Ice Hunt

Viktor stared as the exterior lights of the Drakon were extinguished. The titanium sphere of Polaris glowed in the dark, becoming a true North Star in the Arctic night.

There was a reason he had started Project Shockwave a decade ago, picked this particular project to exact his retribution. It was in the final words of the 1989 report, a cautionary warning. The scientist had predicted another danger posed by the destruction of the polar ice cap, more than just the short-term effect of flooding and climatic upheaval.

There was a more ominous long-term threat.

As the Arctic Ocean evaporated, its waters would pour over land-masses in the form of precipitation—in the northern lands, as snow and sleet. As the years marched on, this snow and sleet would turn into ice, building into huge glaciers, expanding those already present and forming new ones. Over the succeeding years, glaciers would spread and pile in vast sheets, driving south across all the northern lands.

After fifty thousand years, a new ice age would begin!

Viktor appreciated the symmetry as he stared at the glow of Polaris in the midnight waters of the Arctic.

His father had died, frozen in ice—now so would the world.

6

Icebound

APRIL 9, 5:43 A.M.

AIRBORNE OVER THE POLAR ICE CAP

From the Twin Otter’s copilot seat, Matt watched the sun climb over the top of the world. Light glanced achingly over the curve of ice, searing the back of his eyeballs. Jenny wore aviator sunglasses, but Matt simply stared at the beauty of dawn in the polar region. At this latitude, there were only another ten or so sunrises, then the cold orb would stay in the sky for four solid months. So, up here, one learned to appreciate each sunrise and sunset.

This particular morning was spectacular. A steady southeasterly headwind had managed to sheer away the ubiquitous fogs and mists that usually clung to the cap. Below, and in all directions, lay a pristine world of crenellated white ice, jagged crystalline peaks, and sky-blue melt ponds.

From the horizon, sunlight streamed in a rosy tide, stretching toward their flight path. Hues of orange and crimson rippled across the blue skies.

“A storm’s coming,” a gruff voice said behind him. Jenny’s father had awakened with a yawn.

Matt turned. “Why do you say that, John?”

Before he could answer, Craig made a small sound of complaint from where he lolled sleepily in his seat. Clearly the reporter had no interest in the meteorological assessment of the elder Inuit. From behind Craig, Bane lifted his muzzled face and stretched with a jaw-breaking yawn. The wolf seemed as bothered as the reporter at being awakened.

Ignoring them both, John leaned forward and pointed toward the northern skies. Twilight still clung to that section of the world. Near the horizon, it looked like smoke was billowing up. It swirled and churned.

“Ice fog,” the Inuit said. “Temperature’s dropping even though the sun is rising.”

Matt agreed. “Weather pattern’s shifting.”

Storms up here were seldom mild. It was either clear and calm, like now, or a damnable blizzard. And while snowfall was seldom significant at these latitudes, the winds were dangerous, stirring up squalls of ice and surface snow that achieved blinding whiteout conditions.

He swung to Jenny. “Can we make the drift station before it hits?”

“Should.”

It was the first word she had spoken since leaving Kaktovik. Something had upset her over at Bennie’s place, but she had refused to talk about it. She had eaten her meal as methodically as a backhoe chewing through a stubborn hillside. Afterward, she had disappeared into the hangar’s office for a short catnap. No more than half an hour. But when she returned from the back room, her eyes were red. It didn’t look like she had slept at all.

Her father glanced to Matt, catching his eyes for a moment, almost studying him. When Jenny and Matt had been married, he and his father-in-law had grown as close as brothers. They had camped, hunted, and fished regularly. But like Jenny, after the loss of his only grandson, the man had hardened toward him.

Yet, at the time of Tyler’s death, Matt had sensed no blame from the elderly Inuit. John, more than anyone, knew the severity of life in the Alaskan backcountry, the risk of sudden death. While growing up, he had been raised in a small seaside village along Kotzebue Sound near the Bering Strait. His full Inuit name was Junaquaat, shortened to John after he moved inland. His own seaside village had succumbed to starvation during the freeze of ’75, vanishing in a single winter. He had lost all his relatives—and such a fate was not uncommon. Resources in the frozen north were always scarce. Survival balanced on a razor’s edge.

Though John did not blame Matt for Tyler’s drowning, he did harbor resentment for the ugly period that followed. Matt had not been kind to his daughter. He had been hollowed out by guilt and grief. To survive, he had gone deeper into the bottle, shutting her out, unable to face the blame in her eyes, the accusations. They had said things during that time that could never be unspoken. Finally, it had grown to be too much. Broken, beaten, unhealed, they had splintered—falling apart.

John placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder now. His fingers squeezed ever so softly. In that gesture, Matt found a level of peace and acceptance. It was not only death that the Inuit people learned to survive, but grief also. John patted his shoulder and sat back.

Matt stared, unblinking, at the icy glare of morning, more unsure of his heart than he had been in years. It was an uncomfortable feeling, as if something heavy had shifted loose inside him, disturbing his center of balance.

Jenny spoke, checking her heading and speed with a finger. “We should be at the coordinates Craig gave in another half hour.”

Matt kept his gaze fixed forward. “Should we radio the base in advance? Let them know we’re coming?”

She shook her head. “Until we know what’s going on over there, the less forewarning the better. Besides, radio communication is still shoddy.”

En route, they had been receiving bursts of communication across open channels. Word of the explosions at Prudhoe Bay had spread immediately. As Craig had predicted, news agencies were scurrying, and speculation was rampant.

Craig grumpily sat straighter. “If we just drop in, how are we going to explain our sudden appearance at the base? Are we going to storm in as officers of the law? Investigative journalists? Fleeing refugees seeking asylum?”

“Forget about storming in with any authority,” Jenny answered. “I have no jurisdiction up there. I say we explain all we know and warn those in charge. Whoever attacked us might not be far behind.”