Текст книги "Ice Hunt"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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They all pushed, but it was damn heavy. It refused to budge. They would never get it out in time.

“C’mon,” Craig mumbled on the starboard side.

Then suddenly the boat broke free. It wasn’t heavy. The runners had just been ice-locked in place. They quickly hauled the boat clear of the shelter and out into the stronger winds.

“Everyone aboard, up near the front!” Amanda yelled as she ran around to the stern end. “One person on each side for balance.”

Jenny and Craig clambered aboard.

From the stern, Amanda unhitched the sail with the speed of experience. In moments, sailcloth caught the stiff winds, unfurled, and snapped to the ends of their ties.

The boat immediately sped straight backward, pushing away from the pressure ridges, shoved by the winds blowing down from above.

As they skated in reverse, Jenny spotted the two hover-cycles beyond the boat’s prow. They were circling toward the Sno-Cat. She spotted two riders on each vehicle.

Unfortunately the Russians spotted them, too.

The cycles turned toward them.

“Damn it!” Craig swore on the other side.

The passengers on the cycles fired at them, peppering the ice in front and around the boat. A couple rounds punched through the sail but did little damage.

Amanda called from the stern. “Lie flat! Keep your heads down!”

Jenny was already doing that, but Craig pressed lower.

Overhead the sail’s boom sprang around, whipping at a speed that would crack a skull. The boat soon followed suit. The craft spun on the ice, lifting up on one runner.

Jenny held her breath, sure they would topple, but then the boat jarred back to the ice. The sails popped like a sonic boom – and they were off.

Winds tore past them.

Jenny risked a peek up and backward. With the boat turned around properly, they raced away from the cycles, their speed escalating. Past Amanda, Jenny watched the two hover-bikes begin to fade back. In this gale, they were no match for the racing boat.

Jenny allowed a bit of hope to warm inside her.

Then she spotted a flash of fire from either side of the lead cycle.

Minirockets!

5:22 P.M.

Matt ran across the ice, staying low, as bullets pelted and ricocheted around him. Anger fueled him as he dodged around overturned vehicles and wreckage, seeking whatever shelter he could, but the line of Russian soldiers moved determinedly behind him.

Ahead, the blasted pit in the center of the parking lot blocked his path. He would have to circle around it, losing time, but at least the foggy steam rising from the ragged hole was thicker around its edges.

He headed toward the windward side, aiming for where the mists were the most dense. But where could he go after that? He couldn’t hide forever in the fog. He had to lose the Russians, get them off his tail.

Movement drew his eye out to the open ice fields. He saw a billow of blue blowing across the ice – an ice racer. It was chased by two hovercraft. Then a large explosion erupted near the boat, casting up ice and fluming water high. A last-moment jag by the boat was all that saved it, but ice rattled down atop it. The bikes closed in on the foundering boat.

Closer, a bullet cracked into the ice by Matt’s heel. He danced away, turning his attention to his own predicament. More bullets blasted at him. But as he turned his attention from the ice racer, another sight caught his eye.

Maybe…

He tried to judge the distance, then thought, Fuck it. He preferred to die trying to save himself rather than simply being shot in the head by the Russians.

Matt changed course. He sprinted directly toward the rocket impact, aiming for the steaming hole. He remained in plain sight, letting the Russians clearly see him. Bullets chased after him, striking closer now.

Reaching the hole, Matt dove over the edge, arms wide.

Below, chunks of ice floated at the bottom of the blast hole. He wrested his body around to avoid knocking himself out on a chunk, then plunged into the frigid waters.

The cold cut through him immediately, closing like a vise grip, burning rather than freezing. He fought his body’s attempt to curl fetally against the affront. His lungs screamed to gasp and choke.

It was death to give in to these reflexes.

Instead, he clamped his chest tight and forced his legs to kick, his arms to pull himself down under the edge of the ice shelf. Exertion helped – as did the triple-layer Gore-Tex parka. He swam out into the dark ocean.

The waters were as black as ink, but he focused toward the target he had glimpsed from the surface. Sixty yards away, murky storm light beamed down into the ocean depths.

It was the man-made lake through which the Russian submarine had surfaced earlier. Matt swam toward it, keeping just under the plane of ice. He kicked against the cold, against the weight of his clothes. He had to make it.

The Russians would believe him dead after his suicidal plunge. They would give up the chase. When able, he would climb free of the polynya and strike out for some ice cave in the peaks. In an inside pocket of his stolen parka were a pack of Russian cigarettes and a lighter. He would find some way to start a fire, keep warm until the Russians left.

