James Rollins - Ice Hunt

Kowalski pointed back to the crack. “Considering what’s out here, I’d say let’s go back in there and wave the white flag at the Russians.”

“It’s death either way,” Craig answered with a shake of his head. “And here at least we have the firepower to challenge the grendels.” He pulledan object out of his pocket. It was a glass vodka bottle, full of a dark yellow liquid and stoppered with a scrap of cloth. “We have ten of them. If your flares kept the grendels back, then these homemade Molotovs should, too.”

“What then?” Jenny asked.

“We’re going to get out of here,” Craig said. “Up that ventilation shaft.”

“And I was just getting comfy here,” Kowalski said.

Jenny shook her head at such a foolhardy plan. “But we’ll just freeze to death hiding up there. The blizzard is still blowing fiercely.”

“We’re not going to hide,” Craig said. “We’re going to make for the parked vehicles, then strike out for Omega.”

“But the Russians—”

Amanda interrupted. “Omega has been liberated by a Delta Force team. We’re going to try to reach an evacuation point.”

Jenny was stunned into silence.

Kowalski rolled his eyes. “Fuckin’ great. We escape from that goddamn place just before it’s liberated by Special Forces. We’ve got to work on our damn timing.”

Jenny found her tongue. “How do you know all this?”

Amanda pointed a thumb at Craig. “Your friend here is CIA. The controller for the Delta Force team.”

“What?” Jenny swung toward Craig.

He met her eyes as more gunfire rang out from beyond the crack. “We need to move out,” he said. “Find this ventilation shaft.”

Jenny remained frozen in place, her mind too busy trying to assimilate this new information. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I’ll explain it all later. Now’s not the time.” He touched her arm, then added more softly, “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean to get you pulled into all of this.”

He slipped past her, lighting the first Molotov cocktail with a Bic lighter, and headed to the tunnel. Once there, he lobbed the bottle far down the passage.

The explosion of fire was fierce, splattering along the hall. Jenny caught a glimpse of the bull beast fleeing around a bend in the tunnel and away.

“Let’s go,” Craig said, heading toward the inferno. “We don’t have much time.”

Loaded down with the pilfered gear from the armory, Matt mounted the wall ladder and climbed behind Greer. At the top of the ladder, Lieutenant Commander Bratt crouched in the chute above, illuminated by a military penlight hanging around his neck. The commander helped Greer off the ladder and into the tunnel.

As he climbed, Matt glanced down. Washburn maintained a watch on the two tunnels that entered the service cubby, rifle raised. The tall woman was taking no chances. The group had reached Level Two and was striking out for Level One.

Matt clambered up the remaining rungs pounded into the ice wall. An arm reached down and grabbed the hood of his white parka, hauling him up.

“Any sign of the civilian group up here?” Matt asked, huffing from the weight of the weapons, every pocket stuffed with grenades.

“No. But they could be anywhere. We’ll just have to count on them finding a safe hiding place.”

Matt crawled into the tunnel, following after Greer and making room for Washburn. Soon they all were snaking down the ice chute, Greer in the lead, Bratt now bringing up the rear.

None of them spoke. Their plan was simple: keep moving up, find a weak spot in the Russians’ defenses, and try to blast their way free of the station. The Polar Sentinel had deployed a SLOT buoy, a Submarine-Launched One-Way Transmitter. Bratt knew where it was hidden atop the ice. They hoped to reach it and manually enter a Mayday, then seek shelter among the ice peaks and caves on the surface. Under the cloak of the blizzard, they might be able to play cat and mouse with the Russians long enough for help to arrive.

And in the meantime, they’d be a decoy for the Russians, keeping the enemy’s attention away from the civilians still hiding in the station.

The party reached another cubbyhole, somewhere between Level One and Level Two. They entered the space more cautiously now. The Russians would be searching these upper levels, expecting them to make a break for the surface.

Greer entered first and swept his flashlight over the floor, seeking any evidence of fresh footprints. He gave the thumbs-up.

Matt crawled out and stretched his back.

Then the ground shook. A blast echoed to them, muffled but still loud. Matt hunched down. A spatter of rattling gunshots followed, erratic, like firecrackers.

“What the hell—?” he muttered under his breath.

Ice crystals danced in the air, shaken loose by the concussion. He glanced to the others as they climbed into the cubbyhole. They were wearing smiles. So was Greer.

“So let me in on the joke,” Matt said, straightening.

Greer thumbed over his shoulder. “It would seem the Russians finally discovered their dead comrades on Level Three.”

“We booby-trapped the armory before leaving,” Washburn added, her smile cold and satisfied. “Figured once they found the bodies they’d check there first.”

“Payback for Pearlson and all the others,” Bratt finished, growing sober again. “And the distraction down there should slow the Russians, make them more wary. They now know we’re armed.”

Matt nodded, still shaken. So much bloodshed. He took a deep, shuddering breath. For the hundredth time since returning from the armory, he wondered about the fate of Jenny and her father. Fear for them dulled any sympathy for the deaths here. He had to keep going. He would not let anyone stand between him and Jenny. This resolve both frightened him and warmed him. For the past three years, he had allowed grief and old pain to build a wall between them. Now such feelings seemed as thin as the cold air here.

They continued on, working their way upward, aiming for the top level.

After another two ladders and more chute crawling, muffled voices and shouting reached them. They followed toward the source, cautious, silent, communicating with hand signals. Flashlights were turned off.

Ahead, faint light seeped down the tunnel. They headed toward the source: a grate along one wall of the tunnel. With extreme care, they moved forward.

In the lead, Bratt reached the vent first and peered out. After a long moment, he moved past the grate, turned, and pointed to Matt, waving him forward.

Holding his breath, Matt crawled to the grate and bent his head to spy out. The vent opened into a kitchen, the galley for the station. Stoves and ovens lined one wall, while tables and shelves filled most of the free space. A double set of doors opened out to the main room.

A Russian soldier held one of the doors open, flashlight in hand. His back was to them. He was talking to another soldier.

Beyond them, in the darkened main room, flashlights bobbled. Men ran up and down the central staircase, shouting and barking to one another. A soldier covered in blood pounded up the steps. He had a medic’s cross on the upper shoulder of his parka. He yelled and more men followed him down.

Finally, the pair of soldiers moved away, allowing the swinging door to close behind them. A square window in the double doors still shone with the lights bobbling in the adjacent room.

Matt stared over to Bratt.

The commander sidled closer, speaking in his ear. “Can you play Russian again?”

“What do you mean?” But even as Matt asked, he already knew the answer. He still wore the stolen white parka.

“We have a short window of opportunity. It’s still dark. Everyone’s shaken. If you keep your hood up, you should be able to walk among them without them knowing.”