Ice Hunt

5. Slippery Slope

Matt slumped in his seat. Snoring echoed throughout the cabin of the Twin Otter. It came not from the sleeping reporter nor from Jenny’s dozing father, but from the wolf sprawled on his back across the third row of seats. A particularly loud snort raised a ghost of a smile on Matt’s face.

Jenny spoke from beside him. “I thought you were going to get his deviated septum fixed.”

The ghost became a true smile. Bane had snored since he was a pup curled on the foot of their bed. It had been a source of amusement to both of them. Matt sat straighter. “The plastic surgeon out of Nome said it would require too extensive a nasal job. Too much trimming. He would end up looking like a bulldog.”

Jenny didn’t respond, so Matt risked a glance her way. She stared straight out, but he noted the small crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Sad amusement.

Crossing his arms, Matt wondered if that was the best he could manage with her. For the moment, it was enough.

He gazed out the window. The moon was near to full, casting a silvery brilliance across the snowy plains. This far north, winter still gripped the land, but some signs of the spring thaw were visible: a trickle of misty stream, a sprinkling of meltwater lakes. A few caribou herds speckled the tundra, moving slowly through the night, following the snowmelt waterways, feeding on reindeer moss, sprigs of lingonberry, and munching through muskeg, the ubiquitous tussocks of balled-up grass, each the size of a ripe pumpkin, rooted in the thawing muck.

“We were lucky to have radioed Deadhorse when we did,” Jenny mumbled beside him, drawing his eye.

“What do you mean?”

After clearing Arrigetch, they had managed to raise the airstrip at Prudhoe Bay on Alaska’s North Slope. They had alerted civil and military authorities to their chase through the Brooks Range. Helicopters would be dispatched in the morning to search for the debris of the Cessna. They should have answers on their pursuers shortly after that. Matt had also been able to reach Carol Jeffries, the bear researcher over in Bettles. She knew Jenny’s cabin and would send some folks to take care of the animals left behind. Craig had also relayed word to his own contact at Prudhoe. Once questioned and debriefed, the reporter would have one hell of a tale to tell. After making contact, and with the story of their ordeal now passed to the outside world, they had all relaxed.

But now what was wrong? Matt pulled himself up in his seat.

Jenny pointed out the Otter’s windshield — not to the tundra below, but to the clear skies.

Matt leaned forward. At first, he saw nothing unusual. The constellation Orion hung brightly. Polaris, the North Star, lay directly ahead. Then he spotted the shimmering bands and streamers rising from the horizon, flickers of greens, reds, and blues. The borealis was rising.

“According to the forecast,” Jenny said, “we’re due for a brilliant display.”

Matt leaned back, watching the spectacle spread in colored fans and dancing flames across the night sky. Such a natural show went by many names: the aurora borealis, the northern lights. Among the native Athapascan Indians, it was called koyukon or yoyakkyh, while the Inuit simply named them spirit lights.

As he watched, the wave of colors flowed over the arch of the sky, shimmering in a luminous corona and rolling in clouds of azures and deep crimsons.

“We won’t be able to reach anyone for a while,” Jenny said.

Matt nodded. Such a dazzling display, created as solar winds struck the upper atmosphere of the earth, would frazzle most communications. But they didn’t have very far to go. Another half hour at most. Already the northern horizon had begun to brighten with the lights of the oil fields and distant Prudhoe Bay.

They flew in silence for several minutes more, simply enjoying the light show in the sky, accompanied by Bane’s snoring in the back. For these few moments, it felt like home. Maybe it was simply the aftereffects of their harrowing day, an endorphin-induced sense of ease and comfort. But Matt feared wounding it with speech.

It was Jenny who finally broke the silence. “Matt…” The timbre of her voice was soft.

“Don’t,” he said. It had taken them three years and today’s life-and-death struggle to bring them into one space together. He did not want to threaten this small start.

Jenny sighed. He did not fail to note her tone of exasperation.

Her fingers tightened on the wheel, moving with a squeak of leather on vinyl. “Never mind,” she whispered.

The moment’s peace was gone — and it had not even taken words. Tension filled the cabin, raising a wall between them. The remainder of the journey was made in total silence, strained now, bitter.

The first few oil derricks came into view, decorated in lights like a Christmas tree. Off to the left, a jagged silver line marred the perfect tundra, rising and falling over the landscape like a giant metal snake. The Trans-Alaska Pipeline. It ran from Prudhoe Bay on Alaska’s north coast to Valdez on Prince William Sound, a river of black gold.

They were closing in on their destination. The pipeline led the way. Jenny followed it now, paralleling its run. She tried the radio, attempting to reach the airport tower at Deadhorse. Her frown was answer enough. The skies still danced and flashed.

She banked in a slow arc. Ahead, the township of Prudhoe Bay — if you could call it a town — glowed in the night like some oilman’s Oz. It was mostly a company town, built for the sole purpose of oil production, transportation, and supporting services. Its average population was under a hundred, but the number of transient oil workers caused this number to vary, depending on the workload. There was also a small military presence here, protecting the heart of the entire North Slope oil production.

Beyond the town’s border stretched the Beaufort Sea and the Arctic Ocean, but it was hard to tell where land ended and ocean began. Spreading from the shore were vast rafts of fast ice extending for miles into the ocean, fusing eventually with the pack ice of the polar cap. As summer warmed the region, the cap would shrink by half, retreating from shorelines, but for now, the world was solid ice.

Jenny headed out toward the sea, circling Prudhoe Bay and positioning herself for landing at the single airstrip. “Something’s going on down there,” she said, tipping up on one wing.

Matt spotted it, too: a flurry of activity at the edge of town. A score of vehicles were racing across the snowy fields from the military installation, hurrying out of town in their general direction. He glanced to the other side of their plane.

Below lay the end of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. The giant buildings of Gathering Station 1 and Pump Station 1 were lit up behind Cyclone fencing. Here the North Slope oil was cooled, water removed, gas bled off, and the oil began its six-day, eight-hundred-mile journey to the tankers on Prince William Sound.

As they crossed near Pump Station 1, Matt noted a section of the Cyclone fencing had been knocked down. He glanced back to the racing military vehicles. Foreboding lanced through him.

“Get us out of here!” Matt snapped.

“What—?”

The explosion ripped away any further words. The building that housed Gathering Station 1 burst apart in a fiery blast. A ball of flame rolled skyward. The sudden hot thermals and blast wave threw their plane up on end. Jenny fought the controls, struggling to keep them from flipping completely over.

Yells arose from the backseats, accompanied by Bane’s barking.

Swearing under her breath, Jenny rolled the Otter away from the conflagration. Flaming debris rained down around them, crashing into the snowy fields, into buildings. New fires erupted. Pump Station 1 blew its roof off next, adding a second ball of rolling flame. The four-foot-diameter pipe that led into the building tore itself apart, blasting up along its length. Burning oil jetted in all directions. It didn’t stop until it reached the first of the sixty-two gate valves, halting the destruction from escalating up the pipeline.

In a matter of seconds, the wintry calm of the slumbering township became a fiery hell. Rivers of flame flowed toward the sea, steaming and writhing. Buildings burned. Smaller, secondary explosions burst from gas mains and holding tanks. People and vehicles raced in all directions.

“Jesus Christ!” Craig exclaimed behind them, his face pressed to the glass.

A new voice crackled from the radio, full of static, coming from the general channel. “Clear all airspace immediately! Any attempt to land will be met with deadly force.”

“They’re locking the place down!” Jenny exclaimed, and banked away from the fires. She headed out over the frozen sea.

Her father stared back to the coast. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Matt mumbled, watching the coastline burn. “Accident, sabotage…whatever it was it seemed timed to our arrival.”

“Surely it can’t have anything to do with us,” Craig said.

Matt pictured the downed section of Cyclone fencing, the racing vehicles from the military installation. Someone had broken in, setting off alarms. And after the last two days, he could not dismiss the possibility that it was somehow connected to them. Disaster seemed to be dogging them ever since the reporter’s plane crashed. Someone sure as hell did not want the political reporter for the Seattle Times to reach that SCICEX station out on the ice.

“Where can we go now?” Craig asked.

“I’m running low on fuel,” Jenny cautioned, tapping an instrument gauge as if this would miraculously move the pointer.

“Kaktovik,” John said gruffly.

Jenny nodded at her father’s suggestion.

“Kaktovik?” Craig asked.

Matt answered, “It’s a fishing village on Barter Island, near the Canadian border. About a hundred and twenty miles from here.” He turned to Jenny as she banked the Otter westward. “Do you have enough fuel?”

She lifted one eyebrow. “You may have to get out and push us the last few miles.”

Great, he thought.

Craig’s face had grown more pale and drawn. He had already experienced one plane crash. The reporter was surely getting sick of Alaskan air travel.

“Don’t worry,” Matt assured him. “If we run out of fuel, the Otter can land on its ski skids on any flat snow.”

“Then what?” Craig asked sourly, crossing his arms.

“Then we do what the lady here says…we push!”

“Quit it, Matt,” Jenny warned. She glanced back to the reporter. “We’ll get to Kaktovik. And if not, I’ve an emergency reserve tank stored below. We can manually refill the main tank if needed.”

Craig nodded, relaxing slightly.

Matt stared out at the burning coastline as it retreated behind them. He noted Jenny’s father doing the same. They briefly made eye contact. He read the suspicion in the other’s eyes. The sudden explosions were too coincidental to be mere chance.

“What do you think?” John muttered.

“Sabotage.”

“But why? To what end? Just because of us?”

Matt shook his head. Even if someone wanted to stop or divert them, this response was like killing a fly with a crate of TNT.

Craig overheard them. His voice trembled. “It’s a calculated act of distraction and misdirection.”

“What do you mean?” Matt studied the reporter’s face. It remained tight, unreadable. He began to worry about their passenger. He had witnessed post-traumatic stress disorder before.

But Craig swallowed hard, then spoke slowly. Clearly he sought to center himself by working through this problem. “We passed on word about our attackers to Prudhoe Bay. Someone was going to investigate tomorrow. I wager now that will be delayed. The limited investigative resources up here — military and civilian — will have their hands full for weeks. More than enough time for our attackers to cover their tracks.”

“So it was all done so someone could clean up the mess in the mountains?”

Craig waved this away. “No. Such a large-scale affront would need more of a reason to justify it. Otherwise, it’s overkill.”

Matt heard his own thoughts from a moment ago echoed.

Craig ticked off items aloud. “The explosions will delay any investigation in the mountains. It will also divert us and offer up a new, more exciting story for us to follow. The burning of Prudhoe Bay will be headlines for days. What reporter would want to miss such a story? To be here firsthand. To have witnessed it.” The tired man shook his head. “First the bastards try to kill me, now they try to bribe me with a more tantalizing and promising story. They throw it right in my damn lap.”

“Distraction and misdirection,” Matt mumbled.

Craig nodded. “And not just directed at us. We’re small potatoes. I would bet my own left nut that this attack had been preplanned all along. That we’re only a secondary distraction. It’s the larger world the saboteurs really want to distract. After this attack, everyone will be looking at Prudhoe Bay, discussing it, investigating it. CNN will have reporters here by tomorrow.”

“But why?”

Craig met his gaze. Matt was surprised to see the tempered steel in Craig’s eyes. He recalled him pulling the flare gun on him. Even under stress, the reporter thought quickly. Despite his scared demeanor, there were hidden depths to this man. Matt’s respect for the reporter continued to grow.

“Why?” Craig parroted. “It’s like I said. Distraction and misdirection. Let the whole world look over here at the fireworks”—he waggled his fingers in the air—“while the real damage is done out of sight.” The reporter pointed to the north. “They don’t want us to look over there.”

“The drift station,” Matt said.

Craig’s voice dropped to a mumble. “Something’s going to happen out there. Something no one wants the world to know about. Something that justifies setting fire to Prudhoe Bay.”

Matt now knew why Craig had been sent north by his editor. The reporter had tried to blame the assignment on a tryst with the editor’s niece, a punishment for a transgression. But Matt didn’t buy it. The man knew his business. He had a calculating mind and a keen sense of political maneuvering.

“So what do we do now?” Matt asked.

Craig’s eyes flicked to him. “We fly to Kaktovik. What else can we do?”

Matt crinkled his brow.

“If you think I’m going out to that friggin’ drift station,” Craig said with a snort, “you’re nuts. I’m staying the hell away.”

“But if you’re right—?”

“I’ve pretty much grown a liking for my skin. The bastards’ fiery show may not have fooled me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take a hint.”

“Then we tell someone.”

“Be my guest. No one will hear you above the sound bites for days. By the time you can get someone to listen, to go check, it’ll all be over.”

“So we have no choice. Someone has to go out there.”

Craig shook his head. “Or someone could just hide in that little fishing village and wait for all this to blow over.”

Matt considered the persistence of their pursuers, the explosion of Prudhoe Bay. “Do you really think they’d leave us alone out there? If they’re buying time to clean up their mess, that might include getting rid of us. They know our plane.”

Craig’s determined expression sickened.

“And we’d be sitting ducks in Kaktovik.”

Craig closed his eyes. “I hate Alaska…I really do.”

Matt sank back into his own seat. He looked at Jenny. She had heard it all. “Well?” he asked.

Jenny glanced over her gauges. “I’ll still need to refuel if we’re going to travel so far.”

“Bennie’s place at Kaktovik.”

“We can be there in an hour. And away in another.”

He nodded and stared north. Craig’s words echoed in his head: Something’s going to happen out there. Something no one wants the world to know about.

But what the hell could it be?

“We’ve been ordered to readiness, but not to deploy.” Perry stood atop the periscope stand. His officers had gathered in the control room. Groans met his words. They were Navy men, career submariners. They had all heard of the attack on Prudhoe Bay four hundred miles away. They were anxious to act.

Word had reached them half an hour ago through the snail-paced ELF transmission, sound waves passing with mile-long amplitudes through the ocean waters, emitting one slow letter at a time. The real-time communication net of NAVSAT’s satellites or UHF were currently under electrical bombardment by a solar storm.

His men had hoped to deploy to the Alaskan coast, to join in the investigation and help in the cleanup. Baby-sitting a bunch of scientists at such a time was intolerable. With a crisis on hand, practically in their own backyard, all had hoped for a call to action.

The latest orders from COMSUBPAC had arrived five minutes ago. Perry shared his officers’ disappointment.

“Any word on the cause of the explosions?” Commander Bratt asked. His words were clipped with frustration.

Perry shook his head. “Too early. Right now they’re still trying to put out the fires.”

But among his own crew, varying theories were already being debated: ecoterrorists bent on saving the Alaskan wilderness from further exploration and drilling, Arabs with an interest in cutting off Alaska’s oil production, Texans for the same reason. And the Chinese and Russians got their fair share of the blame, too. More sober minds considered the possibility of a simple industrial accident — but that was not as entertaining.

“So we simply sit on our frozen asses out here,” Bratt said gruffly.

Perry stood straighter. He would not let morale sour any further.

“Commander, until we hear otherwise, we’ll perform our duties as ordered.” He hardened his voice. “We’ll keep this boat at full readiness. But we won’t neglect our current assignments. The Russian delegation is due to arrive in three days to retrieve the bodies of their countrymen. Would you rather we leave the scientists here alone to deal with the Russian admiral and his men?”

“No, sir.” Bratt stared down at his shoes. He was one of the few men aboard the Polar Sentinel who knew what lay hidden on Level Four of Ice Station Grendel.

Their conversation was interrupted as the radioman of the watch pushed into the conn. He held a clipboard in his hand. “Captain Perry, I have an urgent message from COMSUBPAC. Flash traffic. Marked for your eyes only.”

He waved the lieutenant forward and retrieved the clipboard and top-secret log. “Flash traffic? Are we hooked back into NAVSAT?”

The lieutenant nodded. “We were lucky to retrieve the broadcast intact. They must have been continuously broadcasting to slip through one of the breaks in the solar storm. The message is being repeated more slowly over VLF.”

Broadcasting on all channels. What could be so important?

The radioman stepped back. “I was able to send out confirmation that the message was received.”

“Very good, Lieutenant.” Perry turned his back on the curious faces of his officers and opened the clipboard. It was from Admiral Reynolds. As Perry read the message, an icy finger of dread traced his spine.

Perry shut the clipboard, closed his eyes, and ran the notes through his head.

The admiral had coded his own message into the encryption. LR was short for “Langley Reconnaissance,” which meant the Central Intelligence Agency was involved. So the Delta Teams were being deployed under CIA leadership? Not a good thing. Such an organizational platform led to one hand being unaware of what the other was doing. It also stank of black ops maneuvering. Information to follow meant that even Pacific Submarine Command was cut out of the loop. A bad sign.

And at the end: Keep your tap shoes polished, Greg. Again the informality in the use of his first name was as good as a long line of exclamation marks. During one of the Navy’s formal dinner parties, Admiral Reynolds had used that same phrase when the faction representing COMSUBLANT, the Atlantic Submarine Command staff, had arrived at the hall. The Pacific and Atlantic submarine teams were fiercely competitive with each other, leading to challenges, war games, and rivalries that stretched across careers. Keep your tap shoes polished was shorthand for “get ready because the shit’s about to hit the fan.”

Perry turned to his XO. “Commander, clear the boat of civilians. Get them back to Omega and rally the men still on shore leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Once the Sentinel is secured, ready her to dive on my command.”

The chief of the watch spoke up from his station. “So we’re heading to Prudhoe Bay?”

Perry searched the hopeful faces of his bridge crew. He knew there was no need to head to Prudhoe Bay to get into the action; his men would realize soon enough.

He rapped the metal clipboard on his thigh. “Just keep your tap shoes polished, men. We’ve got some fancy footwork ahead of us.”

Jenny stalked around the parked Twin Otter, inspecting it with a flashlight. A scatter of bullet holes peppered one wing, but there was no structural damage. Nothing else needed immediate attention, and she could patch the holes with duct tape. She sipped from a coffee cup as she completed her circuit of the aircraft.

They had landed at the darkened snow strip of the tiny Kaktovik airport half an hour ago. Matt and the others had gone inside the nearby hangar, where a makeshift diner had been built in one corner. She could see them through a grease-rimmed window, bent over mugs of coffee and talking to the young Inuit waitress.

Only Bane remained at her side as she tended the refueling and checked her plane. The large wolf had made his own circuit of their parking space, lifting a leg here and there to yellow the snow. He now followed at her heels, tongue lolling, tail wagging.

Ducking around the rear of the plane, she returned to Bennie Haydon’s side. The squat fellow leaned against the fuselage, a cigar clamped between his teeth, one hand resting on the fuel hose. Huskily built, he wore a Purolator cap tucked low over his sleepy eyes.

“Should you be smoking out here?” Jenny asked.

He shrugged and spoke around his stogie. “My wife won’t let me smoke inside.” Wearing half a grin, he nodded to the waitress.

Bennie had been with the sheriff’s department, servicing the patrol fleet, until he saved enough to move out here with his wife and start his own repair shop. He also ran a sight-seeing company out of the same hangar and flew folks in ultralights over the nearby Alaskan National Wildlife Reserve. The small nimble aircraft — really no more than a hang glider with lawn-mower engine and propeller — were perfect for traversing the raw country by air, buzzing the caribou herds or flying low over the tundra. At first it had been only the occasional tourist, but after the growing interest in ANWR for oil exploration, he now transported geologists, reporters, government officials, even senators. His single ultralight had quickly grown into a fleet of a dozen.

Bennie glanced to a gauge on the fuel hose. “Topped off,” he said, and began to crank the hose and detach it. “Both tanks.”

“Thanks, Bennie.”

“No problems, Jen.” He tugged the hose free and began to drag it away. “So you going to tell me about them bullet holes.”

Jenny followed the mechanic back toward the hangar. “It’s a long story without any real answers yet.”

Bennie made a thoughtful noise at the back of this throat. “Sort of like you and Matt.” He nodded toward the window. In the midnight gloom, the bright interior shone like a beacon.

Jenny sighed and patted Bane as the wolf followed beside her.

Bennie glanced over to her, spooling the hose line. “You know he quit drinking.”

“Bennie, I don’t want to talk about it.”

He shrugged again and puffed out a large cloud of cigar smoke. “I’m just saying.”

“I know.”

The small door to the hangar banged open. Belinda, Bennie’s wife, stood in the doorway. “You two coming in out of the cold? I have eggs and caribou strip steaks frying.”

“In a second, hon.”

Bane didn’t have such patience. With his nose in the air at the scent of frying meat, the dog sauntered toward the door, tail wagging furiously.

Belinda let him pass with a pat on the head, then pointed at the glowing tip of Bennie’s cigar. “The dog’s welcome, that isn’t.”

“Yes, dear.” He gave Jenny a look that said, See what I have to put up with. But Jenny also saw the love shining between both of them.

Belinda closed the door with a sorry shake of her head. She was a decade younger than her husband, but her sharp intelligence and world-weary maturity spanned the gap. She was native to Kaktovik, her family going back generations, but she and her parents had moved to Fairbanks when she was a teenager. It had been at the beginning of the black gold rush — a flood of oil, money, jobs, and corruption. Indians and native Inuit, all anxious for their share of the wealth, flocked to the cities, abandoning their homelands and customs. But what they found in Fairbanks was a polluted, blue-collar town of construction workers, dog mushers, Teamsters, and pimps. Unskilled natives were ground under the heels of progress. To support her family, Belinda became a prostitute at the age of sixteen. It was after her arrest that she and Bennie had met. He took her under his wing — literally. He showed her the skies above Fairbanks and another life. They eventually married and moved here with her parents.

Bennie straightened, drew one last drag on his cigar, then dropped and stubbed it into the snow. “Jen, I know what you think of Matt.”

“Bennie…” Warning entered her tone.

“Hear me out. I know how much you lost…both of you.” He took off his oil-stained cap and swiped his thinning hair. “But you gotta remember. You’re both young. Another child could—”

“Don’t.” The single word was a bark, a knee-jerk reaction. As soon as she said it, she remembered Matt cutting her off just as abruptly. But she could not hold back her anger. How dare Bennie presume to know how it felt to lose a child? To think another child could replace a lost one!

Bennie stared at her, one eye squinted, judging her. When he spoke next, it was in a calm, measured voice. “Jen, we lost a child, too…a baby girl.”

The simple statement stunned her. Her anger blew out like a snuffed candle. “My God, Bennie, when?”

“A year ago…miscarriage.” He stared out into the dark snowy plains. In the distance the few lights of the seaside village flickered. A heavy sigh escaped him. “It nearly crushed Belinda.”

Jenny saw it had done the same to the man in front of her.

He cleared his throat. “Afterward we found out she would never be able to bear a child. Something to do with scarring. Docs said it was secondary to—” His voice cracked. He shook his head. “Let’s just say, it was secondary to complications from her old job.”

“Bennie, I’m so sorry.”

He waved away her sympathy. “We move on. That’s life.”

Through the window, Jenny watched Belinda laughing as she refilled Matt’s coffee. Not a sound was heard but the whistle of wind across the tundra.

“But you and Matt,” Bennie resumed, “you’re both young.”

She heard his unspoken words: You two could still have another child.

“You were good together,” he continued, kicking snow off his boots. “It’s high time one of you remembered that.”

She stared through the window. Her words were a whisper, more to her own heart than to her companion. “I do remember.”

She had met Matt during an investigation of poaching in the Brooks Range. A conflict had arisen between native rights and the federal government over hunting for food in parklands. He had been there representing the state, but after learning of the subsistence level of existence of the local tribes, he became one of their most vocal advocates. Jenny had been impressed by his ability to look beyond the law and see the people involved, a rarity among government types.

While working together to settle the matter and make new law, the two had grown closer. At first, they simply sought work-related reasons to get together. Then, after running out of fabricated excuses, they simply started dating. And within a year, they were married. It took a while for her family to accept a white man into their fold, but Matt’s charm, easygoing nature, and dogged patience won them over. Even her father.

Benny cleared his throat. “Then it’s not too late, Jen.”

She watched a moment longer, then turned from the window. “Sometimes it is. Some things can’t be forgiven.”

Bennie met her gaze, standing in front of her. “It was an accident, Jen. Somewhere in there you know that.”

Her anger, never far from the surface, flared again. She clenched her fingers. “He was drinking.”

“But he wasn’t drunk, was he?”

“What the hell does that matter! Even a single drop of alcohol…” She began to shake. “He was supposed to be watching Tyler. Not drinking! If he hadn’t been—”

Bennie cut her off. “Jen, I know what you think of alcohol. Hell, I worked with you long enough in Fairbanks. I know what it’s done to your people…to your father.”

His words were like a punch to the belly. “You’re crossing the line, Bennie.”

“Someone has to. I was there when your father was hauled in, goddamn it! I know! Your mother died in a car accident because your father was drunk.”

She turned away, but she couldn’t escape his words. She had been only sixteen at the time. Epidemic alcoholism was the coined term. It was devastating the Inuit, a curse winding its way down the generations, killing and maiming along the way — through violence, suicides, drownings, spousal abuse, birth defects, and fetal alcohol syndrome. As a native sheriff, she had seen entire villages emptied from no other cause than alcohol. And her own family had not escaped.

First her mother, then her son.

“Your father spent a year in jail,” Bennie continued. “He went to AA. He’s been on the wagon and found peace by returning to the old ways.”

“It doesn’t matter. I…I can’t forgive him.”

“Who?” His voice sharpened. “Matt or your father?”

Jenny swung around, fists clenched, ready to swing at him.

Bennie kept his position before the door. “Whether Matt had been stone-cold sober or not, Tyler would still be dead.”