It was not the best plan…in fact, it had too many faults even to list.

But it was better than being shot in the back.

Matt struggled toward the light. Just a little farther…

But the shaft of lifesaving light did not seem to be getting any closer. He thrashed and crawled through the waters, kicking against the occasional ice ridge overhead to speed him toward the open water.

His lungs ached, and pinpricks of light swirled across his vision. His limbs quaked from the cold.

Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all…

Matt refused to let panic set in. He had been through all manner of training in the Green Berets, in all terrain. He simply continued to kick with his legs and draw with his arms. As long as his heart still pumped, he was alive.

But a deeper terror arose in his heart.

Tyler died this way…drowning under ice.

He shoved this thought aside and continued his determined crawl toward the light. But the fear and guilt persisted.

Like father, like son.

A small stream of bubbles escaped his lips as his lungs spasmed. The shaft of light grew dimmer.

Maybe I deserve it…I failed Tyler.

But a part of him refused to believe it. His legs continued to thrash. He clawed toward the light. It seemed closer now. For an endless time, he fought toward his salvation – both now and in the past. He would not die. He would not let guilt kill him, not any longer, not like it had been doing to him slowly over the past three years.

Matt kicked into the light, momentum carrying him out under the lake. Brightness bathed down upon him.

He would live.

With the last of his air dying in his chest, he crawled upward, toward light, toward salvation. A trembling frozen hand reached toward the surface – and touched clear ice.

The surface of the open lake had frozen over during the storm.

Matt’s buoyancy carried him upward. His head struck a roof of ice. He pawed around and over him, then pounded a fist against the ice. It was thick, at least six inches. Too solid to punch through from below.

He stared upward toward the light, to the salvation denied him by a mere six inches.

Like father…like son…

Despair set into him. His gaze drifted down, following the light into the icy depths below.

Deep down, movement drew his eye. Shapes glided into view. First one, then another…and another. Large, graceful despite their bulk, perfectly suited to this hellish landscape. The white bodies spiraled upward toward their trapped prey, climbing toward the light.

Grendels.

Matt’s back pressed against the ice roof overhead as he stared downward.

At least he wouldn’t die like Tyler.

5:23 P.M.

Amanda raked her sails forward, struggling to skate her boat past the rain of blasted ice. A blue boulder, the size of a cow, landed a yard in front of the prow, bounced, then rolled ahead of the boat.

She leaned into the keel with her hip, fighting to angle off to the side. They flanked past the rolling boulder as it lost momentum and slowed.

Twisting around, Amanda watched more ice rain silently down from the skies. Behind them, a deep divot had been blasted out of the cap. The two hover-cycles circled to either side, continuing the chase.

Amanda worked the boat’s foot pedals, sweeping them back and forth at erratic intervals. It slowed the boat’s forward progress, but they couldn’t count on pure speed to escape the minirockets or the cycles. The best course was a crooked, jagged path, to make them as hard a target as possible.

Amanda concentrated on the landscape ahead of them. Jenny and Craig had rolled to their bellies and watched behind her. They kept their faces turned so she could read their lips when needed.

Jenny mouthed to her, “Damn fancy sailing.”

She allowed a grim smile to form, but they weren’t safe yet.

Craig wiggled around and extracted his hidden radio earpiece. He pushed it in place, then pulled up the collar of his parka. His lips were covered as he spoke.

Amanda could not read what he said, but she could imagine he was frantically calling in help from the Delta Force unit. Craig was free of the station. The “football” he carried was safely away from the Russians’ clutches for the moment. Craig dared not risk a fumble and interception so late in the game. Not when he was so close to the goal.

Jenny waved to her, pointing back. Trouble.

Amanda swiveled in her seat. The hovercraft to the right was angling closer, swinging in, blazing across the flat snowscape.

She turned back around and straightened the boat, speeding faster now, taking advantage of a fiercer gusting of wind. She tried to put more distance between the boat and the cycle.

Jenny’s lips moved. “They’re lining up to fire again.”

Amanda peeked back over a shoulder. The rider on their tail was bent over his bike, as was his passenger. They had to be pushing the limits of their cycles.

She would have to do the same.

Amanda glanced to her boat’s laser speedometer. She was clocking up toward sixty. The fastest she had ever sailed this craft.

