Текст книги "Ice Hunt"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“Christ,” he swore under his breath.

A short, bald man, bundled in an unzippered parka, came slipping across the ice lake that floored the room. It was one of the base scientists. He was flanked by two younger men.

“Dr. Ogden?” Washburn said, identifying the lead man. “What are you still doing here? Didn’t you hear the call to evacuate?”

“Yes, yes,” he said as he reached them, out of breath, “but my work has nothing to do with politics. This is science. I don’t care who controls the station as long as my specimens are protected. Danger or not, I could not leave them. Especially at this critical juncture. The thawing is near completion.”

“Specimens?” Bratt asked. “Thawing? What the hell are you talking about?”

“They must be protected,” the scientist insisted. “You have to understand. I could not risk the data’s corruption.”

Bratt noted the shifting feet and wringing hands of the man’s younger associates – postgrads by the look of them. They were not so convinced.

“You have to see!” Dr. Ogden said. “We’re picking up EEG activity!” He hurried back the way he had come, back to the volcanic cliff face.

Washburn followed. “Is Dr. Reynolds here, too?”

Bratt dogged after them to hear the answer. If all the missing personnel were here…

But the doctor’s response dashed such hopes. “Amanda? No, I don’t know where she is.” He glanced back, eyebrows tucked together. “Why?”

“She’s here somewhere,” Washburn answered. “Supposedly off with Dr. MacFerran, looking for a missing colleague.”

Ogden rubbed at his frozen mustache. “I don’t know anything about it. I’ve been here all night with the biology team.”

As they reached the wall, Bratt noted water splashing underfoot, flowing from a crevice in the cliff face. The biologist led the way into the cavern. But after a few steps, a new form came splashing from deeper inside, running headlong into them.

It was another student, a young woman in her early twenties. Bratt caught her as she slipped in her panic. How many fools were down here still?

“Professor! S-something’s happening!” she stammered.

“What?”

She pointed back down the cleft. She tried to speak, but her eyes were wild.

Ogden fled forward. “Is something wrong?”

They all followed after him. In another ten steps, the way opened into a space the size of a two-car garage. It was a bubble in the rock. More lamp poles glowed. Equipment was stacked all around.

Bratt gasped at both the sight and the smell. He had worked one summer at a fish plant in Monterey. The heat, the reek of rotting fish guts, the stench of blood. It was the same here – but it was not fish that caused this smell.

Rolled to one side was the flayed and gutted body of some pale white creature. It looked like it might be a beluga whale, but this thing had legs. This creature was not the only one here. Another six specimens, fresher and intact, lay curled on the floor. Crusts and chunks of ice still clung to their pale flesh. Two had colored leads taped to their forms, running to machines with video screens. Small sine waves flowed across the tiny monitors.

Ogden searched around the room. “I don’t understand.” He turned to the panicked postgrad student. “What’s the matter?”

She pointed to one of the curled specimens, the one closest to its gutted brethren. “It…it moved…”

Ogden scowled at her and waved a dismissive hand. “Preposterous. It’s just the shadows in here. One of the light poles simply shifted.”

The girl hugged her arms around her chest. She didn’t look convinced. This was one seriously spooked girl.

Ogden turned back to Bratt and Washburn. “It’s the EEG readings. It’s disturbed some of our less experienced team members.”

“EEG? Like brain waves?” Bratt asked, staring over to the run of electronic waves across the monitoring screen.

“Yes,” Ogden said. “We’ve recorded some activity from the thawing specimens.”

“You’re kidding. These things are alive?”

“No, of course not. They’re fifty thousand years old. But such a phenomenon is seen sometimes when living specimens are frozen rapidly, then warmed again slowly. Though the subject is dead, the chemicals in the brain begin to thaw and flow. And chemistry is chemistry. Certain neurochemical functions will begin anew. But over time, without circulation, the effect fades away. That’s why it was so important that I stay and collect the data before it disappears. We’re looking at activity that hasn’t been seen in fifty thousand years!”