The bluntness of his words tore at the thick scarring that had formed in her own body. It wasn’t just around her heart, but strung in tight cords through her belly, in her neck, down her legs. The scarring was all that allowed her to survive. It was what the body did when it couldn’t heal completely. It scarred. Tears arose from the pain.

Bennie stepped forward and pulled her into his arms. She sagged in his grip. She wanted to dismiss Bennie’s words, to lash out, but in her heart, she knew better. Had she ever forgiven her father? How much of that anger had become a part of who she was? She had entered law enforcement in an attempt to find some order in the tragedies and vagaries of life, finding solace in rules, regulations, and procedures, where punishment was meted out in blocks of time — one, five, or ten years — where time could be served and sins forgiven. But matters of the heart were not so easily quantified.

“It’s not too late,” Bennie repeated in her ear.

She mumbled her answer to his chest, repeating her earlier words. “Sometimes it is.” And in her heart, she knew this to be true. Whatever she and Matt had once shared was shattered beyond repair.

The door swung open again, bringing with it the warmth of the diner, the smells of frying oil, and a bit of bright laughter. Matt stood at the threshold. “You two really should get a room.”

Jenny pulled out of the embrace and ran a hand through her hair. She hoped the tears were gone from her cheeks. “The plane’s all refueled. We can head out as soon as we’re done eating.”

“And where again were you all going?” Bennie asked, clearing his throat.

Matt scowled at him. For everyone’s sake, they had decided it best to keep their destination a secret. “Good try, Bennie.”

The man shrugged. “Okay, can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Actually I can,” Matt said, swinging around. “Hey, Belinda, did you know your husband was making out with my ex-wife on the porch?”

“Tell Jenny she can keep him!”

Matt turned back and gave them a thumbs-up. “You two kids are in the clear.” He closed the door on them. “Have fun!”

Standing in the dark, Jenny shook her head. “And you want me to make up with him?”

Bennie shrugged again. “I’m just a mechanic. What the hell do I know?”

Admiral Viktor Petkov watched through the video monitors in the control station. The solid plane of ice spread in a black blanket overhead, lit from below by the Drakon’s exterior lights. The four thermal-suited divers had spent the last half hour securing a titanium sphere in place. The procedure involved screwing meter-long anchoring bolts into the underside of the ice cap, then positioning the device’s clamps to the bolts so the titanium sphere hung below the ice.

It was the last of five identical devices. Each titanium sphere was positioned a hundred kilometers from the ice island, encircling the lost Russian ice station, marking the points of a star. The sites of insertion were pinpointed to exact coordinates. All that remained was to establish the master trigger. It had to be positioned in the exact center of the star.

Viktor gazed past the divers to the dark waters beyond. He pictured the huge ice island and the station inside it. He couldn’t have asked for a better place to trigger the device.

Moscow had ordered him to retrieve his father’s work and lay waste to all behind it. But Viktor had larger plans.

Out in the water, one of the divers thumbed the pressure button on the bottom of the device and a line of blue lights flared along the equator of the sphere, drawing Viktor’s attention. The last of the five devices was now activated. In the soft blue glow, the Cyrillic lettering could be seen clearly across the sphere’s surface, marking the initials for the Arctic and Antarctic Research Institute.

“And these are just scientific sensors?” Captain Mikovsky asked, standing at the admiral’s side. The doubt was plain in his voice.

Viktor answered softly. “The latest in bathymetry technology, designed to measure sea-level changes, currents, salinity, and ice densities.”

The Drakon’s captain shook his head. He was no naive recruit. Upon leaving the docks of the Severomorsk Naval Complex, Mikovsky had been given their mission parameters: to escort the admiral on a diplomatic mission out to the site of a lost Russian ice station. But the captain had to know that more was planned. He had seen the equipment and weapons brought aboard back at Severomorsk. And he surely knew of the coded message from FSB, if not the content.

“These underwater devices have no military application?” Mikovsky pressed. “Like listening in on the Americans?”

Viktor simply glanced over and shrugged. He allowed the captain to misread his silence. It was sometimes best to allow someone’s suspicions to run to the most obvious conclusion.

“Ah…” Mikovsky nodded, eyeing the sphere with more respect, believing he understood the intrigues here.

Viktor turned his own attention back to the monitors. Over the years, the young captain might learn that there were deeper levels to the games played by those in power.

A decade ago, Viktor had employed a handpicked team of scientists from AARI and began a covert project out of Severomorsk Naval Complex. Such a venture was not unique. Many polar research projects were run out of Severomorsk. But what was unusual about this particular project, titled Shockwave, was that it was under the direct supervision of then-captain Viktor Petkov. The researchers answered directly to him. And in the hinterlands of the northern coastlands, far from prying eyes, it was easy to bury one project among the many others. No one questioned this work, not even when the six researchers on the project had all died in an airplane crash. With their deaths two years ago, so had died Project Shockwave.

Or so it appeared.

No one but Viktor knew the research had already been completed. He stared out as the divers retreated from the sphere of titanium.

It had all started with a simple research paper published in 1979, tying carbon dioxide to the gradual warming of the globe. Fears of melting polar ice caps created horrible scenarios of rising ocean levels and devastating worldwide flooding. Of course, the Arctic and Antarctic Research Institute in St. Petersburg was the central agency in Russia assigned to investigate such threats. It accumulated one of the world’s largest databases on global ice. It was eventually discerned that while the melting of the ice found atop Greenland and the continent of Antarctica could potentially raise the world’s oceans by a dramatic two hundred feet, the northern polar ice cap did not pose such a risk. Since its ice was already floating atop an ocean, it displaced as much water as it would produce if it melted. Like cubes of ice in a full glass of water, the melt of the polar cap would not lead to a rise in ocean levels. It was simply no threat.

But in 1989, one of the AARI researchers realized a greater danger posed if the polar ice cap should suddenly vanish from the top of the world. The ice cap, if gone, would no longer act as an insulator for the Arctic Ocean. Without its ability to reflect the sun’s energy, the ocean would evaporate more rapidly, pouring vast amounts of new water into the atmosphere, which would lead in turn to massive amounts of precipitation in the form of rain, snow, and sleet. The AARI report concluded that such a change in world climate would wreak havoc on weather systems and ocean currents, resulting in flooding, agricultural destruction, ecosystem disintegration, and worldwide environmental collapse. It would devastate countries and world economies.

The hard truth of this prediction was seen in 1997 when a simple shift in currents in the Pacific Ocean, known as El Niño, occurred. According to UN agencies, the cost to the world was over $90 billion and led to the death of over fifty thousand people — and this was a single shift in currents over the course of one year. The loss of the northern polar ice cap would stretch over decades and reverberate over all oceans, not just the Pacific. It would be a disaster unlike any seen during mankind’s history.

So, of course, such a report led to the investigation of any possible military applications. Could one destroy the polar ice cap? Studies quickly showed that the power needed to melt the vast ice sheet was beyond the grasp of even current nuclear technology. It seemed such a possibility would remain theoretical.

But one of the scientists at AARI had come up with an intriguing theory. One didn’t need to melt the cap — only to destabilize it. If the cap were partially melted and the rest of the solid ice sheet shattered, a single Arctic summer could do the rest. With the cap turned into an Arctic slush pile, the sun’s energy would have greater access to a larger surface area of the Arctic Ocean, warming the waters around the fragmented ice, thus leading to the meltdown of the remaining ice pack. One didn’t need man-made nuclear energy to destroy the cap — not when the sun itself was available. If the polar ice cap could be shattered in the late spring, by the end of summer it would be gone.

But how did one destabilize the ice cap? That answer came in 1998 when another scientist from AARI, studying the crystallization of ice in the Arctic ice pack and the relation of ocean currents to pressure ridge formation, came up with his theory of harmonics. That ice was like any other crystalline structure, especially under extreme pressure, and at the right pitch in vibration, its structure could be shattered like a crystal goblet.

It was this study that became the basis for Project Shockwave: to artificially create the right set of harmonic waves and heat signatures to blast apart the polar ice cap.

On the monitor, the titanium sphere glowed out in the dark waters as the sub’s exterior lights dimmed. Viktor checked his thick wrist monitor. The plasma screen depicted a five-pointed star. Each point glowed. In the center, the master trigger awaited deployment.

It wouldn’t be long.

Victor stared at the glowing points on the wrist monitor.

The dead scientists had named this configuration the Polaris Array, after the Polyarnaya Zvezda, the North Star. But the nuclear-powered master trigger went by a more technical designation: a subsonic disrupter engine. When it was activated, its effect was twofold. First, it would act as a conventional weapon, blasting a crater a mile wide. But next, rather than sending out an EM pulse like a regular nuclear weapon, this engine would transmit a harmonic wave through the ice. The wave front would strike the five spheres simultaneously and trigger them to explode, propagating and amplifying the harmonics in all directions with enough energy and force to shatter the entire polar ice cap.

Viktor cleaned a smudge off the screen of the monitor. Tucked away in the corner of the screen was a small red heart that flashed in sync with his pulse.

Soon…

For now, he would spend the rest of the night running diagnostics on the project, making sure all was in order.

He had waited sixty years…he could wait another day.

In fact, after the completion of Project Shockwave, he had held off implementing his plan for two years. He had found a certain peace of mind in simply having Polaris at his command. Now he believed it had been fate that held his hand. Ice Station Grendel had been rediscovered, the very tomb of his father. Surely this was a sign. He would retrieve his father’s body, collect the prize buried within the heart of the station, and then detonate Polaris, changing the world forever.

Viktor stared as the exterior lights of the Drakon were extinguished. The titanium sphere of Polaris glowed in the dark, becoming a true North Star in the Arctic night.

There was a reason he had started Project Shockwave a decade ago, picked this particular project to exact his retribution. It was in the final words of the 1989 report, a cautionary warning. The scientist had predicted another danger posed by the destruction of the polar ice cap, more than just the short-term effect of flooding and climatic upheaval.

There was a more ominous long-term threat.

As the Arctic Ocean evaporated, its waters would pour over land-masses in the form of precipitation — in the northern lands, as snow and sleet. As the years marched on, this snow and sleet would turn into ice, building into huge glaciers, expanding those already present and forming new ones. Over the succeeding years, glaciers would spread and pile in vast sheets, driving south across all the northern lands.

After fifty thousand years, a new ice age would begin!

Viktor appreciated the symmetry as he stared at the glow of Polaris in the midnight waters of the Arctic.

His father had died, frozen in ice — now so would the world.

6. Icebound

From the Twin Otter’s copilot seat, Matt watched the sun climb over the top of the world. Light glanced achingly over the curve of ice, searing the back of his eyeballs. Jenny wore aviator sunglasses, but Matt simply stared at the beauty of dawn in the polar region. At this latitude, there were only another ten or so sunrises, then the cold orb would stay in the sky for four solid months. So, up here, one learned to appreciate each sunrise and sunset.

This particular morning was spectacular. A steady southeasterly headwind had managed to sheer away the ubiquitous fogs and mists that usually clung to the cap. Below, and in all directions, lay a pristine world of crenellated white ice, jagged crystalline peaks, and sky-blue melt ponds.

From the horizon, sunlight streamed in a rosy tide, stretching toward their flight path. Hues of orange and crimson rippled across the blue skies.

“A storm’s coming,” a gruff voice said behind him. Jenny’s father had awakened with a yawn.

Matt turned. “Why do you say that, John?”

Before he could answer, Craig made a small sound of complaint from where he lolled sleepily in his seat. Clearly the reporter had no interest in the meteorological assessment of the elder Inuit. From behind Craig, Bane lifted his muzzled face and stretched with a jaw-breaking yawn. The wolf seemed as bothered as the reporter at being awakened.

Ignoring them both, John leaned forward and pointed toward the northern skies. Twilight still clung to that section of the world. Near the horizon, it looked like smoke was billowing up. It swirled and churned.

“Ice fog,” the Inuit said. “Temperature’s dropping even though the sun is rising.”

Matt agreed. “Weather pattern’s shifting.”

Storms up here were seldom mild. It was either clear and calm, like now, or a damnable blizzard. And while snowfall was seldom significant at these latitudes, the winds were dangerous, stirring up squalls of ice and surface snow that achieved blinding whiteout conditions.

He swung to Jenny. “Can we make the drift station before it hits?”

“Should.”

It was the first word she had spoken since leaving Kaktovik. Something had upset her over at Bennie’s place, but she had refused to talk about it. She had eaten her meal as methodically as a backhoe chewing through a stubborn hillside. Afterward, she had disappeared into the hangar’s office for a short catnap. No more than half an hour. But when she returned from the back room, her eyes were red. It didn’t look like she had slept at all.

Her father glanced to Matt, catching his eyes for a moment, almost studying him. When Jenny and Matt had been married, he and his father-in-law had grown as close as brothers. They had camped, hunted, and fished regularly. But like Jenny, after the loss of his only grandson, the man had hardened toward him.

Yet, at the time of Tyler’s death, Matt had sensed no blame from the elderly Inuit. John, more than anyone, knew the severity of life in the Alaskan backcountry, the risk of sudden death. While growing up, he had been raised in a small seaside village along Kotzebue Sound near the Bering Strait. His full Inuit name was Junaquaat, shortened to John after he moved inland. His own seaside village had succumbed to starvation during the freeze of ’75, vanishing in a single winter. He had lost all his relatives — and such a fate was not uncommon. Resources in the frozen north were always scarce. Survival balanced on a razor’s edge.

Though John did not blame Matt for Tyler’s drowning, he did harbor resentment for the ugly period that followed. Matt had not been kind to his daughter. He had been hollowed out by guilt and grief. To survive, he had gone deeper into the bottle, shutting her out, unable to face the blame in her eyes, the accusations. They had said things during that time that could never be unspoken. Finally, it had grown to be too much. Broken, beaten, unhealed, they had splintered — falling apart.

John placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder now. His fingers squeezed ever so softly. In that gesture, Matt found a level of peace and acceptance. It was not only death that the Inuit people learned to survive, but grief also. John patted his shoulder and sat back.

Matt stared, unblinking, at the icy glare of morning, more unsure of his heart than he had been in years. It was an uncomfortable feeling, as if something heavy had shifted loose inside him, disturbing his center of balance.

Jenny spoke, checking her heading and speed with a finger. “We should be at the coordinates Craig gave in another half hour.”

Matt kept his gaze fixed forward. “Should we radio the base in advance? Let them know we’re coming?”

She shook her head. “Until we know what’s going on over there, the less forewarning the better. Besides, radio communication is still shoddy.”

En route, they had been receiving bursts of communication across open channels. Word of the explosions at Prudhoe Bay had spread immediately. As Craig had predicted, news agencies were scurrying, and speculation was rampant.

Craig grumpily sat straighter. “If we just drop in, how are we going to explain our sudden appearance at the base? Are we going to storm in as officers of the law? Investigative journalists? Fleeing refugees seeking asylum?”

“Forget about storming in with any authority,” Jenny answered. “I have no jurisdiction up there. I say we explain all we know and warn those in charge. Whoever attacked us might not be far behind.”

Craig studied the empty skies, clearly searching for any signs of pursuers. “Will the base be able to protect us?”

Matt turned to Craig. “You know more about this Omega base than any of us, Mr. Reporter. What sort of Navy contingent is stationed there?”

Craig shook his head. “I wasn’t given any specifics about my destination…just told to pack my bag, then shoved on the first Alaska Airlines flight leaving Seattle.”

Matt frowned. There had to be at least a sub and a crew. Hopefully more personnel were stationed at the research base itself. “Well, whoever’s there,” he decided aloud, “with the storm coming, they’ll have to take us in. After that, we’ll make them listen to us. Whether they believe us or not, that’s a whole other can of worms. After the explosions at Prudhoe, suspicions will be high.”

Jenny nodded. “Okay, we’ll play it that way. At least until we get a better handle on the situation.”

John spoke up from where he was peering out the side window. “I see something off to the north a couple degrees. Red buildings.”

Jenny adjusted course.

“Is it the drift station?” Craig asked.

“I’m not sure,” Jenny said. “Those structures are about six miles from the coordinates you gave me.”

“That’s the data my editor gave me.”

“It’s the currents,” Matt said. “They don’t call it a drift station for nothing. I’m surprised the station is even that close to the coordinates. Craig’s information has to be almost a week old by now.”

Jenny buzzed toward the spread of red buildings.

As they approached, details emerged. There was a wide polynya lake a short distance from the base. Steel bollards had been drilled into the ice surrounding the open water. Submarine docking bollards, Matt realized. Though presently the lake was empty. Beyond the polynya, he counted fifteen red buildings. He recognized them as Jamesway huts from his military days, the cold-weather version of the old Quonset huts. In the middle of the small village, an American flag fluttered atop a tall pole.

“At least it’s a U.S. base,” Craig mumbled as Jenny banked over the site.

“This has to be the place,” Matt muttered.

A few vehicles were lined up on one side. Clear tracks led from the polynya to the cluster of Jamesway huts. But another track led straight out from the base, well trundled and beaten. Where did it lead? Before he could get a good look, Jenny circled around and prepared to land.

Below, a few figures appeared from some of the buildings. All wore parkas and stared skyward. The plane’s engine must have been heard. Visitors were surely rare out here in the remote ZCI zone of the polar ice cap. Matt was relieved to see that the gawkers wore parkas of vibrant colors: greens, blues, yellows, and reds. Such colors were meant to be seen, to help find a mate lost in a storm.

Thankfully there was not a single white parka among them.

Jenny set the plane’s skis and dropped the flaps. She began a smooth descent to the tabletop ice field just north of the base. “Everyone buckle in,” she warned.

The Twin Otter fell toward the ice. Matt gripped his seat arms. The plane swooped down, leveled off sharply, then skidded over the ice. The vibration of the skis over the slightly uneven surface rattled every bolt in the plane and the metal fillings in Matt’s back molars.

But once she had touched down, Jenny quickly cut power and raised the flaps to brake. The plane slowed, and the vibration died down to a gentle bumping.

Craig let out a sigh of relief.

“Welcome to the middle of the Arctic Ocean,” Jenny said, and angled the plane around. She taxied back toward the base, now a short distance away.

“The Arctic Ocean,” Craig echoed, eyeing out the windows suspiciously.

Matt could relate to his misgivings. Since three years ago, he distrusted ice. Though the footing under you might look solid, it wasn’t. It was never a constant. It was an illusion of solidness, a false sense of security that betrayed when one least expected. You just had to turn your back for a second…a moment’s distraction…

Matt continued to grip his chair arms as if he were still falling from the skies. He stared out at the world of ice around him. Here was his personal hell — not fiery flames, but endless ice.

“It looks like we’ve stirred up a welcoming party,” Jenny said as she cut her engines and the twin props slowly rotated down.

Matt swung his attention back to the base. A group of six snowmobiles rumbled out toward them. They were manned by men in matching blue parkas. He spotted the Navy insignia.

Base security.

One of the men stood up in his snowmobile and lifted a bullhorn in his hand. “Vacate the aircraft now! Keep your hands empty and in plain sight! Any attempt to leave or any hostile action will be met with deadly force!”

Matt sighed. “The Welcome Wagon sure has gone to hell these days.”

Amanda stared at the chaos, amazed at the amount of work that had been done in a single night. Not that day or night really had much meaning in the station, especially in the dark ice tunnels of the Crawl Space. In the detached isolation of her silent world, she watched the drama play out.

“Careful with that!” Dr. Henry Ogden barked across the frozen lake. Even from here, Amanda could read his lips and exaggerated expression.

Under his supervision, a pair of graduate students struggled to raise a light pole. It was the fourth to illuminate the cliff face. Nearby, the generator, which was running the lights and other assorted equipment, trembled in bad humor atop its rubber footpads. Power cords and conduits snaked across the ice lake’s surface.

Small red flags marked off sites on the lake. The rocky cliff face itself was no less assaulted. Steel ladders leaned against it. More flags checkered its surface.

Sites of specimens, Amanda imagined. She stared at the sections of the lake cordoned off with string and flags. She knew what specimens lay frozen under those spots. The grendels…as they had come to be called.

News of the discovery had spread quickly. While Amanda was sure Dr. Ogden had not divulged the information himself, such a secret could not be kept long among a group of isolated scientists. Someone had clearly talked.

All around the huge cavern, research students and senior members of the biology staff labored together. But Amanda also spotted several scientists from other disciplines, including her dear friend Dr. Oskar Willig. The Swedish oceanographer was the elder statesman of the entire Omega group. His accomplishments and credentials were numerous and well-known, including the Nobel Prize in 1972. His unruly gray hair was equally as distinguishable, making him easy to spot.

She crossed toward him, stepping around the piles of sample bottles and boxes. At least someone had sanded the floor and strewn a few rubber mats over some of the busier work areas. Dr. Willig knelt on one of these mats, staring down into the ice.

He glanced to her as she walked up. “Amanda.” He grinned and sat back on his heels. “Come to see the mascot of the station, have you?”

She returned his smile. “I caught the creature feature last night.”

He climbed to his feet with an ease that belied his age. He was a wiry, fit seventy-year-old. “It’s a tremendous discovery.”

“The legendary Grendel itself.”

“Ambulocetus natans,” Dr. Willig corrected. “Or if you are to believe our notable colleague from Harvard, Ambulocetus natans arctos.”

She shook her head. Arctic subspecies…it seemed Dr. Ogden was not wasting time staking his claim. “So what do you think about his assertions?”

“Intriguing theory. Polar adaptation of the prehistoric species. But Henry has a long way to go between theory and proof.”

She nodded. “Well, he has enough specimens to work with.”

“Yes, indeed. He should be able to thaw—” Dr. Willig started and peered over a shoulder.

Amanda followed his gaze. He had heard something. It didn’t take long to spot the commotion that drew his attention and interrupted their conversation.

Henry Ogden and Connor MacFerran were nose to nose. The brawny Scottish geologist loomed over the shorter biologist. But Henry was not about to give ground. He stood with his hands on his hips, leaning forward, an angry Chihuahua before a pitbull.

Dr. Willig turned back to her so she could read his lips. “Here we go again. This is the third head butting since I came down here an hour ago.”

“I’d better see what’s going on,” Amanda decided reluctantly.

“Always the diplomat.”

“No, always the baby-sitter.” She left Dr. Willig and crossed to the warring researchers. They barely noted her arrival, continuing their argument.

“…not until all the specimens are collected. We’ve not even begun the photographs.” Henry had his face almost pressed against the geologist’s.

“You can’t hog all the friggin’ research time down here. That cliff is volcanic basalt with pure carboniferous intrusions. All I need to do is core a few samples.”

“How few?”

“No more than twenty.”

The biologist’s face darkened. “Are you mad? You’ll tear the whole thing down. Ruin who knows how much sensitive data.”

Amanda barely followed their discourse, missing much as she read their lips, but she gained as much information from the gestures and body postures. A fistfight was about to break out. She could smell the territorial bloom of testosterone.

“Boys,” she said calmly.

They glanced to her, to her crossed arms, to her stern expression. Each took a step back.

“What’s this all about?” she asked slowly.

Connor MacFerran answered first. His lips were harder to read because of his thick black beard. “We’ve been patient with the biology team. But we have just as much right to sample this discovery. An inclusion of this magnitude”—he waved to the cliff face—“is not the sole ownership of Dr. Ogden.”

Henry stated his case. “We’ve only had the one night to prep the site. Our collection is more delicate than the bulldozing techniques of the geologists. It’s a simple case of priority. My sampling won’t harm his specimens, but his sampling could irreparably damage mine.”

“That’s not true!” Though Amanda could not hear Connor’s voice rise, she caught it from the color of his cheeks and the way his chest puffed. “A couple cores in areas free of your damn molds and lichens won’t harm anything.”

“The dust…the noise…it could ruin everything.” Henry turned his full attention to Amanda. “I thought we had decided all this last night.”

She finally nodded. “Connor, Henry’s right. This cliff face has been here for fifty thousand years. I think it could last another couple of days for the biology team to collect their samples.”

“I need at least ten days,” Henry cut in.

“You have three.” She faced the broad-shouldered Scotsman, who wore a sloppy grin of satisfaction. “Then you can start collecting cores — but only where Henry says you can.”

The large man’s grin faded. “But—”

She turned away. It was the easiest way to cut someone off when you were deaf. You simply stopped looking at them. She faced Henry now. “And you, Henry…I suggest you concentrate on clearing out a section of cliff face within three days. Because I will authorize drilling in here by that time.”

“But—”

She turned her back on both of them and saw Dr. Willig grinning broadly at her. MacFerran stalked off in one direction, heading toward the tunnel exit. Henry marched off in the other, ready to harangue his underlings. That bit of détente should buy her at least twenty-four hours of strained peace between the biologists and geologists.

Dr. Willig crossed to her. “For a moment, I thought you were going to spank them.”

“They’d have enjoyed it too much.”

“Come.” The elderly Swede motioned. “You should see what Dr. Ogden is really protecting.”

He took her hand, like a father might a daughter. He led her toward a familiar cleft in the volcanic rock face. Her feet began to drag. “I’ve been in there already.”

“Yes, but have you seen what our argumentative scientist is doing?”

Curiosity kept her feet moving. The pair reached the opening in the cliff. This morning, Amanda had changed out of her thermal sailing suit and simply wore jeans, boots, wool sweater, and a borrowed Gore-Tex parka for her journey into the icy Crawl Space. As they reached the tunnel entrance, she finally noted how warm it was. A steady flow of humid air rolled from the mouth of the cleft.

Dr. Willig led the way, still holding her hand. “It is really quite amazing.”

“What is?” The warmth distracted her…as did the slightly rank odor carried on the damp flow of air. Water sluiced in small trickles over the rock under her boots. It dripped from the ceiling, too.

Within six steps, they reached the cave beyond the cleft. Like the greater cavern outside, this space had been invaded by modern technology. A second generator vibrated in a corner. Space heaters lined both walls, facing inward. Two light poles blazed in the center, illuminating the space in too great detail.

