Текст книги "Ice Hunt"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Act One
Snow Flight

1. Blood Lure

APRIL 6, 2:56 P.M.

BROOKS RANGE, ALASKA

Always respect Mother Nature…especially when she weighs four hundred pounds and is guarding her baby.

Matthew Pike faced the grizzly from fifty yards away. The massive she-bear eyed him back, chuffing into the breeze. Her yearling cub nosed a blackberry briar, but it was too early in the season for berries. The cub was just playing in the brambles, oblivious to the six-foot-two Fish and Game officer standing, sweating, in the afternoon sun. But the youngster had little to fear when watched over by his mother. Her muscled bulk, yellowed teeth, and four-inch claws were protection enough.

Matt’s moist palm rested on his holstered canister of pepper spray. His other hand slowly shifted to the rifle slung on his shoulder. Don’t charge, sweetheart…don’t make this day any worse than it already is. He’d had enough trouble with his own dogs earlier and had left them tethered back at his campsite.

As he watched, her ears slowly flattened to her skull. Her back legs bunched as she bounced a bit on her front legs. It was clear posturing, a stance meant to chase off any threat.

Matt held back a groan. How he wanted to run, but he knew to do so would only provoke the she-bear to chase him down. He risked taking a single slow step backward, careful to avoid the snap of a twig. He wore an old pair of moosehide boots, hand-sewn by his ex-wife, a skill learned from her Inuit father. Though they were three years divorced, Matt appreciated her skill now. The soft soles allowed him to tread quietly.

He continued his slow retreat.

Normally, when one encountered a bear in the wild, the best defense was loud noises: shouts, catcalls, whistles, anything to warn the normally reclusive predators away. But to stumble upon this sow and cub when topping a rise, running face-to-face into Ursus arctos horribilis,any sudden movement or noise could trigger the maternal beast to charge. Bear attacks numbered in the thousands each year in Alaska, including hundreds of fatalities. Just two months ago, he and a fellow warden had run a tributary of the Yukon River in kayaks, searching for two rafters reported late in returning home, only to discover their half-eaten remains.

So Matt knew bears. He knew to watch for fresh bear signs whenever hiking: unsettled dung, torn-up sod, clawed trunks of trees. He carried a bear whistle around his neck and pepper spray at his belt. And no one with any wits entered the Alaskan backcountry without a rifle. But as Matt had learned during his ten-year stint among the parks and lands of Alaska, out here the unexpected was commonplace. In a state bigger than Texas, with most of its lands accessible only by floatplane, the wildernesses of Alaska made the wild places of the lower states seem like nothing more than Disney theme parks: domesticated, crowded, commercialized. But here nature ruled in all its stark and brutal majesty.

Of course, right now, Matt was hoping for a break on the brutalpart. He continued his cautious retreat. The she-bear kept her post. Then the small male cub – if you could call a a hundred-and-fifty-pound ball of fur and muscle small—finally noticed the stranger nearby. It rose on its hind legs, looking at him. It shimmied and tossed its head about, male aggression made almost comical. Then it did the one thing Matt prayed it wouldn’t do. It dropped on all fours and loped toward him, more in play and curiosity than with any aggressive intent. But it was a deadly move nonetheless.

While Matt did not fear the yearling cub – a blast of pepper spray would surely stop it in its tracks – its mother’s response was a different matter. The pepper spray would be no more than a tenderizing seasoning when her pile-driver strength pounded down on him. And forget about a head shot, even with his Marlin sport rifle. The bear’s thick skull would only deflect the bullet. Not even a shot square through the heart was a safe bet. It would take ten minutes for such a shot to kill a bear, and the shooter would be bear scat by then. The only real way to kill a grizzly was to aim for the legs, bring her bulk down, then keep on shooting.

And despite the personal danger, Matt was loath to do this. The grizzlies were his personal totem. They were the symbol of this country. With their numbers dwindling to less than twenty-five thousand, he could not bring himself to kill even one of them. In fact, he had come to Brooks Range on his own personal time to help in the cataloging and DNA mapping of the parkland’s population of awakening grizzlies, fresh out of winter’s blanket. He had been up here collecting samples from hair traps stationed throughout the remote areas of the park and freshening their foul-smelling scent lures when he found himself in this predicament.

But now Matt was faced with the choice of kill or be killed. The cub bounded merrily in his direction. His mother growled in warning – but Matt was not sure if she was talking to him or her cub. Either way, his retreat sped up, one foot fumbling behind the other. He shrugged his rifle into one hand and unholstered his pepper spray.

