Текст книги "Ice Hunt"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Just sleeping.

The pain of that moment ached through him. He was glad Jenny wasn’t here to see this. He prayed she was safe, but she should never see this…any of this.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, apologizing to both boys. Tears welled in his eyes.

A hand touched his shoulder. It was Amanda. “We’ll let the world know,” she said thickly, her pronunciation further garbled by her own sorrow.

“How could this…he was only a boy. Who was watching after him?”

But Matt’s face was turned to the glass. Still, her fingers squeezed in sympathy.

Ogden stood on his other side. Eyes haggard, he was half bent studying a panel of buttons and levers. One finger traced some writing. “This is odd.”

“What?” Matt asked.

Ogden reached to a lever and pulled it down with a bit of effort. The snap was loud in the quiet hall. The panel buttons bloomed with light. The glass of the tank vibrated as some old motor caught, tripped, then began to hum.

“What did you do?” Matt blurted, offended, anger flaring.

Ogden stepped back, glancing between Matt and Amanda. “My God, it’s still operational. I didn’t think—”

A loud crash reverberated down the hall, echoing to them.

“The Russians,” Bratt said. “They’re through.”

“So are we,” Greer said with a grimace. “Almost.” Pearlson struggled with the last quarter-twist screw.

Craig stood at their backs, eyes wide and unblinking, staring between their hurried labor and the hall. The reporter held a foot-long steel bone pin, a surgical ice pick, clutched to his chest. “C’mon, already,” he moaned.

Shouts could now be heard. Footsteps on steel plate, cautious still.

“Got it!” Greer spat. He and Pearlson lifted the service hatch free.

“Everyone out!” Bratt ordered.

Craig, the closest, dove first. The others followed, flowing through the opening.

Matt, suddenly weak and tired, still knelt by the frozen boy. His hand on the glass ached from the cold of the ice inside. He felt the vibration in the glass from the buried machinery.

Amanda stepped away. “Hurry, Matt.”

He looked one more time at the boy. He felt like he was abandoning the child as he stood. His fingers lingered an extra moment, then he turned away.

Greer helped Amanda through, then waved to Matt.

He shoved over and ducked under the hatch.

Washburn was crouched on the far side. She pointed one of her steel hooks, like some Amazonian pirate, down the crawlway.

Matt followed Amanda on hands and knees, pipe under one arm. Bratt led the party, followed by Craig and the biology group. Matt hurried, making room for the others behind him: Pearlson, Greer, and Washburn.

The tunnel was a mere shaft bored through the ice. Rubber mats lined the floor to aid in climbing through it. Conduits shared the space, running along both walls.

After five yards, the tunnel suddenly darkened. Matt peered over his shoulder. Greer had pulled the hatch in place, hopefully hiding their retreat or at least delaying its discovery. This fourth level was large and broken into many compartments. The Russians would lose time, hunting through the level; hopefully they’d miss the loose hatch for a while.

The way became darker – and colder.

Finally the chute dumped into some old service cubbyhole. It was merely a cube cut out of the ice. A few pieces of wooden furniture crowded the space, along with spools of conduit and copper wire, stacks of spare metal plates, a thick rubber hose, and a tool trunk.

A ladder, just wood rungs pounded into one of the ice walls, climbed to another shaft twenty feet above.

Bratt pointed the rolled sheaf of his schematics. He kept his voice low. “That should lead to the third level. They stairstep up, one level at a time.”

Washburn studied the next tunnel. “We might be able to make it to the old weapons locker on the third level. It’s in the main section of the station, but if the Russians’ attention were distracted for a moment, a small team might be able to reach it.”

Bratt nodded. “Up,” he ordered.

Surgical tools were pocketed in order to free hands. The group mounted the ladder in the same order as before. Matt followed Amanda. He reached the top and pulled himself into the next service shaft.

A shout sounded behind him. Russian. It came from down the tunnel to the lab on Level Four.