Yesterday evening, with only the single flashlight, the chamber had been spooky and lost in time. But now, under the glare of the halogen spots, the place had a clinical aspect.

As before, the dissected creature lay sprawled and staked across the room’s center. But rather than being frosted in ice, appearing old, it now glistened and dripped. The exposed organs wept in trickles and shone like fresh meat on a butcher’s block. It looked like the dissection had started only yesterday, rather than sixty years ago.

Beyond the carcass, through the sheen and flow of meltwater over their surfaces, the six large blocks of ice had become clear crystal. At the heart of each block lay a curled pale beast, nose tucked in the center, long, sinuous body wrapped around the head, then its thick tail around again.

“Does their sleeping shape remind you of anything?” Dr. Willig asked.

Amanda searched her nightmares and found no answers. She shook her head.

“Maybe it’s because of my Nordic heritage. It reminds me of some of the old Norse carvings of dragons. The great wyrms curled in on themselves. Noses touching tails. A symbol of the eternal circle.”

Amanda ran along the logic track of her friend. “You think some Vikings might have found these frozen beasts before. These…grendels?”

He shrugged. “They were the first polar explorers, crossing the North Atlantic to Iceland and glacier-shrouded Greenland. If there’s a clutch of these creatures here, who’s to say there are not others scattered throughout the frozen northlands.”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

“Just an idle thought.” He stared over at the melting blocks. “But it does raise some misgivings in my mind. Especially with all the death found here in the station.”

She glanced at him. Dr. Willig knew nothing about Level Four.

He continued, clarifying his point: “All those Russian scientists and staff personnel. It’s a tragedy. It makes you wonder what happened sixty years ago. Why the station was lost.”

Amanda sighed. She remembered her first cold steps into the tomb. All the bodies — some skeletal, as if starved; some clear suicides; others had met more violent ends. She could only imagine the madness that must have set in here.

“Remember,” she said, “the base was lost in the forties. Before the time of satellite communication. Before submarines had reached the North Pole, and before the tangle of Arctic currents was ever mapped. All it would’ve taken is a fierce summer storm, or a communication breakdown, or a mechanical failure in the base, or even a single, lost, resupply ship. Any of these mishaps could’ve resulted in the station’s loss. Back in the 1930s, the Arctic reaches were as remote as Mars is today.”

“It’s a tragedy, nonetheless.”

She nodded. “We may have more answers when the Russian delegation arrives in a few more days. If they’re cooperative, we might have a more complete story.” But Amanda knew of one detail the Russians would never be fully forthcoming about. How could they? There was no explanation to justify what had been found on Level Four.

She noted the oceanographer’s eyes focused on the curled grendels and remembered he had never finished his last thought. “You mentioned some misgivings. Something about the old Norse symbol of the curled dragons.”

“Yes.” He rubbed his chin, making it slightly harder to read his lips. When he saw her squinting, he lowered his hand. “Like I was saying, the symbol signifies the circle of eternal life, but it also has a darker, more ominous significance. And with all the tragedy found here…the fate of the base…” He shook his head.

“What else does the symbol represent?”

He faced her fully so she could read his lips. “It means the end of the world.”

Lacy Devlin crouched elsewhere in the Crawl Space. As a junior research assistant with the geology department, her shift under Connor MacFerran did not begin for another two hours. Then again she had already spent most of last night under Connor in his makeshift room here at the base. He had a wife back in California, but that didn’t mean the man didn’t have needs.

She smiled at the memory as she laced her skates.

All set, she stood and stared down the long, slightly curved ice tunnel. She did a few stretches, working loose the knots in her thighs and calves. Her legs were her trademark. Long and smoothly muscular, swelling to powerful hips. She had been a speed skater with the U.S. Olympic team back in 2000, but a torn anterior cruciate ligament in her knee had benched her career. She had eventually finished her undergraduate work and moved to graduate school in Stanford. That was where she had met Connor MacFerran.

Lacy took a few steps in her short-track skates. They were ankle-high, composed of graphite and Kevlar molded to the shape of her feet. When worn, they were as much a part of her body as her own fingers and toes. She also wore an insulated skin suit — striped red, white, and blue — over thermal underwear. And of course a helmet. In this case, not her usual plastic racing headgear, but one of the geologists’ mining helmets, equipped with a light on its brim.

She started down the tunnel. She had skated many times across the surface of the polar ice cap, but the tunnels were more challenging. The swooping water-melt channels were a delight to fly through.

She pushed with her legs, extending fully, still feeling a bit of that deep ache from last night with Connor. It added to her exhilaration and excitement. Last night, for the first time, he had said he loved her, whispering it urgently in her ear, panting each word as he thrust into her. The memory warming her now, she barely felt the cold.

As she began her run, the tunnel slanted in a short decline, increasing her speed. She had a set course that she ran each morning since the discovery of the Crawl Space. It was out of the geology team’s way. There were no interesting inclusions to sample, so the passages in this section were not sanded. Two months ago, she had first walked the course to sight any obstacles and memorize which turns made a complete circuit, ending where she started.

Lacy sped around the first bend, sweeping up the curved ice wall. The wind of her speed whistled in her ears. She crouched as she came around the corner. Ahead lay a series of switchbacks, a crazy S-shaped twist of tunnel. It was her favorite part of the circuit.

Balancing herself, she kept her left arm tucked behind her back and swung her right arm in sync with her stride. Back and forth, she pushed with her legs, accelerating into the switchbacks. She hit the twisted section of tunnel with a shout of glee. With each cutback, she flew high up the walls, momentum keeping her riding in perfect balance.

Then she was out of the switchbacks and into a section that required more attention. Tunnels crisscrossed in a funhouse maze. She braked a bit, slowing to catch the spray-painted markers on the ice. She had memorized the turns, but she knew better than to make a mistake.

She swung her helmet lamp, which cast its single beam far down the dark tunnel, giving the ice a translucent glow. The markers — orange arrows — were easy to pick out. They seemed to shine with their own light.

She shot into the first of the arrow-painted passages, passing by dead ends and tunnels that led out to dangerous terrain. As she passed one of these unmarked tunnels, shadows shifted deep inside, but her speed was too fast to get a look. As she shot past, she risked a glance behind her. No luck. She was already too far down the tunnel. The angle was wrong for the beam of her helmet lamp to penetrate the rapidly retreating tunnel mouth.

She faced forward. At such speeds, her attention needed to stay focused ahead of her. Still, her nerves were now jangled, like someone had drenched her with ice water. She had gone from easy contentment and joy to a hard-edged anxiety.

She tried to dismiss it. “Just the shadows playing tricks,” she said aloud, hoping her own voice would comfort her. But the echoes of her words spooked her. They sounded unnaturally loud.

She was now acutely aware of how alone she was down here.

A small noise caught up to her. Probably a bit of ice sliding and scraping down the tunnel. Still, the scritching tightened her jaw. Twisting her neck, she glanced behind her again. The beam of light revealed only empty passage, but the length of view was only twenty yards as the tunnel twisted away behind her.

She turned back around, almost missing one of the orange markers. She had to brake and kick out with her left leg to make the sharp turn into the correct passage.

As Lacy shot into the proper tunnel, her legs trembled under her. Fear fatigued her muscles. She realized she should have taken the tunnel just before this one. She had marked this passage because it led outward into a long half-mile single loop. The other was a shortcut, too short for her usual four-mile run. Now she just wanted to get the hell out of these passages and back to other people, back to Connor’s arms.

As she raced down the loop, she increased her speed, seeking to put some distance between her and the shifting shadows. After a full minute with nothing but her own thoughts, she realized how foolish she was being. There were no more suspicious shadows or noises — just the clean hiss of her blades over the ice.

She began the climb out of the loop. The passage slanted up and required work to keep moving forward. But her momentum and the smooth ice helped. Shoving with her legs, falling into her familiar rhythm, she raced back out of the loop — heading toward home again.

A small laugh escaped her. What was she so afraid of? What could be down here? She studied her reaction. Maybe her night with Connor had awakened some deep misgiving in her after all. Maybe this was an echo of guilt. She had met Connor’s wife many times at university functions. Linda was a sweet, gentle woman with an easy, welcoming manner. She didn’t deserve to be so—

The noise returned. The slippery sound of ice on ice.

Now it came from ahead of her.

She braked. Far down the passage, near the end of the loop, shadows shifted. Her light could not reach that far. She slowed but didn’t stop. She wasn’t sure. She wanted to see if there was truly anything to fear. Her light bled ahead as she advanced.

“Hello!” Lacy called out. Maybe it was another of the researchers, off to explore on his own.

No answer. Whatever movement she had noted had now stopped. The shadows had settled to their usual stillness.

“Hello!” she repeated. “Is anyone there?”

She crept forward, gliding on her skate blades. She followed the glow of her light as it stretched down the passage.

Ahead, the loop came to an end, reentering the funhouse maze of passages again. Her throat had gone dry and tight from the cold, as if someone were choking her. I only have to get through the maze…then it’s a straight shot back to civilization.

Despite her momentary flare of guilt, she wanted nothing at this moment but to see Connor. Just the thought of the towering man with his strong hands and broad shoulders quickened her legs. Once she was back in his embrace, she would be safe.

She climbed out of the loop and into the maze. Nothing was here. “Just tricks,” she whispered to her own heart, “just ice, light, and shadow.”

She followed the orange markers, like beacons in the night. Twisting one way, then another. Then, from far down in the dark well, her light reflected back at her. Two red spots glowed.

Lacy knew what she was seeing.

Eyes, unblinking, large — dead of emotion.

She braked to a stop, kicking up ice.

Fear shook through her. She felt her bladder give way a little, the trickle hot in her skin suit.

She backed a single step, then another. Legs trembled. She wanted to turn and run, but she feared turning her back on those eyes. She continued her halting retreat.

Then in a blink, the eyes vanished — whether because her light had pulled back or the presence was gone, she didn’t know. Free from their paralyzing stare, she twisted around and fled on her blades.

She raced, fueled by terror. Her arms flailed, her legs kicked, digging out chunks of ice in her panic. She fled blindly into the maze of passages. Her markers were all designed for a counterclockwise circuit, orange arrows pointing the safe way. Now, as she ran backward through her course, the markers were meaningless. They all pointed back toward the creature behind her.

In a matter of moments, she was lost.

She raced down a narrow passage, one she had never been in before, more a crack in the ice than a true tunnel. Her breathing choked into ragged gasps. Blood pounded in her ears. But her own heartbeat was not loud enough to drown out the skitter on the ice.

Crying, tears flowing and freezing on her cheeks, she scrabbled with her blades. The tunnel widened a bit, allowing her more room to push and kick. She only had to get away…keep moving. A low moan flowed out from her. It didn’t sound like her. But she couldn’t stop it either.

She craned around, shining the light over her shoulder. Through the pinch in the tunnel behind her, something was shoving toward her. It was huge. Eyes glowed from its bulk, an albino whiteness, a rolling snowbank.

Polar bear, her mind screamed.

She remembered the whispers of something picked up on the DeepEye sonar. Movement on the scope.

She cried out and raced away.

As she fled around a sharp corner, the floor vanished a few yards in front of her. The bright ice ended at darkness. As a geology student, she knew the name for this: ice shear. Like any crystal, when ice was exposed to stress, it broke in clean planes. On glaciers, this led to ice-shear cliffs. But the same features could be found inside glaciers, too…or inside ice islands.

Lacy dug in her blades, but her momentum and the downward tilt of the tunnel betrayed her. She flew over the cliff edge and into empty space. A scream, sharp enough to shatter ice, burst from her. She tumbled into the chute, dropping away into darkness.

The shear pit was not a deep one, no more than fifteen feet, and she struck the ice floor with her blades. The impact was too much. Despite the Kevlar ankle guard, one ankle cracked. Her other knee struck so hard that she felt it in her shoulder. She crumpled to the floor in a heap.

Pain drove away her fear, traveling out to all her nerve endings.

She looked upward, to the cliff’s edge.

Her light rose in a beacon.

At the precipice, the beast hesitated. It peered down at her with those dead eyes, glowing red in the reflection of her light. Claws dug into the ice. Shoulders bunched as it leaned over the edge. Rapid huffs of mist curled from each slitted nostril as a deep rumble flowed from it, seeming to vibrate the very air.

Staring up, Lacy knew she had been mistaken a moment ago. With this realization, terror drove sanity to the edges of her consciousness.

It was half a ton in mass, its skin smooth, shining oily, more like a dolphin’s skin. Adding to this appearance, its head was sleek, earless, but domed high, sweeping down to an elongated muzzle, giving it a stretched appearance. The slitted nostrils rose too high on its face, almost above its wide-spaced eyes.

Lacy stared numbly. It was too large, too muscular, too primeval for the modern world. Even in her madness, she recognized what she was seeing: something prehistoric, saurian…yet still mammalian.

The beast studied her in turn, its lips rippling back from its long snout to reveal rows of jagged teeth as bright as broken bone against pink gums. Razored claws sank into the ice.

Some primitive part of her responded to the age-old instincts of predator and prey. A small mewling whimper escaped Lacy’s throat.

The beast began its slow climb into the pit.

Matt was tired of having guns pointed at him. An hour ago, he and the others had been corralled into a mess hall and were now seated at one of the four tables in the room. A small kitchenette occupied the back half of the space. Empty and cold. Breakfast must have already been served.

They had been offered leftover coffee — and though it was as thick as Mississippi mud, it was hot and welcome. Craig hunched over his mug, clutching it with both hands as if it was all that stood between him and a slow, painful death.

Jenny sat beside her father on the other side of the table. Her initial scowl at being forced from her plane had not subsided. If anything, her frown lines had deepened. Her sheriff’s badge and papers had done nothing to dissuade the Navy security team from leading them at gunpoint into this makeshift holding cell.

As Matt had suspected, after the attack on Prudhoe, no one was taking any chances. The chain of command had to be followed. Matt knew this only too well from his own military days.

He stared over at the two guards — from their uniforms, a petty officer and a seaman. Each bore a rifle across his chest and a holstered pistol on his belt. Jenny’s weapon had been taken from her, along with the service shotgun stored in the back of the Otter.

“What is taking them so long?” Jenny finally whispered under her breath, teeth clenched.

“Communication is still bad,” Matt said. The head of the security team had left twenty minutes ago to verify their identification. But that meant reaching someone on the coast, who, in turn, would surely need to reach Fairbanks. They could be here all morning.

“Well, who the hell is in charge here?” she continued.

Matt knew what she meant. The entire security team seemed to consist of the six men who had escorted them to the station. Where were the other Navy personnel? Matt remembered the empty polynya and the docking bollards hammered into the ice. “Those in charge must be out in the submarine.”

“What submarine?” Craig asked, perking up from his mug.

Matt explained what he saw from the air. “The old SCICEX stations were serviced by Navy subs. This is surely no exception, especially as deep as we are into the polar pack. I’d bet my eyeteeth that the senior Navy personnel are aboard the submarine on some mission. Perhaps off to help at Prudhoe.”

“What about the head of the research team?” Craig asked. “There has to be a chain of command among the civilians. If we could get someone to listen…”

Since their arrival, a handful of men and women had drifted through to gawk at the newcomers. Their faces were a blend of scientific curiosity and raw need for news of the outside world. One of the men, a researcher with a NASA group, had to be forcibly escorted away by one of the guards.

“I don’t know who’s in charge of the civilian researchers, but I’d wager that person is gone, too.” Matt nodded to their guards. “I’m sure the civilian head of the drift station would’ve barged right past these two.”

As if hearing him, the door burst open — but it wasn’t the head of the base. It was Lieutenant Commander Paul Sewell, head of the security team. He strode over to the table.

Bane rose from where he lay, but Matt placed a hand on the wolf. The dog settled to his haunches, remaining alert.

The Navy leader placed Jenny’s badge and identification on the table. “Your credentials checked out,” he said, and eyed the others. “But your superiors in Fairbanks seemed to know nothing about what you’re doing up here. They said you were on vacation.”

He passed out the other pieces of identification: Matt’s Fish and Game badge, John’s driver’s license, and Craig’s press credentials.

Jenny gathered her badge and ID. “What about my sidearm and shotgun?”

“They’re in lockup until the captain returns.” His tone brooked no argument. Matt respected Lieutenant Commander Sewell’s civil but no-nonsense manner.

Jenny did not. Her scowl grew darker. She did not like being unarmed.

“Sir,” Craig said, “we didn’t come here to start trouble. We heard about your discovery of an abandoned ice base.”

This drew a startled response from the lieutenant commander. “The Russian base?”

Matt practically spit out his coffee. Russian…Jenny’s eyes widened in surprise. John settled his own mug of coffee very slowly to the table.

Only Craig kept his face still and unresponsive. He didn’t miss a beat as he continued: “Yes, exactly. I was sent by my paper to report on the discovery. These folks agreed to escort me after I ran into some…um, problems in Alaska.”

Matt regained his composure and nodded. “Someone tried to kill him.”

Now it was the lieutenant commander’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

Matt continued: “A group of paramilitary commandos sabotaged his plane and brought it down. Paratroopers dropped in to finish the job. We barely escaped to reach…Sheriff Aratuk.” He pointed to Jenny.

She nodded. “We’ve been pursued ever since. We even think the explosions over at Prudhoe Bay are somehow connected to all this…to the discovery here.”

“How…?” Sewell’s brow built into ridges. “Wait! Who even told you about the Russian ice station?”

“My sources are confidential,” Craig said, facing the stern lieutenant commander. “I’ll only speak further to someone with authority here. Someone who can act.”

A frown that matched Jenny’s formed on the Navy man’s face. As head of security, he was clearly suspicious of the newcomers. Matt noted Craig eyeing the man, too, trying to read him.

“Before anything can be decided, I’ll need to consult with Captain Perry when he returns,” Sewell finally said.

Passing the buck up the command chain, Matt thought.

“And when is he due back?” Craig asked.

Sewell just stared at him and didn’t answer.

“Then who’s in charge of the station in the meantime?” Jenny asked. “Where’s the head of the research team? Someone we can talk to?”

The lieutenant commander sighed, clearly straining to straddle the line between civility and authority. “That would be Dr. Amanda Reynolds. She’s…she’s out for the moment.”

“Then what about us?” Jenny demanded. “You can’t hold us here.”

“I’m afraid I can, ma’am.” He turned from the table and left. The guards remained at the door.

“Well, that got us nowhere,” Matt said after a long stretch of awkward silence.

“On the contrary.” Craig leaned closer to the table and kept his voice low. “A Russian ice base. No wonder I was called out here. Something must’ve been found over there. A political hot potato.” He ticked off points on his fingers. “The Navy clamps down the drift station. A gag order silences the scientists. And someone must have learned of my itinerary. Tried to stop me from getting here.” Craig glanced around the table.

“The Russians?” Jenny asked.

Craig nodded. “If it was our own government, they could’ve stopped me through a thousand legal channels. Whoever was after us was keeping their noses low to the ground, trying to go under the radar.”

Matt nodded. “Craig could be right. The commandos certainly had a military background. It could have been a small strike team sent to execute a surgical attack.”

“But why target me?” Craig mumbled. “I’m just a reporter.”

Matt shook his head. “You may be the only one outside this base or a need-to-know chain of command in government who has any inkling of the discovery out here.” He silently ran over the scenario in his head. Something didn’t add up here. What was so important to require such a deadly response?

He stared over at the Navy guards. They stood stiffly, not with the usual casual attentiveness of someone baby-sitting civilians. He had seen soldiers acting the same way prior to a battle. And Sewell’s silence when he asked when the submarine and its captain might return…it jangled Matt’s nerves with warning. If the crew had headed out to Prudhoe Bay to help in salvage and rescue, they’d be gone days. Sewell would’ve arranged rooms for them. The fact that they were still here meant the captain was expected back soon. And if this was true, why wasn’t the sub called to help at Prudhoe Bay? This was a disaster in their own backyard. Why had the submarine remained? Why did it need to stay here?

Craig spoke up, stating the obvious. “We need to find out what’s going on.”

“I’m open to any ideas,” Matt said.

Jenny met Matt’s gaze. “First we have to devise some way to get over to that Russian ice station. Whatever triggered all this started there.”

“But how?” Matt asked. “We can hardly just walk over there. And they’ve got the plane under guard.”

No one had any answers, but from each person’s worried expression, everyone knew time was running out.

Matt sensed forces larger than any of them swirling down upon this frozen acre of ice. Russians…Americans…a lost base hiding some secret…

What clandestine war had they gotten themselves into?

7. Running Silent

Viktor Petkov smelled the impatience wafting from the young captain. They had been at all stop for the past hour, engines quiet, resting two meters from the surface. The ice was even closer, less than a meter. An hour ago, they had found a small lead in the frozen cap, too narrow to surface through, really no more than a crack. But it was enough to roll their radio antenna up into the open air.

As instructed, they awaited the molniya go-code from Colonel General Chenko of FSB, but the burst transmission from Lubyanka was late. Viktor’s own patience was running thin. He checked his watch again.

“I don’t understand,” Captain Mikovsky said. “We’re due to arrive at the U.S. research station in two days. What are we waiting for now? Another exercise? To plant more meteorological equipment?” He emphasized this last, not hiding his sarcasm. The captain still believed the Polaris array was a mere listening post to spy upon the Americans.

So be it.

Across the bridge, the entire crew remained edgy. They had all learned of the past night’s attack on the U.S. oil station in Alaska. None knew what it meant, but they all knew the U.S. forces in the area would be at heightened alert. The waters around here had gotten much warmer, even for a diplomatic mission.

Viktor checked his other arm. The Polaris monitor lay heavy on his wrist. The plasma screen continued to depict the five-pointed star. Each point glowed, awaiting the master trigger.

All was in order.

Overnight, the diagnostic testing of Polaris had gone without mishap, requiring only a bit of calibration. He studied the wrist monitor. The nuclear-powered array utilized the latest sonic technology, capable of shattering the entire polar cap. But when in quiet mode, it also acted as a sensitive receiver. The five points of the star comprised a radar array, a giant ice dish spanning a hundred kilometers. Like ELF systems used in subs, no matter where in the world Admiral Petkov was, his monitor could communicate with the array.

At the corner of the screen, a tiny red heart symbol continued its steady flash in sync with his own pulse.

He raised his eyes just as the officer of the deck burst from the communication shack. “We’ve received a flash message! Marked for Admiral Petkov.”

The clipboard was passed to Captain Mikovsky, who in turn passed it to Viktor.

He took the board a few steps away and opened it. He read down the brief remarks. A cold smile formed on his lips.

Viktor closed the binder. He reviewed Chenko’s remarks. Mission marked black by NSA…Channels confirm intent on both sides. He shook his head. It was the usual semantics of covert operations. Fancy words for the tacit agreement on both sides to the private war that was about to be fought out here. Both governments would wage this war, but neither side would acknowledge it ever happened.

And Viktor knew why.

There was a dark secret both governments wanted forever silenced, and an even darker prize that went with it. Neither side would ever acknowledge its existence, but neither could they leave it untouched. The stakes were too high. The prize, the fruit of his father’s labor, was a discovery that could revolutionize the world.

But who would ultimately possess it?

Viktor knew only one thing for certain: it was his father’s legacy. The Americans would never have it. This he swore.

And after that…other matters could be settled.

He glanced again to the Polaris monitor. With the go-code in hand, it was now time to start his own gambit. He pressed the silver button on the side of the wrist monitor, holding it for a full thirty seconds. He was careful not to touch the neighboring red button — at least not yet.

Viktor stared at the monitor. He had these thirty seconds to reconsider his decision. Once Polaros was activated, there was no turning back, no retreat. He continued to hold the button, unwavering in his determination.

During the course of his sixty-four years, he had seen Russia change: from a czarist country of kings and palaces, to a Communist state of Stalin and Khrushchev, then into a broken landscape of independent states, warring, poor, and on the brink of ruin. Each transition weakened his country, his people.

And the world at large was no better. Century-old hatreds locked the world into strife and terror: Northern Ireland, the Balkans, Israel and the Arab states. It was a pattern that was repeated over and over without end, without resolution, without hope.

Viktor kept the button pressed.

It was time a new world arose, where old patterns would be shattered forever, where nations would be forced to work together in order to survive and rebuild. A new world would be born out of ice and chaos.

It would be his legacy, in the memory of his father, his mother.

The center trigger remained dark, but the smaller lights at the points of the star began to blink in sequence, winding around and around.

Viktor released the button.

It was done.

Polaris was now activated. It only awaited the master trigger engine to be deployed at the station. Project Shockwave was about to go from theory to reality. Viktor stared at the flashing lights marking the five-pointed star, winding around and around, awaiting his final command.

After that, there would be no abort code.

No fail-safe.

Mikovsky stepped over to him. “Admiral?”

Viktor barely heard him. The captain seemed exceptionally young at the moment. So naive. His world had already ended, and he didn’t even know it. Viktor sighed. He had never felt so free.

Unfettered of the future, Viktor had only one goal now: to retrieve his father’s body, to collect the heritage that belonged to his family.

At the end of the world, nothing else mattered.

“Admiral?” Mikovsky repeated. “Sir?”

Viktor faced the captain and cleared his throat. “The Drakon has new orders.”

Perry stood in the control station, his eyes fixed to the number one periscope. They had risen to periscope depth in an open lead ten minutes ago, slowly rising between pressure ridges. Through the scope, he stared out at the expanse of ice fields. The winds had picked up, scouring the frozen plains. Overhead, the skies had gone white. A big storm was coming in. But Perry didn’t need to check the weather outside to know this.

