Ice Hunt Read online

  And lastly, words reached out of her past, from a place deep and locked away. She remembered soft lips brushing her neck, warm breath on her nape, words husky with ardor: I love you…I love you so much, Jen.

  She held these words to her heart and spoke aloud, remembering what had been forgotten and knowing it to be true. “I love you, too, Matt.”

  4:50 P.M.

  Disguised in the Russian parka, Matt pushed out the galley doors and entered the main station. Though the level remained darkened, he kept one arm raised, shielding his face, holding the furred edge of his white hood low over his brow. He carried the AK-47 on one shoulder.

  Men continued to bustle, oblivious to his appearance. He kept to the level’s outer edge, crossing along the periphery, staying in the dark. Most of the commotion was in the room’s center, where soldiers gathered, staring down the spiral steps. From below, smoke billowed up from the explosion of the booby-trapped armory.

  A pair of men hauled a heavy form stretched in black plastic wrap.

  Body bag.

  Another pair of soldiers, laden as grimly as the first, followed. Comrades watched the procession with angered expressions. Shouts continued to echo up from below. Men spoke heatedly all around. Flashlights circled and patrolled.

  A beam passed across his form. Matt kept his head turned away. As he maneuvered around the area’s tables, he bumped a chair, knocking it over. As it clattered, he hurried on. Someone yelled at him. It sounded like a curse.

  He simply gestured vaguely and continued along the room’s edge. He finally reached a vantage point where he could see into the hall that led out to the storm. He spotted the wreckage of the Sno-Cat still partially blocking the way, but it had been shoved aside enough to allow a narrow space to pass to the surface. Two men stood by the Cat, but he could see movement behind the crashed vehicle.

  From the corner of his eye, he continued to stare into the distance. That was his mission: recon the level and determine how many hostiles stood between them and freedom. If escape looked possible, he was to signal the others, then use the grenade hidden inside his pocket to create a distraction, lobbing it toward the central shaft. The ruckus should cover the Navy crew’s rush toward the entrance. Matt was to offer cover fire with his own rifle. But first, he had to decide if escape through the hall was even possible.

  He squinted—then jumped when someone barked right at his shoulder. He had not heard the man’s approach.

  Matt turned partially toward the newcomer, a hulking figure in an unzippered parka. Seven feet, if he was an inch. Matt glanced briefly, looking for some insignia of rank. Though the man’s face was rugged and storm-burned, he appeared young. Too young to be of significant rank.

  Matt stood a bit straighter as the man continued in Russian, pointing his rifle toward the two bagged bodies as they were sprawled across one of the mess hall tables. His cheeks were red, spittle accumulated at the corners of his lips. He finally finished his tirade, huffing a bit.

  Only understanding a few words of Russian, Matt did the one thing everyone did when faced with such a situation. He nodded. “Da,” he mumbled grimly. Along with the word nyet, it was the extent of his Russian vocabulary. In this case, it was a toss-up which to use: da or nyet.

  Yes or no.

  Clearly the man had delivered an impressive rant, and agreement seemed the best response. Besides, he was not about to disagree with the giant.

  “Da,” Matt repeated more emphatically. He might as well commit.

  It seemed to work.

  A hand as large as a side of beef clapped him on the shoulder, almost driving him to his knees. He caught himself and remained standing as the fellow began to pass.

  He had pulled it off.

  Then the grenade secreted inside his parka jarred loose and bounced to the floor with a loud clatter. The pin was still in place, so there was no real danger of it exploding.

  Still Matt winced as if it had.

  The grenade rolled to the toes of the giant.

  The man bent to pick it up, his fingers reaching, then pausing. He had to recognize the armament as ancient. Half bent, the fellow glanced up at him, bushy eyebrows pinched as the gears in his brain slowly turned.

  Matt was already moving. He swung his assault rifle around from his shoulder and drove its stock into the bridge of the man’s nose. He felt bone crush. The soldier’s head snapped back, then forward. His body followed.

  Not missing a beat, Matt dropped to his knees beside the fellow, pretending to help the guy stand as eyes looked toward them. He laughed hoarsely as if the man had tripped.

