Ice Hunt (27 page)

Across the bowled floor of the hollow, bones lay everywhere: cracked, splintered, some bleached white, some yellowed. Empty skulls, human and animal, gleamed. Femurs, ribs, scapulas.

One word rang in her head.

Nest…

In a back corner lay a crumpled form, bent and broken, unmoving, festooned in a red, white, and blue Thinsulate outfit. Frozen blood pooled around the shape.

She had found Lacy.

10:47 A.M.
ON THE ICE…

Matt fought the two guards who flanked him in the backseat of the Sno-Cat. “We have to go back!” he yelled.

An elbow struck him across the bridge of the nose. Stars and pain blinded him, knocking him back into his seat. “Stay seated, or we’ll handcuff you.” Lieutenant Mitchell Greer grimaced and rubbed his elbow.

The other guard, a bullnecked seaman by the name of Doug Pearlson, had drawn his pistol. It was presently pointed at the roof of the Cat, but the threat was plain.

“Matt, calm down,” Craig said from the front seat.

“We have our orders,” the driver, a petty officer, said.

A minute ago, Lieutenant Commander Sewell had radioed their vehicle. He had ordered them to continue to the Russian ice station immediately. The commander had been unable to raise the station himself, and warning of the Russian ambush had to be relayed.

Then an explosion had cut off communication. It was a close hit, sounding at their heels. The ice shook under the Cat’s treads. All eyes searched behind. Gunfire sounded in the distance.

But the threatening storm had rolled in early, squalling up snow in a ground blizzard. All attempts to raise the other Sno-Cat failed. Fear for Jenny and her father had driven Matt to attempt to commandeer their vehicle, but he was outmanned and outgunned.

There was still no sign of the trailing vehicle.

“Try them again then!” Matt snapped, blinking back tears from the pain of his bruised nose. He could taste blood in the back of his mouth.

The driver shook his head and unhooked the radio. “Cat Two, this is Cat One. Respond. Over.” He held the receiver up.

No answer.

“It could just be a local blind spot,” the driver said. “We see that up here. Sometimes you can communicate with someone halfway across the globe, but not in your own backyard.” He shrugged, bouncing slightly as the Cat rode over a series of ice ridges.

Matt didn’t believe a word of it. Jenny was in trouble. He knew it down to the soles of his feet. But by now, they were a couple miles ahead of her Sno-Cat. Even if he broke out of here, he wasn’t sure he could make it to her in time to help.

“I’m sure she’s okay,” Craig said, trying to meet his eyes.

Matt held back his retort.

The Sno-Cat trundled straight through the blizzard, heading farther and farther from the woman he once loved. Maybe still loved.

10:48 A.M.

Jenny must have blacked out. One moment the Sno-Cat was toppling around her; the next ice water burned through her jeans, startling her to full alert. She shoved up and quickly took in her surroundings.

The Cat was upside down. Water filled the lower foot of the cabin. The motor still grumbled, vibrating the upended vehicle. The roof light glowed in the waters below her, grimly illuminating the tableau.

Her father was rising from the floor, cradling his wrist.

“Papa?” She shuffled across the roof toward him.

“Mmm, okay,” he mumbled. “Jammed my hand.”

His eyes glanced to the driver. The man lay facedown in the water. His head bent unnaturally backward. “Neck’s broken,” her father said.

The other two guards were fighting the door.

Fernandez slammed his shoulder against the handle. It didn’t budge. The pressure outside the half-submerged Cat held the doors shut. “Fuck!” He limped back on one foot, blood from the gunshot wound trailing through the waters around him.

“Try to find something to smash a window,” Fernandez barked. The whites of his eyes glowed in the watery light.

Jenny stepped toward them. “How about this?” She reached behind the other guard’s back and slipped out his sidearm. Turning, she thumbed the safety and fired into the Cat’s windshield, crackling the Arctic safety glass and tearing it partly away.

“Yeah,” Fernandez said, nodding. “That’ll do.”

The guard retrieved his gun and holstered it, scowling at her.

