Ice Hunt (42 page)

He snapped a look up. The helibus plummeted toward him, spinning toward the crash, whipping around and around.

It was impossible to get out of the way in time.

Kanter simply rolled to his back. Staring skyward, he faced his death.
“Shit…”
He had nothing more profound to say and that bothered him more than anything.

3:14 P.M.
USS
POLAR SENTINEL

Perry listened as stations reported their status.

He hardly heard, his mind still on what had just happened.

Moments ago, the
Drakon
had sunk away and rolled into the deep ocean trench below, fading beyond crush depth. Perry had listened himself to the final bubbling as the Russian submarine gasped its last breath and was gone.

But it had not died alone.

Float ice is a great drum, transmitting sound to the waters below. Perry had heard it all happen. Then a helicopter had jammed into the cap, shattering through it. It had been visible through the periscope. The wreckage hung for a stretch, lit by the fires of its own oil and fuel. Then the surrounding ice melted from the heat of the conflagration and released its hold. The twisted wreckage sank into the sea, chasing the
Drakon
down into the depths.

Now all had gone dead quiet.

Perry kept his own boat running silent, patrolling the waters.

What the hell was going on? Cut off from the world, he was unsure what to do next. Should they surface and attempt to contact those who’d taken out the Russians? Was it indeed a Delta Force team or could it be a third combatant? And what about the Russian ice station? Was it still commandeered by a team of Russian ground forces?

“Sir?” Lieutenant Liang was staring at him. “Do we prepare to surface?”

That was the most logical next step—but Perry held off.

A submarine was at its most effective when no one knew it was there, and he wasn’t ready to give up that advantage. He slowly shook his head. “Not yet, Lieutenant, not yet…”

3:22 P.M.
PACIFIC SUBMARINE COMMAND
PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII

Admiral Kent Reynolds strode through the foot-thick steel blast doors of the command’s flag plot room. Already in the cavernous room were his handpicked team, experts in their fields called in last night, most buzzed from their beds and set to work here.

The heavy door shut behind him, the locks engaging.

In the center of the room stretched a long conference table, constructed of polished native koa wood, a true Hawaiian treasure in rich, dark hues—not that any of the table’s handsome surface could be seen through the piles of loose papers, books, folders, charts, and laptop computers.

Around the table, his team of communication, intelligence, and Russian experts worked singly and in small groups. Their voices were hushed, keeping private their conversations from one another. Even here, secrets were shared reluctantly among the factions gathered.

A tall, gangly fellow stepped away from one of the backlit wall maps. He wore an Armani suit minus the jacket, shirtsleeves rolled up. It was Charles Landley of NRO, the National Reconnaissance Office. A good family friend, he was married to one of Reynolds’s nieces. He had been poring over a chart of the Arctic region, a map looking directly down upon the North Pole.

He turned now, wearing a tired expression, no welcoming smile. “Admiral Reynolds, thank you for coming so quickly.”

“What is it, Charlie?”

Five minutes ago, Admiral Reynolds had been interrupted from a conference call with COMSUBLANT, his counterpart on the Atlantic coast, but Charles Landley wouldn’t have summoned him away unless it was urgent.

“SOSUS has picked up a series of explosions.”

“Where?” SOSUS was an ocean-based listening system of linked hydrophones. It could pick up a whale’s fart anywhere in the seven seas.

Charlie stepped to the wall and tapped a spot on the map. “We believe with eighty-five percent probability that it was at the coordinates of the Omega Drift Station.”

Admiral Reynolds had to take a deep breath. Fear for his daughter, Amanda, always present these last hours, flared to an ache behind his sternum. “Analysis?”

“We believe it was a series of depth charges. We also detected signature bubbling of an imploding submarine.” Charlie lifted one eyebrow. “Prior to these strong detects, we also picked up what sounded like helicopter bell beats…but they were too weak to say for certain.”

“A strike team?”

Charlie nodded. “That is what current intel believes. Without pictures from the Big Bird recon satellite, we’re blind to what’s going on.”

“How long until the spy platform is clear of the solar storm?”

“At least another two hours. In fact, I believe that is why the Russians dragged their feet for two weeks after being leaked news of the Arctic discovery. They were waiting for this blackout window to open so they could proceed free of spying eyes.”

“And the strike team that sank the sub?”

“We’re still working on that data. It could be either a
second
Russian assault team—in which case, it was the
Polar Sentinel
that was sunk. Or it’s our Delta Force team, and the
Drakon
has been scuttled.”

Admiral Reynolds allowed himself a moment of hope. “It has to be the Delta Force team. The word I’ve gleaned from Special Forces is that the Delta teams were deployed in advance of the Russian attack.”

Charlie stared at him, eyes pinched, pained. The admiral braced himself for his friend’s next words. Something was wrong.

“I’ve learned something else.” These words were spoken in hushed tones.

Admiral Reynolds’s gaze flicked to the team gathering and collating data. Charlie had not shared whatever he had discovered with these others. The admiral sensed the next bit of news was the true reason he had been so urgently summoned. The throbbing behind his ribs grew more lancing.

Charlie led him over to a side table under one of the maps. A titanium laptop rested atop it, floating the NRO icon over its flat-screen monitor. Charlie booted the laptop and typed in his security code. Once it was up and running, he opened a file that required him to place his thumb over a glowing print-reader to open.

Stepping away, Charlie waved him forward.

Admiral Reynolds leaned toward the screen. It was a Pentagon memo stamped top secret. It was dated over a week ago. The heading was in bold type:
GRENDEL OP
.