“Whatever,” Bratt said. “As long as these things stay dead.”

As if hearing him, one of the bodies spasmed. A tail lashed out of its curled position and struck a light pole, sending it crashing.

Everyone jumped back – except Dr. Ogden, who stared in disbelief.

The body unrolled further, twisting in savage S-curves. Then it began to flop and jerk on the floor like a hooked marlin. Violent tremors flowed through its frame in waves of convulsions.

The biologist stepped closer, one arm stretching out in amazement, as if he needed to touch it to make it real. “It’s reviving.”

“Doctor…” Bratt warned.

The beast flopped toward Ogden. Its maw split wide, revealing a shark’s jagged dentition. It snapped blindly at the biologist, coming within inches of his fingers. Ogden danced back, cradling his hand as if it had actually been bitten.

Bratt had had enough. He reached forward and yanked Ogden back, then shoved everyone behind him, rifle appearing in his hands.

The doctor stumbled next to him. “It’s amazing!”

Bratt opened his mouth, but he felt a sharp buzzing behind his ears. His jaw vibrated like a tuning fork. It was a familiar feeling. Working on a sub, he had been exposed to intense sonar. He knew what he was feeling.

Others felt it, too, rubbing at their ears.

Ultrasonics…

“Look!” one of the students said, pointing to the EEG machines.

Bratt glanced over. The slow sine waves were now spiking and racing. The two specimens attached to the lead were now beginning to tremble. Another tail whipped from its frozen curl.

They all fled to the crevice opening.

“I can’t believe it,” Ogden said, digging one finger in an ear. “I think the first beast is calling to the others.”

“With sonar,” Bratt said, jaw buzzing.

“Early whale song,” the biologist corrected. “The Ambulocetusis a progenitor of the modern cetacean species. The ultrasonics must act as a biological trigger, waking others of its pod. Perhaps even calling others to it. A defense mechanism. The better to protect each another.”

The thrashings spread. Equipment crashed. The ultrasonic keening grew worse.

Off to the side, the first creature lay panting, gulping air through its gaped jaws. It then rolled to its belly, unstable, shaking, cold.

“Someone shoot the damn things!” the girl urged in a high-pitched voice.

Bratt hefted his weapon up.

The biologist stared from the gun to the wobbly creature. “Are you crazy? This is the discovery of the century…and you want to kill it? We need to protect them!”

Bratt kept his tone civil but firm. “Sir, this ain’t no Free Willysituation going on here. Right now, I’m more worried about protecting us.” He grabbed the smaller doctor by the elbow and shoved him down the cleft. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, these things look more like great whites, than plankton-munching humpbacks. I think they can protect themselves just fine.”

Ogden began to protest, but Bratt turned away and faced Washburn. “Move ’em out, Lieutenant.”

She nodded, one eye on the thrashing monsters.

Bratt herded everyone behind him as they retreated. Once clear of the cliff, they hurried across the ice lake.

“The Russians must have known about this,” Odgen droned. “It must be why they are trying to commandeer the station. They want the glory for themselves.”

Bratt knew the doctor was wrong. He was one of the few who knew what lay hidden within the lab on Level Four. It was notglory the Russians sought, but silence and cover-up.

As they reached the far side, Washburn shouted from a few steps back. “Commander! We’ve got company!”

He swung around.

From the cleft in the cliff face, one of the creatures slid out onto the ice. Another followed it…then another…

They wobbled on their feet, shaky but determined. And after fifty thousand years, they were probably damn hungry, too.

“They’re waking up fast,” Ogden said, respect clear in his voice.

Bratt waved toward the exit. “Out!” he yelled. “Everyone get moving!”

Across the ice lake, three heads swiveled toward the sound of his voice. He again felt the buzzing surge sweep over him. The goddamn things were pinging him with their sonar.

“Shit,” he swore, raising his rifle as he retreated. They were being hunted!

Two more creatures slipped from the cliff.