As he struggled with the spray’s flip top, a fierce growl rose behind him. Matt glanced over his shoulder. On the trail behind him, a dark shape raced at him, tail flagging in the air.

Matt’s eyes grew wide with recognition. “Bane! No!” The black dog pounded up the slope, hackles raised, a continual growl flowing from his throat. The dog’s keen nose must have scented the bears…and maybe his own master’s fear. “Heel!” Matt yelled in a barked command.

Ever obedient, the dog halted the charge and stopped at his side, front legs braking, hind legs bunched. With one resounding bark, he crouched, teeth bared. A wolf cross, Bane was broad of chest and bulked out just shy of a hundred pounds. A short length of chewed leather tether hung from his collar. Matt had left Bane, along with his three other dogs, back at his temporary campsite while he went to freshen the scent lure of a nearby hair trap. The lure – a mixture of cow’s blood, rotted fish guts, and skunk oil – drove the dogs crazy. He had learned his lesson this morning when Gregor had rolled in a freshly laid lure. It had taken repeated baths to get the scent off the dog. He had not wanted a repeat of the event this afternoon and had left the dogs behind. But always his companion, Bane had clearly chewed through his lead and tracked after him.

Bane barked again.

Matt turned to see both bears – mother and cub – frozen in place at the sudden appearance of the large dog. The she-bear snuffled the air. Up here in the Brooks Range, she was surely familiar with wolves. Would the threat be enough to chase the bears off?

Closer, only fifteen yards away, the cub danced a bit on its feet. Then with a toss of its head, it bounced toward them, heedless of any threat. The mother now had no choice. She opened her mouth and bellowed, dropping down to begin her charge.

Matt thought quickly. He jammed the can of pepper spray into its holster and snatched a jelly jar full of blood lure from the side of his backpack. He leaned back and tossed it with all the strength in his arm and upper back. The fist-sized bottle flew with the accuracy of a Yankee pitcher’s fastball and shattered against the bole of a cottonwood thirty yards up the trail. Blood and guts splattered out. Usually two thimbles of the contents were enough to freshen a lure, capable of attracting bears from miles around. With the entire bottle emptied, the concentrated scent immediately swelled out, ripening the air.

The cub stopped its ambling approach, dead in its tracks. It lifted its nose high, sniffing and snuffling. Its head swung like a radar dish toward the source of the delicious smell. Even the she-bear interrupted her charge to glance toward the smeared cottonwood. The cub turned and bounded up the slope. For a hungry cub, fresh from hibernating in its winter den, the reek was a thousand times more interesting than blackberry briars or a pair of woodland strangers. The cub loped happily away. His mother eyed them warily still, but she sidled back on her haunches, guarding her cub as it trundled past her toward the fouled tree.

Matt sensed now would be a good time to make a hasty retreat. “Heel, Bane,” he whispered. The dog’s nose was in the air, sniffing at the lure. Matt reached down and grabbed the chewed end of the lead. “Don’t even think about it.”

He backed over the ridge and down the far side, leaving the bears to their prize. He kept walking backward, one eye on the trail behind him, one eye on the ridge above, just in case mama decided to follow. But the bears stayed put, and after a quarter mile, Matt turned and hiked the two miles back to camp.

Camp had been set by a wide stream, still iced over in patches as full spring was late to come. But there were signs of the warmer weather to follow in the blooming wildflowers all around: blue Jacob’s ladder, yellow fireweed, bloodred wild roses, and purple violets. Even the frozen stream, framed in willows and lined by alders, was edged in blooming water hemlock.

It was one of Matt’s favorite times of the year, when the Gates of the Arctic National Park climbed out of winter’s hibernation, but too early for the tourists and rafters to begin their annual pilgrimage here. Not that there were that many folks even then within the confines of the eight million acres, a reserve the size of Vermont and Connecticut combined. Over the entire year, fewer than three thousand visitors braved the rugged park.

But for the moment, Matt had the region all to himself.

At the camp, the usual cacophony of yips and barks greeted his safe return. His roan mare – half Arabian, half quarter horse – nickered at him, tossing her nose and stamping a single hoof in clear feminine irritation. Bane trotted ahead and bumped and nosed his own mates in canine camaraderie. Matt loosed the three other dogs – Gregor, Simon, and Butthead – from their tethers. They ran in circles, sniffing, lifting legs, tongues lolling, the usual mischief of the canine species.

