James Rollins - Ice Hunt

Jenny stared, frozen. What the hell was it?

Bane jammed forward, barking a warning. His shoulders bunched, hackles bristled, head bent low.

The creature crouched at the threat. Blubbery lips rippled back to reveal the jaws of a great white.

That was enough for Jenny. Having grown up in Alaska, she knew that if it had teeth, it was going to try to eat you.

“Get inside!” she yelled, and grabbed Bane by his scruff. “Go!”

Tom didn’t have to be told twice. He knew how to jump at orders and demonstrated his skill now. He dove down the shaft, belly first, sliding on the slick ice.

Jenny backed to the shaft’s opening, dragging Bane.

Kowalski waved her inside. She lost her hold on Bane as she turned. The wolf trotted a few steps away and began to bark again. She reached for him, but she was blocked.

“Leave the dog!” Kowalski growled, manhandling her inside. He followed at her heels, leaving her no choice.

She slid down the steep ice chute.

“Bane,” she shouted sharply back. “Heel!”

She glanced over her shoulder, but her view was blocked by Kowalski’s bulk. The momentum of their slide slowed as they neared the sharp turn in the tunnel.

“Crawl! Move it!” he urged her.

The shaft suddenly darkened behind them.

“Shit! It’s following us!”

Jenny reached the sharp turn in the tunnel and glanced back. The creature clawed its way down the passage, scooting and undulating on its smooth belly, moving fast.

Bane raced only a few steps ahead of it, bounding down the shaft.

“Move!” Kowalski yelled, and tried to shove her around the corner.

But this time she held her spot, struggling with her parka. She ripped the emergency flare gun free from her pocket. “Get down!” She pointed it up the shaft.

The seaman flattened himself.

Jenny aimed past the wolf’s ear and fired. The flare flamed across the distance, earning a startled yip from Bane as it sailed past him, and exploded against the muzzle of the beast.

The beast roared as light burst around it, blinding all its senses. It pawed at its stung face.

As Bane leaped to their side, Jenny rolled away. Crawling and sliding, she headed after the vanished ensign with the flashlight.

Kowalski kept a watch behind them until they rounded the corner. “It looks like it’s heading back out.” He faced Jenny. “Found you too damn spicy for its liking.”

The way quickly became steeper. They were soon sliding headlong down the chute. Jenny did her best to brake herself with boots and hands, but the walls were slick.

After a minute, Tom called out to them, his voice echoing, “I’ve reached the end! It’s not much farther.”

He was right.

The light brightened, and Jenny found herself dumped out of the shaft into a large ice tunnel. Kowalski followed, landing almost on top of her, then Bane. Jenny rolled out of the way and stood, rubbing her hands. She stared around her. How far down into the ice island were they?

Tom stood by one wall. His finger traced a green diamond painted on the wall. “I think I know where we are…but…” He swung his flashlight back to the floor. Someone had spilled red paint.

Bane, his hackles still raised, sniffed at the marking.

Jenny climbed to her feet. Not paint… blood .

It was still fresh.

Kowalski shook his head. “We should’ve never left that damn drift station.”

No one argued with him.

Master Sergeant Ted Kanter lay in the snowdrift, half buried, dressed in a polar-white storm suit, covered from head to foot. He stared through infrared binoculars toward the U.S. research base. He had watched the Russian submarine surface fifteen minutes ago, steaming into the blizzard gale.

He lay only a hundred yards from the station. His only communication to the outside world was the General Dynamic acoustic earpiece clipped in place. He wore a subvocal microphone taped to his larynx. He had made his report and continued his watch.

He had been ordered to remain at alert but to make no move.

Such had been his orders since arriving.

A quarter mile away, two white tents bivouacked the remainder of the Delta Force advance team, minus his partner, who lay hidden in a snow mound a couple yards away. The six-man team had been stationed here for the past sixteen hours, flown in and dropped in the dead of night.

His team leader, Command Sergeant Major Wilson, designated Delta One for this mission, was with the rest of the assault team at Rally Point Alpha, four miles away. Their two helicopters were covered with Arctic camouflage, hidden away until the go-order was given.

In position this morning, Kanter’s team had watched from close quarters as the Russian submarine had arrived with the dawn. He monitored as the soldiers swamped the drift station and commandeered it. He had watched men killed, one shot only forty yards from his position. But he could not react. He had his orders: watch, observe, record.

Not act, not yet.

The mission’s operational controller had left standing orders to advance only once the go-code was transmitted. Matters had to be arranged, both political and strategic. In addition, the mission objective, nicknamed the “football,” had to be discovered and secured. Only then could they move. Until that moment came, Kanter followed his orders.

Fifteen minutes ago, he had watched the Russians leave the boat. He had counted the shore party, then added that number to the complement of hostiles previously stationed here, keeping track of the Russian forces.

Now men were returning. He squinted through his scopes and began counting down as the men returned to the sub and vanished through hatches. His lips tightened.

The pattern was clear.

He pressed a finger to his transmitter. “Delta One, respond.”

The answer was immediate, whispering in his ear. “Report, Delta Four.”

“Sir, I believe the Russians are clearing out of the base.” Kanter continued to subtract forces as additional men climbed over the nearby pressure ridge and headed to the docked sub.

“Understood. We have new orders, Delta Four.”

Kanter tensed.

“The go-code has been activated by the controller. Ready your men to move out on my order.”

“Roger that, Delta One.”

Kanter rolled back from his hiding spot.

Now the true battle began.

Perry paced the control bridge of his submarine as it raced under the ice. No one spoke. The crew knew the urgency of their mission, the risk. The plan was almost impossible to fathom. He knew that even if he succeeded, it could cost him his captain’s bars. He didn’t care. He knew right from wrong, blind duty from personal responsibility. Still another question nagged: Did he know bravery from simple stupidity?

While en route to Omega, he had come close a hundred times to calling the Polar Sentinel back around, ordering it to return to the safety of the distant Alaskan coast. But he never did. He simply watched the distance to their destination grow smaller and smaller. Had captains of the past been plagued by such doubts? He had never felt so unfit to lead.

But there was no one else.

“Captain,” his chief whispered to him. The Polar Sentinel was baffled and soundproofed, but no one dared speak too loudly lest the dragon in the waters should hear them. “Position confirmed. The Drakon is already surfaced at Omega.”

Perry crossed to the man. He checked their distance to Omega. Still another five nautical miles. “How long have they been there?”

The chief shook his head. Up until now, details had been sketchy. Without going active with their sonar, staying in passive mode, the exact whereabouts and location of the Drakon had been fuzzy. At least they had found the other sub. Still, that narrowed their own window considerably. The Russians must already be evacuating the station. According to the intercepted UQC communication, the captain of the Drakon would blow the base once he began his descent. The Russian captain wouldn’t risk damaging his own boat during the conflagration.