“Washburn, get everyone moving down the tunnel. Now!You know the way. I’ll keep any of these beasties from getting too close.”

He lifted his rifle.

“Don’t!” Ogden begged.

“Professor, this time it ain’t up for debate.”

11:58 A.M.

OUT ON THE ICE…

Matt’s spine felt like jelly. For well over an hour, the driver of the Sno-Cat, a petty officer named Frank O’Donnell, had been racing the treaded vehicle at top speed, oblivious to the rough terrain. It was like riding a paint shaker. Every bone in his body felt rattled and bruised.

He stared out at the blowing snow. Winds battered the vehicle. He had long given up any hope of dissuading the Navy men from their goal of reaching the Russian ice station. His only concession was that the driver had tried to raise the other Sno-Cat every five minutes.

Nobody answered.

They had also tried to raise someone at the base on the short band, but their luck wasn’t any better there. It was as if they were alone out here.

Matt’s fear for Jenny had developed into a grapefruit-sized stone in his gut. He found it hard to concentrate on his own situation.

“There’s the station!” O’Donnell called back to them, and pointed straight ahead. Relief cheered his voice. “Looks like they left the goddamn light on at least.”

Matt leaned forward, glad for the distraction from his worries. Craig glanced to him, eyes bright.

Ahead, a wall of ice rose in mountainous pressure ridges. Snow blasted horizontally across the landscape, obscuring any details. But near the base of one peak, a glow cut through the midday gloom.

“I don’t see any station,” Craig said.

“It’s all underground,” the driver explained “The entire facility.”

The Sno-Cat aimed for the glowing beacon, bouncing over ridged ice. Matt spotted other vehicles, half covered in snow, sheltered in ravines between ridges. There was even a sailboat anchored with its sails snugged down. The Cat passed them all, continuing straight for the glowing opening.

“Fuck!” Lieutenant Greer’s outburst startled everyone.

Eyes turned to where he had his face pressed to the side window. Out in the blizzard, Matt saw something impossible. Crashing through the ice, a submarine conning tower climbed from the depths, steaming and sluicing water.

“The Russians!” Pearlson hissed. “They beat us here!”

Matt noted the polynya through which the submarine surfaced. It was small, too small for the large Russian sub. Little room for more than the conning tower.

“What are we going to do?” Matt asked.

“I’m almost out of gas,” O’Donnell said.

Greer was senior officer here. He didn’t hesitate, thinking quickly. “Make for the station!”

Matt nodded, silently agreeing. They needed cover. It was death to stay out here. Surely the submarine’s hydrophones had heard their Cat trundling over the ice. The Russians would know they were here.

O’Donnell kicked the slowing Sno-Cat back up to full speed. Matt bounced to the ceiling as the vehicle struck a particularly sharp ridge.

“Hang on!” O’Donnell yelled.

Matt rubbed his head and sat back. Now he tells me.

Greer clutched the seat back in front of him. “O’Donnell…”

“I see them, sir!”

Matt glanced over to the sub. Men in white parkas climbed to the top of the sub’s flying bridge. Arms pointed toward them.

The Sno-Cat made a sharp turn, racing toward the base’s opening.

“Slow down!” Craig yelled from the front seat, arms braced against the dashboard.

Matt’s eyes widened as he realized what the driver intended. “You’ve got to be kidding…”

O’Donnell jammed the Sno-Cat forward. It flew straight at the tunnel.

Gunfire suddenly erupted. Slugs tore into the back end of the Cat, sounding as if someone had tossed a flaming bundle of firecrackers into their trunk. The noise deafened. Glass shattered out of the rear window.

Matt might have shouted, but it was hard to tell.

Then the Cat hit the tunnel.

O’Donnell downshifted and slammed the brakes hard. But the Cat’s momentum was unimpressed by his efforts. It shot down the stairs, rear end flying high, bouncing off the ice ceiling. The back of the cabin crumpled under the collision – then the Cat rebounded to the stairs with a squeal of treads.

The passengers became a tangle of flailing limbs. More glass showered upon them.

