Ice Hunt (52 page)

She yelled to the others. “We need an ax!”

5:26 P.M.

Near to blacking out, Matt faced the rising pod of grendels. They circled up from below, slow, patient. They were in no hurry. Like Matt, they knew he could not escape. He was trapped between the ice above and the teeth below.

He remembered Amanda’s trick of luring the monsters away with her helmet and heating mask. If he could only find a way to bait them away…something hot…something bright…

Then a thought struck him. Something
forgotten
.

He pawed into the pocket of his parka, praying it hadn’t fallen loose, an object he had nabbed from the severed hand of a Russian soldier while fleeing the ice station. It was still there.

He pulled out the black pineapple. It was one of the Russians’ incendiary grenades, the same as had killed Pearlson.

As Matt’s vision tunneled from lack of oxygen, he flipped up the trigger guard and pressed the button that glowed beneath it. He stared at the closest grendel, a white shadow spiraling upward, and dropped the grenade toward it, trusting the explosive’s weight to carry it down into the depths.

It dropped quickly, rolling down toward the waiting pod.

Unsure of the timer on the grenade, Matt curled into a tight ball. He covered his ears and exhaled all the stale air out of his chest, leaving his mouth open afterward. Seawater swamped into his throat. He kept one eye toward the rising sea monster.

The grendel nosed the grenade as it rolled past, nudging it.

Matt closed his eyes.
Please…

Then the world below blew with blinding fire. Matt saw it through his closed eyelids at the same time as the concussion wave struck him like a Mack truck, driving him upward, collapsing his chest, squeezing his skull in a vise grip. He felt a wash of fiery heat, searing his frozen limbs.

Then his body was blown upward. As the ice roof shattered with the explosion, he flew into open air, limbs flailing. He took one shuddering breath, caught a glimpse of the open ice plains, then fell back toward the sea, now covered in block and brash. Fire danced over the surface in oily patches.

Matt hit the water, sank, then sputtered up, dazed, his head throbbing. He paddled leadenly in the wash.

Ahead, a large form hummocked out of the depths, sluicing ice and flames from its back. It was pale white. Black eyes stared at him.

Matt scrambled away.

Then the bulk rolled…and sank down into the sea.

Dead
.

Shaking from both cold and terror, Matt stared up at the column of steam rising into the air. So much for his clandestine escape. As he searched for a way to climb out, figures appeared at the edge of the pit.

Russians.

Rifles pointed at him.

Matt clung to a chunk of ice. He was out of tricks.

16

Fathers and Sons

APRIL 9, 5:30 P.M.
ON THE ICE…

Staying low, Jenny freed the ice ax trapped under her body. As she lifted up, she peeked beyond the boat’s rail at the landscape whipping by. They were flying under the full force of the storm. Winds screamed. The hiss of the runners sounded like an angry nest of snakes under the keel. The vibrations through the hull set her skin to itching.

The ax in one hand, Jenny clung to the handrail with the other. She felt like she’d be kited off the shallow deck at any moment. “What do you want me to do?” she yelled into the wind.

Amanda pointed an arm to the boom. “We need to cut the sail loose! Rope’s jammed! It’s the only way to slow down!”

Jenny stared up at the ballooned sail, then back to Amanda so she could read her lips. “Tell me what to do,” she mouthed.

Amanda pointed, leaning forward so she could be understood. “I need the sail to break, but not tear away. We still need to power the boat. To do that, you must chop through some of the ties, get the sail to flutter. Once it’s loosened, I’ll be able to work the ropes. At least, I hope.” She indicated which ties she wanted Jenny to ax.

The first were easy. They were where the sail was secured to the boom. Jenny simply had to lie on her back and hack at them. As each rope was cut, the ties snapped away, popping from the tension. The sail shuddered, but held tight.

The next were trickier. Jenny had to crawl up to her knees, then lean into the wind. With one hand clutched to the mast, she swung up with the ax and sliced ropes that secured the sail to the mast. She worked her way up the pole, holding her breath. One lash point exploded, whipping out, striking her cheek.

She fell back, losing her grip on the mast. She headed overboard.

But Craig caught her by the waistband, pulling her back to the mast.

Jenny regained her grip. Blood trickled hotly down her chin.

Rather than succumbing to fear, Jenny got angry. She pulled herself closer and hacked determinedly.

“Careful!” Amanda yelled to her.

The sail flapped as its conformation suddenly altered. The boom quaked.

Amanda fought a rigged line. Suddenly the capstan spun loose, ropes lashed out. “Down!” she yelled.

Jenny turned to obey, but it was too late. The boom sprang around in a deadly arc. She could not get out of its way in time. Instead of dropping, she leaped up.

The boom missed her, but the loose sail slammed into her. She snatched an edge, grabbing what she could. Fingers found a few lash points near the mast to cling to as the boom carried her beyond the boat’s hull.

Ice raced under her toes as she hung from the rigging.

Then the sail caught the wind again and punched out at her, swelling full. She was torn from her perch, flying through the air. A scream blew from her lips.

Then she hit—not the ice, but the boat.

Amanda had expertly maneuvered the shell under Jenny, catching her as she fell.

“Are you okay?” Craig asked.

Jenny couldn’t speak, unsure of the answer anyway. She panted where she lay, knowing how close she had come to dying.

“I’ve got control of the sail!” Amanda called to her. “I’m slowing us down.”

Thank God
.

Jenny remained where she fell, but she sensed the boat decelerating. The winds didn’t seem as fierce, and the hiss of the runners gentled.

She sighed with relief.

Then a new noise intruded: a deep, sonorous
whump-whump
.

Jenny rolled around and peered beyond the prow. From out of the low storm clouds, a white helicopter appeared. She spotted the American flag emblazoned on it.