She tried to ignore the danger and focused on the boat under her: fingers on ropes, toes on foot pedals, palm on the keel bar. She felt the winds tugging at the sails, at the boat. She attuned her entire form to match the racer. She extended her senses outward, listening with the boat in a way only someone deaf could. Through her connection, she heardthe whistle of the runners, the scream of winds. Her handicap became her skill.

She eked out more speed, watching the speedometer climb past sixty…sixty-five…

“They’re firing!” Jenny shouted soundlessly at her.

…seventy…seventy-five…

A flash of fire struck to the right; ice shattered skyward. Amanda shifted the boat, turning the sails to catch the blast’s force.

…eighty…

They struck a lip of ice. The boat jumped high in the air, like a Wind-surfer catching the perfect wave. Fire exploded under them, taking out the ridge.

But the boat flew clear and away. Amanda lifted in her seat, but still trimmed her sail to carry them level. They hit the ice again, skating at impossible speeds.

…ninety…ninety-five…

Ice again rained down around them, but they were beyond the worst of the blast area. The boat flew across the ice, one with the storm, one with its pilot.

Craig pointed an arm. “Christ, they’re turning back. You did it!”

Amanda didn’t even bother to glance around. She knew she had succeeded. The racer skated, barely touching the ice now. She let the craft glide, blown by the storm. Only as their speed began to edge downward on its own did she touch the brake.

From the flaccid response of the handle, she immediately recognized the danger. The last jump had shattered the ice brake.

She continued to pump the handle. No response. She tried to reef the sail a bit, but the winds had too tight a grip. The ropes were taut bands of iron, jammed in their racks. The boat was not built for these speeds.

The others saw her struggle, eyes widening.

The winds gusted up. The needle on the speedometer crept up again. …ninety-five…one hundred…

That was as high as the speedometer could read.

They rocketed over the frozen plain. They were at the mercy of the storm winds, flying headlong out into the ice, at speeds at which a single mistake could kill.

There was only one course left to them.

Something Amanda loathed to do.

She yelled to the others. “We need an ax!”

5:26 P.M.

Near to blacking out, Matt faced the rising pod of grendels. They circled up from below, slow, patient. They were in no hurry. Like Matt, they knew he could not escape. He was trapped between the ice above and the teeth below.

He remembered Amanda’s trick of luring the monsters away with her helmet and heating mask. If he could only find a way to bait them away…something hot…something bright…

Then a thought struck him. Something forgotten.

He pawed into the pocket of his parka, praying it hadn’t fallen loose, an object he had nabbed from the severed hand of a Russian soldier while fleeing the ice station. It was still there.

He pulled out the black pineapple. It was one of the Russians’ incendiary grenades, the same as had killed Pearlson.

As Matt’s vision tunneled from lack of oxygen, he flipped up the trigger guard and pressed the button that glowed beneath it. He stared at the closest grendel, a white shadow spiraling upward, and dropped the grenade toward it, trusting the explosive’s weight to carry it down into the depths.

It dropped quickly, rolling down toward the waiting pod.

Unsure of the timer on the grenade, Matt curled into a tight ball. He covered his ears and exhaled all the stale air out of his chest, leaving his mouth open afterward. Seawater swamped into his throat. He kept one eye toward the rising sea monster.

The grendel nosed the grenade as it rolled past, nudging it.

Matt closed his eyes. Please…

Then the world below blew with blinding fire. Matt saw it through his closed eyelids at the same time as the concussion wave struck him like a Mack truck, driving him upward, collapsing his chest, squeezing his skull in a vise grip. He felt a wash of fiery heat, searing his frozen limbs.

Then his body was blown upward. As the ice roof shattered with the explosion, he flew into open air, limbs flailing. He took one shuddering breath, caught a glimpse of the open ice plains, then fell back toward the sea, now covered in block and brash. Fire danced over the surface in oily patches.

Matt hit the water, sank, then sputtered up, dazed, his head throbbing. He paddled leadenly in the wash.

Ahead, a large form hummocked out of the depths, sluicing ice and flames from its back. It was pale white. Black eyes stared at him.

Matt scrambled away.

Then the bulk rolled…and sank down into the sea.

Dead.

Shaking from both cold and terror, Matt stared up at the column of steam rising into the air. So much for his clandestine escape. As he searched for a way to climb out, figures appeared at the edge of the pit.

Russians.

Rifles pointed at him.

Matt clung to a chunk of ice. He was out of tricks.

16. Fathers and Sons

APRIL 9, 5:30 P.M.