  Before anyone grew wiser, Matt reached the grenade under the man, pulled the pin, and bowled it under the tables toward the central shaft. It wouldn’t get the distance compared to throwing it, but it would have to do.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t get far at all. It struck an overturned chair, the same one he himself had knocked down a moment ago. It bounced back toward him.

  Crap…

  He ducked, shielding himself with the giant’s body. The fellow groaned groggily, arms scrabbling blindly.

  Matt swore, realizing he had forgotten to signal the others.

  Fuck it…they’ll get the message.

  The grenade blew.

  A table flew into the air, spinning end over end. Matt barely saw it. The force of the blast drove him and his unwilling partner across the floor. Shrapnel ripped through the soldier’s thick neck. Blood spouted in a hot gush over Matt’s face.

  Ears ringing from the blast, Matt rolled away. He was deaf for the moment to any shouting. He watched men picking themselves up off the floor. Flashlights searched the room, now smoky from the blast.

  Movement caught his eye.

  Through the double doors to the galley, a trio of figures rushed toward him. Bratt was in the lead. They aimed for him.

  Matt, still shell-shocked, couldn’t understand why they weren’t making for the exit. Still on the ground, he lolled around.

  Oh, that’s why…

  He was sprawled right in the entrance to the hall that led out.

  The Sno-Cat lay just a few yards away.

  Even closer, only five steps from him, two soldiers stood with weapons leveled. They shouted…or he assumed so, since their lips were moving. But his ears still rang. He couldn’t hear, let alone understand if he could.

  They came toward him, weapons firming on shoulders, aiming at his head.

  Matt took a gamble. He lifted his arms. “Nyet!” It was a fifty-fifty chance. Da or nyet.

  This time he chose wrong.

  The closer man fired.

  15

  Storm Warning

  APRIL 9, 4:55 P.M.

  ICE STATION GRENDEL

  From a couple of paces away, Amanda stared toward the ventilation shaft. The sheriff had vanished beyond the reach of the lantern’s light. The other members of the party gathered at the opening, anxious, eyes darting all around.

  She felt isolated. She had thought herself accustomed to the lack of auditory stimulation, to the way it cut you off from the world more thoroughly even than blindness. Hearing enveloped you, connected you to your surroundings. And though she could see, it was always like she was watching from afar, a wall between her and the rest of the world.

  The only time in the past years when she had felt fully connected to the world had been those few moments in Greg’s arms. The warmth of his body, the softness of his touch, the taste of his lips, the scent of his skin…all wore down that wall that separated her from the world.

  But he was gone now. She understood he was a captain first, a man second, that he had to leave with the other civilians, had to rescue those he could. Still, it hurt. She wanted him…needed him.

  She hugged her arms around herself, trying to squeeze the terror from her own body. The burst of courage she had been riding since seeing a grendel for the first time had waned to a simple will to survive, to continue moving forward.

  Tom stirred beside her,
petting Bane as he stood watch. Kowalski guarded the opposite side of the hall. The tension kept their faces locked in a stoic expression, eyes staring unblinkingly.

  She imagined she appeared the same.

  The waiting wore on them all. They kept expecting an attack that never came. The Russians…the grendels…

  She followed Tom’s blank stare down the hall. She recalled her earlier discussion with Dr. Ogden.

  The biologist had developed a theory about the grendels’ social structure. He imagined that the species spent a good chunk of their life span in frozen hibernation. A good way to conserve energy in an environment so scant on resources. But to protect the frozen pod, one or two sentinels remained awake, guarding their territory. These few hunted the surrounding waters through sea caves connected to the Crawl Space or scoured the surface through natural or man-made egress points. While exploring down here, Ogden had found spots in the Crawl Space that looked like claws had dug a grendel free from its icy slumber. He had his theory: “The guardians must change shift every few years, slipping into slumber themselves to rest and allowing a new member to take over. It’s probably why they’ve remained hidden for so long. Only one or two remain active, while the rest slumber through the centuries. There’s no telling how long these things have been around, occasionally brushing into contact with mankind, leading to myths of dragons and snow monsters.”