All night long, they had been patrolling the waters around the drift station and the Russian base, watching for any sign of the Drakon, as ordered. But the midnight waters had remained empty. There was no sonar contact, except for a pod of beluga whales passing at the edge of their range. The Polar Sentinel seemed to be alone out here.

Still, tension remained high among his men. They were warriors in a boat without teeth, hunting for an Akula II class fast-attack submarine. Perry had read the intel on the armaments aboard the Drakon. Russian for “dragon.” A fitting name. It was equipped not only with the usual array of torpedoes, but also rocket-propelled weapons: the lightning-fast Shkval torpedoes and SS-N-16 antisubmarine missiles. It was a formidable opponent even against the best of the American fleet…and if pitted against the tiny Polar Sentinel, it would be like a match between a tadpole and a sea dragon.

The radioman of the watch stepped into the control station. “Sir, I’ve raised the commander at Deadhorse. But I don’t know how long I’ll be able to maintain contact.”

“Very good.” Perry folded the periscope grips and sent the pole diving back down on its hydraulics. He followed the ensign to the radio room.

“I was able to bounce the UHF off the ionosphere,” he said as he led the way into the room. “But I can’t promise that it’ll last.”

Perry nodded and crossed to the radio receiver. They had gone to periscope depth to raise their antennas and send out their report for the past night, but Perry had asked the radioman to attempt to reach Prudhoe Bay. The men were anxious for an update.

Perry unhooked and lifted the receiver. “Captain Perry here.”

“Commander Tracy,” a ghostly voice whispered in his ear. It sounded like it was coming from the moon, faint, fading in and out. “I’m glad you were able to contact us.”

“How is the search-and-rescue going?”

“Still a circus out here, but the fires are finally contained. And we may have our first real lead on the saboteurs.”

“Really? Any idea who they are?”

A long pause. “I was hoping you could answer that.”

Perry crinkled his brow. “Me?”

“I was trying to raise Omega just as you called. An hour ago, someone anonymous sent in footage of a small aircraft flying over Gathering Station Number One just before it blew. It’s grainy, black-and-white…as if taken with a night-shot camera.”

“What does this have to do with Omega?”

“Your base security contacted the Fairbanks Sheriff’s Department and inquired about one of their planes and the identity of one of their sheriffs. We learned of this when we traced the call signs seen from the video footage and contacted Fairbanks ourselves. They’re the same plane.”

“And where’s this airplane now?” Perry suspected the answer. The confirmation came a moment later.

“It landed this morning at your base.”

Perry closed his eyes. So much for trying to catch an hour or two of sleep in his cabin after an interminable night.

“I’ve sent a request to your superiors for those in the plane to be transported back to Deadhorse for questioning.”

“Do you think they blew up the pump station?”

“That’s what we intend to find out. Either way, whoever they are, they must be kept under guard.”

Perry sighed. He could not argue against the wisdom of that. But if they were the saboteurs, what were they doing at the base? And if they weren’t, the chain of coincidences was far too spectacular to be blamed on chance alone. First, the explosions at Prudhoe Bay, then the suspicious behavior of the Russians, and now the sudden arrival of these mysterious guests. Without a doubt, they were somehow involved in all of this. But how?

“I’ll have to confer with COMSUBPAC,” Perry finished, “before I transport the detainees. Until then, I’ll keep them safe and sound.”

“Very good, Captain. Good hunting.” Commander Tracy signed off.

Perry replaced the receiver and turned to the radioman. “I need to reach Admiral Reynolds as soon as we return to Omega.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”

Perry stepped out into the hall and ducked back into the conn.

Commander Bratt eyed him from the diving station. “What’s the word from Prudhoe?”

“It seems the key to the whole mess has landed in our laps.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean we’re heading back to the drift station. We have some new guests to entertain.”

“The Russians?”

Perry shook his head slowly. “Just get us back to the station.”

“Aye, Captain.” Bratt readied the boat to dive.

Perry tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together in his head. But too many pieces were still missing. He finally gave up. Perhaps he could catch a nap before they reached the drift station. He sensed he’d soon need to be at his most alert.

He opened his mouth, ready to pass command over to Bratt, when the sonar watch supervisor announced, “Officer of the Deck, we have a Sierra One contact!”

Instantly, everyone went alert. Sonar contact.

Commander Bratt moved over to the BSY-1 sonar suite, joining the supervisor and electronic technicians. Perry joined him and eyed the monitors with their green waterfalls of sonar data flowing over them.

The supervisor turned to Perry. “It’s another sub, sir. A big one.”

Perry stared at the screens. “The Drakon.”

“A good bet, Captain,” Bratt said from the nearby fire control station, reading target course and speed. “It’s heading directly for Omega.”

Amanda shed her parka as she left the ice tunnels of the Crawl Space and reentered the main station. The heated interior was welcome after the freeze of the ice island’s heart, but it was still a damp warmth, bordering on the sweltering. She hung the parka on a hook by the door to the Crawl Space.

Dr. Willig kept his coat on, but as a concession to the heat, he unzipped it and threw back the parka’s hood. He also pulled off his mittens, pocketed them, and rubbed his palms. The seventy-year-old oceanographer sighed, appreciating the warmth. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

Amanda headed down the hall. “A big storm’s coming. If I want to return to Omega, I’ll have to set off now. Otherwise I’ll be stuck here for another day or two until the storm breaks.”

“And I know you don’t want that.”

She noted the smile hovering at the edge of his lips.

“Captain Perry should be returning to Omega,” he said, and nodded to the single guard posted at the door. They had reduced the number of Navy men here, drawing personnel back to the sub for an exercise. “You wouldn’t want to miss that.”

“Oskar,” Amanda warned, but she couldn’t keep a smile from her own lips. Was she so easy to read?

“It’s okay, my dear. I miss my Helena, too. It’s hard to be apart.”

Amanda took her mentor’s hand and squeezed it. His wife had died two years ago, Hodgkin’s disease.

“Go back to Omega,” Dr. Willig told her. “Don’t squander time when you could be together.” By now they had drawn abreast of the Navy seaman guarding Level Four. Oskar glanced to him, then back to Amanda. “Still don’t want to tell me about what’s in there?”

“You truly don’t want to know.”

He shrugged. “A scientist is used to hard truths…especially one as old as this base.”

Amanda continued past the door with Dr. Willig. “The truth will come out eventually.”

“After the Russians arrive…”

She shrugged, but could not keep a bitter edge from her voice. “It’s all politics.” She hated to keep secrets from her own researchers, but even more she knew the world had a right to know what had transpired here sixty years ago. Someone had to be held accountable. The delay in releasing the news was surely just a way to buy time, to blunt the impact, possibly even to cover it up. A deep well of anger burned in her gut.

She reached the inner spiral staircase and climbed the steps. The plates vibrated underfoot. Movement drew her eye to the central shaft around which the stairs wound. A steel cage rose from below and passed their spot, climbing toward the upper levels. She turned to Dr. Willig. “They got the elevator working!”

He nodded. “Lee Bentley and his NASA team are having a field day with all this old machinery and gear. Boys and their toys.”

Amanda shook her head. What was once defunct and frozen in ice was now thawing and returning to life. They wound their way up in silence.

Once they reached the top level, she said good-bye to her friend and crossed to the temporary room she had used the previous night. She gathered her pack and changed into her thermal racing suit. With the dispute between the biologists and geologists settled for the next couple of days, she was free to return to Omega.

As she headed out, a blue-uniformed woman crossed the common area, an arm raised to catch her attention. Lieutenant Serina Washburn was the only female among the Navy crew stationed up here, a part of the base team. She was tall, ebony-skinned, her hair shorn in a crew cut. Looking at her, one couldn’t help but think of the old Amazons of mythology, women warriors of grace and strength. Her demeanor was always serious, her manner quiet. She stepped before Amanda, half at attention, respectful.

“Dr. Reynolds. I have a message relayed from Omega.”

She sighed. What was wrong now? “Yes?”

“A group of civilians landed at Omega this morning and are being held by the security team.”

She startled. “Who are they?”

“There are four of them, including a sheriff, a Fish and Game, and a reporter. Their identities have been checked and confirmed.”

“Then why are they being held?”

Washburn shifted her feet. “With the sabotage at Prudhoe Bay…” She shrugged.

No one was taking any chances. “Do we know why they’re here?”

“They know about this station.”

“How?”

The lieutenant shrugged. “All they’ll claim is that some danger is heading our way. Something perhaps tied to the explosions at the oil fields. They refuse to say more until they can speak to someone in authority. And we’ve been unable to raise Captain Perry.”

Amanda nodded. As the base leader, she would have to look into it. “I was about to head back to Omega anyway. I’ll check into the matter once I’m there.”

She stepped away, but the lieutenant stopped her with a hand. “There’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The reporter and the others are adamant about coming here. They’re raising a real stink about it.”

Amanda considered refusing such a visit, but then remembered her frustration a moment ago with all the secrecy and politicking surrounding the discovery on Level Four. If a reporter was here, someone to document everything…and a sheriff, too…

She weighed her options. If she returned to interview these strangers, the coming storm would trap them all at Omega. And once Captain Perry was back, he’d block the reporter from coming here. He’d have no choice, tied as he was by the commands of his superior. But Amanda was under no such constraint. She took a deep breath. It was a narrow window in which perhaps to break this political stalemate and allow a little truth to shine before the awful discovery was clouded in rhetoric and lies.

Amanda faced the stern lieutenant. “Have the civilians brought here.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ll interview them here.”

Washburn’s only reaction was to lift one eyebrow. “I don’t believe Lieutenant Commander Sewell will agree with that decision.”

“They can be secured here just as readily as over there. If the commander wants them under guard, I have no objection. He can send as many men with them as he would like. But I want them brought over here before the storm hits.”

Washburn paused a moment, then nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She turned and headed back across the central common area, aiming for the cabin that housed the station’s shortwave hookup to Omega.

Amanda glanced around the station. Finally someone from the outside world would learn what was hidden here, a small bit of assurance that at least some of the truth would come out.

Still a twinge of unease crept through her. Before she could trace the sudden anxiety, a tall shadow fell over her, startling her. It was one of the things she hated most about being deaf. She could never hear anyone approaching from behind.

She turned to find Connor MacFerran looming over her, a bewildered expression on his face. “Have you seen Lacy?”

“Ms. Devlin?”

He nodded.

She scrunched her nose in thought. “I saw her when I entered the Crawl Space. She was carrying her skates.” Amanda and the geology student shared a common interest in ice racing and had chatted for a bit.

Connor checked his watch. “She should’ve been back from her run an hour ago. We were to meet…to…um, to go over some data.”

“I haven’t seen her since we separated in the ice tunnels.”

The Scotsman’s face grew concerned.

“You don’t think she could’ve gotten lost down there?” Amanda asked.

“I’d better go check. I know the course she runs.” He left, stalking away like a giant black bear.

“Take some others with you!” she called to him. “Let me know when you find her.”

He lifted an arm, either acknowledging or dismissing her.

Amanda stared after him. Anxiety grew to worry. She hoped the young woman hadn’t injured herself. She headed back toward her cabin, zipping down her thermal suit. She spotted Dr. Willig at one of the tables.

He waved a hand, motioning her over. “I thought you’d be gone already,” he said as she strode up.

“Change in plans.”

“Well, I was talking to Dr. Gustof.” Oskar motioned to the Canadian meteorologist, also seated at the table. Erik Gustof was recognizable by his Norwegian heritage. He wiped his clipped beard of sandwich crumbs and nodded to her. “He has been analyzing some of the data from his outlying arrays. The storm coming is building into a true blizzard. He’s registering winds in excess of seventy miles an hour.”

Erik nodded. “A true barnbuster, eh? We’ll be locked down but good.”

Amanda sighed. She remembered the warning of the newcomers: Danger is headed our way. It seemed these strangers knew what they were talking about, but she sensed it wasn’t the weather that was the real threat.

“Are you all right?” Dr. Willig asked.

“For now,” she answered numbly. “For now.”

Jenny pulled on her parka, eyeing their guards. Around her, the others also donned cold-weather gear, some supplied by the base personnel: mittens, scarves, sweaters. Matt tugged on a borrowed wool cap, since his patched green Army jacket had no hood. With his usual stubbornness, he had refused to exchange it for one of the Navy men’s parkas. Jenny knew her ex-husband would never part with this tattered bit of his past.

“You’ll all need sunglasses, too,” Lieutenant Commander Sewell ordered.

“I don’t have any,” Craig said, hiking his pack of cameras and personal gear higher on his shoulder. One of the Navy petty officers had gone earlier to the Twin Otter to fetch it.

Half an hour ago, Sewell had returned with new instructions. He had been able to reach Omega’s civilian head, apparently the daughter of the admiral who commanded the Navy crew stationed here. A nice bit of nepotism, it seemed. Still, Jenny hadn’t complained. Dr. Reynolds had granted them permission to cross to the Russian base.

Sewell passed Craig a pair of sunglasses from his own pocket. The commander would be staying here — as would one member of their own team.

Jenny knelt and gave Bane a big hug. The wolf wagged his tail and nibbled her ear. Sewell had refused to allow the dog to accompany them. “You be a good boy,” she said.

Thump…thump…thump…

Matt stepped to her side and gave Bane a scratch behind an ear. “We’ll be back tomorrow, big guy.”

Jenny looked askance at Matt. Bane was the last tie between them. A bit of love shared. When Matt caught her looking at him, they matched gazes, but it quickly grew awkward. He was the first to turn away.

“I’ll take good care of your dog,” a Navy ensign said as Jenny stood. He held Bane’s leash.

“You’d better,” Matt countered.

The twenty-year-old lad nodded. “My dad has a husky team back home.”

Surprised, Jenny studied the young ensign more closely. He was olive-complexioned, eyes bright with a blend of innocence, youth, and exuberance. He appeared to be native Indian, Aleut perhaps. She read his embroidered name patch. “Tom Pomautuk.” Her eyes widened with recognition. “You’re not Snow Eagle’s son, by any chance? Jimmy Pomautuk’s son?”

His gaze flicked up to her with surprise. “You know my da’.”

“He ran the Iditarod back in ninety-nine. Placed third.”

A proud smile broke over his face. “That’s right.”

“I ran that race. He helped me when I snagged up my team and turned my sled.” Jenny felt more confident leaving Bane in the hands of Snow Eagle’s son. “How’s Nanook?”

His smile broadened more fully, if not a trace sadly. “He’s getting old now. He only helps dad on his tour runs. His days of leading the team are over. But we do have one of his pups in training back on Fox Island.”

Sewell interrupted them. “You all need to set out if you’re going to miss this storm.”

Jenny gave Bane another pat. “You mind Tom.” She stepped away.

“I don’t like leaving Bane with a stranger,” Matt grumbled beside her.

“You’re welcome to stay here with him,” Jenny said, skirting past Matt and heading with the others toward the door.

Matt followed, a sullen shadow at her back.

The group pushed out into the deep freeze, leaving behind the fluorescent interior lighting for the gloom of the overcast day. The sun was a dull glow, an eternal gloaming, trapped between day and night. Since this morning, the horizons had closed in around the station, socked by the ice fog. This is how Jenny always pictured Purgatory: an endless white gloom.

With her first breath, the cold reached inside Jenny’s chest. It was ice water filling her lungs. She coughed reflexively. The temperature had already dropped. In such cold, any exposed bit of skin was in immediate risk of frostbite. Each nostril hair became an icy bristle. Even tears froze in their ducts. It was an impossible place to survive.

Once she cleared the lee of the Jamesway hut, winds gusted and tore at her clothing, seeking warm skin. Upon the sharp breezes, Jenny could smell the storm in the air.

As a group, they hunched off toward the two parked Sno-Cats.

A distant boom echoed and rolled over the ice.

Craig glanced around him. “What was that?”

“Fracturing ice floes,” Jenny answered. “The storm is stirring up the ice.” Other crackling booms erupted, like thunder from over the horizon. She could feel it through her boots. It was going to be a hell of a storm.

Once they reached the vehicles, two Navy seamen led Jenny and her father toward one vehicle. Craig and Matt headed to the other with their own armed escort. Despite the cooperation evidenced by allowing them to visit the Russian ice base, Sewell was hedging his bet, splitting them up, assigning guards to them at all times.

One of the guards stepped to the first Sno-Cat and pulled open the door. “Ma’am, you and your father will take this one.”

Ducking her head, Jenny climbed into the cabin of the second idling Sno-Cat, grateful to get out of the wind.

The driver, uniformed in a blue parka, was already in his seat. He nodded as she slid beside him on the bench seat. “Ma’am.”

She frowned back at him. If one more person called her ma’am today…

Her father took the spot on the other side of her. The two guards hauled themselves into the backseat.

“Sorry we can’t run the heater,” the driver said to them all. “To cover the thirty miles, we’re gonna have to conserve.”

Once everyone was settled, the driver started the tread-wheeled vehicle across the ice. He followed the trundled track of the other Cat as they headed out from the base. Once under way, the driver tapped a button, and a rockabilly tune twanged from the tiny speakers.

A groan rose from the seaman in the backseat. “Trash this hayseed shit. Don’t you have any hip-hop?”

“Who’s driving this rig? I could put in the Backstreet Boys.” The threat was clear in the driver’s voice.

“No, no…that’s all right,” the other conceded, and slumped back in his seat.

They continued away from the base, all lost to their own thoughts. Snow crunched under the treads.

As the driver hummed to the music, Jenny glanced behind. After a quarter mile, the red buildings of the base had grown ghostly in the morning fog, swirling into and out of focus with the winds. Snow was beginning to squall up, too.

She began to twist back around when motion caught her attention — not from the base, but out farther. A dark shadow rose through the whiteness, like some breaching whale. She stared a moment longer, unsure what she was seeing out there on the ice.

Then the winds swept the fog clear for a moment. She watched a black conning tower rise past a jagged line of pressure ridges. Its surface steamed in the subzero air like a living creature. From its sides, small spots shone. Tinier red pinpoints of light dazzled and traced over the ice and through the fog. Vague figures scrambled along the ice ridge.

“Is that your submarine?” Jenny asked.

Both seamen swung around. The music critic, the one with the best view, jolted up from his seat. “Fuck!” He tore open the back door. “It’s the goddamn Russians!”

Winds whipped into the cabin. The driver braked the Sno-Cat. Jenny saw the other Cat continuing into the ice fog. They must not have seen the submarine.

She turned to her father. He was staring back at the base, too. “They’re wearing white parkas,” he said calmly.

Jenny noticed, too.

The guard, assault rifle in hand, hopped out the door as their Sno-Cat growled to a stop.

“Keep going,” Jenny suddenly urged the driver. She was ignored.

The guard outside lifted his weapon. He studied the sub and men racing over the ice ridge.

Laser sights glowed in the fog, casting about. Then a fiery flash burst from the top of the Russian submarine. A missile jetted through the air in a tight arc and smashed into one of the smaller outbuildings.

The explosion shattered the hut, blowing it into a hail of flaming fragments. A ten-foot-wide hole was punched through the ice.

“They took out the satellite array,” the seaman in the backseat moaned. He leaned farther out the open door.

Jenny saw a single red laser pointer squiggle across the ice in their direction. It found the Sno-Cat. She swung around. “Move!” she yelled.

When the driver didn’t respond, she punched her foot on the accelerator. The vehicle was still in gear and jolted forward.

“What are you doing?” the driver shouted, and knocked her leg aside.

“They blasted your communication!” Jenny yelled back. “You think they’re gonna let us leave!”

Punctuating her words, gunfire erupted outside. The guard was down on one knee, firing. “Go!” he hollered at them.

The driver hesitated half a breath, then jammed the accelerator himself. “Hang on!”

“C’mon, Fernandez!” the seaman in the backseat yelled to his buddy.

Out on the ice, the guard rose to his feet and backed up. His rifle barrel steamed. More laser sights zeroed in on the fleeing Sno-Cat. He turned and ran for the cab. But when he was within a couple steps, he tripped. His right leg flew out from under him. He hit the ice and slid, leaving a red trail behind him.

“Fernandez!” The seaman leaped from the cab. He raced over to his partner, grabbed his collar, and hauled him after the Sno-Cat.

The driver slowed enough for the pair to catch up.

Jenny rolled into the backseat and helped grab the injured man.

Once both men were hauled inside, Fernandez yelled at the driver. “Kick this piece of crap in the ass!” He seemed more angry at being shot than scared. He pounded a fist on the seat.

The other man kept pressure with both gloved hands on his buddy’s thigh. Blood welled between his fingers.

The Sno-Cat churned across the ice. Jenny stared ahead. The lead vehicle had disappeared into the ice fog. If only they could do the same…

Rockabilly continued to blare from the speakers. Snow crunched. Then a sharp whistling cut through everything.

“Shit,” the driver swore.

The blast erupted just ahead of them, spattering the Sno-Cat with chunks of ice. The windshield cracked with spiderwebs. They were momentarily blinded.

Instinctively, the driver ripped the wheel around. The top-heavy Sno-Cat tilted up on one tread, skidding. Through the smoke, Jenny saw what the driver had been attempting to avoid.

A hole lay blasted through the ice. Ten feet down, water and ice sloshed. Steam roiled up from the edges of the blasted pit.

The Sno-Cat continued its icy slide toward the deadly pit, still up on one tread, fishtailing. Jenny was sure they’d never avoid the fall. Still the driver fought the wheel.

No one breathed.

But miraculously, impossibly, the stubborn vehicle stopped just at the edge of the hole’s shattered lip.

The driver swore — half in relief, half in restrained panic.

The tilted Sno-Cat slammed back down onto both treads, rattling Jenny’s teeth. A booming crack resounded with the impact.

Jenny’s heart clenched. “Out!” she choked, reaching for a door handle — but it was already too late.

Like a glacier calving from a coastline, the section of ice under them fell away. The Sno-Cat followed, rockabilly blaring, and toppled end over end into the icy ocean.

Perry stood in the control bridge. The entire crew held their breaths. All eyes were on the monitors and equipment. Perry leaned beside one screen. The image was a digital feed from one of the exterior cameras. Half a mile away, the shadow of the Drakon floated, limned within a pillar of light shining through the open polynya. The enemy sub showed no indication that it sensed its smaller shadow.

“Captain.” Commander Bratt spoke from the fire control station, whispering. He wore a pair of headphones. “We’re picking up weapon fire on the hydrophones.”

“Damn it!” Perry grumbled under his breath. A fist formed.

Bratt made eye contact with Perry. “Orders?”

From first sonar contact, the Polar Sentinel had followed the Akula-class submarine as it bore down upon Omega, running silent and fast. Without armaments, they had no way of defending themselves or mounting an offense against the larger, armed vessel. And without surfacing, they had no way to warn the drift station. So they had played ghost with the other boat.

“I’m detecting a missile launch!” the sonar supervisor hissed.

On the screen, a section of the ice roof suddenly blew downward with a bright flash, as if a meteor had punched through from above. They didn’t need the hydrophones to hear the blast echo through the waters.

A moment of stunned silence followed.

“I think that was the satellite shack,” Bratt whispered, one finger resting on a vectored map of the Omega station.

They’re isolating the station, Perry realized. The station’s satellite transmitters and receivers were its only link to the outside world — except for the Polar Sentinel.

“What do we do?” Bratt asked.

“We need to get our mouths above water,” Perry answered, raising his voice. “Commander, order the boat back to the Russian ice station. We’ll broadcast the situation from there while we evacuate the civilians. That will surely be the Russians’ next target.”

“Aye, sir.”

Bratt began issuing hushed orders to the diving crew. The helmsman and planesman trimmed the boat and brought it about. They glided the sub silently away.

Explosions still echoed, ringing down through the ice. The noise helped cover their retreat. Though, in truth, they could’ve escaped even if it had been dead quiet. Designed with the newest silent propulsion system and a thicker sonar-absorbing anechoic coating, the Sentinel was all but invisible to most means of detection. She slid away without any outward sign that the Drakon even knew she was there.

As they left, Perry watched the video screen. The column of light faded behind them until there was just darkness.

Bratt called over to him from the boat’s diving station. “ETA to the Russian base is thirty-two minutes.”

Perry nodded and stared around the bridge. Every face was grim, angry. They were running away from a fight, but it was a battle they couldn’t win. The Polar Sentinel was the only means to evacuate the station.

Still, as he stood in the center of the sub’s control bridge, an overriding fear turned his insides to ice. Amanda…She had left yesterday for the ice station, to settle some dispute between the geologists and biologists, but she had been scheduled to return to Omega this morning. Had she already returned? Or was she still at the ice station?

Bratt stepped over to him. “The Russians aren’t going to need much time to lock Omega down, especially considering the lack of defenses there. After that, they’ll be hauling ass over to their station.”

His XO was right. It wouldn’t leave them much of a window in which to evacuate the civilians. He cleared his throat. “Commander, assemble a quick-response team. Under your lead. Have them suited up and ready to offload as soon as we surface. We need everyone out of there ASAP.”

“Will do, Captain. Do you have a timetable for the evac?”

Perry considered the question, judging the speed of the other sub and the meager defenses of Omega. He needed as much time as possible, but he couldn’t risk having his boat caught on the surface.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “I want us diving again in exactly fifteen minutes.”

“That’s not much time.”

“I don’t care if you have to yank folks naked from the showers. Get their asses into the Sentinel. Don’t worry about equipment, supplies, nothing. Just get everyone on board.”

“It’ll be done.” Bratt turned sharply, already shouting orders.

Perry stared after him. Around the bridge, everyone busied themselves at their stations. Alone with his own thoughts, his worries for Amanda grew. Where was she?