“The Delta Force team,” Craig said from across the way.

Only now did Jenny allow tears to rise to her eyes.

They had made it.

Craig spoke into his throat mike. “Osprey, here. We’re safe. Heading to home base now. Someone put on a big pot of coffee for us.”

6:04 P.M.
ICE STATION GRENDEL

Matt sat in a cell, groggy. He wore a set of dry Russian underway clothes: pants, a green hooded sweatshirt, and boots a size too large. He vaguely remembered putting them on. Still he shivered and tremored from the recent dunking in the Arctic Ocean. His wet clothes were piled in the corner of the guardroom outside the cell. Every piece and pocket had been thoroughly searched.

One guard stood by the exit door. The pair of men who had stripped him, roughly searched him, and tossed the dry clothes to him had already left, vanishing with his identification papers. But before leaving, they had emptied his wallet and pocketed the soggy bills themselves. So much for their old Communist ideals.

He stared over to the neighboring cells. Though he had been dazed when brought down here, he knew where he was. He had glimpsed the line of cells when fleeing from the Russians earlier. He was back on Level Four, in the containment cells that must have once housed the poor folk frozen in the tanks.

Each cell was a cage of bars. The only solid wall was the one at the back of the cell. No privacy. No toilets. Just a rusted bucket in the corner. The only other furniture in the room was a steel cot. No mattress.

He sat on the bed now, holding his head in his hands. The concussion of the grenade still throbbed behind his ears. His jaw ached from the strike of a rifle butt to his face. His nose still leaked blood. But he wasn’t sure if it was from the blast or the pistol whipping.

“Are you all right?” his neighbor asked from the adjacent cell.

He tried to remember the boy’s name. One of the biologists. He couldn’t think straight yet. “…mm fine,” he mumbled.

Sharing the boy’s cell were the other two biologists: Dr. Ogden and the girl. He vaguely wondered where the other student was. Hadn’t there been a third? He groaned.
What did it matter?

“Pike,” a firmer voice said behind him. He twisted around.

In the other cell, Washburn stood by the front bars. Her lower lip was split, her left eye swollen shut.

“What happened to Commander Bratt?” she asked.

He simply shook his head. His brain rattled inside. Nausea washed over him. He swallowed back bile.

“Shit…” Washburn murmured.

They were the only survivors.

Ogden stepped to the bars that separated their two cells. “Mr. Pike…Matt…there’s something you should know. Your wife…”

Frowning, Matt’s head sprang up. “What…what about her?”

“She was with us,” Ogden said. “I saw her, that CIA guy, and Dr. Reynolds fleeing in a boat.”

Matt heard the bitterness in the other’s voice, but he could not comprehend what the biologist was saying. There were too many things that made no sense. He recalled seeing the ice racer chased by two hover-cycles. “Jenny…”

Ogden told him his story.

Matt did not want to believe the man, but he remembered Bane’s sudden appearance…and end. His fingers crept over his face both to hide his grief and hold it back.
Jenny…she had been so close. What had happened to her?

Ogden continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I speak some Russian. I overheard what the guards were saying when they were searching us. They’re looking for some books. Books that the CIA guy took with him.”

“I heard the same,” Washburn said, edging closer, keeping her words low.

Matt frowned. “What CIA guy?”

One of the students answered. Matt finally remembered his name. Zane. The boy mumbled, “He said his name was Craig Teague.”

Stunned, Matt felt a surge of heat flow through him. He blustered for a moment, trying to find his tongue. “Craig…Teague is CIA?”

Ogden nodded. “Sent here to secure the Russian data on suspended animation and escape.”

Matt thought back on all his dealings with the supposed reporter. All along, he had sensed some deeper strength in the man, some hidden well of resourcefulness that would shine through occasionally. But he had never even suspected…

Matt clenched a fist. He had saved the jackass’s life and this is how he repaid him. “Goddamn bastard…”

“What do we do now?” Washburn asked.

Matt had a hard time concentrating, balanced between fury and fear for Jenny.

“Why are they keeping us here?” Washburn continued.

Before anyone could answer, the guardroom door swung open. It was the pair of guards who had left with their identification papers. They pointed and spoke to the lone armed guard. The group approached Matt’s cell. “You come with us,” one said in halting English.

The guard keyed open the lock and pulled the door wide. The other two bore pistols in their hands. Matt judged what it would take to make a grab for one of the weapons. He stood. His legs wobbled under him. He almost fell. So much for a full frontal attack.

He was waved out at the point of a pistol.

I guess this answers Washburn’s question
. They were going to be interrogated. And after that? Matt eyed the pistol. The prisoners’ usefulness would surely be at an end. They had seen too much. There was no way they would be allowed to live.

Flanked by the two guards, Matt was led deeper into the heart of Level Four. Rather than going out to the encircling hall with their dreaded tanks, Matt was led to an inner hall. The passage ended at a solitary room.

He was waved inside.

Matt stepped through the door into a small office, exquisitely appointed in mahogany furniture: wide desk, open shelves, cabinets. There was even a thick bearskin rug on the floor. Polar bear. Its head still attached.

The first sight that drew his eye was of a small boy, dressed in a baggy shirt. It fit him like a full-length robe. He knelt on the rug and was petting the polar bear’s head, whispering in its ear.

The boy glanced up to him.

Matt gasped and tripped on the edge of the rug, going down on one knee. He could not mistake that face.

One of the guards barked at him in Russian, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck.

Matt was too stunned to respond.

A new voice spoke, cold and commanding. Matt raised his eyes, focusing on the room’s other occupant. He stood up from the leather chair he had been sitting on and waved the guard away.