“Damn it,” Greer growled.

The Russians had already found their rabbit hole.

A shot rang out. The slug ricocheted down the shaft and rebounded into the cubbyhole. Ice blasted as the bullet struck the wall, inches from where Washburn climbed the ladder.

Matt reached down and helped haul her up. Nimble as a cat, Washburn slipped past him. “Get the others moving faster,” he urged her.

No further prompting was needed. Everyone in the chute had frozen at the rifle blast, but now they hurried away, Bratt in the lead.

A new commotion echoed down to them. Mumbled orders in Russian. They were hard to discern. Matt’s ears were still ringing, but he didn’t like the furtive tone of this new speech.

Matt leaned over the tunnel opening. “Get your asses up here!” he hissed down to the last two men. They had both splayed themselves against the walls to either side, wary of further gunshots.

Greer leaped to the ladder first, flying up like a monkey. Pearlson was at his heels, practically crawling up his partner’s legs.

Matt grabbed the loose hood of Greer’s parka and dragged the man to him, then shoved him after the others.

Pearlson had one hand on the lip of the service shaft. Matt turned to help him next. Over the seaman’s shoulder, he saw a black object bounce into the room below.

Matt’s eyes widened with horror. It looked like a matte-black pineapple.

Pearlson must have been looking at Matt’s face at that moment. “What…?” He glanced back over his own shoulder.

The black object danced on the ice, striking the wall at the base of the ladder.

“Shit!” Pearlson said, staring up at Matt.

Matt lunged out and grabbed the seaman’s hood.

Pearlson knocked his arm away and leaped up, covering the shaft’s opening with his own torso. “Go!” he wailed in grim terror.

Matt fell back as the grenade exploded. The concussion knocked him farther back. The flash of brightness blinded him. He felt a wash of heat over his face and neck. He surely screamed, but was deaf to it.

The flash died away immediately, but not the heat – it grew more intense.

The source became horribly clear as Matt’s vision blinked back.

Pearlson still blocked the exit, but his clothes were on fire. No, not his clothes – his entire body.

It had been no ordinary grenade, but an incendiary device, exploding with liquid fire.

Pearlson’s body tumbled backward as the end of the shaft melted toward Matt, the rubber matting bubbling. He backpedaled away. His face and neck felt sunburned. If Pearlson hadn’t shielded the chute, they all would’ve been parboiled inside. The residual heat still felt like an open oven. The ice turned to water, dripping all around.

The Russians must have known they ran a good chance of losing the escapees in the warren of service tunnels and chutes. Their ploy had been brutal and swift. The grenade would either kill them or flush them out.

A hand grabbed Matt’s shoulder.

It was Greer. The lieutenant stared unblinking toward the melted ruins. “Move it.”

Matt’s ears still throbbed. He barely heard the man, but he nodded.

Together they crawled after the others.

But where could they go? Death lay either way. The only question remaining was the method of their demise. Matt stared ahead, then behind.

Ice or fire.

12. Raiding Parties

APRIL 9, 2:15 P.M.

USS POLAR SENTINEL

The group of men and women awaited Captain Perry’s order. The Polar Sentinelhung at periscope depth under an open lead between two ice floes. Winds wailed just feet overhead, blasting at sixty miles per hour across the open plains, but here, submerged, it was deadly quiet.

Perry turned to the radioman, a freckle-faced petty officer, who looked as pale as the white sheaves of paper in his hand. “And there remains no expectation of satellite contact?” Perry asked.

The twenty-two-year-old radioman swallowed hard, but he bore the heavy weight of the group’s gazes. “No, sir. The magnetic storm is fiercer than the blizzard above. I’ve tried every trick I could think of.”

Perry nodded. They were still on their own. The decision could not be put off any longer. Half an hour ago, the same radioman had rushed into the conn. He had picked up a message in Russian over the UQC. The underwater phones, while convenient for communicating short distances, offered no privacy, especially to a boat equipped like the Sentinel. The small submarine was not only fast and silent, but it had the best ears of any vessel in the sea.