Deep in the Crawl Space of the station, Amanda followed Connor MacFerran’s broad back. After arranging for the transfer of the reporter and his group to the station, Amanda had found herself full of nervous energy. By bringing these newcomers out here, she knew she was violating the intent of the Navy’s gag order, if not the letter. Word of the discovery on Level Four was not to be broadcast to the outside world — but that didn’t mean she couldn’t reveal it to folks already here. The sheriff, the reporter, and the others…as long as they were at the station, they were under the umbrella of the gag order, not outside it.

Still, Amanda knew she was skating on thin ice. Greg…Captain Perry…would not be pleased. He was Navy, like her father. Bending rules was not something they tolerated easily. But Amanda had to be true to her own heart. The facts had to get out. They needed an impartial party to document it all, like the reporter.

With her decision made, she was too edgy to sit for the two or so hours it would take to make the transfer. So after getting confirmation from Washburn, she had headed down to the Crawl Space to see if there was any news on Lacy Devlin.

It was lucky she had decided to check.

She had found Connor MacFerran stamping a set of ice crampons onto the bottom of his boots. They were spiked like golf shoes, meant to keep one’s footing stable on the slick surface. Clearly he had been about to head out on his own, ignoring her order to take others with him. “Everyone is busy,” he had complained, then patted his down vest. “Besides I have a walkie-talkie.”

Of course, Amanda refused to let him go alone, and since she was still wearing her thermal racing suit, she had only to don a pair of crampons herself.

Ahead of her now, Connor halted at a crisscrossing of ice tunnels. He wore a mining helmet and shone its light down the various chutes. He cupped his mouth. His chest heaved. His lips were hidden, but Amanda knew he was yelling out Lacy’s name.

Amanda waited, deaf to any response. She carried a flashlight in one hand and a coil of poly-line over one shoulder. They were in an un-mapped section of the Crawl Space. It was a maze of tunnels, cracks, and caves.

Connor touched an orange spray-painted arrow on the wall. Amanda had been told it marked the skating course Lacy followed. But Amanda didn’t need the markers to track the woman. The floor was scored with old runner marks, a cryptic script of steel across ice.

Connor continued down the marked tunnel, raising his hand to his lips, calling out. But from his steady pace, there seemed no response.

They continued for another twenty minutes, winding down and around a long looping ice chute, then back into the tangle of cracks and tunnels. Connor continued to call out and follow the orange markers.

He was so intent on listening, searching for the next marker, that he missed the scoring of ice that led off the main track and headed down a long crack.

“Connor!” Amanda called to him.

He jumped at her yell. Maybe it had been too loud.

He turned to her. “What?”

She pointed to the one set of tracks leading away. “She went this way.” She bent and rubbed the scored ice. It was hard to say how old the marks were. But it was something worth investigating. She glanced up to the geologist.

He nodded and moved into the crack.

She followed with her flashlight.

They moved down the chute, digging in their crampons to keep traction. The tunnel narrowed, but the track kept going.

Connor stopped ahead of her, glancing back — not at her, but back down the tunnel. His brow was crinkled.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I thought I heard something.” He stood and listened for another few breaths, then shrugged heavily. He turned and continued down the tunnel.

After another ten steps, the path plunged over an ice cliff.

Connor reached the edge first, bending over to shine his helmet light down. He suddenly stiffened and dropped to his knees.

Amanda squeezed up next to him. It was tight. The pit ended about fifteen feet down. The splash of red on the ice was a raw slash. One boot lay in the middle of the stain. Also a mining helmet, the lamp smashed.

Connor turned to her. “Lacy’s.”

There was no sign of a body, but the bloody track led off to the side. Out of their line of vision.

“I have to go down there,” Connor insisted. “There might be another way out that we can’t see. If Lacy tried to drag herself…”

Amanda stared at the amount of blood on the floor. It seemed hopeless, but she shrugged the coil of poly-line to the floor. “I’m lighter. You brace me, and I’ll go down and look.”

Connor looked like he was going to leap down there himself. But he only nodded.

Amanda tossed a length of rope to the bottom. Connor braced himself, seated on the ice a couple feet from the edge, legs apart, crampons dug into the walls. He passed a loop of poly-line around his back, under his armpits. He shook it, testing it.

“You ready?” she asked.

“I won’t drop a little slip of a girl like you,” he groused. “Just find Lacy.”

Amanda nodded. She pocketed her flashlight, grabbed the rope, and began to rappel down into the ice pit. She lowered herself, hand over hand, spiked feet against the wall. She quickly reached the bottom.

“Off rope!” she called up as her toes hit the floor.

The line jiggled as the large man unbraced himself and crawled over to the edge. He still wore the loop of poly-line around his chest. He stared anxiously down at her and mouthed something, but with his thick beard and the glare of his helmet lamp, she could not make out what he was saying.

Rather than admit her ignorance, she simply waved to him. She pulled out her flashlight.

As she swung her light, her nose curled. The smell was rank. It seemed to hover at the bottom of the pit like bad air in a cavern, heavy, thick, suffocating. She swallowed hard. One summer, while going to Stanford, she had worked in the kennel of an animal research facility. The stench here brought her back: blood, feces, and urine. It was a smell that she had come to equate with fear.

She followed the blood trail with her flashlight. It led past the cliff to an opening in the ice wall. It was a horizontal slot, even with the floor, similar to a street drain that led into a city’s underground sewers. It was no higher than her knee, but almost as long as the length of her body.

A big sewer drain.

She crossed toward it and called out, “Lacy!”

Deaf, she glanced up to Connor to see if he registered any response. He still knelt up at the cliff’s edge, but he was staring back down the tunnel rather than into the pit.

Her toe hit something on the floor, drawing her gaze back down. It was Lacy’s boot. It spun from her kick. She instinctively followed it with her flashlight. It hit the wall and stopped. From this angle, her light shone down into the boot.

It wasn’t empty. Bright bone, splintered at the end, stuck out of the boot.

She screamed. But no noise came out. Or maybe it did. She had no way of telling. She scrambled backward on the ice, crampons now acting like ice skates.

She craned up to the cliff’s edge.

No one was there.

“Connor!”

She could see his light up there, deeper in the tunnel. But it jittered all around, like he was doing some Scottish jig up there. Even the rope snaking down the cliff wall whipped and flailed.

“Connor!”

Then the light stopped its dance, as if hearing her. It settled still, pointing toward the top of the tunnel. The dancing rope went slack.

Amanda backed across the ice, trying to get some distance, trying to see farther down the mouth of the tunnel. She pointed her flashlight up. Her throat constricted into a knot, and blood pounded in her useless ears. She didn’t bother calling out again.

Something moved over the geologist’s headlamp, casting a shadow over the ceiling. Something large, hunched…

She now held her flashlight with both hands, pointing it like a weapon. It was surely just Connor. But being deaf, she had no way of knowing for sure. Maybe he was calling out to her…

Terror tightened her belly.

The shadow drew closer.

Amanda didn’t wait.

She bolted across the ice, fleeing along Lacy’s bloody track, aiming for the only means of escape. She dove belly first onto the ice. The wind was knocked out of her. She didn’t care. She slid toward the dark sewer drain, flashlight pointed forward.

Then she was gone.

The slot swallowed her away.

The momentum of her slide carried her several feet down the drain. Illuminated by her flashlight, the low ceiling drew upward. She scrambled up to her knees as she slowed, spinning slightly on the ice.

The sloped floor dumped into a hollow space. She sat up. The roof here was high enough to stand if she ducked her head, but she remained seated. Her flashlight waved around the room.

It was a dead end…in every sense of the word.

Across the bowled floor of the hollow, bones lay everywhere: cracked, splintered, some bleached white, some yellowed. Empty skulls, human and animal, gleamed. Femurs, ribs, scapulas.

One word rang in her head.

Nest…

In a back corner lay a crumpled form, bent and broken, unmoving, festooned in a red, white, and blue Thinsulate outfit. Frozen blood pooled around the shape.

She had found Lacy.

Matt fought the two guards who flanked him in the backseat of the Sno-Cat. “We have to go back!” he yelled.

An elbow struck him across the bridge of the nose. Stars and pain blinded him, knocking him back into his seat. “Stay seated, or we’ll handcuff you.” Lieutenant Mitchell Greer grimaced and rubbed his elbow.

The other guard, a bullnecked seaman by the name of Doug Pearlson, had drawn his pistol. It was presently pointed at the roof of the Cat, but the threat was plain.

“Matt, calm down,” Craig said from the front seat.

“We have our orders,” the driver, a petty officer, said.

A minute ago, Lieutenant Commander Sewell had radioed their vehicle. He had ordered them to continue to the Russian ice station immediately. The commander had been unable to raise the station himself, and warning of the Russian ambush had to be relayed.

Then an explosion had cut off communication. It was a close hit, sounding at their heels. The ice shook under the Cat’s treads. All eyes searched behind. Gunfire sounded in the distance.

But the threatening storm had rolled in early, squalling up snow in a ground blizzard. All attempts to raise the other Sno-Cat failed. Fear for Jenny and her father had driven Matt to attempt to commandeer their vehicle, but he was outmanned and outgunned.

There was still no sign of the trailing vehicle.

“Try them again then!” Matt snapped, blinking back tears from the pain of his bruised nose. He could taste blood in the back of his mouth.

The driver shook his head and unhooked the radio. “Cat Two, this is Cat One. Respond. Over.” He held the receiver up.

No answer.

“It could just be a local blind spot,” the driver said. “We see that up here. Sometimes you can communicate with someone halfway across the globe, but not in your own backyard.” He shrugged, bouncing slightly as the Cat rode over a series of ice ridges.

Matt didn’t believe a word of it. Jenny was in trouble. He knew it down to the soles of his feet. But by now, they were a couple miles ahead of her Sno-Cat. Even if he broke out of here, he wasn’t sure he could make it to her in time to help.

“I’m sure she’s okay,” Craig said, trying to meet his eyes.

Matt held back his retort.

The Sno-Cat trundled straight through the blizzard, heading farther and farther from the woman he once loved. Maybe still loved.

Jenny must have blacked out. One moment the Sno-Cat was toppling around her; the next ice water burned through her jeans, startling her to full alert. She shoved up and quickly took in her surroundings.

The Cat was upside down. Water filled the lower foot of the cabin. The motor still grumbled, vibrating the upended vehicle. The roof light glowed in the waters below her, grimly illuminating the tableau.

Her father was rising from the floor, cradling his wrist.

“Papa?” She shuffled across the roof toward him.

“Mmm, okay,” he mumbled. “Jammed my hand.”

His eyes glanced to the driver. The man lay facedown in the water. His head bent unnaturally backward. “Neck’s broken,” her father said.

The other two guards were fighting the door.

Fernandez slammed his shoulder against the handle. It didn’t budge. The pressure outside the half-submerged Cat held the doors shut. “Fuck!” He limped back on one foot, blood from the gunshot wound trailing through the waters around him.

“Try to find something to smash a window,” Fernandez barked. The whites of his eyes glowed in the watery light.

Jenny stepped toward them. “How about this?” She reached behind the other guard’s back and slipped out his sidearm. Turning, she thumbed the safety and fired into the Cat’s windshield, crackling the Arctic safety glass and tearing it partly away.

“Yeah,” Fernandez said, nodding. “That’ll do.”

The guard retrieved his gun and holstered it, scowling at her.

“Don’t take offense at Kowalski here,” Fernandez said, and waved them forward. “Joe doesn’t like folks touching his things.”

They ducked under the seats.

Kowalski kicked out the remaining glass.

The open water churned and frothed inside the pit. Ice blocks and cakes bobbed in the mix.

“Out of the frying pan…” Fernandez mumbled.

“Make for that crack in the wall,” Jenny said, pointing to a crumbled section that looked climbable.

“Ladies first,” Kowalski offered.

They were now thigh-deep in the water. Jenny pushed out on numb legs. The searing cold cut through her as she fell into the sea. She fought her body’s natural reflex to curl against the frigid water. Seawater froze at 28.6 degrees F. This felt a million degrees colder, so cold it burned. She kicked and pawed chunks of ice out of the way. Slowly she swam across the few yards to the ice slope and pulled herself into the crack, numb fingers scrabbling for purchase.

Once out of the water, she glanced back. The others followed. Kowalski tried to help Fernandez, but he was shoved away.

Behind them, the idling Sno-Cat tipped nose first, then sank into the blue depths. Its lights trailed down into the darkness. For a moment, Jenny saw the pale face of the driver pressed against the glass. Then the Sno-Cat and its lone passenger disappeared.

Jenny helped her father climb from the water into the cracked section of the wall. The slot was jagged with blocks and dagger-sharp protrusions, but the obstacles offered a natural ladder to climb out of the pit.

As a group, they worked their way up. It was a cold, sodden climb. Wet clothes turned to ice. Hair froze to skin. Limbs shook with petit mal seizures in a futile attempt to keep warm.

They all pushed free, one after the other, beaching themselves up onto the ice. It was not exhaustion that immobilized them, but the cold. It held them all as surely as any vise. It was inescapable.

The wind had kicked up. Snow and ice spun dizzily around her.

Her father somehow crawled to her, wrapping her in his arms, cradling her. It had been ages since he had held her like this. She had been only sixteen when she had lost her mother. For the next two years, an aunt and uncle had fostered Jenny while her father was in jail, then probational recovery. Afterward, she had barely spoken to him. But Inuit life was built around social gatherings: birthday parties, baby showers, weddings, and funerals. She had been forced to make an uneasy peace with her father, but it was far from close.

Especially not this close.

Tears flowed and froze on her cheeks. Something finally broke inside her. “Papa…I’m sorry.”

Arms tightened around her. “Hush, conserve your energy.”

“For what?” she mumbled, but she wasn’t sure she had even spoken aloud.

8. Hunter/Killer

“Skylight ahead!” the chief of the watch yelled. “Forty degrees to port!”

“Thank God,” Perry whispered to the periscope’s optical piece. He walked off the degrees, turning the scope. They had spent five minutes searching for the man-made polynya near the ice island. The storm surge through the area had shifted the surface ice by several degrees. Nothing was constant up here, he thought. Nothing but the danger.

Through the scope, the ceiling of the world was black ice, but off to port, where the chief had indicated, he spotted an unnaturally square opening in the roof. It shone a brilliant aquamarine, lighting the waters under it to the pale blue of a Bahamian sea. He eyed his goal with a tight smile. “It’s the polynya! Port ahead one-third, starboard back one-third, right full rudder. Get us under that skylight!”

The term skylight had been used by submariners since first venturing under the polar ice cap. An opening in the ice. Somewhere to surface. There was no better sight, especially with the press of time upon them.

His orders were relayed and a slight tremor vibrated the deck plates as the sub hoved around and aimed for their goal. He watched through the scope. “All ahead slow.”

As they neared the opening in the thick ice, he spoke without taking his eyes from the periscope. “Chief, what’s the ice reading above?”

“Looks good. The opening’s frozen over a bit.” The chief peered closer at the video monitor of the top-sounding sonar. “Across the skylight, I read no more than six inches of ice, but no less than three.”

Perry sighed with relief. It should be thin enough to surface through. He studied the dark ice surrounding the aquamarine lake, jagged and menacing, like the teeth of a shark.

“We’re under the skylight,” Bratt reported from the diving station.

“All stop. Rudder amidships.” As his orders were obeyed, he walked the periscope around, checking to make sure there was plenty of room for the sub to surface without brushing against the dragon-toothed walls of the canyon. Once satisfied, he straightened and folded the periscope grips. The stainless-steel pole descended below. “Stand by to surface.” He swung to Bratt. “Bring her up slowly.”

The soft chug of a pump sounded as seawater ballast was forced out of tanks inside the boat. Slowly the sub began to rise.

Bratt turned to him. “That Russian boat will surely hear us blowing ballast.”

“There’s no helping it.” Perry stepped down from the periscope deck. “Is the evac team ready to debark to the station?”

“Aye, sir. They’re suited up. We’ll empty that place in under ten minutes.”

“Make sure you get everyone out of there.” Perry’s thoughts turned to Amanda for the hundredth time.

Bratt seemed to read his mind, staring intently at him. “We won’t miss anyone, sir. That’s for damn certain.”

Perry nodded.

“Ready for ice!” the chief bellowed.

Overhead, the reinforced bridge crashed through the frozen crust, shuddering the boat. A moment later, the bulk of the submarine followed, cracking through to the surface. All around, valves were opened or closed, dials checked. Reports echoed from throughout the boat.

“Open the hatches!” Bratt yelled. “Ready shore team!”

The locking dogs were undone, and men in parkas gathered, rifles shouldered. One held out a blue parka for Bratt.

Bratt yanked into it. “We’ll be right back.”

Perry glanced to his watch. The Russians were surely already under way by now. “Fifteen minutes. No longer.”

“Plenty of time.” Bratt led his men out.

Perry stared as they climbed away. Cold air, fresh and damp, blew down from above. Once the last man was gone, the hatch slammed shut. Perry paced the length of the periscope stand. He wanted to be out there with Bratt, but he knew his place was here.

Finally, he could stand it no longer. “Chief, you have the conn. I’m going to watch from Cyclops. Patch any communication from the shore team to the intercom there.”

“Aye, sir.”

Perry left the bridge and headed toward the nose of the submarine. He climbed through the hatches and past the empty research suites. He opened the last hatch and entered the naturally illuminated chamber beyond.

He crossed under the arch of clear Lexan. The water sluicing over the glass splintered out in jagged lines of ice, growing visibly into complex fractal designs over the Lexan surface. Beyond the sub, the view was poor. Steam rose off the submarine’s carbon-plate hide, and flurries of snow swirled down in frosted strokes from the heights of the mountainous ice ridges.

Perry stared toward the cavernous opening that led down into the Russian station. He made out the vague shapes of men, trudging, bent against the wind. Bratt’s team. They disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel.

The intercom buzzed. A tinny voice spoke. “Captain, bridge here.”

He crossed and pressed the button. “What is it, Chief?”

“The watch radioman reports no reception from NAVSAT. We’re blanketed under another solar storm, leaving us deaf and dumb for the moment.”

He swore under his breath. With the satellites down, he needed word to reach the outside world. He jabbed the intercom button. “Any ETA on how long we’ll be out of satellite communication?”

“It’s anyone’s guess. Radioman says he expects short bursts of open air, but he can’t say when. Best guess is that the current bevy of solar storms will quit sometime after sunset.” Another long pause. “He’s going to try an ionosphere bounce with the UHF, but there’s no guarantee anyone’ll hear us in this weather. With a bit of luck, we might raise Prudhoe Bay.”

“Roger that, bridge. Have him keep trying as long as we’re surfaced. But I also want a SLOT configured and hidden out on the ice.” A SLOT, or Submarine-Launched One-Way Transmitter, was a communication buoy that could be deployed and set with a time delay to burst a transmitted satellite report. “Set the SLOT to transmit well after sunset.” This should help ensure their message got out after the solar storm passed and reopened satellite communication.

“Aye, sir.”

Perry checked his watch. Five minutes had passed. He stepped back under the Lexan arch. Visibility was mere yards now. He could just make out the line of pressure ridges, but no details. He kept his vigil. After another interminable minute, ghostly shapes pushed through the snow. It was the first of the evacuees.

Through the hollow of the boat, he could hear the outside hatch clang open. He imagined the whistle of wind. More and more shapes appeared out of the squall. He tried to count them, but the swirling snow confounded all efforts to tell one from another, man from woman.

His jaw ached from clenching his teeth.

The intercom buzzed. “Captain, bridge again. Patching through Commander Bratt.”

The next words were scratchy with static. “Captain? We’ve hauled through all the levels. I have two men with bullhorns running the occupied areas of the Crawl Space.”

Perry had to resist interrupting his XO and demanding to know Amanda’s fate.

The answer came anyway. “We learned Dr. Reynolds is still here.”

Perry let out a deep sigh of relief. She hadn’t returned to the drift station and been caught in the attack. She was safe. She was here.

The next words, though, were disquieting. “But, sir, no one has seen her in the last hour or so. She and one of the geologists went searching for an AWOL student in the ice tunnels.”

He hit the button. “Commander, I don’t want anyone left behind.”

“Roger that, sir.”

Perry checked his watch. “You have seven minutes.”

Before any acknowledgment could be transmitted, the control station cut in again. “Bridge to Captain. For the past few minutes, we’ve stopped picking up any evidence of weapon fire from the hydrophones. Sonar also reports suspicious echoes that could be a sub diving. Air venting, mechanicals…”

It could only be the Drakon. The Russian hunter/killer was on the move. Time had run out. Perry knew he couldn’t risk the lives here. He spoke into the intercom. “Patch me back to Bratt.”

“Aye, Captain.”

A moment later, his XO’s voice scratched out of the speaker. “Bratt here.”

“Commander, company is on the way. We need everyone out of there now!”

“Sir, we haven’t even cleared all of the Crawl Space yet.”

“You have exactly three minutes to empty that station.”

“Roger that. Out.”

Perry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Glancing over his shoulder, he took one last look out Cyclops, then ducked out of the room. He climbed back through the sub and assumed command of the bridge again.

Men milled in ordered confusion, helping wide-eyed civilians down ladders and into the living spaces beyond the control station. The interior of the sub had already dropped a good twenty degrees, open to the blizzard above.

Dr. Willig suddenly appeared at Perry’s side. “I know you’re busy, Captain,” the Swedish oceanographer said breathlessly, snow melting in his hair.

“What is it, sir?”

“Amanda…she’s still down in the Crawl Space.”

“Yes. We know.” He kept his voice clipped, tight. He couldn’t let his own panic show. He had to be leader here.

“Surely we’re going to make sure everyone is out of there before leaving.”

“We’ll do our best.”

His answer did little to fade the fear in the old man’s eyes. Amanda was like a daughter to him.

The chief waved from his station. “We’ve got Commander Bratt on the line again, Captain.”

Perry checked his watch, then glanced to the open hatch. The ladder was empty. Where was his XO? He crossed to the boat’s radio. “Commander, time’s run out. Get your ass over here now.”

The answer was faint. The entire bridge had hushed. “Still missing a handful of civilians. In the Crawl Space now with Lieutenant Washburn. Request permission to stay behind. To offer protection for those still here. We’ll find them…then find a good hiding place.”

Perry clenched a fist. A new voice spoke at his side. It was Lee Bentley, one of the NASA crew. “I left the commander my schematics of the station. Detailing the access tunnels and old construction shafts.”

Beyond the scientist, all eyes focused on Perry. Dr. Willig had never looked paler. They awaited his decision.

Perry hit the radio’s transmit. “Commander…” He held the button. Fear for Amanda hollowed his heart, but he had a boatload of crew and civilians to protect. “Commander, we can wait no longer.”

“Understood.”

“Find the others…keep them safe.”

“Roger that. Out.”

Perry closed his eyes.

Dr. Willig spoke into the heavy silence, his voice rich with disbelief. “You’re just going to leave them behind?”

With a deep breath, Perry turned and faced the chief of the watch. “Take us down.”

Blood pounding in her ears, Amanda crouched in the nest of bones. The smell of bowel and blood filled the small space. Lacy’s corpse looked like some broken mannequin, unreal. Something had torn the geology student apart. Something large.

Amanda panted though clenched teeth.

The girl’s body lay on its back, limbs broken, face smashed, like she had been shaken and slammed repeatedly against the ice.

Amanda kept her eyes away from the corpse’s belly. It had been ripped open. Frozen blood trailed from the open cavity. Out in the wild, wolves always ate the soft abdominal organs of their prey, burrowing into the bellies first, feasting on the rich meal inside.

Without a doubt, such a predator was down here now. But what was it? Not a wolf…not so far north. And she saw no evidence of the usual king of the Arctic wilds, the polar bear. No droppings. No piles of white hairs.

So what the hell was down here?

Amanda took a post by the only exit and quickly pieced a few things together in her head. She recalled the movement recorded on the DeepEye sonar she was testing. She knew for certain now it had been no sonar ghost.

Amanda’s mind, panicked, ran along impossible channels. Whatever was down here had sensed the passage of the sonar scan, fled from it, back to its nest in the core of the ice island. But what could do that? What animals could sense sonar? Having studied sonar in depth for her own research with the DeepEye, she knew the common answers: bats, dolphins…and whales.

She glanced fleetingly over to the sprawled, gutted corpse. It reminded her of another body spread and cut open on the ice.

Dr. Ogden’s dissected Ambulocetus specimen.

According to the biologists, the Ambulocetus species were the forefathers of the modern whale. The thought chilled her further.

Could it be possible? Could there be living specimens down here, not just frozen ones?

A terrified shudder passed through her. It seemed ridiculous, but nothing else made sense. Not a wolf, nor a polar bear. And here, alone, nightmares gained flesh and bone. The impossible seemed possible.

She cupped her hand over her flashlight. Beyond the tunnel, the shine of Connor’s helmet lamp still reflected in the outer cavern. She studied as best she could the only way out of here. Everything lay still. There was no sign of movement, no way of knowing if the predator was still out there or if it was returning even now.

She was trapped — not just in the cave, but also in a cocoon of silence. Without her hearing, she was cut off from any telltale sign of approach: a growl, a scrape of claw on ice, the hiss of breath.

She feared going back out.

But how could she stay?

Glancing back, she sought someplace to hide within the nest. The walls had a few cracks and blocky tumbles of icefall. But none was deep enough to nestle away safely.

She turned again to the tunnel.

A heavy shadow shifted past the reflected light.

Startled, she rolled back, scrabbling through bones. She flicked off the flashlight. Now the only illumination came from beyond the nest, flowing down the throat of the slotted tunnel. Something crouched out there at the entrance, like a boulder in a river of light.

Then it began to roll slowly toward her.

She fled to one of the cracks in the wall. Her mind raced, struggling against panic. She flicked her flashlight back on and tossed it near Lacy’s corpse, hoping its brightness would attract the creature’s attention. This last thought sparked others. How did it really see in the dark? Body heat? Vibrations? Echolocation?