Bane simply returned to his side, sitting, eyeing the younger dogs. His coat was almost solid black, with just a hint of a silver undercoat and a white blaze under his chin.

Matt frowned at the pack leader, ready to scold, but he shook his head instead. What was the damn use? Bane was the lead of his sled team, quick to respond to commands and agile of limb, but the mutt always had a stubborn will of his own.

“You know that cost us an entire bottle of lure,” Matt griped. “Carol is going to drain our blood to make the next one.” Carol Jeffries was the head researcher running the DNA bear program out of Bettles. She would have his hide for losing the jelly jar. With just one bottle left, he could bait only half the sampling traps. He would have to return early, setting her research behind by a full month. He could imagine her ire. Sighing, he wondered if it wouldn’t have been better simply to wrestle the four-hundred-pound grizzly.

He patted Bane’s side and ruffled the dog’s thick mane, earning a thump of a tail. “Let’s see about getting dinner.” If the day was wasted, he might as well have a hot meal tonight as consolation. Though it was early, the sky was beginning to cloud up, and this far north, the Arctic sun would soon set. They might even get a bit of rain or snow before nightfall.

So if he wanted a fire tonight, he’d best get to work now.

He shrugged out of his coat, an old Army parka, patched at the elbows, its green color worn to a dull gray with a soft alpaca liner buttoned inside. Dressed in a thick wool shirt and heavy trousers, he was warm enough, especially after the long hike and the earlier adrenaline surge. He crossed to the river with a bucket and cracked ice from the stream edge. Though it would be easier simply to scoop water from the stream itself, the ice was distinctly purer. Since he was going to make a fire, it would melt quickly enough anyway.

With practiced ease, he set about the usual routine of preparing his camp, glad to have the woods to himself. He whistled under his breath as he gathered dry wood. Then, after a moment, a strange silence settled around him. It took him half a breath to realize it. The dogs had gone quiet. Even the twittering of golden plovers from the willows had ceased. His own lonely whistle cut out.

Then he heard it, too.

The rumble of an airplane.

It was a soft sound until the single-engine Cessna crossed the ridgeline and swooped over the valley. Matt strained up. Even before he saw the plane, he knew something was wrong. The sound of the engine was not a continual whine, but an asthmatic sputter.

The plane tilted on one wing, then the other. Its height bobbled, engine coughing. Matt could imagine the pilot struggling to look for a place to land. It was outfitted with floats, as were most bush pilot planes. It only needed a river wide enough upon which to set down. But Matt knew none would be found up here. The tiny stream beside his camp would eventually drain into the wider Alatna River that ran through the center of the park, but that was a good hundred miles away.

He watched the Cessna scribe a drunken path over the valley. Then with a grind of the engine, it climbed enough to limp over the next ridgeline. Matt winced as he watched. He would’ve sworn the floats brushed the top of a spruce tree. Then the plane was gone.

Matt continued to stare, ears straining to listen for the fate of the plane. It was not long in coming. Like the sound of distant thunder, a splintering crash echoed from the neighboring valley.

“Goddamn it,” he mumbled under his breath.

He watched the skyline, and after a long moment, he saw the telltale streak of oily smoke snake into the dirty-white sky.

“And I thought I had a bad day.” He turned to his camp. “Saddle up, boys. Dinner will to have to wait.”

He grabbed up his Army jacket and crossed to his mare, shaking his head. In any other place in the world, this might be a rare event, but up here in Alaska, the bush pilot myth was alive and well. There was a certain macho bravado in seeing how far one could push oneself or one’s aircraft, leading to unnecessary chances. Over the course of a year, two hundred small planes crashed into the Alaskan wilderness. Salvage operators hired to recover the planes were backlogged for almost a full year. And it was a growth industry. Every year, more planes fell. “Who needs to dig for gold,” a salvage operator once told him, “when money falls out of the damn sky?”

Matt saddled his mare. Planes were one thing, people were another. If there were any survivors, the sooner they were rescued, the better their chances. Alaska was not kind to the weak or injured. Matt had been reminded of this fact all too well himself today when he went eyeball to eyeball with a four-hundred-pound grizzly. It was an eat-or-be-eaten world out here.

He secured his tack with a final tug and tossed on his saddlebag with the first-aid kit. He didn’t bother with his one handheld radio. He had traveled beyond range three days ago.

Slipping his moosehide boot into a stirrup, Matt pulled himself into the saddle. His dogs danced around at the edges of the camp. They knew they were heading out. “C’mon, boys, time to play heroes.”