Sailing twenty miles away, they had intercepted the vague sonar communication between the Russian team’s leader and the captain of the Drakon. Their shipboard translator had made short work of the brief exchange. Perry had listened to the recording himself, heard the cold, hollow voice issue the order.

Ignite the buried charges. Melt the entire base into the ocean.

The Russians intended to lay waste to everything. The civilians, the remaining soldiers…all would be sacrificed, burned off the ice cap.

Upon hearing this, Perry had immediately ordered the helm to find someplace to raise their antenna. Even though it was doubtful anyone could still respond in time, an emergency Mayday had to be sounded. The timetable was too short.

But even this feeble effort had met with failure. Fifteen minutes ago, they had surfaced in a thin lead, hummocked by snowbanks on either side. The antenna array had been sent up into the topside blizzard, and the radioman went to work. But it was no use. Communications were still down.

Dr. Willig stepped forward now. The Swedish oceanographer had become the spokesman for the civilians aboard. “Those are our people over there, our colleagues, our friends, even family. We understand the risk involved.”

Perry studied the faces around him. His crew, manning their respective stations, wore expressions just as determined. He turned and climbed the step up to the periscope stand. He took a moment to weigh his own motivations. Amanda was over there…somewhere. How much of his judgment now was skewed because of his feelings for her? How much was he willing to risk: the crew, the civilians under his protection, even the boat?

He read the determination in the others, but it was ultimately his responsibility. He could either continue their flight to the Alaskan coast, or he could head back to Omega and do what he could to rescue the personnel.

But what challenge could the Sentineloffer the larger, fully armed Russian hunter/killer? They had only three weapons at hand: speed, stealth,and cunning.

Perry took a deep breath and turned to the waiting radioman. “We can’t wait any longer. Float a SLOT in the lead here. Set it for continual broadcast to NAVSAT, looped with the recorded Russian message.”

“Aye, sir.” The man fled back to his shack.

Perry glanced at Dr. Willig, then faced his second-in-command. “Diving Officer, make your depth eight-five feet, thirty-degree down angle…”

Everyone held his or her breath, awaiting his decision. Where would they go from here: forward or back?

His next order answered this question. “And rig the boat for ultra-quiet.”

2:35 P.M.

ABOARD THE DRAKON

Captain Mikovsky stood watch over the helmsman and planesman as the two men guided the surfacing submarine up into the polynya. His diving officer, Gregor Yanovich, watched the depth gauge, sounding their rise.

All was steady.

Gregor turned to him. The officer’s eyes were haunted by worry. The man had been his XO for almost a full year. The two men had grown to know each other’s moods, even thoughts. Mikovsky read his officer’s internal wrangling now: Are we really going to do this?

Mikovsky merely sighed. They had their orders. After the prisoners’ escape, the drift station had become more of a risk than an asset to their mission.

“All vents shut,” the chief called out, glancing to his captain. “Ready to surface.”

“Surface,” Mikovksy ordered. “Keep her trim and steady.”

Switches were engaged. Pumps chugged, and the Drakonrose, surfacing quickly and smoothly. Reports echoed up from the sub. All clear.

“Open the hatch,” he called out.

Gregor relayed the order with a wave to the sailor stationed by the locking dogs. As the crewman set to work, the XO strode up to Mikovsky. “The shore team is ready to debark.” The man’s words were stilted, stiffly spoken, forced professionalism because of the grim task before them. “Orders?”

Mikovsky checked his watch. “Secure the prisoners. Double-check that the incendiaries are deployed as instructed. Then I want all men back aboard in fifteen minutes. Once the last man is aboard, we’ll flood immediately and take her deep.”

Gregor still stood, eyes no longer looking at Mikovsky, but off toward some imagined distance where what they were about to do could be fathomed and forgiven. But no one had eyesight that stretched that far.