Matt caught a glimpse of steel doors in the headlamps ahead.

Then they struck with an impact that slammed everyone forward. Matt flew over the front seat, striking the windshield with his shoulder. The window popped from its frame. He rolled out onto the hood, half draped in safety glass. He slid all the way to the floor beyond, landing in a graceless heap in front.

At least they had stopped.

“Are you all right?” Craig asked as Matt pushed to his feet. The reporter leaned forward out the cab. His scalp injury had reopened. Blood trailed over his face.

“Better than you,” Matt answered, testing his limbs to make sure he wasn’t lying.

O’Donnell groaned, cradling his side. He must have hit the steering wheel hard, bruising some ribs. In the backseat, Greer and Pearlson were already up, staring out the shattered back window, watching for the Russians.

Matt surveyed the state of their transportation. The Sno-Cat was jammed in the doorway, a plug in a storm drain. “Nothing like door-to-door service.”

“Everybody out!” Greer ordered from the backseat, retrieving his weapon from the floor. He pointed toward Matt and the station.

The doors were pinned by the station’s frame, but with the windshield gone, they had a ready-made exit. Matt helped them clamber over the hood.

“Move deeper down!” Greer yelled as he climbed through last, waving them ahead. “The Sno-Cat’s wreckage will slow the Russians, but who knows for how long.”

As a group, they hurried down the passage. Greer caught up with Matt. He shoved a 9mm Beretta pistol at him. “Do you know how to use this?”

“I served in the Green Berets.”

Greer glanced harder at him, judging him anew, then slapped the gun into his hand. “Good, then you won’t shoot your goddamn foot off.”

Matt hefted the weapon. “Not unless it would get me out of this mess.”

Within a few more yards, the entrance tunnel emptied into a large circular space with rooms opening off it. Tables and chairs were spread around a central staircase. Half-eaten meals dotted some of the table-tops. They searched the space as they crossed it, weapons ready.

It was empty.

“Where is everyone?” Matt asked.

Running, Greer led them down the stairs. The second level was just as empty.

“They’re gone,” Pearlson said, shocked.

“Evacuated,” Greer corrected. “The Polar Sentinelmust have gotten wind of the attack and come directly here. Cleared the base.”

“Great,” Matt said. “We came all the way out here to warn them, and they’ve already rolled up shop.”

“What are we going to do?” Craig asked, half his face bloody, the other half ashen.

Greer continued taking them deeper. “There’s an old weapons locker on the third level. Grenades, old rifles. We’ll grab as much as we can carry.”

“Then what?”

“We hide. We survive.”

“I like the last part of your plan,” Matt said.

As they reached the third level, gunfire suddenly sounded, echoing to them. It didn’t come from above them – but below.

“Someone’s still here,” Craig said, eyes wide.

“It sounds like it came from the level just under us,” Pearlson said.

“Let’s go!” Greer led the way.

As they set off, an explosion blasted from above. Everyone froze again.

“The Russians,” Matt said.

“Hurry!” Greer ordered and continued down the stairs.

Voices called out above them. Orders shouted in Russian. Footsteps echoed, running.

Craig and Matt fled down the steps after Greer. Pearlson and O’Donnell maintained their rear guard. They hit the fourth level. Here, instead of a common open area like the tiers above, the stairs opened onto a long hall.

It was empty, too. But a set of double doors blocked the far end.

“The Crawl Space,” Pearlson said behind them.

“It’s a good place to hide,” Greer said. “A fucking maze. C’mon!”

“But who was shooting?” Craig asked as they ran.

Matt wanted to know, too.

Greer frowned and growled, “Pray it’s ourguys.”

Matt took the lieutenant’s suggestion to heart. They needed reinforcements. But this, of course, begged another question.

If it was the good guys, what were they shooting at?

9. Dead End

APRIL 9, 12:02 P.M.

