Perry paced the control bridge of his submarine as it raced under the ice. No one spoke. The crew knew the urgency of their mission, the risk. The plan was almost impossible to fathom. He knew that even if he succeeded, it could cost him his captain’s bars. He didn’t care. He knew right from wrong, blind duty from personal responsibility. Still another question nagged: Did he know bravery from simple stupidity?

  While en route to Omega, he had come close a hundred times to calling the Polar Sentinel back around, ordering it to return to the safety of the distant Alaskan coast. But he never did. He simply watched the distance to their destination grow smaller and smaller. Had captains of the past been plagued by such doubts? He had never felt so unfit to lead.