Clive Cussler: Fast Ice

She brought the radio to her mouth and pressed transmit. “White ice directly astern, Captain. At least three separate chunks. I wouldn’t take them straight on. The last thing we need is a damaged prop or rudder.”

The propellers continued churning, the ship vibrating as it picked up momentum.

Cora pressed the talk button again. “Captain, did you hear me?”

The ship’s horn blared, sounding three times, to announce a collision warning. The captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Brace for impact. All hands, brace for impact.”

With the hood surrounding her face, Cora had zero peripheral vision. She spun around, shocked to discover a shadow looming over the ship as a wall of ice approached from just off the starboard bow. It was closing rapidly despite the Grishka ’s momentum. It hit the ship with a glancing, angled impact.

The Grishka rolled with the blow, heeling over fifteen degrees. The iceberg slid along the side of the hull, dumping thousands of pounds of dirty snow onto the deck.

Cora was knocked off her feet, hitting the deck beside the nearest winch housing. She dropped the radio and grasped her ribs, which had taken the brunt of the blow.

The grinding sound of ice on steel peaked and then subsided as the Grishka and the iceberg became locked together and moved as one until their momentum faded. The engines cut out. The ship rolled back to level and more snow and ice tumbled onto the deck.

The moment struck Cora as surreal. Instead of the ship hitting the iceberg, the iceberg had struck the ship. Then an even stranger sight followed.

All at once, a half-dozen ropes were thrown over the tip of the iceberg. They unfurled in midair, dropping and hitting the deck of the Grishka with dull thuds.

Before the ropes even landed, men in winter camouflage began rappelling down them. Cora saw assault rifles strapped to their backs, knives in sheaths strapped to their legs. They wore white hoods and goggles. They hit the deck in rapid succession, fanning out, while reinforcements dropped in behind them.

Cora knew instantly what was happening. She snatched the radio from the deck and tried to warn the captain, but gunfire broke out before she could make the call.

Ducking behind the winch housing in horror, she called out. “Captain, we’re being boarded,” she warned. “Men with guns are on the aft deck. They came from the—”

More gunfire drowned out her words. The captain’s voice came next. “They’re on the bow as well,” he replied over the radio . “Take cover, I’m calling for—”

The staccato sound of machine gun fire came through the radio and the transmission cut out.

Cora stifled a scream and looked around. Shouting and screams erupted. The muted thumping of small-arms fire rose from inside the ship and the decks beneath.

She considered any possible avenue of resistance. With no weapons of any consequence to fight back with, the best she could hope for was grabbing a fire ax and charging into the fray.

Before she could move, a member of the Grishka ’s science team stumbled out of the aft hatchway. He ran toward the helicopter but never reached it. A sniper perched on the edge of the iceberg shot him down with merciless accuracy.

Another colleague came running out seconds later, fleeing whatever carnage was going on inside the ship. He ran for the stern, heading directly for the spot where Cora was hiding.

“Get down,” Cora shouted.

The crack of a rifle sounded and the man’s body jerked forward and tumbled to the deck ten feet from where Cora hid. He lay prone but looked up directly at her. He saw her preparing to help and shook his head.

It was too late to hold back. Cora was acting on instinct now. She lunged forward, grabbed him by the arm and pulled with all her strength.

She dragged him halfway before the sniper fired again.

The bullet crossed the deck at three thousand feet per second. It flew on a nearly straight line, slightly affected by the wind and diverted microscopically by the rolling motion of the ship, which was still caught in the embrace of the iceberg.

The combination was enough to push the bullet a half inch off target.

It hit the back of Cora’s hood, blasting goose feathers, fabric, fur and blood into the air. Cora fell like a sack of flour, landing facedown on the body of her dying friend.

She lay there not moving, her head covered with the remnants of the hood, its tattered white fabric soaked with a growing stain of crimson blood.

—

Up on the precipice of the iceberg, the sniper studied the results of his efforts.

A spotter beside him did the same. “Headshot,” he said. “That’s two kills.”

The sniper nodded and scratched a pair of marks into the stock of the rifle. They joined a dozen other scratches, some old, some new.

With the deck cleared and his kills marked, the sniper picked up a radio and sent a message to the commandos. “Aft deck clear,” he told them. “What’s the status inside?”

“Bridge cleared,” a voice replied. “No resistance from crew. Looks like most of them were already put down. We’re down in the vault now. Be advised there’s a significant amount of material here. This is going to take a while.”

The sniper nodded. He’d been told to expect as much. “Begin bringing it up. And be quick about it. We need to set the charges and send this ship to the bottom before anyone knows we’re here.”

2

Blinding pain filled Cora’s body to every extremity. No, not pain, she realized, but the utter lack of sensation.

She opened her eyes and saw nothing but a dark, blurred image of the deck beneath her. She tried to move. It took great effort and felt tremendously clumsy, but eventually she twisted her body into a more natural position and managed to sit up.

For a moment, that seemed like a drastic mistake. Her head throbbed like a drum, her eyes went blind and she felt as if she were about to throw up.

Shutting her eyes and allowing the cold air to caress her face helped. She sat completely still as one by one her senses came back online.

First, she heard the wind whistling through the ice-covered wires and then she felt the reverberation of the ship’s engines. She sensed the Grishka rolling gently as it moved through the swells. It dawned on her. We’re under way.

She pulled the hood of the parka back and risked opening one eye. She saw pale skies and dark water. The day was waning. The iceberg was gone. The ship was alone.

She went to push herself up and noticed her hands were covered with blood. She saw the body she had been lying next to and partially on top of. Only now did the memory of what happened come back. The iceberg, the men with guns, the shooting.

She tried to stand, but that was too much. On her hands and knees, she crawled across the deck, reaching the aft hatchway. She pulled it open and squirmed inside.

Out of the wind and the subzero temperatures, her skin began to thaw. It felt strangely painful. Her face tingled, but her hands and feet remained numb.

Stretching her fingers, she noticed white, scaly patches and discolored lesions. The early signs of frostbite. Grimly estimating the damage, she figured she’d lose at least three digits on each hand. Better than her life, she thought.

With her strength slowly returning, Cora pulled herself up with the help of a handhold. Up on her feet, she went forward, heading for the bridge. Reminders of the tragedy appeared in the hall—splatters of blood on the wall, dead crewmen left where they’d fallen, shell casings rolling around underfoot.

She reached the bridge and pushed the door open. The captain and the ship’s bosun lay still on the floor. Both of their bodies had been riddled with bullets.