ICE STATION GRENDEL

In the gloom of the bone nest, the massive creature crept toward Amanda’s hiding place, hunched, suspicious, unsure. Its maw gaped open, teeth bloody. Claws still trailed shredded bits of Lacy’s racing suit.

Pressing deeper into the crack in the ice, Amanda sensed an ultrasonic wailing from the grendel, which she felt in her jawbone, the roots of her teeth, the hairs on the back of her neck. It kept her frozen, like a rabbit in headlights.

Go away,she begged with all her heart. She had been holding her breath for so long, stars began to glow across her vision. She dared not exhale. Small rivulets of cold sweat ran down her exposed face.

Please…

The grendel approached within a foot of her niche. Silhouetted against the glow from the outer cavern, the beast’s features were shadowed. Only its two eyes still captured some of the light reflected off the ice walls.

Crimson…bloody…emotionless and as cold as the press of ice overhead.

Amanda met that gaze, knowing she would die.

Then the beast whipped its head around, back toward the exit tunnel. The creature’s sudden movement drew a startled breath from Amanda. She couldn’t hold it any longer. She tensed, fearing she had given herself away.

But the beast ignored her and shambled fully around, facing the tunnel now. It cocked its head, one way then the other, plainly listening.

Amanda had no way of knowing what it heard. Was someone coming? Was Connor still alive, screaming for help?

Whatever it was, the grendel lashed its tail a few times, then dashed toward the tunnel, shooting its low form up and away.

Amanda remained in her niche for one long, trembling shake, then fell out. She stumbled over to the tunnel on weak legs. Stars continued to dance across her vision, more from fear than anoxia. She hunched by the tunnel in time to see the shadowed bulk of the beast lope away, aiming toward the cliff.

Fearing the silent unknown more than the beast, Amanda climbed up the slotted passage. She used her crampons for purchase on the slippery slope, ducking as the ceiling lowered. When she reached the end, she poked her head out.

To the side, the grendel scaled the ice cliff, racing like a gecko up a stucco wall. It vanished over the edge, moving fast, clearly on the hunt.

Amanda’s eyes settled on the blue poly-line still draped over the cliff’s edge.

She stared at the rope.

It was her only hope.

Amanda rolled out of the slot and to her feet. She rushed to the cliff, praying the rope was still attached to whatever was left of Connor. The last she had seen, the geologist had the poly-line wrapped around his chest.

She reached the cliff and wrapped her gloved fingers around the rope.

Please, God…

She tugged on the rope. It seemed to hold. She leaned out, testing her weight. It still held.

Tears welled in her eyes as she mounted the wall. She climbed, hand over hand, crampons dug deep into the ice. Fear fueled her muscles. Fatigue was impossible. She clawed and kicked her way to the top.

Reaching the edge, she heaved herself over and landed only inches from the macerated form of Connor MacFerran. His helmet lamp shone toward the ceiling, a beacon in the dark tunnels.

Amanda twisted away. She crawled to her feet, trying to keep her eyes away from the ravaged wreckage. Like Lacy, his belly had been ripped open. Blood pooled around him, a frozen stain on the ice. It was this last that had allowed Amanda to scale the cliff. During her hour down below, the ruin of Connor’s body had frozen to the ice, becoming a bloody anchor for her escape.

With a hand over her mouth and a prayer of forgiveness on her lips, she bent down and undid the geologist’s helmet. She needed his light. Working the chin strap, she could not look away from Connor. His left eye and nose were torn away, raked by a claw. His throat had been ripped out just at the collarbone. His beard was a frozen matt of blood.

She finally freed the helmet, sobbing now.

Then she stood and put the helmet on. It was too big. It hung crooked, but she snugged the chin strap. She faced down the long tunnel. There was no sign of the grendel.

As she stepped away, a glint caught her eye. She turned. A small ice ax lay on the ground. It was Connor’s. He had worn it at his belt. He must have tried to use it to protect himself.

She hurried and collected it. Though it was just a hand tool, it gave her a measure of relief.