ON THE ICE…

Staying low, Jenny freed the ice ax trapped under her body. As she lifted up, she peeked beyond the boat’s rail at the landscape whipping by. They were flying under the full force of the storm. Winds screamed. The hiss of the runners sounded like an angry nest of snakes under the keel. The vibrations through the hull set her skin to itching.

The ax in one hand, Jenny clung to the handrail with the other. She felt like she’d be kited off the shallow deck at any moment. “What do you want me to do?” she yelled into the wind.

Amanda pointed an arm to the boom. “We need to cut the sail loose! Rope’s jammed! It’s the only way to slow down!”

Jenny stared up at the ballooned sail, then back to Amanda so she could read her lips. “Tell me what to do,” she mouthed.

Amanda pointed, leaning forward so she could be understood. “I need the sail to break, but not tear away. We still need to power the boat. To do that, you must chop through some of the ties, get the sail to flutter. Once it’s loosened, I’ll be able to work the ropes. At least, I hope.” She indicated which ties she wanted Jenny to ax.

The first were easy. They were where the sail was secured to the boom. Jenny simply had to lie on her back and hack at them. As each rope was cut, the ties snapped away, popping from the tension. The sail shuddered, but held tight.

The next were trickier. Jenny had to crawl up to her knees, then lean into the wind. With one hand clutched to the mast, she swung up with the ax and sliced ropes that secured the sail to the mast. She worked her way up the pole, holding her breath. One lash point exploded, whipping out, striking her cheek.

She fell back, losing her grip on the mast. She headed overboard.

But Craig caught her by the waistband, pulling her back to the mast.

Jenny regained her grip. Blood trickled hotly down her chin.

Rather than succumbing to fear, Jenny got angry. She pulled herself closer and hacked determinedly.

“Careful!” Amanda yelled to her.

The sail flapped as its conformation suddenly altered. The boom quaked.

Amanda fought a rigged line. Suddenly the capstan spun loose, ropes lashed out. “Down!” she yelled.

Jenny turned to obey, but it was too late. The boom sprang around in a deadly arc. She could not get out of its way in time. Instead of dropping, she leaped up.

The boom missed her, but the loose sail slammed into her. She snatched an edge, grabbing what she could. Fingers found a few lash points near the mast to cling to as the boom carried her beyond the boat’s hull.

Ice raced under her toes as she hung from the rigging.

Then the sail caught the wind again and punched out at her, swelling full. She was torn from her perch, flying through the air. A scream blew from her lips.

Then she hit – not the ice, but the boat.

Amanda had expertly maneuvered the shell under Jenny, catching her as she fell.

“Are you okay?” Craig asked.

Jenny couldn’t speak, unsure of the answer anyway. She panted where she lay, knowing how close she had come to dying.

“I’ve got control of the sail!” Amanda called to her. “I’m slowing us down.”

Thank God.

Jenny remained where she fell, but she sensed the boat decelerating. The winds didn’t seem as fierce, and the hiss of the runners gentled.

She sighed with relief.

Then a new noise intruded: a deep, sonorous whump-whump.

Jenny rolled around and peered beyond the prow. From out of the low storm clouds, a white helicopter appeared. She spotted the American flag emblazoned on it.

“The Delta Force team,” Craig said from across the way.

Only now did Jenny allow tears to rise to her eyes.

They had made it.

Craig spoke into his throat mike. “Osprey, here. We’re safe. Heading to home base now. Someone put on a big pot of coffee for us.”

6:04 P.M.

ICE STATION GRENDEL

Matt sat in a cell, groggy. He wore a set of dry Russian underway clothes: pants, a green hooded sweatshirt, and boots a size too large. He vaguely remembered putting them on. Still he shivered and tremored from the recent dunking in the Arctic Ocean. His wet clothes were piled in the corner of the guardroom outside the cell. Every piece and pocket had been thoroughly searched.

One guard stood by the exit door. The pair of men who had stripped him, roughly searched him, and tossed the dry clothes to him had already left, vanishing with his identification papers. But before leaving, they had emptied his wallet and pocketed the soggy bills themselves. So much for their old Communist ideals.

He stared over to the neighboring cells. Though he had been dazed when brought down here, he knew where he was. He had glimpsed the line of cells when fleeing from the Russians earlier. He was back on Level Four, in the containment cells that must have once housed the poor folk frozen in the tanks.

Each cell was a cage of bars. The only solid wall was the one at the back of the cell. No privacy. No toilets. Just a rusted bucket in the corner. The only other furniture in the room was a steel cot. No mattress.