“Don’t take offense at Kowalski here,” Fernandez said, and waved them forward. “Joe doesn’t like folks touching his things.”

They ducked under the seats.

Kowalski kicked out the remaining glass.

The open water churned and frothed inside the pit. Ice blocks and cakes bobbed in the mix.

“Out of the frying pan…” Fernandez mumbled.

“Make for that crack in the wall,” Jenny said, pointing to a crumbled section that looked climbable.

“Ladies first,” Kowalski offered.

They were now thigh-deep in the water. Jenny pushed out on numb legs. The searing cold cut through her as she fell into the sea. She fought her body’s natural reflex to curl against the frigid water. Seawater froze at 28.6 degrees F. This felt a million degrees colder, so cold it burned. She kicked and pawed chunks of ice out of the way. Slowly she swam across the few yards to the ice slope and pulled herself into the crack, numb fingers scrabbling for purchase.

Once out of the water, she glanced back. The others followed. Kowalski tried to help Fernandez, but he was shoved away.

Behind them, the idling Sno-Cat tipped nose first, then sank into the blue depths. Its lights trailed down into the darkness. For a moment, Jenny saw the pale face of the driver pressed against the glass. Then the Sno-Cat and its lone passenger disappeared.

Jenny helped her father climb from the water into the cracked section of the wall. The slot was jagged with blocks and dagger-sharp protrusions, but the obstacles offered a natural ladder to climb out of the pit.

As a group, they worked their way up. It was a cold, sodden climb. Wet clothes turned to ice. Hair froze to skin. Limbs shook with petit mal seizures in a futile attempt to keep warm.

They all pushed free, one after the other, beaching themselves up onto the ice. It was not exhaustion that immobilized them, but the cold. It held them all as surely as any vise. It was inescapable.

The wind had kicked up. Snow and ice spun dizzily around her.

Her father somehow crawled to her, wrapping her in his arms, cradling her. It had been ages since he had held her like this. She had been only sixteen when she had lost her mother. For the next two years, an aunt and uncle had fostered Jenny while her father was in jail, then probational recovery. Afterward, she had barely spoken to him. But Inuit life was built around social gatherings: birthday parties, baby showers, weddings, and funerals. She had been forced to make an uneasy peace with her father, but it was far from close.

Especially not this close.

Tears flowed and froze on her cheeks. Something finally broke inside her. “Papa…I’m sorry.”

Arms tightened around her. “Hush, conserve your energy.”

“For what?” she mumbled, but she wasn’t sure she had even spoken aloud.

8

Hunter/Killer

APRIL 9, 11:12 A.M.
USS
POLAR SENTINEL

“Skylight ahead!” the chief of the watch yelled. “Forty degrees to port!”

“Thank God,” Perry whispered to the periscope’s optical piece. He walked off the degrees, turning the scope. They had spent five minutes searching for the man-made polynya near the ice island. The storm surge through the area had shifted the surface ice by several degrees. Nothing was constant up here, he thought.
Nothing but the danger.

Through the scope, the ceiling of the world was black ice, but off to port, where the chief had indicated, he spotted an unnaturally square opening in the roof. It shone a brilliant aquamarine, lighting the waters under it to the pale blue of a Bahamian sea. He eyed his goal with a tight smile. “It’s the polynya! Port ahead one-third, starboard back one-third, right full rudder. Get us under that skylight!”

The term
skylight
had been used by submariners since first venturing under the polar ice cap. An opening in the ice. Somewhere to surface. There was no better sight, especially with the press of time upon them.

His orders were relayed and a slight tremor vibrated the deck plates as the sub hoved around and aimed for their goal. He watched through the scope. “All ahead slow.”

As they neared the opening in the thick ice, he spoke without taking his eyes from the periscope. “Chief, what’s the ice reading above?”

“Looks good. The opening’s frozen over a bit.” The chief peered closer at the video monitor of the top-sounding sonar. “Across the skylight, I read no more than six inches of ice, but no less than three.”

