James Rollins - Ice Hunt

Matt fell back, his left ear aflame. He watched, confused, as the right side of the guard’s head exploded out in a shower of bone and brain. It was all done in dead silence. Matt struck the ground, landing on his shoulder. Blood trailed down his neck. The shot had nicked his ear. He saw Bratt, Greer, and Washburn running at him. Bratt’s rifle still smoked.

In the hallway, the second guard tried to react, swinging his weapon, but Greer and Washburn both fired. A bullet struck the Russian’s shoulder, spinning him like a top. Another blasted through the man’s neck, spraying blood over the wall.

Sound began to return to Matt. Mostly the louder noises. Yells, more shots. The double doors to the galley suddenly exploded outward, tearing from hinges and blowing across the room; fire and smoke followed. Another booby trap.

Amid the chaos, Matt struggled to stand as the group reached him. Bratt grabbed him by the hood and hauled him up, yelling in his good ear. “Next time I duct-tape that damn grenade to you!”

As a group, they sprinted toward the Sno-Cat.

“More soldiers…!” Matt gasped, waving ahead, trying to warn.

Shots fired at them — from beyond the Sno-Cat. They dove down, using the wreckage as a shield. Rifle shots rattled the trashed vehicle.

Matt crouched, his back to the Sno-Cat. He stared back into the main room, cloudy with smoke. They were still exposed. They had to move.

Smoke swirled, and movement near the room’s center caught Matt’s eye. A man seemed to be floating up the shaft from below, lit by a couple flashlights. He was tall, white-haired, wearing an open greatcoat. In his arms, he carried a boy wrapped in a blanket. The boy was crying, covering his ears.

It made no sense.

“Get down!” Bratt yelled to Matt, pushing his head lower.

Greer tossed a grenade over the top of the vehicle toward the hidden snipers. Washburn rolled another back toward the main room.

“No!” Matt cried.

The twin explosions snuffed out Matt’s hearing again. The Sno-Cat jolted a foot toward them from the blast. Chunks of ice rained down; steamy smoke filled the hall.

Bratt motioned, pointing an arm. They had no choice but to make a run for it. They leaped as a group, having to trust that the grenade took out all the hostiles ahead of them.

The commander took the lead, followed by Washburn and Matt. Greer ran behind them, firing blindly back toward the main room. The shots sounded far away, more like a toy cap gun.

Then Greer shouldered into Matt, trying to get him to hurry, but succeeded in almost knocking him down. He glanced back angrily as he caught his balance.

Greer was down on one knee. He hadn’t pushed Matt. He had fallen.

Matt stopped, skidding around on the ice-strewn floor, meaning to go to his aid. The man’s face was a mask of fury and pain. He waved Matt onward, shouting soundlessly.

Matt saw why. Blood pooled under Greer, pouring from his leg. The blood pumped in a bright red flow. Arterial . Greer slumped to the floor, rifle across his knees.

Washburn grabbed Matt’s arm, taking in the scene immediately. She yanked him, making him follow her.

Greer met Matt’s gaze, then did the oddest thing. The man simply shrugged, disappointed, like he’d simply lost a bet. He lifted his rifle, pointed it toward the station, and began to fire again.

Pop…pop…pop…

Matt allowed himself to be dragged away. They fled past the Sno-Cat and headed toward the blasted doorway. Bodies lay in crumpled piles; there was no resistance.

Matt spotted a familiar object resting in a severed hand. He snatched it up in midrun and shoved it into his pocket. It could come in handy.

The trio fled to the surface, out into the storm.

Once Matt was free of the station, the wind seemed to dispel his deafness. He heard the blizzard’s howl.

“This way!” Bratt yelled, aiming them toward the parked snow vehicles. They planned to steal a Ski-Doo and head out to the SLOT transmitter, hidden among the peaks.

But first they had to get there.

It was a hundred-yard dash.

Clearing the entrance, they sprinted across the open, heading toward the vehicles half buried in the blowing snow.

It was too much to hope they were unguarded.

Guns fired at them. Ice spat up from the impacts, stinging them.

Bratt and Washburn dropped to their bellies, sheltering behind a shallow ridge of ice. Matt did the same. The snipers were hidden in a valley between two ice peaks. Well protected. Matt spotted orange tents sheltered up there.

“That’s where the corpses from the station are kept,” Washburn hissed. “I know a back way in, and I have one more grenade. Cover me.” She began to crawl away, retreating toward the station’s entrance.

Bratt aimed his gun and fired toward the tents. Matt rolled and hauled his AK-47 around. He aimed, searching for snowy shadows. He fired whenever he saw movement.

Off to the side, Washburn reached a narrow crevasse between two peaks, ready to circle behind the snipers.

Then, as was usual for this day, everything went dreadfully wrong.

By the shaft opening, Jenny readied herself along with the others. She held Bane’s scruff. The storm winds still blew fiercely, but the snowfall had waned to flurries and gusts.

“On my mark!” Kowalski yelled a few steps away. He and Tom stood in front, bearing flaming Molotovs over their heads.

Five grendels massed ahead of them. The beasts’ approach had stopped as explosion after muffled explosion erupted, sounding as if they were coming from just beyond the next peak. The creatures, tuned to vibrations, were disturbed by the concussions.

“It’s the station,” Tom had said. “Someone’s attacking.”

Kowalski had agreed, “Sounds like grenades.”

The momentary confusion of the beasts had bought them time to light a pair of Molotovs and devise a quick plan.

It wasn’t artful. Simply down and dirty.

Kowalski took the lead, stepping toward the nearest grendel and waving his flaming torch at it.

Lips pulled back in response, baring teeth like a dog. The other grendels retreated a step, edgy now, wary. The lead bull kept his spot, not intimidated by the show.

“This one’s well fed,” Ogden whispered at Jenny’s side, crowding her. “It’s surely one of the pod’s sentinels. Its territoriality will be the most fierce.”

That was their hope. Take out the leader and maybe the pack will scatter.

Kowalski took another step. Tom dogged behind him.

In a blur, the grendel suddenly leaped at them, roaring.

“Fuck!” Kowalski screamed, and tossed the Molotov toward the monster’s open jaws. He flew backward, bouncing into Tom. They both fell.

The seaman’s aim, though, proved true. The flaming bottle sailed end over end into the creature’s maw. The result was spectacular.

An explosion of burning oil burst from the creature’s jaws, like some fire-breathing dragon. It howled, spitting and hacking out flaming oil. It spun in agony and blind fury. The others fled from the display, bounding away in all directions.

The smell of burning flesh filled the small ice vale.

“Now!” Kowalski screamed, springing to his feet with Tom.

The young ensign had managed to keep his Molotov out of the snow. He whipped it now with the strength of a major-league ballplayer. It arced past the flailing monster and burst farther down the path, flaming more of the trail ahead, warding away any other grendels.

“Let’s go!” Kowalski yelled, taking the lead.

The wounded beast collapsed to the ice, its lungs burned away. Flames still danced from its lips and the two nostrils high on its head. It didn’t move.

Kowalski gave it a wide berth just in case. Tom waved for the others to follow. Jenny ran alongside Craig and Dr. Reynolds. Free now, Bane raced ahead, joining Kowalski at the front. Behind them, the biology group kept pace with Tom.