He sat on the bed now, holding his head in his hands. The concussion of the grenade still throbbed behind his ears. His jaw ached from the strike of a rifle butt to his face. His nose still leaked blood. But he wasn’t sure if it was from the blast or the pistol whipping.

“Are you all right?” his neighbor asked from the adjacent cell.

He tried to remember the boy’s name. One of the biologists. He couldn’t think straight yet. “…mm fine,” he mumbled.

Sharing the boy’s cell were the other two biologists: Dr. Ogden and the girl. He vaguely wondered where the other student was. Hadn’t there been a third? He groaned. What did it matter?

“Pike,” a firmer voice said behind him. He twisted around.

In the other cell, Washburn stood by the front bars. Her lower lip was split, her left eye swollen shut.

“What happened to Commander Bratt?” she asked.

He simply shook his head. His brain rattled inside. Nausea washed over him. He swallowed back bile.

“Shit…” Washburn murmured.

They were the only survivors.

Ogden stepped to the bars that separated their two cells. “Mr. Pike…Matt…there’s something you should know. Your wife…”

Frowning, Matt’s head sprang up. “What…what about her?”

“She was with us,” Ogden said. “I saw her, that CIA guy, and Dr. Reynolds fleeing in a boat.”

Matt heard the bitterness in the other’s voice, but he could not comprehend what the biologist was saying. There were too many things that made no sense. He recalled seeing the ice racer chased by two hover-cycles. “Jenny…”

Ogden told him his story.

Matt did not want to believe the man, but he remembered Bane’s sudden appearance…and end. His fingers crept over his face both to hide his grief and hold it back. Jenny…she had been so close. What had happened to her?

Ogden continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I speak some Russian. I overheard what the guards were saying when they were searching us. They’re looking for some books. Books that the CIA guy took with him.”

“I heard the same,” Washburn said, edging closer, keeping her words low.

Matt frowned. “What CIA guy?”

One of the students answered. Matt finally remembered his name. Zane. The boy mumbled, “He said his name was Craig Teague.”

Stunned, Matt felt a surge of heat flow through him. He blustered for a moment, trying to find his tongue. “Craig…Teague is CIA?”

Ogden nodded. “Sent here to secure the Russian data on suspended animation and escape.”

Matt thought back on all his dealings with the supposed reporter. All along, he had sensed some deeper strength in the man, some hidden well of resourcefulness that would shine through occasionally. But he had never even suspected…

Matt clenched a fist. He had saved the jackass’s life and this is how he repaid him. “Goddamn bastard…”

“What do we do now?” Washburn asked.

Matt had a hard time concentrating, balanced between fury and fear for Jenny.

“Why are they keeping us here?” Washburn continued.

Before anyone could answer, the guardroom door swung open. It was the pair of guards who had left with their identification papers. They pointed and spoke to the lone armed guard. The group approached Matt’s cell. “You come with us,” one said in halting English.

The guard keyed open the lock and pulled the door wide. The other two bore pistols in their hands. Matt judged what it would take to make a grab for one of the weapons. He stood. His legs wobbled under him. He almost fell. So much for a full frontal attack.

He was waved out at the point of a pistol.

I guess this answers Washburn’s question. They were going to be interrogated. And after that? Matt eyed the pistol. The prisoners’ usefulness would surely be at an end. They had seen too much. There was no way they would be allowed to live.

Flanked by the two guards, Matt was led deeper into the heart of Level Four. Rather than going out to the encircling hall with their dreaded tanks, Matt was led to an inner hall. The passage ended at a solitary room.

He was waved inside.

Matt stepped through the door into a small office, exquisitely appointed in mahogany furniture: wide desk, open shelves, cabinets. There was even a thick bearskin rug on the floor. Polar bear. Its head still attached.

The first sight that drew his eye was of a small boy, dressed in a baggy shirt. It fit him like a full-length robe. He knelt on the rug and was petting the polar bear’s head, whispering in its ear.

The boy glanced up to him.

Matt gasped and tripped on the edge of the rug, going down on one knee. He could not mistake that face.

One of the guards barked at him in Russian, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck.

Matt was too stunned to respond.

A new voice spoke, cold and commanding. Matt raised his eyes, focusing on the room’s other occupant. He stood up from the leather chair he had been sitting on and waved the guard away.

The man was tall, six-foot-five, broad of shoulder, wearing a black uniform. But his most striking features were his pale white hair and storm-gray eyes. Those eyes pierced through him now.

“Please take a seat,” the man said in perfect English.

