James Rollins - Ice Hunt

But the beast ignored her and shambled fully around, facing the tunnel now. It cocked its head, one way then the other, plainly listening.

Amanda had no way of knowing what it heard. Was someone coming? Was Connor still alive, screaming for help?

Whatever it was, the grendel lashed its tail a few times, then dashed toward the tunnel, shooting its low form up and away.

Amanda remained in her niche for one long, trembling shake, then fell out. She stumbled over to the tunnel on weak legs. Stars continued to dance across her vision, more from fear than anoxia. She hunched by the tunnel in time to see the shadowed bulk of the beast lope away, aiming toward the cliff.

Fearing the silent unknown more than the beast, Amanda climbed up the slotted passage. She used her crampons for purchase on the slippery slope, ducking as the ceiling lowered. When she reached the end, she poked her head out.

To the side, the grendel scaled the ice cliff, racing like a gecko up a stucco wall. It vanished over the edge, moving fast, clearly on the hunt.

Amanda’s eyes settled on the blue poly-line still draped over the cliff’s edge.

She stared at the rope.

It was her only hope.

Amanda rolled out of the slot and to her feet. She rushed to the cliff, praying the rope was still attached to whatever was left of Connor. The last she had seen, the geologist had the poly-line wrapped around his chest.

She reached the cliff and wrapped her gloved fingers around the rope.

Please, God…

She tugged on the rope. It seemed to hold. She leaned out, testing her weight. It still held.

Tears welled in her eyes as she mounted the wall. She climbed, hand over hand, crampons dug deep into the ice. Fear fueled her muscles. Fatigue was impossible. She clawed and kicked her way to the top.

Reaching the edge, she heaved herself over and landed only inches from the macerated form of Connor MacFerran. His helmet lamp shone toward the ceiling, a beacon in the dark tunnels.

Amanda twisted away. She crawled to her feet, trying to keep her eyes away from the ravaged wreckage. Like Lacy, his belly had been ripped open. Blood pooled around him, a frozen stain on the ice. It was this last that had allowed Amanda to scale the cliff. During her hour down below, the ruin of Connor’s body had frozen to the ice, becoming a bloody anchor for her escape.

With a hand over her mouth and a prayer of forgiveness on her lips, she bent down and undid the geologist’s helmet. She needed his light. Working the chin strap, she could not look away from Connor. His left eye and nose were torn away, raked by a claw. His throat had been ripped out just at the collarbone. His beard was a frozen matt of blood.

She finally freed the helmet, sobbing now.

Then she stood and put the helmet on. It was too big. It hung crooked, but she snugged the chin strap. She faced down the long tunnel. There was no sign of the grendel.

As she stepped away, a glint caught her eye. She turned. A small ice ax lay on the ground. It was Connor’s. He had worn it at his belt. He must have tried to use it to protect himself.

She hurried and collected it. Though it was just a hand tool, it gave her a measure of relief.

She returned to the tunnel, girding herself for the terrifying journey ahead. But as she fingered the handle to the ice ax, another memory was triggered. Earlier, when she had confronted Connor about searching for Lacy by himself, he had waved off her concern. Everyone was too busy, he had claimed. But then he had said something else. The words returned to her now.

Besides, I have a walkie-talkie.

Amanda spun around.

She dropped back to Connor’s body. She searched his ripped goose-down vest, leaking feathers and stuffing, and found the small handheld radio.

Kneeling, she twisted the dial. A small red battery light glowed. She pressed the walkie-talkie to her lips. “This is Amanda Reynolds.” She struggled to modulate her voice, trying to whisper, but fearing no one would hear her if she were too faint. “If anyone can hear me, I’m trapped in the Crawl Space. There is a large predator hunting the tunnels. It killed Lacy Devlin and Connor MacFerran. It is loose now, off somewhere…I don’t know where. I’m going to attempt to reach the upper levels. Please…please, if you read this, bring weapons. I will broadcast my location as soon as I can reach any of the marked tunnels.”

She placed her fingers over the radio’s speaker. Please, someone be listening . She waited, trying to feel any vibration in the speaker, some sign that someone was communicating with her, but there was nothing.

She stood again and faced the dark tunnel. The beam from her helmet lamp pierced ahead. She held the radio in one hand, the ice pick in the other.

She had to get out of the Crawl Space.

Then she’d be safe.

His men had performed flawlessly.

Captain First Rank Anton Mikovsky stood watch atop the submarine’s periscope stand, hands behind his back. He wore his underway uniform: green tunic and pants, cuffs tucked into boots. Reports continued to flow from battle stations.

All areas remained green.

He was taking no chances. Word from the shore team confirmed that Ice Station Grendel had been secured. The Americans who had crashed through the station’s doors in a Sno-Cat were still missing. The group — five men — had holed away like frightened rabbits, vanishing into the depths of the station. But they would be found. It was only a matter of time. The rest of the station was empty, cleared out by the submarine they had heard taking on ballast less than an hour ago.

Mikovsky knew his opponent. A United States research sub. The USS Polar Sentinel . It was no threat. It was an experimental model, unarmed. Surely by now it was fleeing with its evacuees. He was under orders not to pursue.

His primary mission was to occupy the base, secure it, set up a communication station, then dive to patrol the waters against the real threat. In the Arctic, the enemy was the fast-attack subs that constantly patrolled under the polar cap.

Their window on this mission was exactly twelve hours. Vhodi, vidi . Get in, get out. The confusion over at Prudhoe Bay would slow his opponents.

“Captain.” The radioman of the watch strode over to him. “I was able to raise Omega base.”

“Very good.” He climbed from the periscope stand and crossed to the communication shack. The radioman passed him the handset. “Captain Mikovsky here. I must speak to Admiral Petkov.”

Through the static, words cut in and out. “Right away, Captain. The admiral has been awaiting your call.”

On hold, Mikovsky planned his words. Admiral Petkov had remained behind at Omega, to interrogate the prisoners and search the U.S. base. Pektov wanted to make certain that whatever the Russian government sought inside Ice Station Grendel hadn’t already been transferred to the U.S. science labs at the research base.

Mikovsky had never seen a man so driven, yet so calm at the same time. It was disquieting. There were currents that ran through the man that were icier than anything found out here in the arctic. Petkov’s nickname— Beliy Prizrak, the White Ghost — was disturbingly fitting. A week ago, when Mikovsky had first been granted this mission to captain a flagship alongside an admiral from the Northern Fleet, he had been thrilled and honored. He had basked in the envy of his fellow ranked officers. But now…now he was happy the admiral was off his boat.

As if he heard him from afar, Petkov’s voice came on the line, stolid and emotionless. “Captain, what is your status?”

He swallowed hard, caught off guard. “Grendel is secure, sir. The station was evacuated just as you suspected, but there are five hostiles unaccounted.” He quickly recounted the crash of the Sno-Cat into the station. “I’ve doubled the strike team to twenty men. They will perform a level-by-level sweep. I will forward the all clear for your arrival.”