She had to assume all.

She pulled up her suit’s hood and jammed herself sideways into the crack, barely able to press her body away. She rubbed the ice walls with one hand, then slathered her face. If it was body heat, her insulated suit should keep her hidden, leaving only her face exposed. She cooled her skin with ice water as best she could.

Crammed into the crack, she hoped she offered no direct silhouette to any possible echolocation. She covered her mouth and held her breath, fearing even her own heated exhalation could give her away.

She willed herself to dead stillness and waited.

It didn’t take long.

Amanda stared in disbelief as the creature crawled into the cave and crouched across from her now.

A living grendel.

It shoved its head into the cave first. Hot breath steamed from two slitted nostrils high on its domed head. Its long white muzzle dripped fresh blood and gore.

Connor…

Lips growled back to reveal razored teeth. It shambled into its nest, snout raised, sniffing. It was large, half a ton, slung low to the ground. It measured ten feet from muzzle to the tip of its thick tail.

As it entered its nest, it circled around the cavern’s edge, wary. It moved like an otter, sinuous and lithe, but this creature was white-skinned and hairless, sleek. It looked liked a creature built to move smoothly through water or to slide down tight tunnels. Black eyes narrowed as it shied from the brightness of her discarded flashlight.

It passed by Amanda’s hiding spot, its attention focused on the pool of brightness. Almost at her toes, it stopped and bunched up as it stared into the flashlight’s glare. Shoulders muscled into ridged peaks, haunches rose. Rear claws dug into the ice floor as its tail lashed violently, sweeping the floor of old bones.

Then it leaped as quick as any lion, pouncing at the light. It landed atop Lacy’s corpse, sending the flashlight flying. It tore and ripped, using teeth and claws, blindingly fast. Then it spun away, chasing after the light, batting the metal tool around the cavern. Finally the flashlight smashed against a block of ice and extinguished.

Amanda continued to hold her breath.

The entire attack had transpired in dead silence.

The sudden darkness blinded Amanda for a heartbeat. Then the glow from the outside cavern filtered in. In the dimness, the grendel was a ghostly shadow.

It circled around the cavern. Once, twice. It still seemed oblivious to her presence. It settled to the center of its nest, head craning, checking all walls. For a moment, whether it was her own fright or some ultrasonic sonar, Amanda felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck quiver.

A trickle of sweat rolled down her brow.

The grendel swung back toward her, sniffing, huffing. It seemed to stare right at her.

Amanda tried not to scream.

It didn’t matter.

The grendel rose to its feet, lips curled in menace, and slunk toward her hiding place.

Jenny still lived. Somehow…

She lay with her father atop the ice, but he had long since stopped responding, though his cold arms remained locked around her, holding her. She didn’t have the strength to move, to check on him. Already their clothes had frozen together, fusing father to daughter. The blizzard blew around the pair, isolating them. She had lost sight of the two Navy men: Fernandez and Kowalski.

She tried to shift, but she could no longer feel her limbs. Her shivering had stopped, too, as her body gave up feeding blood to her extremities. Her systems were in pure survival mode, expending all resources to keep the core alive.

Even the cold had vanished, replaced with a deadly sense of calm. She found it hard to stay awake, but in sleep lay only death.

Papa…She could not speak. Her lips would not move. Another name arose, unbidden, unwelcome: Matt…

Her heart ached, thudding leadenly.

She would have cried then, but her tear ducts had frozen over. She didn’t want to die this way. For the past three years, she had trudged through life, going through the motions of living. Now she wanted to live. She cursed the time lost, the half-life she had lived. But nature was immune to wishes and dreams. It simply killed with the determined heart of any predator.

Her eyelids drifted closed. They were too painful to keep open.

As the world faded away, flares bloomed through the swirling snow. One, two, three, four…They were hazy glows through the blizzard, flying back and forth, sailing through the air. Snow angels…

She squinted, struggling to hold her eyes open. They grew brighter, and after another few breaths, a growling whine accompanied them, piercing angrily through the wail of winds.

Not angels…

From the snow, strange vehicles rode forth. They looked like snowmobiles, but they moved too fast, skimming over the ice with a gracefulness and speed that belied ordinary Ski-Doos. They reminded her instead of jet skis, flying over the ice.

But the vehicles here were neither snowmobiles nor jet skis. As they grew from illusion to solid reality, the machines glided over the ice, not deigning to touch the surface of the world. Jenny had seen such craft before, at shows, experimental models.

Hovercraft.

But these were small, no larger than two-man jet skis, open on top, ridden like a motorcycle. The windshield of each bubbled back to protect the driver and passenger. And like jet skis, the underside of each bore ski runners, but the machines seemed only to need them as they banked and slowed. Each craft settled with skill to the ice, landing on their runners and sliding to a stop a few yards away.

Men unmounted. All dressed in white parkas. Rifles were leveled.

Jenny heard Russian being spoken, but the world remained blurry, lit only by the headlamps of the personal hovercraft.

The soldiers wore face masks, storm troopers. They approached with caution, then with a bit of urgency. Some checked the blasted ice pit. Others came forward. One knelt before Jenny. He barked something in Russian.

All she could manage was a groan.

He reached for her. She blacked out a moment. It had taken all her strength to utter even that small sound. When next she awoke, she found herself strapped into a bucket seat, harnessed in place with shoulder and belt straps. The world was a blur around her. She was flying.

Then enough awareness cut through the haze for her to recognize that she rode behind a soldier. He didn’t wear a parka, only a thick gray sweater. She realized she was wearing his coat. The fur-lined hood pulled almost over her head.

They were heading back to the drift station. A fire burned from the cratered ruins of an outbuilding.

It made no sense, so she simply passed out again.

She woke next to a world of pain. It flared over every inch of her body. It was as if someone were flaying her alive, as if acid streamed over every inch of her body, agonizing, stripping away her skin. She screamed, but no sound came out. She thrashed against the arms that held her.

“It’s all right, Miss Aratuk,” a gruff voice said behind her. “You’re safe.” The same voice spoke to someone else holding her. “Turn the water slightly warmer.”

Jenny snapped a bit more fully into awareness. She was naked in a shower, being held under the stream. She managed to free her tongue. “It…it burns.”

“The water’s only lukewarm. Blood is just returning to your skin. You have some patches of mild frostbite.” Something jabbed her arm. “We’ve given you a bit of morphine to dull the pain.”

She finally glanced back to the speaker. It was Lieutenant Commander Sewell. She sat on the fiberglass floor of a communal shower. A handful of Navy men were in the room, busy. Other showers steamed.

After a few moments, her agony dulled to simple torture. Tears flowed down her face, mixing with the shower’s water. Slowly her temperature rose. Her body began to shiver uncontrollably.

“M…mm…my father,” she chattered out.

“He’s being taken care of,” Sewell said. “He’s actually faring better than you. Already into towels. Tough old bastard, that one. Only a little frostbite on his nose. He must be made of ice.”

This raised a smile. Papa…

She allowed her body to shake and quake. Her core body temperature slowly struggled to normalcy. Sensory feeling awakened with a million pinpricks in her hands and feet. It was slow crucifixion.

Finally she was allowed to stand. She even warmed up enough to feel slightly ashamed by her nakedness. There were uniformed men all around. She was led out of the showers, passing by Kowalski, bare-assed and shivering under his own stream of water.

As hot towels were wrapped around her, she asked, “Fernandez?”

Sewell shook his head. “He was dead by the time the Russians reached you.”

Her heart heavy, she was walked over to chairs in front of space heaters. Her father was already there. He sipped from a mug of hot coffee. The morphine wobbled her feet, but she managed to reach the chairs.

“Jen,” her father said. “Welcome back to the living.”

“You call this living?” she asked dourly. As she sat there, she pictured Fernandez’s quirked smile. It was hard to believe someone so alive was now dead. Still, a dull buzz of relief seeped through her, perhaps partly due to the morphine, but mostly rising from her own heart.

She was alive.

As the space heater blew humid air in her face, a mug of coffee was pushed into her trembling hands.

“Drink it,” Sewell said. “We have to warm up your insides as much as your outsides. And caffeine’s a good stimulant, too.”

“You don’t have to sell me on the coffee, Commander.” She took a burning sip. She felt it slide all the way down. A shudder — half pleasure, half pain — shook through her.

With coffee warming her hands and belly, she glanced around. She was in some large dormitory room. Cots lined both walls. Tables and chairs in the center. Most here were civilians, scientists…but a few Navy personnel were mixed in.

She turned back to Sewell. “Tell me what happened.”

He eyed her. “The Russians. They commandeered the base.”

“I sort of figured that on my own. Why?”

He shook his head. “It has something to do with that Russian ice station we found. Something hidden over there. They’ve been systematically interviewing key personnel to see what we know. It was why you were rescued from the ice. They thought you might be escaping with something or someone, so they had you hauled back. I informed them of your noncom status.”

“What are they searching for?”

“I don’t know. Whatever is over at that other base is being kept under wraps. NTK only.”

“NTK?”

“Need-to-know.” His voice hardened. “And apparently I’m not one of those who needs to know.”

“So what now?”

“There’s not much we can do. We only had a small security force.” He waved an arm around the room. “The bastards killed five of my men. We were quickly subdued and corralled in here. So were the civilian personnel. They’re keeping us all under guard. We were told as long as we didn’t make any trouble that we’d be freed in forty-eight hours.”

Her father spoke from his wrap of blankets. “What about the other Sno-Cat? The one with Matt and Craig?”

Jenny found herself tensing, fearing the worst.

“As far as I know, they’re okay. I was able to contact them before being caught. I told them when they reached the ice station to raise the alarm.”

Jenny sipped from her coffee. Her hands trembled worse. For some reason, she had to fight back tears. “Everyone else is here?”

“Everyone still living.”

She glanced around the room, searching for a specific face. She didn’t find him. “Where’s Ensign Pomautuk?”

Sewell shook his head. “Not here. He’s among the missing, along with a handful of civilians. But I can’t say for sure. The Russians took some of the critically injured to the hospital wing. Maybe he’s over there. Details are still sketchy.”

Jenny stared over to her father. The tip of his nose was ashen, frost-nipped. His eyes read her fear. One hand slipped from his wrap and sought her own. She took his fingers. They were rough with old calluses, but still strong. He had faced so many hardships in his life and survived. Absorbing his strength, she faced Sewell again. “This forty-eight-hour deadline? Do you believe they’ll let us go?”

“I don’t know.”

Jenny sighed. “In other words, no.”

He shrugged. “At the moment, it doesn’t matter whether we believe them or not. The occupying force outnumbers us two to one. And they’ve got all the guns.”

“What about your captain and your submarine?”

“The Polar Sentinel might be out there somewhere, but they have no armaments. Hopefully they’re hauling ass out of here, heading for help. That is, if they’re still alive.”

“What now? Do we simply wait? Trust the Russians’ word about our safety?”

By now, Kowalski had joined them, wrapped head to toe in towels. He plopped down heavily into a chair. “Fuck no,” he answered her question.

Silence followed his assertion. No one argued.

“Then we need a plan,” Jenny said finally.

Hadn’t they gone this way already?

Lieutenant Commander Roberto Bratt was lost, which didn’t help his temper. He always blamed his short fuse on his heritage: his mother was Mexican, his father Cuban. Both had been loud and volatile, always fighting. But these damn tunnels would have confounded even Gandhi’s patience. Everything looked the same: ice and more ice.

Ahead, his junior lieutenant hurried down another tunnel. He followed, his boots grinding on the sand-covered floors. “Washburn!” he called out. “Do you know where the hell you’re going?”

Lieutenant Serina Washburn slowed her steady trot and pointed her flashlight back to a purple blaze spray-painted on the wall. “Sir, this marks the only place we haven’t searched yet. After this, we’ll need a paint can to trail our way into the unmarked areas.”

He waved her on. Great…just great…

During the chaos of the evacuation, Bratt’s team had used bullhorns to sound the alarm through the tunnels. Word had spread quickly. People had poured out of the ice tunnels. But with the Russians breathing down their necks, they didn’t have time to do a complete sweep of the Crawl Space on foot.

As such, when the dust settled, people turned up missing — including the head of Omega, Dr. Amanda Reynolds.

With folks unaccounted for, Bratt had felt compelled to stay behind, but he had been surprised when Lieutenant Washburn had insisted on joining him. The station had been under her guardianship. She wasn’t about to abandon it until every damn one of her charges was cleared out of here.

As they continued deeper, Bratt appraised his partner. Washburn was actually a couple of inches taller than him, tall for a woman, but lean and muscular. She looked like a track runner. Her hair was worn in a crew cut, giving her a stark look that somehow didn’t lessen her femininity. Her skin was smooth coffee, her eyes large and deep. But for the moment, she was all business.

And so was he. He switched his focus to the ice tunnels. He had a mission: find any civilian strays and keep them safe.

Lifting the bullhorn to his lips, he squeezed the trigger. His words blasted from the horn, echoing down the tunnels. “This is Lieutenant Commander Bratt! If anyone can hear this, please sound off!”

He lowered the bullhorn. His ears rang. It took a moment for him to be able to listen for any response. He expected no answer. They had been searching and shouting for a half hour without even a whisper of a response. So when someone finally did call out, he wasn’t sure if it was real or not.

Washburn glanced back to him, one eyebrow cocked.

Then the shout repeated, faint, but ringing clear through the ice tunnels: “Over here!”

It came from ahead of them.

Together, they hurried forward. Bratt shrugged his rifle higher on his shoulder. His field jacket and parka were heavy with ammunition, gleaned from his own men as they evacuated back to the sub. Washburn was similarly loaded down, but she sped ahead of him.

The tunnel emptied into a large ice cavern, full of idling generators, lamp poles, and equipment. The air here was noticeably warmer, humid. The back half of the cavern was a wall of pocked volcanic rock.

“Christ,” he swore under his breath.

A short, bald man, bundled in an unzippered parka, came slipping across the ice lake that floored the room. It was one of the base scientists. He was flanked by two younger men.

“Dr. Ogden?” Washburn said, identifying the lead man. “What are you still doing here? Didn’t you hear the call to evacuate?”

“Yes, yes,” he said as he reached them, out of breath, “but my work has nothing to do with politics. This is science. I don’t care who controls the station as long as my specimens are protected. Danger or not, I could not leave them. Especially at this critical juncture. The thawing is near completion.”

“Specimens?” Bratt asked. “Thawing? What the hell are you talking about?”

“They must be protected,” the scientist insisted. “You have to understand. I could not risk the data’s corruption.”

Bratt noted the shifting feet and wringing hands of the man’s younger associates — postgrads by the look of them. They were not so convinced.

“You have to see!” Dr. Ogden said. “We’re picking up EEG activity!” He hurried back the way he had come, back to the volcanic cliff face.

Washburn followed. “Is Dr. Reynolds here, too?”

Bratt dogged after them to hear the answer. If all the missing personnel were here…

But the doctor’s response dashed such hopes. “Amanda? No, I don’t know where she is.” He glanced back, eyebrows tucked together. “Why?”

“She’s here somewhere,” Washburn answered. “Supposedly off with Dr. MacFerran, looking for a missing colleague.”

Ogden rubbed at his frozen mustache. “I don’t know anything about it. I’ve been here all night with the biology team.”

As they reached the wall, Bratt noted water splashing underfoot, flowing from a crevice in the cliff face. The biologist led the way into the cavern. But after a few steps, a new form came splashing from deeper inside, running headlong into them.

It was another student, a young woman in her early twenties. Bratt caught her as she slipped in her panic. How many fools were down here still?

“Professor! S-something’s happening!” she stammered.

“What?”

She pointed back down the cleft. She tried to speak, but her eyes were wild.

Ogden fled forward. “Is something wrong?”

They all followed after him. In another ten steps, the way opened into a space the size of a two-car garage. It was a bubble in the rock. More lamp poles glowed. Equipment was stacked all around.

Bratt gasped at both the sight and the smell. He had worked one summer at a fish plant in Monterey. The heat, the reek of rotting fish guts, the stench of blood. It was the same here — but it was not fish that caused this smell.

Rolled to one side was the flayed and gutted body of some pale white creature. It looked like it might be a beluga whale, but this thing had legs. This creature was not the only one here. Another six specimens, fresher and intact, lay curled on the floor. Crusts and chunks of ice still clung to their pale flesh. Two had colored leads taped to their forms, running to machines with video screens. Small sine waves flowed across the tiny monitors.

Ogden searched around the room. “I don’t understand.” He turned to the panicked postgrad student. “What’s the matter?”

She pointed to one of the curled specimens, the one closest to its gutted brethren. “It…it moved…”

Ogden scowled at her and waved a dismissive hand. “Preposterous. It’s just the shadows in here. One of the light poles simply shifted.”

The girl hugged her arms around her chest. She didn’t look convinced. This was one seriously spooked girl.

Ogden turned back to Bratt and Washburn. “It’s the EEG readings. It’s disturbed some of our less experienced team members.”

“EEG? Like brain waves?” Bratt asked, staring over to the run of electronic waves across the monitoring screen.

“Yes,” Ogden said. “We’ve recorded some activity from the thawing specimens.”

“You’re kidding. These things are alive?”

“No, of course not. They’re fifty thousand years old. But such a phenomenon is seen sometimes when living specimens are frozen rapidly, then warmed again slowly. Though the subject is dead, the chemicals in the brain begin to thaw and flow. And chemistry is chemistry. Certain neurochemical functions will begin anew. But over time, without circulation, the effect fades away. That’s why it was so important that I stay and collect the data before it disappears. We’re looking at activity that hasn’t been seen in fifty thousand years!”

“Whatever,” Bratt said. “As long as these things stay dead.”

As if hearing him, one of the bodies spasmed. A tail lashed out of its curled position and struck a light pole, sending it crashing.

Everyone jumped back — except Dr. Ogden, who stared in disbelief.

The body unrolled further, twisting in savage S-curves. Then it began to flop and jerk on the floor like a hooked marlin. Violent tremors flowed through its frame in waves of convulsions.

The biologist stepped closer, one arm stretching out in amazement, as if he needed to touch it to make it real. “It’s reviving.”

“Doctor…” Bratt warned.

The beast flopped toward Ogden. Its maw split wide, revealing a shark’s jagged dentition. It snapped blindly at the biologist, coming within inches of his fingers. Ogden danced back, cradling his hand as if it had actually been bitten.

Bratt had had enough. He reached forward and yanked Ogden back, then shoved everyone behind him, rifle appearing in his hands.

The doctor stumbled next to him. “It’s amazing!”

Bratt opened his mouth, but he felt a sharp buzzing behind his ears. His jaw vibrated like a tuning fork. It was a familiar feeling. Working on a sub, he had been exposed to intense sonar. He knew what he was feeling.

Others felt it, too, rubbing at their ears.

Ultrasonics…

“Look!” one of the students said, pointing to the EEG machines.

Bratt glanced over. The slow sine waves were now spiking and racing. The two specimens attached to the lead were now beginning to tremble. Another tail whipped from its frozen curl.

They all fled to the crevice opening.

“I can’t believe it,” Ogden said, digging one finger in an ear. “I think the first beast is calling to the others.”

“With sonar,” Bratt said, jaw buzzing.

“Early whale song,” the biologist corrected. “The Ambulocetus is a progenitor of the modern cetacean species. The ultrasonics must act as a biological trigger, waking others of its pod. Perhaps even calling others to it. A defense mechanism. The better to protect each another.”

The thrashings spread. Equipment crashed. The ultrasonic keening grew worse.

Off to the side, the first creature lay panting, gulping air through its gaped jaws. It then rolled to its belly, unstable, shaking, cold.

“Someone shoot the damn things!” the girl urged in a high-pitched voice.

Bratt hefted his weapon up.

The biologist stared from the gun to the wobbly creature. “Are you crazy? This is the discovery of the century…and you want to kill it? We need to protect them!”

Bratt kept his tone civil but firm. “Sir, this ain’t no Free Willy situation going on here. Right now, I’m more worried about protecting us.” He grabbed the smaller doctor by the elbow and shoved him down the cleft. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, these things look more like great whites, than plankton-munching humpbacks. I think they can protect themselves just fine.”

Ogden began to protest, but Bratt turned away and faced Washburn. “Move ’em out, Lieutenant.”

She nodded, one eye on the thrashing monsters.

Bratt herded everyone behind him as they retreated. Once clear of the cliff, they hurried across the ice lake.

“The Russians must have known about this,” Odgen droned. “It must be why they are trying to commandeer the station. They want the glory for themselves.”

Bratt knew the doctor was wrong. He was one of the few who knew what lay hidden within the lab on Level Four. It was not glory the Russians sought, but silence and cover-up.

As they reached the far side, Washburn shouted from a few steps back. “Commander! We’ve got company!”

He swung around.

From the cleft in the cliff face, one of the creatures slid out onto the ice. Another followed it…then another…

They wobbled on their feet, shaky but determined. And after fifty thousand years, they were probably damn hungry, too.

“They’re waking up fast,” Ogden said, respect clear in his voice.

Bratt waved toward the exit. “Out!” he yelled. “Everyone get moving!”

Across the ice lake, three heads swiveled toward the sound of his voice. He again felt the buzzing surge sweep over him. The goddamn things were pinging him with their sonar.

“Shit,” he swore, raising his rifle as he retreated. They were being hunted!

Two more creatures slipped from the cliff.

“Washburn, get everyone moving down the tunnel. Now! You know the way. I’ll keep any of these beasties from getting too close.”

He lifted his rifle.

“Don’t!” Ogden begged.

“Professor, this time it ain’t up for debate.”

Matt’s spine felt like jelly. For well over an hour, the driver of the Sno-Cat, a petty officer named Frank O’Donnell, had been racing the treaded vehicle at top speed, oblivious to the rough terrain. It was like riding a paint shaker. Every bone in his body felt rattled and bruised.

He stared out at the blowing snow. Winds battered the vehicle. He had long given up any hope of dissuading the Navy men from their goal of reaching the Russian ice station. His only concession was that the driver had tried to raise the other Sno-Cat every five minutes.

Nobody answered.

They had also tried to raise someone at the base on the short band, but their luck wasn’t any better there. It was as if they were alone out here.

Matt’s fear for Jenny had developed into a grapefruit-sized stone in his gut. He found it hard to concentrate on his own situation.

“There’s the station!” O’Donnell called back to them, and pointed straight ahead. Relief cheered his voice. “Looks like they left the goddamn light on at least.”

Matt leaned forward, glad for the distraction from his worries. Craig glanced to him, eyes bright.

Ahead, a wall of ice rose in mountainous pressure ridges. Snow blasted horizontally across the landscape, obscuring any details. But near the base of one peak, a glow cut through the midday gloom.

“I don’t see any station,” Craig said.

“It’s all underground,” the driver explained “The entire facility.”

The Sno-Cat aimed for the glowing beacon, bouncing over ridged ice. Matt spotted other vehicles, half covered in snow, sheltered in ravines between ridges. There was even a sailboat anchored with its sails snugged down. The Cat passed them all, continuing straight for the glowing opening.

“Fuck!” Lieutenant Greer’s outburst startled everyone.

Eyes turned to where he had his face pressed to the side window. Out in the blizzard, Matt saw something impossible. Crashing through the ice, a submarine conning tower climbed from the depths, steaming and sluicing water.

“The Russians!” Pearlson hissed. “They beat us here!”

Matt noted the polynya through which the submarine surfaced. It was small, too small for the large Russian sub. Little room for more than the conning tower.

“What are we going to do?” Matt asked.

“I’m almost out of gas,” O’Donnell said.

Greer was senior officer here. He didn’t hesitate, thinking quickly. “Make for the station!”

Matt nodded, silently agreeing. They needed cover. It was death to stay out here. Surely the submarine’s hydrophones had heard their Cat trundling over the ice. The Russians would know they were here.

O’Donnell kicked the slowing Sno-Cat back up to full speed. Matt bounced to the ceiling as the vehicle struck a particularly sharp ridge.

“Hang on!” O’Donnell yelled.

Matt rubbed his head and sat back. Now he tells me.

Greer clutched the seat back in front of him. “O’Donnell…”

“I see them, sir!”

Matt glanced over to the sub. Men in white parkas climbed to the top of the sub’s flying bridge. Arms pointed toward them.

The Sno-Cat made a sharp turn, racing toward the base’s opening.

“Slow down!” Craig yelled from the front seat, arms braced against the dashboard.

Matt’s eyes widened as he realized what the driver intended. “You’ve got to be kidding…”

O’Donnell jammed the Sno-Cat forward. It flew straight at the tunnel.

Gunfire suddenly erupted. Slugs tore into the back end of the Cat, sounding as if someone had tossed a flaming bundle of firecrackers into their trunk. The noise deafened. Glass shattered out of the rear window.

Matt might have shouted, but it was hard to tell.

Then the Cat hit the tunnel.

O’Donnell downshifted and slammed the brakes hard. But the Cat’s momentum was unimpressed by his efforts. It shot down the stairs, rear end flying high, bouncing off the ice ceiling. The back of the cabin crumpled under the collision — then the Cat rebounded to the stairs with a squeal of treads.

The passengers became a tangle of flailing limbs. More glass showered upon them.

Matt caught a glimpse of steel doors in the headlamps ahead.

Then they struck with an impact that slammed everyone forward. Matt flew over the front seat, striking the windshield with his shoulder. The window popped from its frame. He rolled out onto the hood, half draped in safety glass. He slid all the way to the floor beyond, landing in a graceless heap in front.

At least they had stopped.

“Are you all right?” Craig asked as Matt pushed to his feet. The reporter leaned forward out the cab. His scalp injury had reopened. Blood trailed over his face.

