Текст книги "Ice Hunt"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Jenny remained frozen in place, her mind too busy trying to assimilate this new information. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I’ll explain it all later. Now’s not the time.” He touched her arm, then added more softly, “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean to get you pulled into all of this.”

He slipped past her, lighting the first Molotov cocktail with a Bic lighter, and headed to the tunnel. Once there, he lobbed the bottle far down the passage.

The explosion of fire was fierce, splattering along the hall. Jenny caught a glimpse of the bull beast fleeing around a bend in the tunnel and away.

“Let’s go,” Craig said, heading toward the inferno. “We don’t have much time.”

4:28 P.M.

Loaded down with the pilfered gear from the armory, Matt mounted the wall ladder and climbed behind Greer. At the top of the ladder, Lieutenant Commander Bratt crouched in the chute above, illuminated by a military penlight hanging around his neck. The commander helped Greer off the ladder and into the tunnel.

As he climbed, Matt glanced down. Washburn maintained a watch on the two tunnels that entered the service cubby, rifle raised. The tall woman was taking no chances. The group had reached Level Two and was striking out for Level One.

Matt clambered up the remaining rungs pounded into the ice wall. An arm reached down and grabbed the hood of his white parka, hauling him up.

“Any sign of the civilian group up here?” Matt asked, huffing from the weight of the weapons, every pocket stuffed with grenades.

“No. But they could be anywhere. We’ll just have to count on them finding a safe hiding place.”

Matt crawled into the tunnel, following after Greer and making room for Washburn. Soon they all were snaking down the ice chute, Greer in the lead, Bratt now bringing up the rear.

None of them spoke. Their plan was simple: keep moving up, find a weak spot in the Russians’ defenses, and try to blast their way free of the station. The Polar Sentinelhad deployed a SLOT buoy, a Submarine-Launched One-Way Transmitter. Bratt knew where it was hidden atop the ice. They hoped to reach it and manually enter a Mayday, then seek shelter among the ice peaks and caves on the surface. Under the cloak of the blizzard, they might be able to play cat and mouse with the Russians long enough for help to arrive.

And in the meantime, they’d be a decoy for the Russians, keeping the enemy’s attention away from the civilians still hiding in the station.

The party reached another cubbyhole, somewhere between Level One and Level Two. They entered the space more cautiously now. The Russians would be searching these upper levels, expecting them to make a break for the surface.

Greer entered first and swept his flashlight over the floor, seeking any evidence of fresh footprints. He gave the thumbs-up.

Matt crawled out and stretched his back.

Then the ground shook. A blast echoed to them, muffled but still loud. Matt hunched down. A spatter of rattling gunshots followed, erratic, like firecrackers.

“What the hell—?” he muttered under his breath.

Ice crystals danced in the air, shaken loose by the concussion. He glanced to the others as they climbed into the cubbyhole. They were wearing smiles. So was Greer.

“So let me in on the joke,” Matt said, straightening.

Greer thumbed over his shoulder. “It would seem the Russians finally discovered their dead comrades on Level Three.”

“We booby-trapped the armory before leaving,” Washburn added, her smile cold and satisfied. “Figured once they found the bodies they’d check there first.”

“Payback for Pearlson and all the others,” Bratt finished, growing sober again. “And the distraction down there should slow the Russians, make them more wary. They now know we’re armed.”

Matt nodded, still shaken. So much bloodshed. He took a deep, shuddering breath. For the hundredth time since returning from the armory, he wondered about the fate of Jenny and her father. Fear for them dulled any sympathy for the deaths here. He had to keep going. He would not let anyone stand between him and Jenny. This resolve both frightened him and warmed him. For the past three years, he had allowed grief and old pain to build a wall between them. Now such feelings seemed as thin as the cold air here.

They continued on, working their way upward, aiming for the top level.

After another two ladders and more chute crawling, muffled voices and shouting reached them. They followed toward the source, cautious, silent, communicating with hand signals. Flashlights were turned off.

Ahead, faint light seeped down the tunnel. They headed toward the source: a grate along one wall of the tunnel. With extreme care, they moved forward.

In the lead, Bratt reached the vent first and peered out. After a long moment, he moved past the grate, turned, and pointed to Matt, waving him forward.

Holding his breath, Matt crawled to the grate and bent his head to spy out. The vent opened into a kitchen, the galley for the station. Stoves and ovens lined one wall, while tables and shelves filled most of the free space. A double set of doors opened out to the main room.