Mikovsky gave the final order. “As soon as the deck is awash, blow the V-class series. There must be no trace of the drift station.”

2:50 P.M.

ICE STATION GRENDEL

As Jenny climbed the next ice ridge, clawing her way up, she was glad her father had stayed behind at Omega. The terrain here was brutal. Her mittens already bore cuts from the knife-sharp ice. Her fingers ached, and the calves of her legs burned. The rest of her was chilled to the marrow.

With a gasp that was more of a moan, she pulled herself up to the lip of the ridge.

Already straddling the ridgeline, Kowalski helped her over, and together they slid on their butts and hands down the far side. “You okay?” he asked, pulling her to her feet.

She nodded, taking deep breaths of the frigid air, and turned as Bane and Ensign Pomautuk cleared the ridge next. The young man had to push the wolf’s rear to get him over the edge. Then they both slid and trotted down the far side.

“How much farther?” Jenny asked.

Tom checked his watch with a built-in compass. He pointed an arm. “Another hundred yards.”

Jenny stared where he indicated. It seemed impassable. It had taken them an hour, and they had barely crawled into the outer fringe of the mountainous pressure ridges that topped the buried station. Ahead, the land was folded, cracked, uplifted, and shattered. It was like hiking through a jumbled pile of broken glass.

But they had no choice.

They trudged onward. Winds crashed overhead, sounding like waves breaking against a stony shore. Snow frothed and foamed in billows and currents.

Jenny continued to use Kowalski’s bulk as a windbreak. The brawny seaman was like some clay golem, marching steadily through the snow and ice. She focused on his shoulders, his backside, matching him step for step.

Then Kowalski suddenly tilted, tumbling down to a knee, arms flying out as he fell. “Fuck!”

His boot had shattered through a pocket of thin ice, revealing a small pool, no larger than a manhole cover. He sank to his thigh before catching himself on the edge. He rolled away, swearing a litany as he hauled his soaked leg from the freezing depths. “Fucking great! I can’t seem to stop falling in the goddamn water.”

Despite his bravado, Jenny noted the glimmer of true fear in his eyes. She and Tom helped him up. “Just keep moving,” she said. “Your body heat and movement should keep you from icing up.”

He shook free of their arms. “Where is this goddamn ventilation shaft?”

“Not far!” Tom led the way from here, Bane trotting at his side. Kowalski followed, grumbling under his breath.

Jenny, a step behind, heard a slight sloshing sound behind her. She glanced over a shoulder. The broken chunks of ice bobbled up and down, disturbed from below. Just the currents.

She continued after the others.

After another five minutes of hiking, Ensign Pomautuk’s assessment proved true. They rounded a pinnacle of ice and found a true mountain of a peak blocking their way.

“We’ve reached the outer edge of the submerged ice island,” Tom said.

Jenny stared underfoot. It was hard to believe she was walking on top of an iceberg, a monster extending a mile deep.

“Where’s this ventilation shaft?” Kowalski asked, teeth chattering.

“Over there,” Tom said, pointing to a black tunnel opening near the base of the mountain. It was too square to be natural, about a yard on each side. A brass grate had once locked it closed, but it had been peeled open, half buried in snow.

Polar bears,Jenny thought, hunting for a den. She approached warily.

Tom crossed without fear and dropped to his hands and knees. “We have to be careful. It’s fairly steep. Forty-five degrees. We should rope up for safety.”

Jenny fished the Maglite flashlight from her pocket and passed it to the ensign. He flicked it on and shone it down the tunnel.

“It looks like it makes an abrupt right turn about ten yards down,” Tom said, pointing the flashlight. He slipped the coil of rope from around his shoulder. “Like one of the entrances to our snow houses.”

Jenny leaned closer. It was typical of Inuit architecture to build one or two sharp turns in the entrance shaft of an “igloo.” The turns blocked the snow-laden winds from a direct path into the home.