SEVEROMORSK NAVAL COMPLEX

MURMANSK, RUSSIA

Viktor Petkov stood at Pier Four, bundled in a long brown greatcoat and fur cap. The only markings of his rank were on the red epaulets and the front of his cap: four gold stars.

He smoked a cigar, Cuban, though it was all but forgotten. At his back rose the Severomorsk Naval Complex, his home and domain. Bounded in razor wire and concrete blast barriers, the small city housed the massive shipyards, dry docks, repair facilities, weapons depots, and operations buildings of the Russian Northern Fleet. Positioned on the northern coast, the city-complex faced the Arctic Ocean and braved the harsh winters of this hostile land. Here were forged not only mighty seagoing vessels but even harder men.

Viktor’s storm-gray eyes ignored the ocean and focused on the rush of activity down the length of the pier. The submarine Drakonwas almost ready to be tugged away from her berth. The shore-power cables were already being hauled and secured.

“Admiral Petkov,” the young captain said, standing at attention. “On your orders, the Drakonis ready to be under way.”

He nodded, checking his watch. “Once aboard, I’ll need a secure landline before we leave.”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll follow me.”

Viktor studied Captain Mikovsky as he was led down the pier to the gangway. The Drakonwas the man’s first command assignment. He recognized the pride in the other’s gait. Captain Mikovsky had just returned from a successful shakedown cruise of the new Akula class II vessel and was now taking the admiral of the Northern Fleet on a mission whose specifics were still sealed from all eyes. The thirty-year-old captain – half Viktor’s own age – strode down the pier like the cock of the walk.

Was I ever this foolish?Viktor wondered as they reached the gangway. Only a year from retirement, he could hardly remember being so young, so sure of himself. The world had become a less certain place over the past decades.

The captain preceded him, announcing the admiral’s arrival shipboard, then turned back to him. “Request permission to be under way, sir.”

He nodded and flicked the stub of his cigar into the waters below.

The captain began issuing orders, relayed through a bullhorn by the officer of the deck positioned atop the sail’s bridge to the crew on the pier. “Lose the gangway. Take in line one. Take in line two.”

A crane hauled the gangway up and away. Line handlers scurried among the bollards and ropes.

Mikovsky led the way up the steel rungs of the conning tower. Once there, he gave final orders to his officer of the deck and junior officer of the deck, then led Viktor down into the submarine itself.

It had been almost two years since the admiral had been aboard a submarine, but he knew the layout of this boat down to every screw and plate. Since he was an old submariner himself, the designs had passed through his office for inspection and comment. Despite this knowledge, he allowed Mikovsky to walk him through the busy control station and down to the captain’s stateroom that he was commandeering for this voyage.

Eyes followed him, respectfully glancing away when caught. He knew the image he presented. Tall for a submariner, lean and lanky. His hair had aged to a shock of white, worn uncharacteristically long to his collar. This, along with his stolid demeanor and ice-gray eyes, had earned him his nickname. He heard it whispered down the boat.

Beliy Prizrak

The White Ghost.

At last, they reached his cabin.

“The communication line is still active as you requested,” Mikovsky said, standing at the door.

“And the crates from the research facility?”

“Stored in the stateroom, as you ordered.” The captain waved to the open door.

The admiral glanced inside. “Very good.” He slipped off his fur cap. “You’re dismissed, Captain. See to your boat.”

“Yes, Admiral.” The man turned on a heel and departed.

Viktor closed the stateroom door and locked it behind him. His personal gear was piled neatly by the bed, but at the back of the small room was a stack of six titanium boxes. He crossed to the sealed red binder resting atop the stack. One finger checked the seal against tampering. It was secure. Across the face of the binder was stenciled one word:

It was a name out of legend.

Grendel.

His fingers formed a fist over the folder. The name for this mission had been derived from the Nordic tale Beowulf. Grendel was the legendary monster that terrorized the northern coasts until defeated by the Norse hero Beowulf. But for Petkov, the name carried a deeper meaning. It was his own personal demon, a source of pain, shame, humiliation, and grief. It had forged the man he was today. His fist clenched harder.

After so long…almost sixty years…He remembered his father being led away at the point of a gun in the middle of the night. He had been only six years old.

He stared at the stack of boxes. It took him a long moment to breathe again. He turned away. The stateroom, painted green, contained a single bunk, a bookshelf, a desk, a washbasin, and a communication station that consisted of the bridge speaker box, a video monitor, and a single telephone.