Charlie shouldn’t have been able to access this file, but NRO moved within its own channels. Its organization had its fingers and eyes everywhere. His friend deliberately concentrated on the wall map of Asia. It had nothing to do with the current situation, but he kept his attention focused there anyway.

Slipping a pair of reading glasses from a pocket, Admiral Reynolds leaned closer and read the message. It was three pages. The first section detailed what was known about the history of the Russian ice station. As he read, Admiral Reynolds found his vision blurring, as if his body were physically trying to deny what it was seeing. But there could be no doubt. The dates, the names, were all there.

His gaze settled on the words
human experimentation
. It took him back to his father’s war stories, of the liberation of Nazi concentration camps, of the atrocities committed within those dark halls.

How could they…?

Sickened, he continued to read. The last part of the report detailed the U.S. military’s response: the purpose, the objectives, the endgame scenarios. He read what was hidden at the ice station and the ultimate mission statement of Grendel ops.

Charlie reached a hand to his shoulder as he straightened, steadying him, knowing he would need it. “I thought you deserved to know.”

Admiral Reynolds suddenly found it hard to breathe.
Amanda…
The pain behind his sternum stabbed outward, lancing down his left arm. Bands of steel wrapped around his chest and squeezed.

“Admiral…?”

The hand tightened on his shoulder, catching him as his legs weakened. Through a haze, he noted others in the room slowly turning their way.

Somehow he was on the floor, on his knees.

“Get help!” Charlie shouted, half cradling him.

Admiral Reynolds reached up and clutched at Charlie’s arm. “I…I need to reach Captain Perry.”

Charlie stared down at him, his eyes bright with worry and sorrow. “It’s too late.”

13

Run of the Station

APRIL 9, 3:23 P.M.
ICE STATION GRENDEL

Matt shivered as he leaned over the station schematics. The map was unfolded and spread on the floor of the cramped cubbyhole, another of the old service rooms carved out of the ice. He knelt on one side of the paper, flanked by Craig and Amanda. On the far side crouched Washburn, Greer, and Lieutenant Commander Bratt.

Off to the side, the group of biologists kept to themselves. Dr. Ogden stood, leaning on one wall, eyes glazed. His lips moved silently as if he were talking to himself, going over something in his head. His three grad students—Magdalene, Antony, and Zane—huddled together, wearing matching expressions of misery and fear.

A full half hour had passed since the fiery death of Petty Officer Pearlson. Racing on pure adrenaline, the remaining group had fled here to one of the service sheds on Level Three.

Since then, they had weighed several different strategies: from staying put and holing up, to dividing their numbers and fleeing throughout the warren of service passages to lessen the risk of the entire group’s capture, even to trying to escape to the surface and make for the parked Sno-Cats and Ski-Doos. But as the pros and cons of each were discussed, one fact became clear. In each scenario, they would have a better chance of survival if they had additional firepower.

So before any decision about where to go next was made, they needed to reach the armory. Washburn had inventoried the WWII weapons locker. It held several boxes of Russian grenades, a trio of German-made flamethrowers, and a wall of oiled and sealskin-wrapped Russian rifles.

“They still work,” Washburn said. “I test fired a pair last week. The ammunition is boxed in straw-filled crates. Here and here.” She jabbed the end of her steel meat hook at two corners of the armory marked on the map.

Matt leaned closer, studying the layout. He had to shift the weight on his knees. Having lost his pants to Little Willy, he was left with only his long underwear. And kneeling on the ice was testing the limits of the garment’s thermal capability.

Washburn continued: “We should be able to get in and out in under a minute. The problem is getting there.”

Bratt nodded. Greer had returned a moment ago from scouting the service tunnel that led back to the station base. On this floor, the service hatch opened into the generator room and battery compartment. Unfortunately, the armory lay on the far side of the level, clear across the open central space.

Matt squinted, trying to force his brain to thaw and think.
There has to be a way…
Along with the others, he pored over the map.

The generator room had a side door that led to a neighboring electrical room, but from there, they would have to cross the open central space. Without a doubt, it would be guarded. And with the pilfered medical supplies as their only weapons, they would be hard-pressed to subdue the guards without rousing the rest of the base.

Matt sat back, lifting his knees from the ice and rubbing them. “And there’s no other access into this level? We have to enter through the generator and electrical rooms.”

Bratt shrugged. “As far as we know. We have only these plans to go by.”

Craig spoke up. “Well, the obvious distraction would be to switch off the generators, black out the station, and make a run for the armory.”

Greer shook his head. “We have to assume that the Russians know where the main generators are. If we knock out the power grid, they’ll be swarming right where we don’t want them.” He tapped the map. “Level Three.”

Amanda had been studying the lieutenant as he spoke, reading his lips. “Besides,” she added, “even if we turn off the generators, the batteries will retain enough power to keep most of the lights on. They’ve been charging since the generators were first overhauled by the material sciences team.”

Matt considered all sides of the discussion. “What if we leave the generators running”—he rested his finger on the designated room, then shifted it to the neighboring electrical suite—“but cut only the circuits to the top level of the station? If Lieutenant Greer is correct, such a blackout would draw the Russians’ attention to that level, away from us.”

Greer nodded to Bratt. “He’s right, sir. I’d wager the Russians already have most of their forces up top. They’d be on heightened guard, believing we might make a break for the surface. Cut off the power to just that level and the whole occupying force will be rushing up there.”