Ice Hunt

They rounded the polynya and swept toward the opening to the base. Engines throttled down. The three hovercraft lowered to their titanium skis, touching down again, skidding across the ice. They slid to a stop near the entrance, parking in the lee of a ridge to protect the vehicles from the worst of the storm.

The driver hopped off while Viktor struggled with his harness’s buckle. Bound as he was in mittens, his dexterity was compromised, but even bare-knuckled, he would still have had difficulty. His hands shook. His eyes were fixed to the ragged shaft—blasted, hacked, and melted down to the tomb below. He had seen ancient burial sites ripped into like this by grave robbers in Egypt. That is what they all were—the Americans and the Russians—filthy grave robbers, fighting over bones and shiny artifacts.

He stared, unblinking.

I am the only one who belongs here.

“Sir?” The driver offered to help, reaching toward his harness.

Viktor snapped back to the moment, unbuckled on his own, and dismounted. On his feet now, he yanked off and pocketed the heated mittens. The cold immediately burned his exposed flesh, like Death’s handshake, welcoming him to his father’s crypt.

He stalked past his men, heading toward the entrance. He found a lone guard inside the shaft. The fellow snapped out of his shivering hunch.

“Admiral!” he said.

Viktor recognized the man as one of the senior officers of the Drakon. What was he doing standing guard duty? He was instantly alert. “What’s wrong, Lieutenant?”

The man fought his tongue. He seemed to be struggling to find the right words. “Sir, we’ve run into a couple of problems. One here, one back at Omega. Captain Mikovsky is awaiting your call on the UQC.”

Viktor frowned, glancing back at the empty polynya. A black line, almost buried in the snow, trailed from the lake and disappeared down the shaft. It was a UQC line, an underwater telephone, a type of active sonar that transmitted voices instead of pings. Such communication spanned only short distances, so the Drakon had to still be patrolling the local waters.

He waved the guard to proceed.

The half-frozen party headed down the tunnels, slipping past the blasted ruin of a Sno-Cat near the door. The guard continued to speak rapidly. “The problem here, sir, is that a handful of military men and civilians have barricaded themselves on Level Four. We couldn’t get to them because of some strange beasts that attacked our men.”

“Beasts?”

“White-skinned. Massive. The size of bulls. I didn’t see them myself. The creatures disappeared back into the ice caves by the time reinforcements arrived. We lost one man, dragged away by one of the creatures. The hall is under guard now.”

Viktor’s legs grew numb under him at the description. Before leaving, he had read his father’s secret reports in Moscow.

Grendels…could it be them? Could a few still be alive?

They were soon inside the main station. The black vulcanized line ended at a small radio unit. The radioman stood rapidly at the appearance of the admiral.

“Sir! Captain Mikovsky is holding for—”

“I heard.” He strode to the UQC phone, picked up the handset, and spoke into the receiver. “Admiral Petkov here.”

“Admiral, I have an urgent report from our forces at Omega.” The words echoed hollowly, like someone was speaking through a long pipe, but it was clearly Captain Mikovsky. “I wanted you updated immediately.”

“Go ahead.”

“There’s been a security breach. A female prisoner and a U.S. seaman escaped the barracks internment and reached a small aircraft.”

A fist tightened. How could this happen?

“They escaped, sir. With the storm, we have no way of tracking them. Most likely they’re heading to the Alaskan coast to raise the alarm.”

Fury built inside Viktor’s chest. Such a mistake should never have been allowed to happen. The mission called for no eyewitnesses to the war here. It had all been carefully timed. Under the cover of both blizzard and solar storm, the United States’ reconnaissance satellites would have been able to discern only vague infrared signatures at best. And while echoes of the prior battles would be recorded by patrolling subs and ships, without living eyewitnesses, there was a level of plausible deniability on the part of the Russian government. Even the U.S. research sub, the Polar Sentinel, had been allowed to leave unmolested with its evacuees. While the sub might have spotted the Drakon in these waters, they couldn’t visually verify what happened above the ice.

Plausible deniability. It was the new catchphrase of modern battle.

But now two prisoners had escaped, two eyewitnesses who could place him, a Russian admiral, on-site.

Viktor forced himself to take a deep calming breath. He stanched his anger, snuffing it out. His initial reaction had been reflexive, purely military. Ultimately it didn’t matter. He placed a hand over the Polaris wrist monitor, reminding himself of the larger picture.

Viktor found his calm center again. Besides, both governments had authorized this secret war, what was coyly termed in political circles as a skirmish. Such clandestine battles occurred regularly between foreign powers, including the United States. They were waged in hidden corners of the world: the waters off North Korea, the deserts of Iraq, the hinterlands of China, and more than once even here in the lonely wilds of the polar seas. The chains of command understood these skirmishes, but the details never reached the radar screens of the public at large.

Out of sight, out of mind.

“Admiral,” Mikovsky continued, “what are your orders?”

Viktor reviewed the current situation. It was unfortunate but salvageable—yet he could take no further chances. Omega and its prisoners were no longer an asset. The prize was plainly not over there. He kept his voice stoic and firm. “Captain, take the Drakon to Omega.”

“Sir?”

“Once there, draw back our men from the base and retreat.”

“And Omega…the prisoners?”

“Once our men are clear, ignite the buried charges. Melt the entire base into the ocean.”

A long pause. It was a death sentence for those innocents left behind. The captain’s words returned faintly. “Yes, sir.”

“Afterward, return here. Our mission is almost complete.” Viktor replaced the handset to its cradle. He turned to the men gathered around him. “Now to the other problem at hand.”

1:55 P.M.

ICE STATION GRENDEL

Matt gaped, horrified, along with the others. A long curving hall stretched out from the main lab room. Lit by bare bulbs, the passage followed the outer wall of this level, circling and vanishing around the curve of this tier. Inset into the back wall every couple of feet were steel tanks standing on end, taller than Matt by a foot. Thick rubber hoses and twisted conduits ran along both floor and ceilings, connecting tank to tank. Though the fronts of the tanks were windowed in thick glass, the details inside remained murky because of the thick frost over the clear surface.