A Russian soldier held one of the doors open, flashlight in hand. His back was to them. He was talking to another soldier.

Beyond them, in the darkened main room, flashlights bobbled. Men ran up and down the central staircase, shouting and barking to one another. A soldier covered in blood pounded up the steps. He had a medic’s cross on the upper shoulder of his parka. He yelled and more men followed him down.

Finally, the pair of soldiers moved away, allowing the swinging door to close behind them. A square window in the double doors still shone with the lights bobbling in the adjacent room.

Matt stared over to Bratt.

The commander sidled closer, speaking in his ear. “Can you play Russian again?”

“What do you mean?” But even as Matt asked, he already knew the answer. He still wore the stolen white parka.

“We have a short window of opportunity. It’s still dark. Everyone’s shaken. If you keep your hood up, you should be able to walk among them without them knowing.”

“And do what?”

Bratt pointed toward the closed doors. “Be our eyes.”

Matt listened to the plan as it was hurriedly related. His heart thudded in his chest, but he found himself nodding.

Bratt finished, “With the current commotion from the booby trap, we might not have a better chance.”

“Let’s do it,” Matt agreed.

Washburn was already using one of her multipurpose meat hooks to free the grate.

Once the vent was open, Bratt touched Matt’s arm. “This plan all depends on your acting ability.”

“I know.” Matt took a deep breath. “I’d better find my motivation for this scene.”

“How about survival?” Greer growled behind him.

“Yeah, that’ll do.” Matt crawled out of the vent and stood up, facing the double doors.

The others followed him, taking up positions in the galley. They moved quickly. Timing was everything.

Bratt gave Matt a questioning stare. Are you ready?

4:48 P.M.

Jenny kept Bane beside her as she walked with Craig. Ahead, Kowalski lobbed another fiery charge down the long passage. It burst with a shatter of glass and a splash of flames across floor and walls.

The way was clear.

Not a single grendel had been seen in the last twenty minutes.

Dr. Ogden, the biologist, had offered an explanation. “These creatures live in darkness and ice. And while heat and light might attract them, these bombs are sensory overload. Painful and disorienting to the creatures. So they flee.”

So far his assessment had proved valid. They had succeeded in reaching the original marked trail unmolested and unchallenged and were now winding down into the depths of the ice island, heading toward the ventilation shaft. The only disturbance had been when an echoing blast of some distant explosion sounded far above them. The tunnels had rattled, stopping everyone. But with no other repercussions or explosions, they had continued onward.

Behind Jenny, Amanda remained in whispered discussions with the biology team while Tom watched their backs, armed with a pair of Molotovs.

Craig continued his quiet explanation: “I was the advance man, the surgical op for the mission. I was sent in to find the data and secure it. But the Russians must have caught wind of my cover and mission and tried to ambush me in Alaska. If it hadn’t been for Matt, they would’ve succeeded.”

“You could have told us.”

Craig sighed. “I was under strict orders. A need-to-know basis only. This comes from the highest positions of power. Especially after the attack on Prudhoe Bay. The stakes were too high. I hadto get here.”

“All for some possible research into cryogenics.” Jenny tried to picture the tanks with the frozen bodies inside them. It seemed impossible, too monstrous.

Craig shrugged. “I had my orders.”

“But you used us.” She thought back to his discussions and arguments on the Twin Otter after the explosions at Prudhoe Bay. He had manipulated them. “You played us.”

He smiled apologetically. “What can I say? I’m good at what I do.” His smile faded, and he sighed. “I had to use the resources at hand. You were the only means for me to get here under the Russians’ radar. Again I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would get this messy.”

Jenny kept her gaze fixed forward as the group edged past the exploded Molotov. She kept one question to herself. Was this man stillplaying them?

Craig continued, but now it sounded more like he was speaking to himself. “All we have to do is get clear of the station. Then the Delta team can come in with full forces and secure this place, too. Then it will all be over.”

Jenny nodded. Over…if only it were that easy. She kept one hand on Bane, needing to feel the simple, uncomplicated loyalty at her side. But it was more than that. And she allowed herself to admit it. Bane also was a physical connection back to Matt. Her fingers rubbed into the dog’s ruff, feeling his body heat. Craig had told her about Matt, how he and a group of Navy men had attempted to raid the station’s old weapons locker.

No one knew what happened after that.

Bane leaned against her leg, seeming to sense her fear.

“I see the ventilation shaft!” Kowalski called back.

