Ice Hunt (56 page)

Slowly, the blazing cascade fell back earthward, consumed by the winds and snow.

Jenny’s hearing returned. Cries of surprise and dismay spread through the cabin. Men shifted for better views, wearing masks of anger and pain.

Across the frozen wasteland, lit by the smoldering flames, a huge hole smoked like some Arctic volcano. The surrounding ice was covered in burning pools.

There was no sign of Omega. It was obliterated, blasted off the face of the world.

Jenny could not breathe.
Her father…all the others…

Craig yelled over the radio on a general channel. “Goddamn it! I thought you said all the Russian booby traps had been disabled!”

A sergeant answered, “They were, sir! Unless…unless I missed one…”

Jenny still could not breathe. Tears welled but remained trapped in her eyelashes. She read the honest surprise in everyone’s face—all except one person.

The Delta Force team leader still stared out at the flaming landscape. His expression had not changed, still stoic, unaffected…not surprised.

He glanced to her.

With dawning horror, Jenny understood the true situation here.

She listened to Craig yell at the sergeant. She heard the lie in his voice. It had all been a setup. The team leaders here were operating under the same guise as the Russians: grab the prize and leave no one to tell the tale. A clean-sweep operation.

No witnesses.

Jenny maintained the fixed look of shock on her face, hiding her comprehension. She stared over at Delta One. He faced her now, trying to read her. She would live only as long as she was useful. Her immediate knowledge of the Inuktitut script was all that stood between her and a bullet in the head.

Craig whispered condolences in her ears, but she remained deaf to him. Instead, she stared down at the book.

From the corner of her eye, flames danced. Tears rolled down her cheek—born of both grief and anger.
Papa…

One hand crept to her belt holster. Another promise not kept.

It was still empty.

17

Trial by Fire

APRIL 9, 7:55 P.M.
ICE STATION GRENDEL

Matt sat in his cell, having been returned at gunpoint. Oddly the boy had been left with him. The child, Maki, lay curled on the bed, in a cocoon of blankets. Perhaps the admiral had wanted the boy and his translator close by. Matt had not objected to his role as baby-sitter. At the foot of the bed, he kept vigil on the lad, watching the boy sleep, his tiny fingers curled by his lips as if in prayer.

Maki’s features were clearly Inuit: the olive complexion, the ebony hair, the brown almond eyes. As Matt watched over him, he was struck by memories of Tyler, the same dark hair and eyes, like his mother. His heart ached, beyond terror and fear, only a deep sense of loss.

“It’s hard to believe…” Dr. Ogden murmured from the neighboring cell, looking on. Matt had related the findings in Vladimir Petkov’s journal.

Matt merely nodded, unable to take his eyes from the boy.

“What I wouldn’t give to study the boy…maybe a sample of his blood.”

Matt sighed and closed his eyes.
Scientists
. They never lifted their noses from their research to see who was affected.

“A
hormone
from the grendels,” Ogden continued. “That makes sense at least. To produce the cryosuspension, it would require an immediate enzymatic cascade of the gene sequence. And skin glands would be perfect vehicles to initiate the event. The skin ices up, it triggers a hormonal release, the genes are activated through the body’s cells, glucose pours into cells to preserve them, then the body freezes. And with the grendels being mammals, their hormonal chemicals would be compatible with other mammalian species. Like insulin from cows and pigs that’s been used to treat human diabetes. The work here was ahead of its time. Brilliant, in fact.”

Matt had had enough. He swung around. “
Brilliant?
Are you fucking mad? Try
monstrous
! Do you have any idea what was done to these people? How many were killed? Goddamn it!” He pointed to Maki as he stirred. “Does that look like a damn lab rat?”

Ogden backed from the bars. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

Matt noted the shadows under the doctor’s eyes. Ogden’s hands trembled as they dropped from the bars. Matt knew the man was as tired and frightened as any of them. He didn’t need someone yelling at him. Lowering his voice, he continued: “Someone has to take responsibility. A line has to be drawn. Science cannot ignore morality in its desire to leap forward. We all lose when that happens.”

“Speaking of losing,” Washburn said behind him, “what’s up with the Delta Force team? Can they take this place?”

Matt saw the two biology students stir at her question. It was their only hope:
rescue
. But he also remembered the fierce determination of Admiral Petkov. The Russian commander was not about to surrender, not even against superior forces. Matt had also noted a glint in his eyes, a cold dispassion that frightened the American more than the guns or the grendels.

Only the boy seemed to warm that edge from the man. Matt glanced at Maki. As with Vladimir Petkov, the child might hold the key to the admiral’s salvation. But such a transformation required time…time they didn’t have. Petkov was a Russian bear cornered in its den. There was nothing more dangerous—or unpredictable.

Matt turned back to Washburn. “I counted at least twelve soldiers. And the Russians have the advantage of being entrenched in here. It would take a full frontal assault to breach this place, then a bloody, brutal, level-by-level clearing.”

Magdalene spoke from her cot. “But they’ll still come, won’t they?”

Matt stared at the small number of survivors. Five of them, six if the child Maki was counted. If the Delta Force team was returning here, it was for more than just a rescue mission. Craig must have heard about the samples. The ultimate success of his mission would require obtaining them.

Washburn knew this, too. “They aren’t coming for us,” she said, answering Magdalene’s question. She met Matt’s eye. “We’re not the priority.”

The door to the prison wing opened. Admiral Petkov strode inside, accompanied by the same two guards. The trio approached Matt’s cell.

Here we go again,
Matt thought, standing to face them.

Petkov spoke with his usual bluntness. “Your Delta Force team blew up the drift station.”