She returned to the tunnel, girding herself for the terrifying journey ahead. But as she fingered the handle to the ice ax, another memory was triggered. Earlier, when she had confronted Connor about searching for Lacy by himself, he had waved off her concern. Everyone was too busy, he had claimed. But then he had said something else. The words returned to her now.

Besides, I have a walkie-talkie.

Amanda spun around.

She dropped back to Connor’s body. She searched his ripped goose-down vest, leaking feathers and stuffing, and found the small handheld radio.

Kneeling, she twisted the dial. A small red battery light glowed. She pressed the walkie-talkie to her lips. “This is Amanda Reynolds.” She struggled to modulate her voice, trying to whisper, but fearing no one would hear her if she were too faint. “If anyone can hear me, I’m trapped in the Crawl Space. There is a large predator hunting the tunnels. It killed Lacy Devlin and Connor MacFerran. It is loose now, off somewhere…I don’t know where. I’m going to attempt to reach the upper levels. Please…please, if you read this, bring weapons. I will broadcast my location as soon as I can reach any of the marked tunnels.”

She placed her fingers over the radio’s speaker. Please, someone be listening. She waited, trying to feel any vibration in the speaker, some sign that someone was communicating with her, but there was nothing.

She stood again and faced the dark tunnel. The beam from her helmet lamp pierced ahead. She held the radio in one hand, the ice pick in the other.

She had to get out of the Crawl Space.

Then she’d be safe.

12:15 P.M.

ABOARD THE DRAKON

His men had performed flawlessly.

Captain First Rank Anton Mikovsky stood watch atop the submarine’s periscope stand, hands behind his back. He wore his underway uniform: green tunic and pants, cuffs tucked into boots. Reports continued to flow from battle stations.

All areas remained green.

He was taking no chances. Word from the shore team confirmed that Ice Station Grendel had been secured. The Americans who had crashed through the station’s doors in a Sno-Cat were still missing. The group – five men – had holed away like frightened rabbits, vanishing into the depths of the station. But they would be found. It was only a matter of time. The rest of the station was empty, cleared out by the submarine they had heard taking on ballast less than an hour ago.

Mikovsky knew his opponent. A United States research sub. The USS Polar Sentinel. It was no threat. It was an experimental model, unarmed. Surely by now it was fleeing with its evacuees. He was under orders not to pursue.

His primary mission was to occupy the base, secure it, set up a communication station, then dive to patrol the waters against the real threat. In the Arctic, the enemy was the fast-attack subs that constantly patrolled under the polar cap.

Their window on this mission was exactly twelve hours. Vhodi, vidi. Get in, get out. The confusion over at Prudhoe Bay would slow his opponents.

“Captain.” The radioman of the watch strode over to him. “I was able to raise Omega base.”

“Very good.” He climbed from the periscope stand and crossed to the communication shack. The radioman passed him the handset. “Captain Mikovsky here. I must speak to Admiral Petkov.”

Through the static, words cut in and out. “Right away, Captain. The admiral has been awaiting your call.”

On hold, Mikovsky planned his words. Admiral Petkov had remained behind at Omega, to interrogate the prisoners and search the U.S. base. Pektov wanted to make certain that whatever the Russian government sought inside Ice Station Grendel hadn’t already been transferred to the U.S. science labs at the research base.

Mikovsky had never seen a man so driven, yet so calm at the same time. It was disquieting. There were currents that ran through the man that were icier than anything found out here in the arctic. Petkov’s nickname– Beliy Prizrak,the White Ghost – was disturbingly fitting. A week ago, when Mikovsky had first been granted this mission to captain a flagship alongside an admiral from the Northern Fleet, he had been thrilled and honored. He had basked in the envy of his fellow ranked officers. But now…now he was happy the admiral was off his boat.

As if he heard him from afar, Petkov’s voice came on the line, stolid and emotionless. “Captain, what is your status?”

He swallowed hard, caught off guard. “Grendel is secure, sir. The station was evacuated just as you suspected, but there are five hostiles unaccounted.” He quickly recounted the crash of the Sno-Cat into the station. “I’ve doubled the strike team to twenty men. They will perform a level-by-level sweep. I will forward the all clear for your arrival.”