The group headed after the tall seaman, their pace increasing. Jenny guided Bane past the flames of the exploded Molotov. The heat was stifling, reeking of burned hydrocarbons. The ice melted and ran underfoot, slick and treacherous. Streams of fire traced channels across the floor.

Once they were past, the way grew dark again. Kowalski led, the lantern raised above his head.

Ahead a black chute opened on the left wall. The end of the ventilation shaft.

The group gathered in front of it. Jenny pushed forward. From here, it was up to her. The tunnel was too steep to climb with just boots and hands. Tom handed her an ice ax that they had found in the sea-gate control room. She checked the tool’s balance, weight, and most importantly, its sharp edge.

Dr. Reynolds sat on the floor and unbuckled her ice crampons, taking them off. “I should be the one doing this,” the woman said.

“They fit me, too,” Jenny argued. “And I’ve been ice climbing many times in Alaska.” She left unsaid what had already been discussed. The crampons were too small for any of the men, and Amanda’s deafness was a handicap if she got into any trouble in the shaft.

Dr. Reynolds passed her the steel crampons.

Jenny quickly snugged them to her boots. The spiked tips and soles would allow her to scale the shaft. The ice ax was both to aid in this and to protect her.

Once she was outfitted, Tom passed her two of the remaining Molotovs. “I dropped the rope right near the entrance when we were…were attacked. If you anchor it to the grate above, it should just about reach down here.”

Jenny nodded, shoving the firebombs in the pocket of her parka. “No problem. Keep a watch on Bane. The grendels have him wired. Don’t let him run off.”

“I’ll make sure he stays, and I’ll follow behind him up the shaft.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

Kowalski bent a knee and offered a hand to help her up. She climbed him like a ladder, ducking into the shaft and pulling up her feet to kick in with her crampons. They dug deep, the sharp points well maintained.

“Be careful,” Kowalski said.

She had no voice to reassure him or herself. She set off up the shaft, practicing what her father had taught her long ago while glacier hiking and climbing: Keep two points of contact at all times.

With both feet spiked in place, she reached up with the ice ax and jammed it tight. Once it was secure, she moved one leg up, kicked in, then brought the other up.

It was slow going. Slow is safe,her father’s old words whispered in her ear.

Working up the shaft, one step at a time, she allowed a small measure of relief to buoy her at the thought of her father. At least he’s safe. Commander Sewell promised to look after him, and now the Delta units have arrived.

All she had to do was reach them.

But what about Matt?

Her left foot slipped out of its plant, gouging ice. She smacked to her belly on the ice. All her weight was carried on the ice ax until she was able to resecure her feet. Once planted, she still took a moment to suck in large gulps of cold air.

Two points of contact – at all times.

She shoved aside her fears for Matt. It did her no good. She had to focus, to survive. After that, she could worry. This thought raised an unbidden smile. Matt had once said she could worry a hole through plate steel.

Wishing for a tenth of Matt’s composure now, she planted her ax farther up the ventilation shaft and continued onward. Ahead the bend in the shaft appeared. Almost to the top.She rounded the corner and spotted the glare of daylight at the end of the shaft. It was open, clear.

With her goal in sight, she hurried upward – but not so fast as to be careless. The two men in her life whispered in her ears.

Slow is safe.

Don’t worry.

And lastly, words reached out of her past, from a place deep and locked away. She remembered soft lips brushing her neck, warm breath on her nape, words husky with ardor: I love you…I love you so much, Jen.

She held these words to her heart and spoke aloud, remembering what had been forgotten and knowing it to be true. “I love you, too, Matt.”

4:50 P.M.

Disguised in the Russian parka, Matt pushed out the galley doors and entered the main station. Though the level remained darkened, he kept one arm raised, shielding his face, holding the furred edge of his white hood low over his brow. He carried the AK-47 on one shoulder.

Men continued to bustle, oblivious to his appearance. He kept to the level’s outer edge, crossing along the periphery, staying in the dark. Most of the commotion was in the room’s center, where soldiers gathered, staring down the spiral steps. From below, smoke billowed up from the explosion of the booby-trapped armory.

A pair of men hauled a heavy form stretched in black plastic wrap.

Body bag.

Another pair of soldiers, laden as grimly as the first, followed. Comrades watched the procession with angered expressions. Shouts continued to echo up from below. Men spoke heatedly all around. Flashlights circled and patrolled.

A beam passed across his form. Matt kept his head turned away. As he maneuvered around the area’s tables, he bumped a chair, knocking it over. As it clattered, he hurried on. Someone yelled at him. It sounded like a curse.

