James Rollins - Ice Hunt

“Hold on!” she called out.

She throttled down the port engine while kicking up the starboard. At the same time, she worked the flaps, one up, the other down. The Otter spun on its runners, like a hydroplaning car. It skidded on the ice, coming full around, pointing back the way they had come.

“What are you doing?” Kowalski yelled, pushing off the window he had been pressed against.

Jenny jammed both engines to full power. Props churned snow into a blur. The Otter leaped ahead, racing again over the ice.

With the wind at their backs, the plane accelerated rapidly.

Kowalski realized where they were heading. Back toward the base. “You don’t have the clearance. You’ll never get the lift you need.”

“I know.”

The pair of hovercraft whirled out and back, spinning around to give chase. A single bullet pinged against the Otter’s tail.

“We’ll never make it,” Tom whispered.

Jenny ignored them all. She raced ahead, watching her gauges, especially her speed. C’mon…

From the corner of her eye, she saw the lights of the base appear ahead. Darker shadows marked the village of Jamesway huts.

The Otter sped toward them.

The vibrations of the runners over the ice lessened as the plane began to lift. Jenny held her breath. She didn’t have enough speed yet. The momentary lift was only from the storm winds. She was right. The runners hit again, shaking the plane as the skids rode across the uneven ice field.

“Pull around!” Kowalski yelled. “We can’t make it!”

Jenny hummed under her breath and aimed directly for one of the dark buildings, a shadow in the glow of the base’s lamp poles. She prayed it was aligned like the barracks from which she and Kowalski had escaped.

The plane sped toward it. Jenny held back just a pinch of power. She would need it.

“What are you—?” Kowalski began, then finished with “Oh, shit!”

Like the barracks, a snowbank had blown against the windward side of the Jamesway hut, a frozen wave banking almost to the roof.

The Otter struck the icy slope, nose popping up. Jenny kicked the engines with the last bit of power. The runners rode up the bank, then shot skyward.

The skids brushed against the corrugated roof of the building with a rasp of metal on metal — then they were away, airborne into the teeth of the storm.

For the next few stomach-rolling minutes, Jenny fought for control of her craft. The plane bobbled, a kite in a storm. But while the winds were blowing fiercely, they were also steady. Jenny turned into the storm, using the wind’s rush over her wings to propel her upward. She eventually found her wings, and the Otter stabilized.

Sighing, she checked her gauges: altitude, airspeed, compass. In these whiteout conditions, the instruments were all she had to go by. Beyond the windshield, there was no discernible way of telling sky from ice.

“You’re fucking awesome!” Kowalski said, wearing a shaggy grin.

Jenny wished she could share his enthusiasm. Still watching her instruments, she felt her gut tighten. The gauge on the reserve fuel tank was draining away. The dial swept from full, to half, to quarter. One of the stray bullets must have torn a line. She was blowing fuel behind her. She checked her main tank.

It was holding fine — if you could call a mere eighth of a tank fine .

“What’s wrong?” Tom asked.

“We’re almost out of fuel.”

“What?” Kowalski asked. “How?”

Jenny pointed and explained.

Kowalski swore fiercely once she was done.

“How far can we get before we have to land?” Tom asked.

Jenny shook her head. “Not far. Maybe fifty miles.”

“Great…” Kowalski groaned. “Just far enough to land in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.”

Jenny understood his anger. Out here, lost, without food or warm clothes, they would not survive long in the freezing cold.

“What can we do?” Tom asked.

No one answered.

Jenny continued to fly. It was all she could do for now.

With no more tricks to play, Matt and Amanda had only one course left, the most basic means of defense. “Run!” Matt yelled, giving Amanda a rough push.

She let out a gasp, then leaped away like a startled doe.

Matt did his best to keep up with her, but barefoot, it was like running with two freezer-burned steaks tied around his feet.

They fled up the tunnels, but with every few steps, Matt was losing ground.

“I know…I know this place!” Amanda yelled. “We’re not far from the exit!”

Matt glanced over a shoulder.

The grendel flew down the tunnel toward them — only ten yards away now. It loped after them, sinuous and lethal, claws casting up spats of ice. It must have sensed that its prey was close to escaping. All caution gone.

“Get down!” This new shout came from the tunnel ahead of them, cutting through the constant buzz.

Matt swung around to see a bristle of weapons pointed his way.

The Navy team!

Amanda disappeared among them. Matt was too far behind. There was no way he could make it. He dove onto his belly, arms outstretched, ax held in both hands.

The passage erupted with gunfire. Bullets whistled over his head. Ice chipped from the walls and ceilings, pelting him from stray shots and ricochets.

Matt rolled to his back, staring back between his legs.

The grendel crouched only a yard away, head bulled down. It clawed toward him, determined to reach its prize. A bellow rumbled through its chest. Steam puffed from its buried nostrils. Blood spilled over its sleek features as flesh was macerated by bullets.

Matt backpedaled away, pushing with his bare feet.

Under fire from three automatic weapons, the beast still fought toward him. One claw lashed out and snatched Matt’s pant leg, pinning it to the ice. Matt tugged, but it wouldn’t budge. For a heartbeat, he met the hunter’s eye.

Matt read the fire in there.

The grendel’s lips snarled back. It might die, but it would take him with it.

Matt swung his ice ax — not at the beast but over his head, as far as his arm could reach. The pick end jammed into the ice. With his other hand, he unbuckled his pants and ripped loose the top button. Using the ax as an anchor, he hauled himself out of his pants and rolled from the beast.

Stripped to his thermals, he crawled away. The beast roared behind him, a haunted sound that crossed all spectrums, eerie and forlorn.

Matt reached the row of men.

Hands grabbed him, hauled him to his feet.

He looked back at the beast. It had also rolled around, half climbing the walls to turn. It fled away from the stinging attack and vanished around the far bend.

Matt joined Amanda, and together they approached the others: a cluster of scientists and a handful of Navy personnel.

Craig gaped at him. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

“We’re not out of this yet.”

Bratt organized his command: Greer, O’Donnell, Pearlson, and Washburn. He explained their situation.

Amanda stared hard at Bratt. “The Polar Sentinel left?”

“Captain Perry had no choice.”

Amanda seemed to shrink back, stunned. “What are we going to do?”

Bratt answered, “We can’t stay down here. We’re running low on ammunition. We’re going to have to take our chances with the Russians.”

“Sir, I know a few places we could hide on Level Three,” the tall black lieutenant said. She nodded back up the tunnels. “There are service shafts and storage spaces. Also an old weapons locker. If we could make it there without being seen…”

“Anywhere’s better than these fuckin’ tunnels,” Greer said.