He reached and picked up the phone’s receiver, spoke rapidly, then listened as his call was routed, coded, and rerouted again. He waited. Then a familiar voice came on the line, frosted with static. “Leopard, here.”

“Status?”

“The target is down.”

“Confirmation?”

“Under way.”

“You know your orders.”

A pause. “No survivors.”

This last needed no validation. Admiral Petkov ended the call, settling the receiver down into its cradle. Now it started.

5:16 P.M.

BROOKS RANGE, ALASKA

Matt urged his horse up the ridgeline. It had been a hard climb. The neighboring valley was a thousand feet higher in elevation. Up here, snow still lay on the ground, thicker in the shadow of the trees. His four dogs were already loping ahead, sniffing, nosing, ears perked. He whistled to keep them from getting too far ahead.

From the ridgeline, Matt surveyed the next valley. A spiral of smoke, thinning now, marked the crash site, but the forest of spruce and alder blocked the view of the crumpled plane. He listened. No voices were heard. A bad sign. Frowning, he tapped his heels on his mare’s flanks. “Off we go, Mariah.”

He walked his horse down, mindful of the ice and snow. He followed a seep creek trickling through the forest. A mist hung over the thread of water. The quiet grew unnerving. Mosquitoes buzzed him, setting his teeth on edge. The only other noise was his horse’s steps: a crunching sound as each hoof broke through the crust of ice over the snow.

Even his dogs had grown less ebullient, drawing closer, stopping frequently to lift noses to the air.

Bane kept a guard on point, sticking fifty paces ahead of him. The dark-furred wolf mix kept to the shadows, almost lost in the dappling. As the companion of a Fish and Game warden, Bane had gone through a canine search-and-rescue program. The dog had a keen nose and seemed to sense where Matt was headed.

Once they reached the valley floor, their pace increased. Matt could now smell burning oil. They headed toward it as directly as the terrain would allow, but it still took them another twenty minutes to reach the crash site.

The forest opened into a meadow. The pilot must have been aiming for it, hoping to land his craft in the break in the forest. He had almost made it, too. A long gouge crossed the meadow of yellow milk vetch, directly across the center of the clearing. But the landing field had been too short.

Off to the left, a Cessna 185 Skywagon lay smashed into the forest of green spruce. It had jammed nose first into the trees, wings crumpled and torn away, tilted tail end up. Smoke billowed from the crushed engine compartment, and the stench of fuel filled the valley. The risk of fire was great.

Walking his way across the meadow, Matt noted the clouds, heavy and low, that hung overhead. For once, rain would be welcome up here. Even more encouraging would have been any sign of movement.

Once within a few yards, Matt yanked the reins and climbed off his horse. He stood another long moment staring at the wreckage. He had seen dead bodies before, plenty of them. He had served six years in the Green Berets, spending time in Somalia and the Middle East before opting out to complete college through the GI Bill. So it was not squeamishness that kept him back. Still, death had touched him too deeply, too personally, to make it an easy task of stepping amid the wreckage.

But if there were any survivors…

Matt proceeded toward the ruined Cessna. “Hello!” he yelled, feeling foolish.

No answer. No surprise there.

He crept under a bent wing and crunched through broken safety glass. The windows had shattered out as the fuselage crumpled. From the engine compartment ahead, smoke continued to billow, choking him, stinging his eyes. A stream of gasoline flowed underfoot.

Matt held his arm over his mouth and nose. He tried the door. It was jammed and twisted tight. He stretched up and poked his head in the side window. The plane was not empty.

The pilot was strapped into his seat, but from the angle of his neck and the spar piercing his chest, he was clearly dead. The seat next to the pilot was empty. Matt began to crane around to check the backseats – then a shock passed through him as he recognized the pilot. The mop of black hair, the scraggly beard, the blue eyes…now glazed and lifeless.

“Brent…” he mumbled. Brent Cumming. They had played poker regularly back when Matt and Jenny were still together. Jenny was a sheriff for the Nunamiut and Inupiat native tribes, and because of the vast distances under her jurisdiction, she was of necessity a skilled pilot. As such, she knew the other pilots who serviced the region, including Brent Cumming. Their two families had spent a summer camping, their kids romping and playing together. How was he going to tell Cheryl, Brent’s wife?

He shook himself out of his shock and poked his head into the back window, numbly checking the rear seats. He found a man sprawled on his back, faceup. He wasn’t moving either. Matt started to sigh when suddenly the man’s arms shot up, a gun clutched between his hands.