“Fuck it! Let’s just get the hell inside.” Kowalski shivered beside Jenny.

As Jenny straightened, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck suddenly quivered. As a sheriff, she had developed keen senses, a survival trait. They were not alone. She swung around, startling Kowalski with her sudden movement.

“What—?” he began, turning with her.

From around the pinnacle, something sloshed into view. It was heavy, with a bullet-shaped head, black eyes, claws digging in the ice. It lifted its muzzle and scented the air toward them.

Jenny stared, frozen. What the hell was it?

Bane jammed forward, barking a warning. His shoulders bunched, hackles bristled, head bent low.

The creature crouched at the threat. Blubbery lips rippled back to reveal the jaws of a great white.

That was enough for Jenny. Having grown up in Alaska, she knew that if it had teeth, it was going to try to eat you.

“Get inside!” she yelled, and grabbed Bane by his scruff. “Go!”

Tom didn’t have to be told twice. He knew how to jump at orders and demonstrated his skill now. He dove down the shaft, belly first, sliding on the slick ice.

Jenny backed to the shaft’s opening, dragging Bane.

Kowalski waved her inside. She lost her hold on Bane as she turned. The wolf trotted a few steps away and began to bark again. She reached for him, but she was blocked.

“Leave the dog!” Kowalski growled, manhandling her inside. He followed at her heels, leaving her no choice.

She slid down the steep ice chute.

“Bane,” she shouted sharply back. “Heel!”

She glanced over her shoulder, but her view was blocked by Kowalski’s bulk. The momentum of their slide slowed as they neared the sharp turn in the tunnel.

“Crawl! Move it!” he urged her.

The shaft suddenly darkened behind them.

“Shit! It’s following us!”

Jenny reached the sharp turn in the tunnel and glanced back. The creature clawed its way down the passage, scooting and undulating on its smooth belly, moving fast.

Bane raced only a few steps ahead of it, bounding down the shaft.

“Move!” Kowalski yelled, and tried to shove her around the corner.

But this time she held her spot, struggling with her parka. She ripped the emergency flare gun free from her pocket. “Get down!” She pointed it up the shaft.

The seaman flattened himself.

Jenny aimed past the wolf’s ear and fired. The flare flamed across the distance, earning a startled yip from Bane as it sailed past him, and exploded against the muzzle of the beast.

The beast roared as light burst around it, blinding all its senses. It pawed at its stung face.

As Bane leaped to their side, Jenny rolled away. Crawling and sliding, she headed after the vanished ensign with the flashlight.

Kowalski kept a watch behind them until they rounded the corner. “It looks like it’s heading back out.” He faced Jenny. “Found you too damn spicy for its liking.”

The way quickly became steeper. They were soon sliding headlong down the chute. Jenny did her best to brake herself with boots and hands, but the walls were slick.

After a minute, Tom called out to them, his voice echoing, “I’ve reached the end! It’s not much farther.”

He was right.

The light brightened, and Jenny found herself dumped out of the shaft into a large ice tunnel. Kowalski followed, landing almost on top of her, then Bane. Jenny rolled out of the way and stood, rubbing her hands. She stared around her. How far down into the ice island were they?

Tom stood by one wall. His finger traced a green diamond painted on the wall. “I think I know where we are…but…” He swung his flashlight back to the floor. Someone had spilled red paint.

Bane, his hackles still raised, sniffed at the marking.

Jenny climbed to her feet. Not paint… blood.

It was still fresh.

Kowalski shook his head. “We should’ve never left that damn drift station.”

No one argued with him.

2:53 P.M.

OUTSIDE OMEGA DRIFT STATION

Master Sergeant Ted Kanter lay in the snowdrift, half buried, dressed in a polar-white storm suit, covered from head to foot. He stared through infrared binoculars toward the U.S. research base. He had watched the Russian submarine surface fifteen minutes ago, steaming into the blizzard gale.