He simply gestured vaguely and continued along the room’s edge. He finally reached a vantage point where he could see into the hall that led out to the storm. He spotted the wreckage of the Sno-Cat still partially blocking the way, but it had been shoved aside enough to allow a narrow space to pass to the surface. Two men stood by the Cat, but he could see movement behind the crashed vehicle.

From the corner of his eye, he continued to stare into the distance. That was his mission: recon the level and determine how many hostiles stood between them and freedom. If escape looked possible, he was to signal the others, then use the grenade hidden inside his pocket to create a distraction, lobbing it toward the central shaft. The ruckus should cover the Navy crew’s rush toward the entrance. Matt was to offer cover fire with his own rifle. But first, he had to decide if escape through the hall was even possible.

He squinted – then jumped when someone barked right at his shoulder. He had not heard the man’s approach.

Matt turned partially toward the newcomer, a hulking figure in an unzippered parka. Seven feet, if he was an inch. Matt glanced briefly, looking for some insignia of rank. Though the man’s face was rugged and storm-burned, he appeared young. Too young to be of significant rank.

Matt stood a bit straighter as the man continued in Russian, pointing his rifle toward the two bagged bodies as they were sprawled across one of the mess hall tables. His cheeks were red, spittle accumulated at the corners of his lips. He finally finished his tirade, huffing a bit.

Only understanding a few words of Russian, Matt did the one thing everyone did when faced with such a situation. He nodded. “Da,”he mumbled grimly. Along with the word nyet,it was the extent of his Russian vocabulary. In this case, it was a toss-up which to use: daor nyet.

Yes or no.

Clearly the man had delivered an impressive rant, and agreement seemed the best response. Besides, he was not about to disagreewith the giant.

“Da,”Matt repeated more emphatically. He might as well commit.

It seemed to work.

A hand as large as a side of beef clapped him on the shoulder, almost driving him to his knees. He caught himself and remained standing as the fellow began to pass.

He had pulled it off.

Then the grenade secreted inside his parka jarred loose and bounced to the floor with a loud clatter. The pin was still in place, so there was no real danger of it exploding.

Still Matt winced as if it had.

The grenade rolled to the toes of the giant.

The man bent to pick it up, his fingers reaching, then pausing. He had to recognize the armament as ancient. Half bent, the fellow glanced up at him, bushy eyebrows pinched as the gears in his brain slowly turned.

Matt was already moving. He swung his assault rifle around from his shoulder and drove its stock into the bridge of the man’s nose. He felt bone crush. The soldier’s head snapped back, then forward. His body followed.

Not missing a beat, Matt dropped to his knees beside the fellow, pretending to help the guy stand as eyes looked toward them. He laughed hoarsely as if the man had tripped.

Before anyone grew wiser, Matt reached the grenade under the man, pulled the pin, and bowled it under the tables toward the central shaft. It wouldn’t get the distance compared to throwing it, but it would have to do.

Unfortunately, it didn’t get far at all. It struck an overturned chair, the same one he himself had knocked down a moment ago. It bounced back toward him.

Crap…

He ducked, shielding himself with the giant’s body. The fellow groaned groggily, arms scrabbling blindly.

Matt swore, realizing he had forgotten to signal the others.

Fuck it…they’ll get the message.

The grenade blew.

A table flew into the air, spinning end over end. Matt barely saw it. The force of the blast drove him and his unwilling partner across the floor. Shrapnel ripped through the soldier’s thick neck. Blood spouted in a hot gush over Matt’s face.

Ears ringing from the blast, Matt rolled away. He was deaf for the moment to any shouting. He watched men picking themselves up off the floor. Flashlights searched the room, now smoky from the blast.

Movement caught his eye.

Through the double doors to the galley, a trio of figures rushed toward him. Bratt was in the lead. They aimed for him.

Matt, still shell-shocked, couldn’t understand why they weren’t making for the exit. Still on the ground, he lolled around.

Oh, that’s why…

He was sprawled right in the entrance to the hall that led out.

The Sno-Cat lay just a few yards away.

Even closer, only five steps from him, two soldiers stood with weapons leveled. They shouted…or he assumed so, since their lips were moving. But his ears still rang. He couldn’t hear, let alone understand if he could.

They came toward him, weapons firming on shoulders, aiming at his head.

Matt took a gamble. He lifted his arms. “Nyet!”It was a fifty-fifty chance. Daor nyet.

This time he chose wrong.

The closer man fired.