James Rollins - Ice Hunt

“Mmm, okay,” he mumbled. “Jammed my hand.”

His eyes glanced to the driver. The man lay facedown in the water. His head bent unnaturally backward. “Neck’s broken,” her father said.

The other two guards were fighting the door.

Fernandez slammed his shoulder against the handle. It didn’t budge. The pressure outside the half-submerged Cat held the doors shut. “Fuck!” He limped back on one foot, blood from the gunshot wound trailing through the waters around him.

“Try to find something to smash a window,” Fernandez barked. The whites of his eyes glowed in the watery light.

Jenny stepped toward them. “How about this?” She reached behind the other guard’s back and slipped out his sidearm. Turning, she thumbed the safety and fired into the Cat’s windshield, crackling the Arctic safety glass and tearing it partly away.

“Yeah,” Fernandez said, nodding. “That’ll do.”

The guard retrieved his gun and holstered it, scowling at her.

“Don’t take offense at Kowalski here,” Fernandez said, and waved them forward. “Joe doesn’t like folks touching his things.”

They ducked under the seats.

Kowalski kicked out the remaining glass.

The open water churned and frothed inside the pit. Ice blocks and cakes bobbed in the mix.

“Out of the frying pan…” Fernandez mumbled.

“Make for that crack in the wall,” Jenny said, pointing to a crumbled section that looked climbable.

“Ladies first,” Kowalski offered.

They were now thigh-deep in the water. Jenny pushed out on numb legs. The searing cold cut through her as she fell into the sea. She fought her body’s natural reflex to curl against the frigid water. Seawater froze at 28.6 degrees F. This felt a million degrees colder, so cold it burned. She kicked and pawed chunks of ice out of the way. Slowly she swam across the few yards to the ice slope and pulled herself into the crack, numb fingers scrabbling for purchase.

Once out of the water, she glanced back. The others followed. Kowalski tried to help Fernandez, but he was shoved away.

Behind them, the idling Sno-Cat tipped nose first, then sank into the blue depths. Its lights trailed down into the darkness. For a moment, Jenny saw the pale face of the driver pressed against the glass. Then the Sno-Cat and its lone passenger disappeared.

Jenny helped her father climb from the water into the cracked section of the wall. The slot was jagged with blocks and dagger-sharp protrusions, but the obstacles offered a natural ladder to climb out of the pit.

As a group, they worked their way up. It was a cold, sodden climb. Wet clothes turned to ice. Hair froze to skin. Limbs shook with petit mal seizures in a futile attempt to keep warm.

They all pushed free, one after the other, beaching themselves up onto the ice. It was not exhaustion that immobilized them, but the cold. It held them all as surely as any vise. It was inescapable.

The wind had kicked up. Snow and ice spun dizzily around her.

Her father somehow crawled to her, wrapping her in his arms, cradling her. It had been ages since he had held her like this. She had been only sixteen when she had lost her mother. For the next two years, an aunt and uncle had fostered Jenny while her father was in jail, then probational recovery. Afterward, she had barely spoken to him. But Inuit life was built around social gatherings: birthday parties, baby showers, weddings, and funerals. She had been forced to make an uneasy peace with her father, but it was far from close.

Especially not this close.

Tears flowed and froze on her cheeks. Something finally broke inside her. “Papa…I’m sorry.”

Arms tightened around her. “Hush, conserve your energy.”

“For what?” she mumbled, but she wasn’t sure she had even spoken aloud.

“Skylight ahead!” the chief of the watch yelled. “Forty degrees to port!”

“Thank God,” Perry whispered to the periscope’s optical piece. He walked off the degrees, turning the scope. They had spent five minutes searching for the man-made polynya near the ice island. The storm surge through the area had shifted the surface ice by several degrees. Nothing was constant up here, he thought. Nothing but the danger.

Through the scope, the ceiling of the world was black ice, but off to port, where the chief had indicated, he spotted an unnaturally square opening in the roof. It shone a brilliant aquamarine, lighting the waters under it to the pale blue of a Bahamian sea. He eyed his goal with a tight smile. “It’s the polynya! Port ahead one-third, starboard back one-third, right full rudder. Get us under that skylight!”

The term skylight had been used by submariners since first venturing under the polar ice cap. An opening in the ice. Somewhere to surface. There was no better sight, especially with the press of time upon them.

His orders were relayed and a slight tremor vibrated the deck plates as the sub hoved around and aimed for their goal. He watched through the scope. “All ahead slow.”

As they neared the opening in the thick ice, he spoke without taking his eyes from the periscope. “Chief, what’s the ice reading above?”

“Looks good. The opening’s frozen over a bit.” The chief peered closer at the video monitor of the top-sounding sonar. “Across the skylight, I read no more than six inches of ice, but no less than three.”

Perry sighed with relief. It should be thin enough to surface through. He studied the dark ice surrounding the aquamarine lake, jagged and menacing, like the teeth of a shark.

“We’re under the skylight,” Bratt reported from the diving station.

“All stop. Rudder amidships.” As his orders were obeyed, he walked the periscope around, checking to make sure there was plenty of room for the sub to surface without brushing against the dragon-toothed walls of the canyon. Once satisfied, he straightened and folded the periscope grips. The stainless-steel pole descended below. “Stand by to surface.” He swung to Bratt. “Bring her up slowly.”

The soft chug of a pump sounded as seawater ballast was forced out of tanks inside the boat. Slowly the sub began to rise.

Bratt turned to him. “That Russian boat will surely hear us blowing ballast.”

“There’s no helping it.” Perry stepped down from the periscope deck. “Is the evac team ready to debark to the station?”

“Aye, sir. They’re suited up. We’ll empty that place in under ten minutes.”

“Make sure you get everyone out of there.” Perry’s thoughts turned to Amanda for the hundredth time.

Bratt seemed to read his mind, staring intently at him. “We won’t miss anyone, sir. That’s for damn certain.”

Perry nodded.

“Ready for ice!” the chief bellowed.

Overhead, the reinforced bridge crashed through the frozen crust, shuddering the boat. A moment later, the bulk of the submarine followed, cracking through to the surface. All around, valves were opened or closed, dials checked. Reports echoed from throughout the boat.

“Open the hatches!” Bratt yelled. “Ready shore team!”

The locking dogs were undone, and men in parkas gathered, rifles shouldered. One held out a blue parka for Bratt.

Bratt yanked into it. “We’ll be right back.”

Perry glanced to his watch. The Russians were surely already under way by now. “Fifteen minutes. No longer.”

“Plenty of time.” Bratt led his men out.

Perry stared as they climbed away. Cold air, fresh and damp, blew down from above. Once the last man was gone, the hatch slammed shut. Perry paced the length of the periscope stand. He wanted to be out there with Bratt, but he knew his place was here.