  “Or Beowulf’s Grendel,” Amanda had added. “But why have they stayed here on this island for so long?”

  Ogden had this answer, too. “The island is their nest. I examined some of the smaller caves in the cliff face and found frozen offspring, only a few, but considering the creatures’ longevity, I wager few progeny are necessary to maintain their breeding pool. And as with most species with small litters, the social group as a whole will defend their nest tooth and nail.”

  But where are they now? Amanda wondered. Fire would not hold the grendels at bay forever, not if they were defending their nest.

  Tom swung around, clearly attracted by some noise.

  She turned and looked. The group by the ventilation shaft stirred. She immediately saw why. A length of red rope snaked from the opening, dangling to the floor. Jenny had made it to the top.

  The group gathered closer.

  Craig faced them with a hand up. His lips were illuminated by his lantern. “To minimize the load on the rope, we should go up in groups of three. I’ll go with the two women.” He pointed to Amanda and Magdalene. “Then Dr. Ogden and his two students. Then the Navy pair with the dog.”

  He stared around, waiting to see if there were any objections.

  Amanda glanced around herself. No one seemed to be disagreeing. And she surely wasn’t going to. She was with the first group. Without any protests, Craig helped Magdalene up, then offered a hand to her.

  She waved for him to go ahead. “I’ve been climbing all my life.”

  He nodded and mounted the rope, pulling himself up.

  Amanda then followed. The climb was strenuous, but fear drove their party quickly upward, away from the terror below. Amanda had never been happier to see daylight. She scrambled up after the other two, then rolled into open air.

  The winds buffeted her as she stood.

  Jenny helped steady her. “The blizzard is breaking up,” she said, her eyes on the skies.

  Amanda frowned at the blowing snow, blind to the surroundings beyond a few yards. The cold already bit into her exposed cheeks. If this storm was breaking up, how bad had it been before?

  Craig bent to the hole, clearly calling to those below, then straightened and faced them. “We’ll have to hurry. If the storm is letting up, we’ll have less cover.”

  They waited for the next party—the biology group. It didn’t take too long. Soon three more figures rolled out of the ventilation shaft. Craig bent again to the shaft.

  Amanda felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck quiver. Deaf to the storm and the chatter around her, she sensed it first. She swung around in a full circle.

  Sonar…

  “Stop!” she yelled. “Grendels…!”

  Everyone tensed, facing outward.

  Craig was still at the hole. He scrambled in his parka for one of the Molotovs. She saw his lips moving. “…screaming down the shaft. The creatures are attacking below, too.”

  Henry Ogden struggled to light his own Molotov, but the wind kept snuffing his lighter. “…a coordinated attack. They’re using sonar to communicate with one another.”

  Amanda stared into the whiteout. It was an ambush.

  From out of the deep snow, shadowy figures crept toward them, slipping like hulking phantoms from the heart of the storm.

  Henry finally got his oily rag burning and tossed his bottle outside, toward the group. It sailed through the snow, landed in a snowbank, and sizzled out. The beasts continued toward them.

  Amanda caught movement from around another ice peak to the far right. Another grendel…and another.

  They were closing in from all sides.

  Craig stepped forward, a flaming Molotov in his raised hand.

  “Avoid the snow,” Amanda warned. “It’s fresh, wet.”

  Craig nodded and threw the fiery charge. It arced through the blowing snow and struck the knifed edge of a pressure ridge. Flame exploded across the path of the largest group.

  The beasts flinched, stopping.

  Run away, she willed at them.

  As answer, Amanda felt the sonar intensify, a grendel roar of frustration. Out in the open, they were less intimidated by the fiery display.

  Craig turned to her, to the others. He pointed an arm. “Back down the ventilation shaft!”

  Amanda swung around in time to see Bane leap out of the same shaft, snarling and barking, as wild as a full wolf. But Jenny caught her dog, trying to keep him from running at the grendels.

