Ice Hunt

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.