“Don’t move!”

Matt startled, more at the sudden shout than the threat of the gun.

“I mean it! Don’t move!” The man sat up. He was pale, his green eyes wide, his blond hair caked with blood on his left side. His head must have struck the window frame. Still his aim did not waver. “I’ll shoot!”

“Then shoot,” Matt said calmly, leaning a bit against the plane’s fuselage.

This response clearly baffled the stranger. His brow pinched together. From the man’s brand-new Eddie Bauer Arctic parka, he was clearly a stranger to these parts. Nonetheless, there was a hard edge to him. Though having just crashed, he clearly had kept his wits about him. Matt had to give him credit there.

“If you’ll put that flaregun down,” Matt said, “maybe I’ll even think about finishing this rescue mission.”

The man waited a full breath, then lowered his arms, sagging backward. “I…I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. You just fell out of the sky. In such rare cases, I have the tendency to forgive a lack of gracious hospitality.”

This earned a tired grin from the man.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Head took a good crack. And my leg’s caught.”

Matt leaned through the window, having to stretch up on his toes. The front section of the plane had crimped back, trapping the man’s right leg between the copilot’s seat and his own. So much for just having the man crawl through the window.

“The pilot…” the man began. “Is he…”

“Dead,” Matt finished. “Nothing we can do for him at the moment.” He tugged again at the door. He wouldn’t be able to free it with brute strength alone. He tapped one knuckle on the fuselage, thinking. “Hang on a sec.”

He crossed back to Mariah, grabbed the horse’s reins, and walked her closer to the wreckage. She protested with a toss of her head. It was bad enough being pulled away from the pasture of milk vetch, but the burning engine smell spooked her, too. “Easy there, gal,” Matt soothed.

His dogs simply remained where they lay sprawled. Bane sat up, ears perked, but Matt waved the wolf down.

Once close enough, Matt ran a rope from the saddle to the frame of the plane’s door. He didn’t trust the handle to be secure enough. He then crossed back to the mare and urged her to follow. She did so willingly, glad to leave the vicinity of the foul-smelling wreckage, but once she reached the length of her tether, she stopped.

Matt coaxed her with tugs on her reins, but she still refused. He slid behind her, biting back a curse, then grabbed her tail and pulled it up over her hind end. He hated tailing her like this, but he had to get her to pull. She whinnied at the pain and kicked a hoof at him. He tumbled away, letting go of the tail and landing on his backside. He shook his head. He and the female species never did know how to communicate.

Then Bane was there, barking, snapping at the horse’s heels. Mariah might not respect Matt, but a half wolf was another thing. Old instincts ran deep. The mare leaped ahead, yanking on the tether.

A groan of metal erupted behind him. Matt rolled around. The entire tilted fuselage of the Cessna canted to the side. A shout of alarm arose from inside. Then, with the popping sound of an opening soda can, the crumpled door broke away.

Mariah reared up, but Matt returned to calm her. He undid the saddle hitch and walked her away, waving Bane off. He settled her at the edge of the clearing, then patted her flank. “Good girl. You’ve earned yourself an extra handful of grain tonight.”

He strode back to the wreckage. The stranger was almost out of the plane. He was able to slide his trapped leg along the edge of the two crammed seats until he reached the open door. Then he was free.

Matt helped him down. “How’s the leg?”

The man tested it gingerly. “Bruised, and the worst damned charley horse, but nothing feels broken.” Now that the man was free, Matt realized he was younger than he first appeared. Probably no more than his late twenties.

As they hobbled away from the wreckage, Matt held out a hand. “Name’s Matthew Pike.”

“Craig…Craig Teague.”

After they were well away from the plane, Matt settled the man to a log, then shoved away his dogs when they came up to nose the stranger. Matt straightened a kink from his back and glanced back to the plane and his dead friend. “So what happened?”

The man remained silent for a long moment. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “I don’t know. We were heading to Deadhorse—”

“Over in Prudhoe?”

“Prudhoe Bay, yes.” The man nodded, gingerly fingering his lacerated scalp. Deadhorse was the name of the airport that serviced the oilfields and township of Prudhoe Bay. It was located at the northernmost edge of Alaska, where the North Slope’s oil fields met the Arctic Ocean. “We were about two hours out of Fairbanks when the pilot reported something wrong with the engine. It seemed he was losing fuel or something. Which seemed impossible since we had just tanked up in Fairbanks.”