He lay only a hundred yards from the station. His only communication to the outside world was the General Dynamic acoustic earpiece clipped in place. He wore a subvocal microphone taped to his larynx. He had made his report and continued his watch.

He had been ordered to remain at alert but to make no move.

Such had been his orders since arriving.

A quarter mile away, two white tents bivouacked the remainder of the Delta Force advance team, minus his partner, who lay hidden in a snow mound a couple yards away. The six-man team had been stationed here for the past sixteen hours, flown in and dropped in the dead of night.

His team leader, Command Sergeant Major Wilson, designated Delta One for this mission, was with the rest of the assault team at Rally Point Alpha, four miles away. Their two helicopters were covered with Arctic camouflage, hidden away until the go-order was given.

In position this morning, Kanter’s team had watched from close quarters as the Russian submarine had arrived with the dawn. He monitored as the soldiers swamped the drift station and commandeered it. He had watched men killed, one shot only forty yards from his position. But he could not react. He had his orders: watch, observe, record.

Not act,not yet.

The mission’s operational controller had left standing orders to advance only once the go-code was transmitted. Matters had to be arranged, both political and strategic. In addition, the mission objective, nicknamed the “football,” had to be discovered and secured. Only then could they move. Until that moment came, Kanter followed his orders.

Fifteen minutes ago, he had watched the Russians leave the boat. He had counted the shore party, then added that number to the complement of hostiles previously stationed here, keeping track of the Russian forces.

Now men were returning. He squinted through his scopes and began counting down as the men returned to the sub and vanished through hatches. His lips tightened.

The pattern was clear.

He pressed a finger to his transmitter. “Delta One, respond.”

The answer was immediate, whispering in his ear. “Report, Delta Four.”

“Sir, I believe the Russians are clearing out of the base.” Kanter continued to subtract forces as additional men climbed over the nearby pressure ridge and headed to the docked sub.

“Understood. We have new orders, Delta Four.”

Kanter tensed.

“The go-code has been activated by the controller. Ready your men to move out on my order.”

“Roger that, Delta One.”

Kanter rolled back from his hiding spot.

Now the true battle began.

2:54 P.M.

USS POLAR SENTINEL

Perry paced the control bridge of his submarine as it raced under the ice. No one spoke. The crew knew the urgency of their mission, the risk. The plan was almost impossible to fathom. He knew that even if he succeeded, it could cost him his captain’s bars. He didn’t care. He knew right from wrong, blind duty from personal responsibility. Still another question nagged: Did he know bravery from simple stupidity?

While en route to Omega, he had come close a hundred times to calling the Polar Sentinelback around, ordering it to return to the safety of the distant Alaskan coast. But he never did. He simply watched the distance to their destination grow smaller and smaller. Had captains of the past been plagued by such doubts? He had never felt so unfit to lead.

But there was no one else.

“Captain,” his chief whispered to him. The Polar Sentinelwas baffled and soundproofed, but no one dared speak too loudly lest the dragon in the waters should hear them. “Position confirmed. The Drakonis already surfaced at Omega.”

Perry crossed to the man. He checked their distance to Omega. Still another five nautical miles. “How long have they been there?”

The chief shook his head. Up until now, details had been sketchy. Without going active with their sonar, staying in passive mode, the exact whereabouts and location of the Drakonhad been fuzzy. At least they had found the other sub. Still, that narrowed their own window considerably. The Russians must already be evacuating the station. According to the intercepted UQC communication, the captain of the Drakonwould blow the base once he began his descent. The Russian captain wouldn’t risk damaging his own boat during the conflagration.

But what was the time frame?

His diving officer, Lieutenant Liang, stepped to his side. His features were tight with worry. “Sir, I’ve run the proposed scenario over with the helm crew. We’ve wrangled various options.”

“And what’s the time estimate for the maneuver?”