Matt took a breath to assimilate what had just been said.

Washburn swore off to the side. “Bullshit.”

“We recorded the explosion minutes after their helicopter took off.”

Washburn scowled, but Matt knew Petkov was not lying. It was not his way. Omega had been destroyed.
But why?

Petkov answered his silent question with two words. “Plausible deniability.”

Matt weighed this answer. He sensed the truth to it. Delta Force teams were covert, operating with minimal supervision, surgical-strike teams. They entered a combat zone, completed their mission, and left no witnesses behind.

No witnesses…

Inhaling sharply, Matt realized what this news meant. He stumbled, hitting the back of his legs on the bed, jarring it. The child woke with a start.

Petkov pointed for a guard to open the cell. “It seems your government seeks the same objective as my own. To seize the research for themselves, and leave no one to claim otherwise. At any and all cost.”

The cell was opened. Pistols were again pointed at him.

“What do you want with me?” Matt asked.

“I want you to stop them both. My father sacrificed all to bury his research. I will not let either government win.”

Matt narrowed one eye. If what the admiral had related was true—if this truly
was
a black ops mission—then perhaps he had just found an ally. They shared a common enemy. He faced the admiral. Anger churned in him. If the Delta team had murdered everyone at Omega…it seemed unfathomable, but also horribly possible…he would do what he could to avenge them all.

He pictured dark eyes, staring at him with love.

Jenny…

Fury built in him. He saw a matching determination in Petkov’s eyes. But how far could he trust this cold fellow?

“What do you propose?” Matt finally choked out.

Petkov answered icily, “That you bear the white flag. I would talk with this Delta Force team leader, the one who stole my father’s journals. Then we will see where we stand.”

Matt frowned. “I don’t think Craig will be in the talking mood when he gets here. I imagine he and his team will do all their talking with M-sixteens.”

“You will have to convince him otherwise.”

“What makes you think he’ll listen?”

“You’ll be taking someone with you whose presence he can’t dispute.”

“Who’s that?”

Petkov’s eyes settled upon the small boy on the bed.

7:59 P.M.
EN ROUTE OVER ICE…

Through tears, Jenny read the text on her lap. She had no idea what she was saying. She simply translated the Inuktitut symbols in phonetic Russian. It was all she could do to keep from screaming. She knew Craig was listening, recording, seeking some clue.

Across from her, Delta One continued his vigil by the window. The flames of the incinerated drift station had long faded into the twilight. Before leaving, the helicopter had circled the blast zone. But there had been no survivors.

Words cut off her recitation, coming over the general radio. “Ice station dead ahead!” the pilot reported.

“Ready for missile attack,” Craig said. “On my word.”

Missile attack?
Jenny sat straighter.

“Coordinates locked.”

“Fire.”

Before she could react, a hissing explosion sounded from outside the door. A flash of flame accompanied it.

She leaned forward as the Seahawk banked into the wind.

Out the window, a spiraling trail marked the passage of a rocket. It struck the peaks to the left of the station entry. Ice and fire blasted upward and rolled out into the open ice fields. A flutter of orange, a tent, flapped up in the gale.

Jenny knew the target. It was the site from which the Russians had fired rockets at them. It seemed Craig was clearing the field to land the helicopter—and perhaps getting payback.

Under the roil of steam and smoke, the Seahawk rotored down toward the ice.

“Ready Team One!” Delta One yelled, startling Jenny.

The doors on the opposite side swung open. Winds howled into the cabin. The cold bit at her exposed flesh. Then soldiers began bailing out, rappelling down, one after the other. They zipped out of view, vanishing below in seconds.

“Team Two!”

The door on Jenny’s side swung open, and the crosswinds tore at her. Nearly losing her grip on the journal in her hand, she clutched it to her chest.

Men pushed past her, grabbing lines and leaping free as fast as the ropes themselves were unfurled. The cabin emptied out of all but three men, including Delta One.

“Man the side guns!” the leader barked.

Already in place, two soldiers swung up huge cannons by the doors.

“Strafe on my command!” Delta One ordered. “Full perimeter fire!”

Jenny risked leaning forward to stare below. The smoke from the rocket attack had begun to disperse. Below, she spotted the off-loaded men. White-camouflaged figures scurried and dropped to bellies.

“Fire!” Delta One ordered.

The guns roared, chattering, spitting fire. Spent cartridges dropped like brass rain. Below, the ice was torn apart in a wide swath around the men, protecting them.

A lone soldier, Russian, fled from a hidden bunker in the ice. He was cut in half by the gunfire, staining the ice red like a squashed bug on a windshield. There seemed to be no other survivors out on the ice.

“Take us lower,” Craig ordered the pilot, still on the general line.

The Seahawk descended, retreating slightly to put the ground forces between them and the mouth of the station.

Delta One held one of his earphones firmly to his head. “Reports coming in!” he relayed. “Surface is ours! Station’s entrance under heavy guard!”

“Is it safe to land?” Craig asked.

“I’d rather keep the bird in the air until the station is taken,” Delta One answered. “But fuel’s a concern. We’ve a long haul back to Alaska.
Hold on!”
He leaned into his earphone, listening. He pressed his throat mike, conversing with someone below. Finally he pulled up his radio microphone. “Sir, ground teams report movement by the station entry. Someone’s coming out. Unarmed. He’s waving a truce flag.”

“What? Already? Who is it?”

The helicopter turned as it hovered. Jenny spotted the figure a hundred yards off. He stood out against the snow, though traces of smoke still smudged across the view. He was wearing a green jacket, bright against the snow. Even across the distance, she recognized the faded coat. She had washed, mended, patched, ironed the damn thing for ten years.