“I’m heading out there now. Has the nuclear charge been offloaded to the station?”

“Y-yes, sir.” Mikovsky pictured the meter-wide titanium sphere. As ordered, it had been bolted to the floor on the deepest level of the station. “But, Admiral, there’s no need for you to come here until we’re entirely secure. Procedure—”

“I don’t care if you find these Americans or not. Lock down the base, especially Level Four. I’m heading out with the hovercraft teams. Take your boat down immediately. Maintain deep patrol. Rendezvous scheduled at Grendel at sixteen hundred.”

“Yes, sir.” He checked his watch. Less than three hours. “ Drakonwill surface-at-ice here again at exactly sixteen hundred.”

“Very good.” The static went silent as the Ghost vanished into the ether.

Mikovsky turned to the radioman. “Get me the strike-team leader.”

“Yes, sir.”

A commotion drew his attention to the sonar team. They were bent over the various arrays, arguing.

He crossed to them. “What’s wrong?”

The sonar chief snapped up. “We’ve picked up an anomaly. But it makes no sense.”

“What sort of anomaly?”

“Multiple active sonar signals. Very weak.”

“Coming from where?” Mikovsky’s mind instantly ran through possible sources: the U.S. research sub, the approach of a fast-attack submarine, perhaps even surface ships beyond the cap. The answer was even more disturbing.

The chief looked up at him. “The signals originate from insidethe station.”

12:22 A.M.

ICE STATION GRENDEL

Pistol in hand, Matt followed Lieutenant Greer through the double doors, leaving behind the organized structure of the ice station for the free-form flow of ice tunnels, chutes, sudden cliffs, and caves. Craig stuck to his side, trailed by stone-eyed Pearlson and a wincing O’Donnell. They ran down into the depths of the maze.

Greer had the only flashlight, found near the entrance. His light danced over the walls as he ran, igniting the dark ice to a shimmering blue. It was like racing through the bowels of an ice sculpture.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Craig asked.

“Someone’s down here,” Greer said. “We need to hook up with them.”

“How big is this Crawl Space?” Matt asked.

“Big” was the only response.

They continued to run, knowing the Russians weren’t far behind. Distance was more important than direction.

Zigzagging down the tunnels, they fled deeper into the depths of the ice island. As they reached a crossing of passages, gunfire erupted again. Automatic fire, from up ahead. But which tunnel?

They all stopped.

“Which way?” Pearlson asked.

The answer came a moment later. Light bloomed down to the right. Frantic and bobbling. More shots. Loud and deafening in the close spaces.

“Here comes trouble,” Matt said, pointing his Beretta down the tunnel.

Shouts could be heard now.

The Navy patrol raised their weapons.

Around a bend in the tunnel, the light bloomed brighter, illuminating a running figure. A young man stumbled into view, slipping and sliding despite the sandy floors. He scrambled, arms out, as if grasping for help. He was clearly not military, evident from his shoulder-length brown hair, North Face parka, and Thinsulate dry pants.

He fell toward them. Matt expected the man would beg for help. Instead he ran right through them. “Run!” he yelled in passing.

More figures appeared, racing at full tilt: an older bald man, a twentysomething girl, and another young man. A tall, striking black woman in military blue led this group.

“Washburn!” O’Donnell called out when she came into sight.

“Pick up your balls and get moving!” she barked back at him.

More gunfire blazed behind the group. Muzzle fire framed the last figure, another sailor. He dropped to one knee, firing a barrage behind him. Lit by a flashlight’s beam, the distant tunnel glowed like a blue snake winding deep into the ice.

“What’s the matter?” Greer asked.

Beyond the kneeling gunman, Matt spotted a darkness flowing up the tunnel.

What the hell?

Washburn led her charges to them. She screamed to be heard over the gunfire. “We have to get out of these tunnels… now!”