“Better than you,” Matt answered, testing his limbs to make sure he wasn’t lying.

O’Donnell groaned, cradling his side. He must have hit the steering wheel hard, bruising some ribs. In the backseat, Greer and Pearlson were already up, staring out the shattered back window, watching for the Russians.

Matt surveyed the state of their transportation. The Sno-Cat was jammed in the doorway, a plug in a storm drain. “Nothing like door-to-door service.”

“Everybody out!” Greer ordered from the backseat, retrieving his weapon from the floor. He pointed toward Matt and the station.

The doors were pinned by the station’s frame, but with the windshield gone, they had a ready-made exit. Matt helped them clamber over the hood.

“Move deeper down!” Greer yelled as he climbed through last, waving them ahead. “The Sno-Cat’s wreckage will slow the Russians, but who knows for how long.”

As a group, they hurried down the passage. Greer caught up with Matt. He shoved a 9mm Beretta pistol at him. “Do you know how to use this?”

“I served in the Green Berets.”

Greer glanced harder at him, judging him anew, then slapped the gun into his hand. “Good, then you won’t shoot your goddamn foot off.”

Matt hefted the weapon. “Not unless it would get me out of this mess.”

Within a few more yards, the entrance tunnel emptied into a large circular space with rooms opening off it. Tables and chairs were spread around a central staircase. Half-eaten meals dotted some of the table-tops. They searched the space as they crossed it, weapons ready.

It was empty.

“Where is everyone?” Matt asked.

Running, Greer led them down the stairs. The second level was just as empty.

“They’re gone,” Pearlson said, shocked.

“Evacuated,” Greer corrected. “The Polar Sentinel must have gotten wind of the attack and come directly here. Cleared the base.”

“Great,” Matt said. “We came all the way out here to warn them, and they’ve already rolled up shop.”

“What are we going to do?” Craig asked, half his face bloody, the other half ashen.

Greer continued taking them deeper. “There’s an old weapons locker on the third level. Grenades, old rifles. We’ll grab as much as we can carry.”

“Then what?”

“We hide. We survive.”

“I like the last part of your plan,” Matt said.

As they reached the third level, gunfire suddenly sounded, echoing to them. It didn’t come from above them — but below.

“Someone’s still here,” Craig said, eyes wide.

“It sounds like it came from the level just under us,” Pearlson said.

“Let’s go!” Greer led the way.

As they set off, an explosion blasted from above. Everyone froze again.

“The Russians,” Matt said.

“Hurry!” Greer ordered and continued down the stairs.

Voices called out above them. Orders shouted in Russian. Footsteps echoed, running.

Craig and Matt fled down the steps after Greer. Pearlson and O’Donnell maintained their rear guard. They hit the fourth level. Here, instead of a common open area like the tiers above, the stairs opened onto a long hall.

It was empty, too. But a set of double doors blocked the far end.

“The Crawl Space,” Pearlson said behind them.

“It’s a good place to hide,” Greer said. “A fucking maze. C’mon!”

“But who was shooting?” Craig asked as they ran.

Matt wanted to know, too.

Greer frowned and growled, “Pray it’s our guys.”

Matt took the lieutenant’s suggestion to heart. They needed reinforcements. But this, of course, begged another question.

If it was the good guys, what were they shooting at?

9. Dead End

In the gloom of the bone nest, the massive creature crept toward Amanda’s hiding place, hunched, suspicious, unsure. Its maw gaped open, teeth bloody. Claws still trailed shredded bits of Lacy’s racing suit.

Pressing deeper into the crack in the ice, Amanda sensed an ultrasonic wailing from the grendel, which she felt in her jawbone, the roots of her teeth, the hairs on the back of her neck. It kept her frozen, like a rabbit in headlights.

Go away, she begged with all her heart. She had been holding her breath for so long, stars began to glow across her vision. She dared not exhale. Small rivulets of cold sweat ran down her exposed face.

Please…

The grendel approached within a foot of her niche. Silhouetted against the glow from the outer cavern, the beast’s features were shadowed. Only its two eyes still captured some of the light reflected off the ice walls.

Crimson…bloody…emotionless and as cold as the press of ice overhead.

Amanda met that gaze, knowing she would die.

Then the beast whipped its head around, back toward the exit tunnel. The creature’s sudden movement drew a startled breath from Amanda. She couldn’t hold it any longer. She tensed, fearing she had given herself away.

But the beast ignored her and shambled fully around, facing the tunnel now. It cocked its head, one way then the other, plainly listening.

Amanda had no way of knowing what it heard. Was someone coming? Was Connor still alive, screaming for help?

Whatever it was, the grendel lashed its tail a few times, then dashed toward the tunnel, shooting its low form up and away.

Amanda remained in her niche for one long, trembling shake, then fell out. She stumbled over to the tunnel on weak legs. Stars continued to dance across her vision, more from fear than anoxia. She hunched by the tunnel in time to see the shadowed bulk of the beast lope away, aiming toward the cliff.

Fearing the silent unknown more than the beast, Amanda climbed up the slotted passage. She used her crampons for purchase on the slippery slope, ducking as the ceiling lowered. When she reached the end, she poked her head out.

To the side, the grendel scaled the ice cliff, racing like a gecko up a stucco wall. It vanished over the edge, moving fast, clearly on the hunt.

Amanda’s eyes settled on the blue poly-line still draped over the cliff’s edge.

She stared at the rope.

It was her only hope.

Amanda rolled out of the slot and to her feet. She rushed to the cliff, praying the rope was still attached to whatever was left of Connor. The last she had seen, the geologist had the poly-line wrapped around his chest.

She reached the cliff and wrapped her gloved fingers around the rope.

Please, God…

She tugged on the rope. It seemed to hold. She leaned out, testing her weight. It still held.

Tears welled in her eyes as she mounted the wall. She climbed, hand over hand, crampons dug deep into the ice. Fear fueled her muscles. Fatigue was impossible. She clawed and kicked her way to the top.

Reaching the edge, she heaved herself over and landed only inches from the macerated form of Connor MacFerran. His helmet lamp shone toward the ceiling, a beacon in the dark tunnels.

Amanda twisted away. She crawled to her feet, trying to keep her eyes away from the ravaged wreckage. Like Lacy, his belly had been ripped open. Blood pooled around him, a frozen stain on the ice. It was this last that had allowed Amanda to scale the cliff. During her hour down below, the ruin of Connor’s body had frozen to the ice, becoming a bloody anchor for her escape.

With a hand over her mouth and a prayer of forgiveness on her lips, she bent down and undid the geologist’s helmet. She needed his light. Working the chin strap, she could not look away from Connor. His left eye and nose were torn away, raked by a claw. His throat had been ripped out just at the collarbone. His beard was a frozen matt of blood.

She finally freed the helmet, sobbing now.

Then she stood and put the helmet on. It was too big. It hung crooked, but she snugged the chin strap. She faced down the long tunnel. There was no sign of the grendel.

As she stepped away, a glint caught her eye. She turned. A small ice ax lay on the ground. It was Connor’s. He had worn it at his belt. He must have tried to use it to protect himself.

She hurried and collected it. Though it was just a hand tool, it gave her a measure of relief.

She returned to the tunnel, girding herself for the terrifying journey ahead. But as she fingered the handle to the ice ax, another memory was triggered. Earlier, when she had confronted Connor about searching for Lacy by himself, he had waved off her concern. Everyone was too busy, he had claimed. But then he had said something else. The words returned to her now.

Besides, I have a walkie-talkie.

Amanda spun around.

She dropped back to Connor’s body. She searched his ripped goose-down vest, leaking feathers and stuffing, and found the small handheld radio.

Kneeling, she twisted the dial. A small red battery light glowed. She pressed the walkie-talkie to her lips. “This is Amanda Reynolds.” She struggled to modulate her voice, trying to whisper, but fearing no one would hear her if she were too faint. “If anyone can hear me, I’m trapped in the Crawl Space. There is a large predator hunting the tunnels. It killed Lacy Devlin and Connor MacFerran. It is loose now, off somewhere…I don’t know where. I’m going to attempt to reach the upper levels. Please…please, if you read this, bring weapons. I will broadcast my location as soon as I can reach any of the marked tunnels.”

She placed her fingers over the radio’s speaker. Please, someone be listening. She waited, trying to feel any vibration in the speaker, some sign that someone was communicating with her, but there was nothing.

She stood again and faced the dark tunnel. The beam from her helmet lamp pierced ahead. She held the radio in one hand, the ice pick in the other.

She had to get out of the Crawl Space.

Then she’d be safe.

His men had performed flawlessly.

Captain First Rank Anton Mikovsky stood watch atop the submarine’s periscope stand, hands behind his back. He wore his underway uniform: green tunic and pants, cuffs tucked into boots. Reports continued to flow from battle stations.

All areas remained green.

He was taking no chances. Word from the shore team confirmed that Ice Station Grendel had been secured. The Americans who had crashed through the station’s doors in a Sno-Cat were still missing. The group — five men — had holed away like frightened rabbits, vanishing into the depths of the station. But they would be found. It was only a matter of time. The rest of the station was empty, cleared out by the submarine they had heard taking on ballast less than an hour ago.

Mikovsky knew his opponent. A United States research sub. The USS Polar Sentinel. It was no threat. It was an experimental model, unarmed. Surely by now it was fleeing with its evacuees. He was under orders not to pursue.

His primary mission was to occupy the base, secure it, set up a communication station, then dive to patrol the waters against the real threat. In the Arctic, the enemy was the fast-attack subs that constantly patrolled under the polar cap.

Their window on this mission was exactly twelve hours. Vhodi, vidi. Get in, get out. The confusion over at Prudhoe Bay would slow his opponents.

“Captain.” The radioman of the watch strode over to him. “I was able to raise Omega base.”

“Very good.” He climbed from the periscope stand and crossed to the communication shack. The radioman passed him the handset. “Captain Mikovsky here. I must speak to Admiral Petkov.”

Through the static, words cut in and out. “Right away, Captain. The admiral has been awaiting your call.”

On hold, Mikovsky planned his words. Admiral Petkov had remained behind at Omega, to interrogate the prisoners and search the U.S. base. Pektov wanted to make certain that whatever the Russian government sought inside Ice Station Grendel hadn’t already been transferred to the U.S. science labs at the research base.

Mikovsky had never seen a man so driven, yet so calm at the same time. It was disquieting. There were currents that ran through the man that were icier than anything found out here in the arctic. Petkov’s nickname—Beliy Prizrak, the White Ghost — was disturbingly fitting. A week ago, when Mikovsky had first been granted this mission to captain a flagship alongside an admiral from the Northern Fleet, he had been thrilled and honored. He had basked in the envy of his fellow ranked officers. But now…now he was happy the admiral was off his boat.

As if he heard him from afar, Petkov’s voice came on the line, stolid and emotionless. “Captain, what is your status?”

He swallowed hard, caught off guard. “Grendel is secure, sir. The station was evacuated just as you suspected, but there are five hostiles unaccounted.” He quickly recounted the crash of the Sno-Cat into the station. “I’ve doubled the strike team to twenty men. They will perform a level-by-level sweep. I will forward the all clear for your arrival.”

“I’m heading out there now. Has the nuclear charge been offloaded to the station?”

“Y-yes, sir.” Mikovsky pictured the meter-wide titanium sphere. As ordered, it had been bolted to the floor on the deepest level of the station. “But, Admiral, there’s no need for you to come here until we’re entirely secure. Procedure—”

“I don’t care if you find these Americans or not. Lock down the base, especially Level Four. I’m heading out with the hovercraft teams. Take your boat down immediately. Maintain deep patrol. Rendezvous scheduled at Grendel at sixteen hundred.”

“Yes, sir.” He checked his watch. Less than three hours. “Drakon will surface-at-ice here again at exactly sixteen hundred.”

“Very good.” The static went silent as the Ghost vanished into the ether.

Mikovsky turned to the radioman. “Get me the strike-team leader.”

“Yes, sir.”

A commotion drew his attention to the sonar team. They were bent over the various arrays, arguing.

He crossed to them. “What’s wrong?”

The sonar chief snapped up. “We’ve picked up an anomaly. But it makes no sense.”

“What sort of anomaly?”

“Multiple active sonar signals. Very weak.”

“Coming from where?” Mikovsky’s mind instantly ran through possible sources: the U.S. research sub, the approach of a fast-attack submarine, perhaps even surface ships beyond the cap. The answer was even more disturbing.

The chief looked up at him. “The signals originate from inside the station.”

Pistol in hand, Matt followed Lieutenant Greer through the double doors, leaving behind the organized structure of the ice station for the free-form flow of ice tunnels, chutes, sudden cliffs, and caves. Craig stuck to his side, trailed by stone-eyed Pearlson and a wincing O’Donnell. They ran down into the depths of the maze.

Greer had the only flashlight, found near the entrance. His light danced over the walls as he ran, igniting the dark ice to a shimmering blue. It was like racing through the bowels of an ice sculpture.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Craig asked.

“Someone’s down here,” Greer said. “We need to hook up with them.”

“How big is this Crawl Space?” Matt asked.

“Big” was the only response.

They continued to run, knowing the Russians weren’t far behind. Distance was more important than direction.

Zigzagging down the tunnels, they fled deeper into the depths of the ice island. As they reached a crossing of passages, gunfire erupted again. Automatic fire, from up ahead. But which tunnel?

They all stopped.

“Which way?” Pearlson asked.

The answer came a moment later. Light bloomed down to the right. Frantic and bobbling. More shots. Loud and deafening in the close spaces.

“Here comes trouble,” Matt said, pointing his Beretta down the tunnel.

Shouts could be heard now.

The Navy patrol raised their weapons.

Around a bend in the tunnel, the light bloomed brighter, illuminating a running figure. A young man stumbled into view, slipping and sliding despite the sandy floors. He scrambled, arms out, as if grasping for help. He was clearly not military, evident from his shoulder-length brown hair, North Face parka, and Thinsulate dry pants.

He fell toward them. Matt expected the man would beg for help. Instead he ran right through them. “Run!” he yelled in passing.

More figures appeared, racing at full tilt: an older bald man, a twentysomething girl, and another young man. A tall, striking black woman in military blue led this group.

“Washburn!” O’Donnell called out when she came into sight.

“Pick up your balls and get moving!” she barked back at him.

More gunfire blazed behind the group. Muzzle fire framed the last figure, another sailor. He dropped to one knee, firing a barrage behind him. Lit by a flashlight’s beam, the distant tunnel glowed like a blue snake winding deep into the ice.

“What’s the matter?” Greer asked.

Beyond the kneeling gunman, Matt spotted a darkness flowing up the tunnel.

What the hell?

Washburn led her charges to them. She screamed to be heard over the gunfire. “We have to get out of these tunnels…now!”

“We can’t,” Greer said as Washburn pounded to them. “The Russians—”

“Fuck the Russians!” Washburn said, panting hard. “We’ve got a hell of a lot worse on our asses!” She waved the others ahead of her.

The gunfire died. The other sailor was on his feet and sprinting toward them. He fumbled to replace his rifle’s spent magazine. “Go, go, go!”

Greer jabbed a finger at O’Donnell and Pearlson. “You and you. Take the civilians back up.”

O’Donnell nodded. He grabbed Craig by the elbow and took off with the panicked folk. Matt shook off Pearlson’s attempt to do the same.

The seaman shrugged and headed up on his own, but he called over his shoulder back to his lieutenant. “What about the Russians, sir?”

Fuck the Russians. Matt was still stunned by the woman’s response.

Greer’s reply was more useful. “Take them as far as the Crawl Space exit. Then wait for us!”

The only acknowledgment was a quick turn on a heel, and the group continued their headlong flight up the tunnel.

The last Navy man reached them.

“Commander Bratt,” Greer said, sounding surprised.

“Prepare to lay down cover fire!” Urgently, Bratt spun around, dropping to a knee. He ripped a fresh magazine from his coat and slapped it home.

Greer joined his senior officer, standing behind him, rifle pointed over Bratt’s shoulder. He passed his flashlight into Matt’s free hand.

Matt glanced between the retreating party and the two stationary gunmen. He debated which was best — to stay or go. His only other choice was to flee blindly down some side tunnel and get lost. No option seemed wiser than another, so he simply stood his ground.

He stepped to Bratt’s other shoulder.

Bratt glanced up at him, then away. “Who the hell are you?”

Matt raised his pistol, pointing it past the officer. “Right now, I’m a guy covering your ass.”

“Then welcome to the party,” Bratt grumbled back.

“What’s coming?” Greer asked on the other side.

“Your worst goddamn nightmare.”

From beyond the reach of the flashlight, red eyes reflected back at them. Matt’s head began to buzz oddly, like mosquitoes whirling in his skull.

“Here they come!” Bratt said, sucking in a breath.

A massive snowy-skinned creature striped in red…no, blood…thundered into view. It filled the tunnel, weeping red from multiple gunshot wounds. Gouged tracks furrowed its sides. The side of its face was raw hamburger. But it kept coming.

What the hell was it?

Other shadows could be seen in brief glimpses behind it.

The lead beast charged toward them. Claws tore at the ice.

The buzzing grew louder in Matt’s skull.

Then a barrage of rifle fire erupted, startling Matt to react. He aimed the 9mm pistol, but he knew the gun was useless. No more than the Alaskan grizzly, such a meager weapon would never bring down this creature. Several of the fresh wounds had been direct strikes between the monster’s eyes.

And still the beast ripped toward them, keeping its domed forehead low, charging like a bull, using its thick rubbery skin and insulating blubber as a bulletproof shield, a natural battering ram.

Matt pulled his trigger, more in blind fear than with any real hope for a kill shot.

“Damn things won’t die!” Bratt confirmed.

Matt continued to fire, squeezing round after round, until the pistol’s slide locked open.

Out of bullets.

Greer noticed. “Go!” he ordered, tossing his head in the direction of the retreating party, now vanished. His voice vibrated from his own rifle’s recoil as he passed a radio at Matt. “Channel four.”

Matt took the radio, ready to flee.

Then the lead beast crashed to the ice, as if slipping, legs going limp. It slid farther on the ice, nose dragging, then stopped. Its eyes remained staring at them, still reflecting red in the flashlight. But there was no longer life behind them.

Dead.

The buzzing in Matt’s head faded to a nagging itch behind his ears.

Bratt regained his feet. “Pull back.”

The beast’s bulk blocked the remaining creatures, but the animals still could be seen moving behind the mound of macerated flesh.

Matt and the two Navy men retreated to the next intersection of tunnels. Rifles continued to point at the dead bulk plugging the tunnel.

“That should hold them for now,” Greer said.

The bull’s body jolted forward, sliding toward them, shouldering over slightly. Then it stopped again.

“You had to say that,” Matt muttered, backing away

Greer sneered. “What the fuck?”

The bulk began sliding again.

“The others are pushing from behind!” Bratt said, amazed more than terrified. “Shit!”

The buzzing in Matt’s head, dulled a moment ago, flared anew. But he sensed it came from a new direction, like someone looking over his shoulder. Matt swung toward the neighboring cross tunnel.

As his flashlight turned, a pair of red eyes glowed back at him.

Only ten yards away.

Matt jerked his pistol up, pure reflex, as the creature charged.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted the still open slide on his weapon.

Nope, still out of bullets.

Unable to determine what drew the grendel away, Amanda had no clue as to its whereabouts now. Connor’s mining helmet hung crooked on her head, casting a slanting beam of light down the tunnel, hitting an orange spray-painted marker on the wall.

Lacy Devlin’s trail marker.

Amanda searched farther down the wall. Please…

Another painted spot appeared against the blue ice: a green diamond. Lacy’s path had finally crossed another. A sob escaped Amanda. She had reached the mapped areas of the Crawl Space at last.

She raised the handheld radio and pressed the transmit button. “If anyone’s listening, I’ve found another trail. Green diamonds. I’m following it up. I’ve seen no sign of the beast for the past hour. But please help me.”

She clicked the radio off, preserving the battery, and prayed. If only someone was listening…

In dead silence, she increased her pace.

As she followed one diamond to the next, she judged she must be close to the inhabited areas of the ice cavern system. Taking a chance, she reached up and twisted her helmet lamp, extinguishing her sole source of light.

Darkness closed around her, close and claustrophobic.

She was now deaf and blind.

After half a minute, her eyes adjusted to the press of black ice. She scanned around, first with her eyes, then slowly swiveling her head.

She found what she had been seeking.

Overhead, a faint star glowed deep in the ice, a pool of brightness. Someone was down here with flashlights.

As she stared, standing stationary, the glow suddenly split into two tinier stars, fainter but distinct. Each glow flew quickly away from the other.

One rose higher and away, a fading star, waning, then gone.

The other shot in her direction. Growing brighter, moving fast.

Searchers…someone had surely heard her.

She feared calling out, especially knowing what else lurked in these dark tunnels. Her best chance was to shorten the distance between the moving glow and herself. She twisted her helmet lamp back on.

In the glare of her small bulb, the other glow disappeared. She hated to extinguish the only sign of hope, but it was too dangerous to traverse the ice maze in the dark — and she dared not lose the trail of green diamonds. If her rescuers had heard her, it was this path they would search to find her.

She hurried forward, stopping every other minute to turn off her light and check her bearings in relation to the rescue party.

And she did one other thing at each stop.

“I’m still following the trail of green diamonds. But please be careful. The predator that killed Lacy and Connor is still loose somewhere in these tunnels.”

In Matt’s pocket, the radio passed to him by Greer continued to relay this lost woman’s saga. He had already tried to raise her, but she either couldn’t pick up the signal or had some malfunction with her radio. Whatever the reason, Matt had his own problems.

He continued his mad flight down the ice tunnel, empty pistol in hand, flashlight in the other.

Five minutes ago, the solitary hunter had charged into the crossroads, separating Matt from the two Navy men, filling the passage. The pair had opened fire, trying to buy Matt time to flee.

It hadn’t worked.

After a moment’s hesitation, the beast gave chase — a lioness running down the lone gazelle.

With nothing but an empty pistol in hand, Matt ran headlong down the tunnel, slipping and sliding down steep traverses. He barely kept his footing. His shoulders struck with bruising force against walls and outcroppings. But he refused to slow down. He had already seen how fast a bullet-riddled monster moved. He feared the speed of a healthy, undamaged specimen.

For a few long minutes, he had seen no evidence of the monster. Maybe it had slipped away. Even the fuzzy feeling in his head had quieted. It was as if something emanated from them, something outside the wavelength of ordinary hearing.

Now it had vanished.

Dare he hope the beast was gone with it?

The radio crackled again. “Please…if you can hear this, bring help. Bring guns! I’m still on the green diamond trail.”

What the hell did that mean? Green diamond trail. It sounded like a Lucky Charms cereal advertisement.

“I’ve not seen any sign of the grendel now for the past forty-five minutes. It seems to have disappeared. Maybe it fled.”

Matt scrunched his brow. Grendel? Was that what had attacked them? If so, it seemed this woman knew more about what was down here than anyone else did.

He raced around a corner, skidding on his heels, spinning to make the turn. Ahead the tunnel diverged into two passages. The beam of his flashlight caught a flash of odd color against the ice. A blue circle was painted at the threshold to the right, a green diamond on the left.

Trail markers

Understanding dawned. He chose the left tunnel and continued running, still watching his back, but now also searching for the next green diamond.

Hell, if I’m running, I might as well run toward someone who knows what the hell is going on down here.

Matt continued, winding this way and that. Gravity and the slick slope pulled him deeper and deeper — and still there was no sign of the woman on the radio. It was endless dark ice, and he moved in a glowing blue grotto, lit by his lone flashlight.

“Hello!” The call this time did not come through the radio. It came from ahead of him.

Matt skated around another bend, one hand against the ice wall to balance himself. His flashlight beam rounded the corner and illuminated a strange sight: a tall and shapely woman, naked, painted blue, like some Inuit goddess.

He skidded toward her, realizing that she wasn’t naked but instead wore some skintight pale blue unitard, its hood pulled up. She also wore a mining helmet crooked on her head. Its lamp shone in his eyes.

“Thank God!” she cried, hurrying toward him.

Her features became clear when she switched off her lamp. The confusion in her eyes spread over her face.

“Who are you?” She glanced past him. “Where are the others?”

“If you’re looking for a rescue party, you’ll have to settle for me.” He lifted the useless pistol in his hand. “Though I’m not sure I’m going to do you much good.”

“And you are?” she asked again. Her words were slightly slurred, her voice unusually loud. Was she drunk?

“Matthew Pike, Alaskan Fish and Game.”

“Fish and Game?” Her confusion deepened. “Could you lower your flashlight? I…I’m deaf, and I’m having trouble reading your lips against the glare.”

He lowered his light. “Sorry. I’m one of the group being shuttled from Omega.”

She nodded, understanding. But suspicion also glinted. “What’s going on? Where’s everyone else?”

“The station’s been evacuated. The Russians attacked Omega.”

“My God…I don’t understand.”

“And they’re now in the process of commandeering the facility here, too. But what about you? Who are you? Why are you down here alone?”

She moved closer, but her eyes flickered between him and the tunnel behind him. “I’m Dr. Amanda Reynolds. Head of Omega Drift Station.” She told him an abbeviated, hurried story of missing scientists and the sudden attack by the giant ice predator.

“You called them grendels over the walkie-talkie,” he said as she finished her bloody tale. “Like you knew about them.”

“We found frozen remains here. Down in some ice cavern. They were supposed to be fifty thousand years old, dating back to the last ice age. Some type of extinct species.”

Extinct, my ass, he thought. Aloud he related his own experiences since the Russian attack, keeping a watch on the tunnels with his flashlight.