Perry sighed with relief. It should be thin enough to surface through. He studied the dark ice surrounding the aquamarine lake, jagged and menacing, like the teeth of a shark.

“We’re under the skylight,” Bratt reported from the diving station.

“All stop. Rudder amidships.” As his orders were obeyed, he walked the periscope around, checking to make sure there was plenty of room for the sub to surface without brushing against the dragon-toothed walls of the canyon. Once satisfied, he straightened and folded the periscope grips. The stainless-steel pole descended below. “Stand by to surface.” He swung to Bratt. “Bring her up slowly.”

The soft chug of a pump sounded as seawater ballast was forced out of tanks inside the boat. Slowly the sub began to rise.

Bratt turned to him. “That Russian boat will surely hear us blowing ballast.”

“There’s no helping it.” Perry stepped down from the periscope deck. “Is the evac team ready to debark to the station?”

“Aye, sir. They’re suited up. We’ll empty that place in under ten minutes.”

“Make sure you get everyone out of there.” Perry’s thoughts turned to Amanda for the hundredth time.

Bratt seemed to read his mind, staring intently at him. “We won’t miss anyone, sir. That’s for damn certain.”

Perry nodded.

“Ready for ice!” the chief bellowed.

Overhead, the reinforced bridge crashed through the frozen crust, shuddering the boat. A moment later, the bulk of the submarine followed, cracking through to the surface. All around, valves were opened or closed, dials checked. Reports echoed from throughout the boat.

“Open the hatches!” Bratt yelled. “Ready shore team!”

The locking dogs were undone, and men in parkas gathered, rifles shouldered. One held out a blue parka for Bratt.

Bratt yanked into it. “We’ll be right back.”

Perry glanced to his watch. The Russians were surely already under way by now. “Fifteen minutes. No longer.”

“Plenty of time.” Bratt led his men out.

Perry stared as they climbed away. Cold air, fresh and damp, blew down from above. Once the last man was gone, the hatch slammed shut. Perry paced the length of the periscope stand. He wanted to be out there with Bratt, but he knew his place was here.

Finally, he could stand it no longer. “Chief, you have the conn. I’m going to watch from Cyclops. Patch any communication from the shore team to the intercom there.”

“Aye, sir.”

Perry left the bridge and headed toward the nose of the submarine. He climbed through the hatches and past the empty research suites. He opened the last hatch and entered the naturally illuminated chamber beyond.

He crossed under the arch of clear Lexan. The water sluicing over the glass splintered out in jagged lines of ice, growing visibly into complex fractal designs over the Lexan surface. Beyond the sub, the view was poor. Steam rose off the submarine’s carbon-plate hide, and flurries of snow swirled down in frosted strokes from the heights of the mountainous ice ridges.

Perry stared toward the cavernous opening that led down into the Russian station. He made out the vague shapes of men, trudging, bent against the wind. Bratt’s team. They disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel.

The intercom buzzed. A tinny voice spoke. “Captain, bridge here.”

He crossed and pressed the button. “What is it, Chief?”

“The watch radioman reports no reception from NAVSAT. We’re blanketed under another solar storm, leaving us deaf and dumb for the moment.”

He swore under his breath. With the satellites down, he needed word to reach the outside world. He jabbed the intercom button. “Any ETA on how long we’ll be out of satellite communication?”

“It’s anyone’s guess. Radioman says he expects short bursts of open air, but he can’t say when. Best guess is that the current bevy of solar storms will quit sometime after sunset.” Another long pause. “He’s going to try an ionosphere bounce with the UHF, but there’s no guarantee anyone’ll hear us in this weather. With a bit of luck, we might raise Prudhoe Bay.”

“Roger that, bridge. Have him keep trying as long as we’re surfaced. But I also want a SLOT configured and hidden out on the ice.” A SLOT, or Submarine-Launched One-Way Transmitter, was a communication buoy that could be deployed and set with a time delay to burst a transmitted satellite report. “Set the SLOT to transmit well after sunset.” This should help ensure their message got out after the solar storm passed and reopened satellite communication.