Clive Cussler - Fast Ice

“This is incredible,” Paul said.

“Each of these tubes contains a meter of ice,” Räikkönen said. “The warehouse itself is larger than a city block.”

As he spoke, Räikkönen led them to the right and deeper into the warehouse. They passed a dozen seemingly identical aisles before he found what he was looking for.

“21-B,” he said, entering the aisle and taking them down it. Halfway down, they cut over to another aisle and, farther on, they made another turn.

“I feel like a rat in a maze,” Paul said. “I’m not sure I could find my way out.”

“If we are the mice,” Räikkönen said, “we are about to reach the cheese.”

Checking the small numbers on the racks as he passed them, Räikkönen finally stopped. “Here it is. These are the core samples from the 1996 expedition. The ones Cora studied are up top.”

Gamay craned her neck to look upward. The highest level was at least thirty feet above her head. “Even you won’t be able to reach that,” she said to Paul.

“Very funny,” Paul said. “I assume you have a ladder.”

“Even better,” Räikkönen said.

He stepped to a keypad that had been installed on the rack in front of them and pressed a green button. The pad lit up, allowing him to enter the number of the tube that was needed. A whirring, mechanical sound reached them from a far part of the warehouse.

Gamay and Paul turned in unison to see a vehicle coming around the corner. It was the size of golf cart but only half as wide. It had no driver and was electrically powered. It pulled up to the rack in front of them and stopped.

Räikkönen reached out, unlocked a small gate and stepped onto the platform. “Cherry picker,” he said. “Would you care to join me?”

Paul shook his head. “I’ll pass. As odd as this might sound, I’m afraid of heights.”

“I’ll be brave,” Gamay said.

She stepped onto the platform. Räikkönen touched another button. As the entry gate shut behind her, the electric motors began whirring once again. Instead of moving forward or backward, the platform began to rise upward.

Gamay looked over the edge, seeing that a pair of scissors-like supports were unfolding. She held on to the waist-high railing as the platform climbed past the first level and then the second. While it was a smooth ride, the platform was so small it felt precarious to be perched on it.

Reaching the third level, the platform stopped. Gamay looked around. She could see over the top of the racks to the aisles beyond. Row after row spread out before her. They reminded her of bookshelves in a library.

“This makes no sense,” Räikkönen said.

She turned to find him examining the writing on the end of a tube he had pulled out. He slid the tube back in and checked another tube and then a third. He grew more frustrated with each discovery.

Gamay’s grin melted away. She didn’t need to ask what he’d discovered. She’d half expected it since the moment they’d found the computer files had been corrupted. “The cores are missing, aren’t they?”

“I’m . . . I’m not sure . . .” he said. “But these are the wrong numbers. It’s as if someone had filed them in the wrong place.”

Gamay glanced at the end of the tube. A sticker placed on the curved surface displayed a bar code and a long string of numbers and letters. Gamay could see that the tubes in the nearest bin all ended in 08 or 09 . She figured that was the year.

She allowed her eyes to wander, spotting a tube in the adjacent section that ended in DG-96 . “What about that one?”

Räikkönen squinted and then nudged the control, sliding the cherry picker sideways.

The sudden movement startled Gamay and she grabbed the rail with both hands. “Warn me next time you do that.”

“Sorry,” Räikkönen said, reaching for the tube. “Get so used to being on these things that I don’t even think about the possibility of falling.”

“I’ll do enough of that for both of us,” Gamay said. “Is that the right sample?”

Räikkönen nodded. “This is one of the ’96 cores, but it’s been placed back in the wrong spot. But where are the others? There should be three compartments filled with them.”

Räikkönen tapped the intercom button. “Helen, this is Matthias. I’m going to need your help. Someone has been misfiling the cores.”

He waited a moment but got no response. Pressing the intercom button again, he called her name several times. “Helen? Helen? Are you listening? Helen?”

There was no response on the intercom. Then a hissing sound wafted through the warehouse.

“What was that?” Gamay asked.

“Air lock doors opening,” Räikkönen said.

The sound of the air lock sealing itself shut came next, followed by muffled voices and heavy footsteps.

Räikkönen was about to press the intercom button again when Gamay stopped him. A sixth sense told her there was too much urgency to the footfalls she was hearing. And too many of them altogether.

“She’s not going to answer,” Gamay said. “And we have a bigger problem to worry about.”

16

Down on the floor of the warehouse, Paul heard the air lock open and close. The sound of men running along the concrete floor followed. He moved to the end of the aisle and glanced around the corner.

A group of men had come in. They wore jackets and gloves, but not the type designed for the frigid air of the warehouse. They were also armed and fanning out in the classic spread-out-and-search grid .

Paul raced back to where Gamay and Räikkönen had begun descending. Waving his hands back and forth, he got their attention, warning them not to come down.

Paul was still signaling when one of the armed men came around the corner.

The man raised his weapon and shouted to his friends. Paul took off running and dove to the ground as muted shots rang out. The gunman had a suppressor on his short-barreled rifle to muffle the sound when fired.

Paul landed on the ground and rolled to the side as bullets skipped off the floor around him. He was too far from the end of the aisle to escape and too big of a target to expect he’d be able to run between the lead raindrops for long. He raised his hands and stood up slowly.

The gunman rushed forward, his eyes on the target, his weapon aimed at Paul’s chest. He made it halfway down the aisle before getting hit from above by an avalanche of the silver ice-filled tubes.

They hit him in several places at once—his shoulder, his knee, his foot. One of the core samples hit the barrel of the rifle, jarring it from his hands and onto the concrete floor.

The bombardment was effective. Each tube weighed thirty pounds and their combined weight was a heavy beating. As he tried to get up, another cylinder of ice hit him, this one finding the back of his head, flattening him for good. The man slumped, face-first, out cold.

Paul knew this was his chance. He charged forward and pulled the man’s rifle out from under him.

“Look out,” Gamay shouted.

The gunman’s associates had arrived at the end of the aisle. Paul snapped off a shot in their direction but was quickly driven back as the men took cover around the endcaps of the aisle and returned fire.

Additional missiles of ice were lobbed from up above. They fell short, serving only to draw the attention of the men to where Gamay and Räikkönen perched on the cherry picker. The attackers quickly refocused and opened fire.

Paul watched as bullets tore into the frozen core samples stored around Gamay. Chips of ice and fragments of the silver tubing were blasted in all directions, catching the light and creating a snow globe effect.

Knowing Gamay and Räikkönen had nowhere to hide, Paul dropped to one knee and began firing down the aisle. The targets ducked out of sight as his own shots went wide or into the ice.