  Around them, there was much shouting. Amanda heard none of it. People were too panicked for her to catch what was being said. Why was no one diving into the shaft?

  Then she had her answer.

  Kowalski scrambled out of the hole, shouting, red-faced. “Get back!” She was able to read his lips as he yelled. “They’re right on our tail!”

  Tom appeared next, the left arm of his parka singed and smoldering. He rolled out, shoving his arm into the snow. Smoke billowed from the shaft. “The shaft caved in with that last Molotov. It’s blocked.”

  Kowalski stared toward the flames out in the storm, his face sinking. “Shit…”

  Amanda turned. The fires from Craig’s Molotov were foundering in the snowmelt. The beasts, obeying some sonar signal, began to march toward the group again, splashing and stamping through the remaining flames.

  As Amanda backed, the party pulled tighter together.

  There was no escape.

  5:03 P.M.

  Standing only a yard away with his AK-47, the Russian fired at Matt’s head. Muzzle flash flared from the rifle barrel. Still deafened from the grenade blast, Matt didn’t hear the shot—or the one that took out the shooter.

  Matt fell back, his left ear aflame. He watched, confused, as the right side of the guard’s head exploded out in a shower of bone and brain. It was all done in dead silence. Matt struck the ground, landing on his shoulder. Blood trailed down his neck. The shot had nicked his ear. He saw Bratt, Greer, and Washburn running at him. Bratt’s rifle still smoked.

  In the hallway, the second guard tried to react, swinging his weapon, but Greer and Washburn both fired. A bullet struck the Russian’s shoulder, spinning him like a top. Another blasted through the man’s neck, spraying blood over the wall.

  Sound began to return to Matt. Mostly the louder noises. Yells, more shots. The double doors to the galley suddenly exploded outward, tearing from hinges and blowing across the room; fire and smoke followed. Another booby trap.

  Amid the chaos, Matt struggled to stand as the group reached him. Bratt grabbed him by the hood and hauled him up, yelling in his good ear. “Next time I
duct-tape that damn grenade to you!”

  As a group, they sprinted toward the Sno-Cat.

  “More soldiers…!” Matt gasped, waving ahead, trying to warn.

  Shots fired at them—from beyond the Sno-Cat. They dove down, using the wreckage as a shield. Rifle shots rattled the trashed vehicle.

  Matt crouched, his back to the Sno-Cat. He stared back into the main room, cloudy with smoke. They were still exposed. They had to move.

  Smoke swirled, and movement near the room’s center caught Matt’s eye. A man seemed to be floating up the shaft from below, lit by a couple flashlights. He was tall, white-haired, wearing an open greatcoat. In his arms, he carried a boy wrapped in a blanket. The boy was crying, covering his ears.

  It made no sense.

  “Get down!” Bratt yelled to Matt, pushing his head lower.

  Greer tossed a grenade over the top of the vehicle toward the hidden snipers. Washburn rolled another back toward the main room.

  “No!” Matt cried.

  The twin explosions snuffed out Matt’s hearing again. The Sno-Cat jolted a foot toward them from the blast. Chunks of ice rained down; steamy smoke filled the hall.

  Bratt motioned, pointing an arm. They had no choice but to make a run for it. They leaped as a group, having to trust that the grenade took out all the hostiles ahead of them.

  The commander took the lead, followed by Washburn and Matt. Greer ran behind them, firing blindly back toward the main room. The shots sounded far away, more like a toy cap gun.

  Then Greer shouldered into Matt, trying to get him to hurry, but succeeded in almost knocking him down. He glanced back angrily as he caught his balance.

  Greer was down on one knee. He hadn’t pushed Matt. He had fallen.

  Matt stopped, skidding around on the ice-strewn floor, meaning to go to his aid. The man’s face was a mask of fury and pain. He waved Matt onward, shouting soundlessly.

  Matt saw why. Blood pooled under Greer, pouring from his leg. The blood pumped in a bright red flow. Arterial. Greer slumped to the floor, rifle across his knees.

  Washburn grabbed Matt’s arm, taking in the scene immediately. She yanked him, making him follow her.