Matt found himself rising, obeying reflexively. But once up, he refused to sit. He knew who stood behind the desk. The leader of the Russian forces.

The door to the office clicked shut behind him, but one guard remained in the room. Matt also spotted the pistol holstered at the leader’s hip.

Hard gray eyes stared back at him. “My name is Admiral Viktor Petkov. And you are?”

Matt spotted his wallet resting atop the desk. There was no reason to lie. It would get him nowhere. “Matthew Pike.”

“Fish and Game?” This was spoken with thick doubt.

Matt kept his voice firm. “That’s what my papers say, don’t they?”

One eye twitched. Clearly the Russian admiral was not someone who was faced with insolence very often. His voice steeled. “Mr. Pike, we can do this civilly or—”

“What do you want?” He was too tired to play the cordial adversary. He was no James Bond.

The admiral’s pale face colored, his lips thinning.

Before anything more could be said, the child rose from his seat on the rug and wandered over to the older man. The admiral’s eyes tracked the Inuit lad. The boy touched his hand.

“That’s the child from the ice tanks,” Matt said, unable to keep the true amazement from his voice.

The admiral’s hand curled around the tiny fingers, protective. “The miracle of my father’s research here.”

“Your father?”

Petkov nodded. “He was a great man, one of Russian’s leading Arctic scientists. As the head of this research station here, he was delving into the possibility of suspended animation and cryogenic freezing.”

“He experimented on human subjects,” Matt accused.

Petkov glanced down to the boy. “It is easy to judge now. But it was a different time. What is considered myerzost,or an ‘abomination,’ today was science back then.” His words grew softer, half ashamed, half proud. “Back in my father’s time, between the two World Wars, the dynamics of the world were tenser. Every country was trying to discover the next innovation, the next bit of technology to revolutionize their economies. With war pending, world tensions high, the ability to preserve life on the battlefield could make a difference between victory and defeat. Soldiers could be frozen until their wounds could be attended to, organs could be preserved, entire armies could be put into cold storage. The possibilities for medical uses and military innovations were endless.”

“So your government forced some of your own native peoples into servitude here. To be experimental guinea pigs.”

Petkov’s eyes narrowed. “You trulydon’t know what was going on here, do you?”

“I don’t know a goddamn thing,” Matt admitted.

“So you don’t know where my father’s stolen journals are? Who has taken them?”

Matt thought about lying, but he was not feeling particularly protective of Craig Teague. “They’re gone.”

“In the iceboat that escaped.”

Escaped?Dare he hope? Jenny was supposedly on that boat. He struggled to find his voice. “They got away?”

Petkov stared tightly at him, as if trying to weigh the risk of telling the truth, too. Perhaps he heard the pleading in Matt’s voice or maybe he simply considered Matt no threat. Either way, he answered the question. “They outran my men and reached Omega.”

Matt stepped back and sank into the seat he had refused a moment ago. Relief washed through him. “Thank God. Jen…my ex-wife was on that boat.”

“Then she’s in more danger than you.”

Matt’s brow pinched, tensing again. “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t over. Not for any of us.” Petkov’s gaze flicked to the boy. “This ice station. It’s not a Russian research base.”

Matt felt a heavy weight settle in his gut.

Petkov’s eyes returned to Matt. “It’s American.”

6:16 P.M.

OMEGA DRIFT STATION

Jenny climbed from the skate boat, her feet settling to the ice. She stared over at the ruin of the nearby polynya. It was blasted, stained with black soot and rusty trails of oil. Fires still burned within the wreckage of two helicopters crumpled on the ice. The air reeked of smoke and fuel.

The thunderous whumpof the lone remaining helicopter echoed over the frozen terrain as it circled to land near the iceboat. Amanda busied herself with securing the boat, tying down the sails and finding a spare set of wooden chocks to brace the runners. She glanced over her shoulder as the Sikorsky Seahawk glided out of the blowing winds and settled to the ice.

Craig crossed toward the helicopter, leaning against the rotor wash. He held his throat mike under his chin as he spoke to the Delta Force leader inside the craft.

From out of the cluster of Jamesway huts, a group of soldiers in white snow gear ambled out, weapons in hand, but not raised. They were taking no chances with the Russians so near.

One of the men approached the two women by the boat. “Ma’am, if you’ll follow me, I’ll get you inside with the others. The Russians planted a slew of incendiary devices throughout the base. We don’t know if any of them are booby-trapped.”

Jenny nodded, glad to follow, but fearful to discover the fate of her father. Was he okay?