“I can position us in under three minutes, but we’ll need another two to rise safely.”

“Five minutes…” And we still have to get there.

Perry glanced to their speed. Forty-two knots. It was blistering for a sub running silent, but that was the Sentinel’s advantage. Still, they dared go no faster. If the Drakonpicked up the cavitation of their propellers or any other telltale sign of their approach, they were doomed.

He calculated in his head the time to reach Omega, to get in position, to orchestrate the rescue…and escape. They didn’t have the time. He stared at his chief. If only the Drakonhadn’t already been in position, weren’t already evacuating Russian forces…

Liang stood quietly. He knew the same. They all did. Once again, he prepared to call their boat around. They had made a run for it, but it was hopeless. The Russians had beaten them.

But he pictured Amanda’s smile, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she laughed, the way her lips parted under his own, softly, sweetly…

“Chief,” Perry said, “we need to delay the Drakon’s departure.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to ping the other boat with active sonar.”

“Sir?”

Perry turned to his men. “We need to let the Drakonknow someone shares their waters. That someone is watching.” He paced, running out his plan aloud. “They expected us long gone. That no one would be around to witness what is going to happen. By pinging them, it will force their captain to confer with his commander, delay a bit longer. Perhaps buy us the time we need.”

“But they’ll be on full alert with all their ears up,” Liang said. “As it is, we’ll be hard-pressed to sneak under their nose and perform the rescue maneuver.”

“I’m aware of that. We were sent north to run the Polar Sentinelthrough its paces. To prove its capacity in speed and stealth. That’s just what I intend to do.”

Liang took a deep, shuddering breath. “Aye, sir.”

Perry nodded to the chief. “One ping…then we go dead silent.”

“Aye to that, sir.” The chief shifted over to the sonar suite and began conferring.

Perry turned to his diving officer. “As soon as we ping, I want the helm to heel the boat away at forty-five degrees from our present course. I don’t want them to get a fix on us. We run fast and silent.”

“As a ghost, sir.” Liang turned on a heel and retreated to his station.

One of the sonar techs suddenly jumped to his feet. “Sir! I’m picking up venting! Coming from the Drakon!”

Perry swore. The Russian sub was preparing to dive, taking on ballast, venting air. They were too late. The evacuation had already been completed.

The chief stared over at him. His face was plain to read: Continue as planned or abort?

Perry met the other’s gaze, unflinching. “Ring their doorbell.”

The chief spun around and placed a hand on the sonar supervisor. Switches were flipped and a button punched.

The chief nodded to him.

It was done. They had just given themselves away. Now to observe the reaction. A long moment stretched even longer. The Sentinelswung under their feet, deck plates tilting as the sub adjusted to a new trajectory.

Perry stood with clenched fists.

“Venting stopped, sir,” the technician whispered.

Their call had been heard.

“Sir!” Another sonar tech was on his feet, hissing urgently for attention. The tech wore headphones. “I’m picking up another contact. Noise on the hydrophones.” He pointed to his earpiece.

Another contact?Perry hurried to him. “Coming from where?”

The tech’s eyes flicked upward. “Directly on top of us, sir.”

Perry waved for the phones. The technician passed them to him, and he pressed an earpiece to his head. Through the phone, he heard what sounded like drums, beating slowly…more than one…their cadence picked up rapidly.

Perry had once been a sonar tech. He knew what he heard drumming through the ice from above. “Rotor wash,” he whispered.

The technician nodded. “There are two birds in the air.”

2:56 P.M.

ABOARD THE DRAKON

Mikovsky was getting the same information from his sonar crew. A moment ago, their boat had been pinged, deliberately and precisely. Clearly someone was in the waters below – and now another party was in the skies above.

The Drakonwas pinned down, trapped.

If the other sub had pinged them, then they certainly had a weapons lock. He could almost sense the torpedo aimed at his ass. The fact that no fish was already in the water suggested the ping had only been a warning.