“So there’s more than one grendel…” she mumbled, her voice a whisper. “Of course, there must be. But how have they remained hidden for so long?”

“They’re not hiding now. If this is some frozen nest, it’s too dangerous to remain down here. Do you know another trail to the surface? With what was on my scent, maybe we’d better get off this green diamond trail. Try another.”

She pointed forward. “This trail should lead to others. But I’m not that familiar with the Crawl Space. My guess is that they all end eventually at the exit.”

“Let’s hope so. C’mon.” Matt headed out, going slowly now, cautious, backtracking up. “We need to watch for any sign of the grendels: spoor, scratched marks in the ice. Avoid those areas.”

She nodded. He had to respect this woman. She had faced one of these beasts alone and survived. And now she sought to escape with nothing but a walkie-talkie and a small ice ax. All the while deaf to what might be out there.

“With a bit of luck,” she said, “we won’t run into any more of them.”

Matt turned just as a wave of buzzing cut through his skull, rattling the tiny bones in his ears.

He felt a frantic clutch on his elbow. Amanda pulled beside him. Even deaf, she must have felt the reverberation. And from the way her fingers cut into his right biceps, she knew its implication.

Their luck had just run out.

10. Blood on the Ice

After an hour in front of the space heater, Jenny felt almost thawed — and oddly reenergized. Maybe it was the caffeine, maybe it was the morphine, maybe it was the stupidity of their plan.

Moments ago, word had reached them that the Russian submarine had left. This news came from a seaman who had been found hiding in one of the research shacks by the Russian forces and tossed into the barracks to join the rest of the captives. The seaman had witnessed the sub’s departure.

“Do you have any estimate of how many Russians are still here?” Lieutenant Sewell asked him, kneeling beside the newly arrived sailor.

The man shivered in his seat, his hands soaking in a bowl of warm water. His teeth chattered as he answered. “Not for certain, sir. I spotted some ten men, but there have to be more I didn’t see.”

“So, more than ten,” Sewell said, his lips thin with worry.

The seaman glanced to his senior officer, eyes wide. “Th-they shot Jenkins. He tried to bolt across the ice. He was going to bug out to the NASA station. Try to use their crawler to get away. They shot him in the back.”

Sewell patted the man’s shoulder. They had all heard similar reports. It was clear the Russians were under strict orders to lock down this station. One by one, all of the officers and a few of the scientists had been dragged away at gunpoint. But they were returned unharmed, except for one lieutenant who came back with a broken nose.

Interrogation, Sewell had told Jenny. The Russians were clearly searching for something, something that once lay hidden at the lost ice station. They hadn’t found it. Yet.

Jenny had caught a glimpse of their interrogator as he stood in the doorway: a tall, stately Russian with a shock of white hair, and a face even paler.

Sewell began to rise from his knee, but the shivering seaman stopped him again, pulling a wet hand from the bath. “Sir, I also saw two Russians dropping a canister into a hole in the ice. Other holes were being drilled.”

“Describe the canisters.”

“They were the size of minikegs.” The seaman shaped them with his dripping hands. “Solid black with bright orange end caps.”

“Shit.”

Jenny had been leaning over, tying on dry boots. She straightened. “What are they?”

“Russian incendiary charges. V-class explosives.” Sewell closed his eyes as he stood up. “They must be planning on melting this entire base into the ocean.”

To the side, Kowalski had finished dressing and stood in front of the heater. He held his hands toward the warmth. His fingernails were still tinged slightly blue. “So do we go ahead with our plan?”

“We have no choice. It’s becoming clearer and clearer that the Russians’ mission here is a plunder-and-purge. They intend to grab what they can and burn everything behind them. Whatever is over at the Grendel base, the Russians are determined to take it and leave no one to tell the tale.”

Kowalski sighed. “Then, as long as they don’t find what they’re looking for, we live. Once they do, we die.”

Sewell didn’t even bother responding to the man’s statement. He turned instead to Jenny. “Our plan. Still think you can pull off your end?”

Jenny’s father placed a hand on her shoulder. She covered it with her own. He didn’t want her to go. “I’ll make it.”

Sewell stared at her a moment, clearly trying to weigh her resolve. She met his hard gaze. He finally nodded. “Let’s go.”

Kowalski stepped to her side. He towered over her, a gorilla with only slightly less body hair. “You’ll need to keep up with me.”

She rolled her eyes.

Sewell led them both over to where a pair of sailors had pulled away a section of ceiling and cut through the insulation of the Jamesway hut with plastic knives. Their work was hidden out of direct sight of the guarded doorway. Luckily the Russians mostly kept out of the room, confident about their imprisonment — and rightly so. Where could the captives escape to even if they could get out of the barracks? The prison hut was well patrolled, and beyond the camp lay only a prolonged freezing death.

Their parkas had been confiscated. Only a fool would risk the freezing storm with nothing but the shirt on his back.

To escape here meant certain death.

This grim thought plagued Jenny as she watched the pair of sweating sailors labor overhead. They worked within the gap in the fiberglass insulation, unscrewing an exterior plate in the hut’s roof. It was difficult work with only plastic utensils, but they were managing.

A screw fell to the floor from above.

Sewell pointed up. “Normally there’s a skylight installed there. One of three. But in the Arctic, where it’s dark half the year and continually sunny the other, windows were found to be more of a nuisance, especially as a source of heat loss. So they were plated and sealed.”

“One more to go,” one of the men grunted overhead.

“Dim the lights.” Sewell signaled. The lamps around the immediate area were extinguished.

Jenny pulled a spare blanket around her shoulders and knotted it to form a crude hooded poncho. It was too large for her slight frame, but it was better than nothing. Anything to cut the wind.

The last screw fell. A plate dropped next into the waiting hands of one of the workers. It was followed by a blast of cold air.

Wind whistled inside. Much too noisy. Sewell pointed to a petty officer, who turned up his CD player. The band U2 wailed over the howl of the blizzard outside.

“You’ll have to hurry,” Sewell said to Kowalski and Jenny. “If anyone chances in here, we’ll be discovered. We’ll have to reseal the opening ASAP.”

Jenny nodded. A bunk bed had been shoved under the opening to use as a makeshift ladder. Jenny scrambled up. She met her father’s eyes for a moment, read the worry in them. But he remained silent. They had no choice. She was the best pilot here.

Standing atop the bunk, Jenny reached up through the hole in the ceiling. She gripped the icy edge of the roof. Without gloves, her fingertips immediately froze to the metal, burning. She ignored the cold.

Helped by the two sailors shoving her hips, she pulled up and poked her head into the blizzard. She was immediately blinded by the winds and blowing ice.

She donned her goggles and dropped belly first to the curved roof of the hut and slithered out. She moved carefully, her nose inches from the corrugated exterior. The winds threatened to kite her off the roof. Worse, the Jamesway huts had barrel-shaped roofs, like the older Quonset huts. The roof sloped steeply to the snowy ground on either side.

Jenny straddled the top, clinging as best she could to the ice-coated surface. She carefully crabbed around to see Kowalski miraculously squeeze his bulk through the dimly lit hole, like Jonah squeezing from the blowhole of a metal whale.

He grunted a bit, then signaled her, jabbing a finger toward the windward side of the hut. The pair shimmied and slid on their butts to where the sloping roof went straight down toward the ground. The ice threatened to take them over the edge against their will.

On this side of the Jamesway, snow had built up into a large bank, a frozen wave permanently breaking against the hut, reaching almost to the roof. Kowalski searched from his perch for any Russian guards. Jenny joined him. It looked clear for the moment, but visibility was mere feet in the ground blizzard.

He glanced over to her.

She nodded.

Kowalski led the way. Sliding feetfirst over the edge, he dropped down onto the snowbank, then rolled skillfully down its icy slope. He vanished out of view.

Readying herself, Jenny glanced back to the hole. It had already been closed. There was no turning back. She slid on her cold rear over the icy edge of the roof and fell to the snow.

Now to escape.

She rolled artlessly down the snowbank, losing control of her tumble and landing atop Kowalski. It was like hitting a buried boulder. The collision knocked the wind out of her.

She gasped silently.

Rather than helping her, Kowalski pushed her farther down into the snow. He pointed with his arm.

Beyond the edge of a neighboring hut, a group of shadowy figures hunched against the wind. They were only discernible because of the pool of light cast about them from idling hovercraft bikes.

The pair stayed hidden.

The shadowy group soon mounted their hovercraft. The engines must have been idling because the headlamps immediately rose, swaying in the gusts, then turned away. The wail of winds covered the sound of the engines, giving an eerie quality to the sight.

The vehicles vanished into the empty ice plains. The two remaining guards stalked away and disappeared into the next building.

Jenny watched the glow of the last hovercraft fade out. They could be going to only one place: the Russian ice station. Her thoughts turned to the other Sno-Cat that had vanished, heading in the same direction, carrying Matt and the Seattle reporter.

For the first time in years, Jenny prayed for Matt’s safety. She wished she could have spoken the words that bitterness and anger had locked inside her all this time. It seemed so pointless now, so many years wasted in despair.

She whispered soft words into the wind.

I’m sorry…Matt, I’m so sorry…

Gunfire erupted behind them, loud and near.

“Up!” Kowalski yelled in her ear, yanking her to her feet. “Run!”

Amanda fled alongside the tall stranger. The grendel still remained out of sight farther up the maze of passages, but the buzz of its echolocation filled the back of her head with a fuzzy, scratchy feeling.

It was tracking them, slowly, cautiously, driving them deeper into the ice island.

“What is it waiting for?” Matt asked.

“For our luck to run out,” she answered, remembering Lacy Devlin’s fate. “One of these times, we’re going to turn into a dead end. A blocked passage, a cliff. Then we’ll be trapped.”

“Deadly and smart…a great combination.”

Together they rounded a curve of smooth tunnel. The crampons on Amanda’s boots gave her traction, but Matt slid, skidding around on the ice. She grabbed his arm to help him keep his footing.

Matt turned to her. “We can’t keep this up. We’re just heading deeper and deeper down, away from where we want to go.”

“What else can we do?” She held up the small ice ax she had taken from Connor. “Face it with this?”

“Not a chance.”

“Well, you’re Fish and Game. I’m geophysical engineering. This is your department.”

Matt bunched his brows. “We need something to lure this thing off our scent. Lay a false track for it to follow. If we could slip past it, get above it, then at least we’d be heading toward the exit as we ran.”

Amanda struggled for an answer to this riddle, her mind shifting into objective mode. She reviewed what she knew about the beasts. Little to nothing was the answer, but that did not preclude her from extrapolating hypotheses. The grendels hunted by echolocation, but they were also sensitive to light and perhaps even heat. She remembered her experience in the beast’s nest. It hadn’t been aware of her hiding place until after it destroyed the flashlight and she had begun to sweat.

Light and heat. She sensed an answer here, but what?

They ran past another crisscrossing of tunnel — then she had it!

“Wait!” she called out, and stopped.

Matt slowed, braking on his heels, one hand on the wall. He turned to her.

Amanda backed to the tunnel crossings. Light and heat. She tugged the chin strap to her helmet and pulled it off. She twisted on the lamp so it glowed brightly, then reached to her waist where her air-warming mask was belted in place next to its heater. She unhooked it and dialed the heating element to full burn. It quickly grew warm in her hands.

“What are you thinking?” Matt asked.

She hurried back to the crossroads, eyes scanning for any sign of the hunter. “These creatures hone in on light and heat signatures.” She flipped over her mining helmet and crammed the air-warming mask and its heater — now hot to the touch — inside the helmet.

She lifted her creation higher.

Matt joined her and nodded. “A lure for a false trail.”

“Let’s hope this does the trick.” She slipped past him, ducked low to the ice, and flung the helmet down the main tunnel. The yellow helmet skated and spun atop its crown, light twirling like an ambulance siren. It bounced off a wall and disappeared around the bend, carrying her air-warming unit with it.

Amanda stood and faced Matt. “Light and heat. The grendel will hopefully follow after the lure, heading deeper. Once past here, we can sneak behind its back and head up.”

“Like tossing a stick for a dog.” Matt nodded, eyeing her with more respect. He turned off his flashlight. The only illumination now came from the vanished helmet.

In the darkness, they retreated down the side tunnel and hid behind a tumbled fall of ice blocks. Crouched together, they stared back at the main passage. The glow of the helmet was faint, but it was stable. The helmet must have come to a stop somewhere below. Amanda hoped it rested far enough down the shaft to give them a good lead from the beast.

Now to wait, to see if the grendel took the bait.

Matt knelt on one knee. He spied through a peephole that pierced the tumble of ice. Eyes wide, he strained to soak up every photon of light that illuminated the neighboring passage. He struggled to hear any sign of the beast. All that he could sense was the vague, nagging vibration of the hunting beast’s sonar. It was dull — but growing.

The woman’s fingers in his hand suddenly spasmed tighter.

Matt spotted it, too. Shifting shadows.

A dark bulk pushed into view, soaking up the feeble glow of the abandoned helmet. The creature filled the passage, shouldering up to the crossroads. In the shadows, it looked as black as oil, though Matt knew it was as pale as bleached bone.

It stopped.

Lips rippled back to show the glint of teeth. Its bulky head swayed to either side. The buzz of its sonar swamped over them. It seemed to vibrate the very darkness, searching for prey.

Matt held perfectly still. Though well hidden by the fall of ice, he feared any movement might attract the beast. Could it sense their body heat through the frozen blocks?

He felt the creature’s gaze upon him.

He feared even to blink. Take the bait, damn you!

The gaze continued to penetrate the tunnel, suspicious, sensing something. It snorted deep in its throat — then it tossed its head around.

It slunk down the passage, slowly but steadily, drawn toward the light and the heat. Whatever it had sensed from them, it ignored and turned toward the stronger lure.

Then it was gone.

Matt waited a full minute, long enough for the beast to move far down the passage and around the bend. Then he carefully stood and moved back to the main corridor. They didn’t dare wait too long. Soon the grendel would learn of their ruse and backtrack here. They needed to put as much distance between the beast and themselves as possible.

Amanda kept beside him. He checked the passage. The shadow of the grendel could be seen sliding around the bend as the beast hunted its false prey.

He signaled Amanda.

They reached the main corridor and headed away into the dark, careful of their steps, feeling with their hands as the distant light of the helmet totally waned away.

After a minute, Matt had to risk using his flashlight, praying that the flare of light didn’t attract the grendel. He flicked on the lamp but held his palm over it, muting the glow. The light streamed faintly between his fingers, but it was enough. They increased their speed.

Neither spoke.

As they half ran and half skated along, moving upward in the passageways, Matt grew concerned about other grendels that might be down here. Yet so far there had been no telltale brush of sonar.

He finally risked his own walkie-talkie. He passed the flashlight to Amanda, then pressed the radio to his lips. He whispered, afraid to let his voice carry too far. “Lieutenant Greer? Can you read me? Over.”

He listened for an answer, racing a step ahead of Amanda.

A voice answered, faint but audible, “This is Lieutenant Commander Bratt. Where are you?”

Matt frowned. “Hell, if I know. Where are you?”

“We’re gathered with the others at the exit to the Crawl Space. Can you reach us?”

“I’ve found Dr. Reynolds. We’ll try our damnedest.”

Matt turned to Amanda. Beyond her, echoing up to them, a roar suddenly sounded.

From his expression, Amanda must have noted his distress. “What’s wrong?”

“I think Little Willy just discovered our ruse.”

Amanda glanced over her shoulder. “It’ll be back this way. Take off your boots.”

“What?”

“You’ll have better traction on the ice.”

Nodding, he bent and unlaced his pair of moccasin boots and yanked off his wool socks. The ice was cold, but she was right. He gripped the ice better. Tucking the moccasins into his jacket, he set off at a dead run with Amanda.

Matt raised the radio again. “Matthew Pike here. Dr. Reynolds and I are heading up. But we’ve got company on our tail.”

The answer was immediate. “Then haul ass as best you can. We’ll do what we can to help, but we have no way of telling where you are.”

Matt noted a splash of paint on the wall as he ran past. Of course…He raised the radio again. “We’re following the tunnels marked with green diamonds! Does that mean anything?”

There was a long pause, then the radio squawked again. “Roger that. Green diamonds. Out.”

Matt pocketed the radio in his patched Army jacket, praying they could help. Otherwise, he and Amanda were on their own.

They fled up the tunnels, racing through a series of convoluted passages.

Then Matt felt it: the buzz saw of the beast’s sonar.

The bastard had found them.

As he reached the end of a particularly long, straight chute, Matt glanced behind him. A pair of red eyes blinked into existence. Across twenty yards, they matched gazes: predator and prey.

A rumbled growl flowed from the grendel.

The challenge was given.

The final chase was on.

Jenny fled with Kowalski across the snow. They ducked low as they ran, limiting their silhouettes. Wind shoved against their shoulders, trying to force them back. The edges of Jenny’s makeshift woolen poncho flapped and snapped. She used one hand to clutch the hood around her head, pulling the corners up over her mouth and nose, leaving only the goggles exposed.

They trudged on. The winds, the snow, the ice…all made their escape slow and torturous. The exposed inches of her skin already burned. But she dared not let up the fight.

Behind them, the sounds of gunfire cracked and echoed through the blizzard — but the shots weren’t directed at them. As planned, Sewell and the others had feigned a frontal assault, a rush at the barracks doors, intending to draw attention from the fleeing pair. The Russians would be forced to call for reinforcements to the barracks.

Jenny prayed no one was killed, but fear for her father was foremost in her mind.

Especially since their plan was feeble: get aloft, call for help, and ride the winds to the coast.

They rounded another building. The base’s parking lot appeared ahead. Across the ice field, shadowed mounds marked the resting places of various snow machines, a wintry cemetery of abandoned vehicles.

But there was no sign of the plane. With visibility down to a few yards, it lay cloaked somewhere deeper out in the snowstorm.

Crouched in the lee of the hut, Jenny tried to get her bearings. Blinded by the blizzard, they might walk right past the Otter without even seeing it. And they didn’t have the time to wander around and around. If the Russians didn’t kill them, the weather would.

Now that they had stopped, the cold sank through the layers of Jenny’s clothing, seeking the marrow of her bones. Her cheeks felt like they’d been scrubbed with a wire brush. She rubbed circulation into them with her palms. Her fingers felt swollen, like numb sausages.

They waited for the winds to let up for a single breath, hoping for the briefest glimpse of their target out on the ice field. But the winds didn’t cooperate. They continued to blow steady and strong, as sure as any ocean current.

Finally Kowalski’s patience wore thin. “Let’s go!” he hissed in her ear. “We can’t wait any longer.”

Behind them, the gunfire had died away. Sewell’s feigned insurrection had already been shut down. If the Russians performed a head count, they would come up with two short, and a search would start. They had to be gone before that happened.

Kowalski shouldered his way back into the full force of the wind. Jenny followed, using his broad back as a windbreak. They crossed through the parking lot and out into the scoured ice fields.

After ten steps, Jenny glanced over a shoulder.

The base had already vanished into the storm. Even the lights seemed more mirage than real.

They continued into the ice field. Jenny sought any sign of her aircraft. But they moved inside a white bubble, a snow globe continually shaken and swirled. They moved slowly, placing one foot in front of the other, aiming as straight as they could.

Minutes passed. Jenny grew concerned. Surely we should have reached the Otter by now.

Then a flickering light appeared. Kowalski swore. It had to be one of the base’s peripheral lamp poles, run off the generators. Disoriented, they had somehow circled back. But it made no sense. The wind was still in their faces.

A shadow suddenly darted through the weak glow. Dark and low to the ground…coming at them.

Jenny and Kowalski froze.

It moved too fast to discern any details.

Out of the storm, the dark beast lunged.

Kowalski bent to take the brunt of the charge, a bear about to take on a lion.

Then in a blink, the snow swirled, transforming shadowy beast into heartfelt companion.

“Bane!” Jenny dove around the Navy seaman and stepped into the wolf’s lunge. The huge canine knocked her back onto her rear. A hot tongue sought her cold skin.

The wolf could not push any closer to her, trying to merge his form with hers, scrambling, whining.

The light, borne aloft, approached. It was not a lamp pole, but a figure bearing a burning flare in hand. The shape, obscured by a thick parka, stepped toward them.

Jenny noted one thing immediately. It was a blue parka — not white.

U.S. Navy.

“I knew it had to be either you or your husband,” the newcomer said. Relief rang in his voice. It was Tom Pomautuk, the ensign left in charge of Bane. “Bane started whining, then suddenly ripped out of his lead.”

Kowalski gained his feet. “Where have you been hiding?”

The young ensign pointed his flare. “Sheriff Aratuk’s airplane. When the first explosion hit, Bane bolted out here.”

Going for the familiar, Jenny thought, heading to the only piece of home he knows out here.

“I had to follow,” Tom continued. “The dog was my responsibility. And once I realized what was happening, I thought I could use the radio to transmit a Mayday.”

“Did you reach anyone?”

Tom shook his head. “I didn’t have much time to try. I had to hide from the patrols, cram myself and the dog into the cargo space. But after the blizzard struck, I doubted anyone would risk coming out here. So I tried again. As a matter of fact, I was outside the plane, burning ice from the antennas with the flare, when Bane started to whine and tug in your direction.”

Jenny gave Bane a final pat. “Let’s get out of this wind.”

“Amen to that,” Kowalski said, a shiver trembling through his frame.

“What’s the plan?” Tom asked, leading them across the ice. The ghostly shape of the Twin Otter grew out of the white background.

Jenny answered, “First let’s pray the engines turn over. Under the cover of the storm, we should be able to start the engines with no one hearing. But it’ll still take a few minutes to warm them up.”

“You want to take off?” Tom asked, turning back to her. “Fly — in this weather?”

“I’ve flown in whiteout conditions before,” Jenny assured him. But this was no ice fog, she added to herself. The blizzard would challenge all her skill.

They reached the plane, undid the storm ties, and yanked away the frozen chocks. Once ready, they climbed inside. Insulated from the wind, the cabin seemed fifty degrees warmer. Jenny climbed over to her pilot’s seat. Kowalski took the copilot’s chair. Tom and Bane shared the row behind them.

The plane’s keys were still where she had left them. She switched on main power and ran a quick systems check. All seemed in order. She flipped toggles, disengaging the engine-block heaters from the auxiliary battery.

“Here goes nothing,” Jenny said, powering up the twin engines. The familiar vibrato of power trembled through her seat cushion.

The engine noise was lost somewhat on the winds, but Jenny could still discern the whine of the twin motors. How far did the sound carry? Were the Russians coming even now?

She glanced to Kowalski. He shrugged as if reading her mind. What did it matter?

She throttled up slowly, letting the engines warm. Beyond the windows, she could vaguely make out the props stirring up the blowing snow.

After a full minute, she asked, “Ready?”

No one answered.

“Here we go,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard. It sounded, even to her, more like a prayer. She pushed the engines, the props chopped into the winds, and the Twin Otter broke from its spot on the ice. The plane slid on its skids, moving out.

Jenny worked the controls to angle them away from the base. Her plan was to taxi into the wind, using the force of the storm to help her get aloft. It would still be a hell of a ride.

“Hang on,” she began to say, but was cut off.

“We’ve got company,” Kowalski said. He had craned around and was staring behind them.

Jenny checked. Two glows, like a car’s headlights, shone behind them. Then the two lights split apart, sailing away from one another, but arcing toward the Otter.

Hovercrafts.

Jenny throttled up, generating a roar from the props. The plane sped ahead, but it was slow with the headwind pounding at the windshield. Normally a fierce headwind was perfect for a quick takeoff, but these winds gusted, battering the plane. “The Russians must have heard us.”

“Or they posted infrared scopes and spotted the engines heating up out here.”

A blast of rifle fire suddenly cut through the engine noise, sounding distant in the blanket of the storm. A few slugs struck the fleeing plane with sharp pings. But the tail assembly and storage spaces shielded the cabin.

Jenny fought to increase their speed into the wind.

“They’re coming around!” Tom called from the backseat.

Jenny glanced to the right and left. Two glows could be seen, swinging up to get clear shots at the cabin.

Damn, those bikes flew fast.

She stared out into the storm breaking over her windshield, pressing against her, holding her back. This would never work. They didn’t have the time to fight the winds. She needed a new angle of attack — and there was only one other option.

“Hold on!” she called out.

She throttled down the port engine while kicking up the starboard. At the same time, she worked the flaps, one up, the other down. The Otter spun on its runners, like a hydroplaning car. It skidded on the ice, coming full around, pointing back the way they had come.

“What are you doing?” Kowalski yelled, pushing off the window he had been pressed against.

Jenny jammed both engines to full power. Props churned snow into a blur. The Otter leaped ahead, racing again over the ice.

With the wind at their backs, the plane accelerated rapidly.

Kowalski realized where they were heading. Back toward the base. “You don’t have the clearance. You’ll never get the lift you need.”

“I know.”

The pair of hovercraft whirled out and back, spinning around to give chase. A single bullet pinged against the Otter’s tail.

“We’ll never make it,” Tom whispered.

Jenny ignored them all. She raced ahead, watching her gauges, especially her speed. C’mon…

From the corner of her eye, she saw the lights of the base appear ahead. Darker shadows marked the village of Jamesway huts.

The Otter sped toward them.

The vibrations of the runners over the ice lessened as the plane began to lift. Jenny held her breath. She didn’t have enough speed yet. The momentary lift was only from the storm winds. She was right. The runners hit again, shaking the plane as the skids rode across the uneven ice field.

“Pull around!” Kowalski yelled. “We can’t make it!”

Jenny hummed under her breath and aimed directly for one of the dark buildings, a shadow in the glow of the base’s lamp poles. She prayed it was aligned like the barracks from which she and Kowalski had escaped.

The plane sped toward it. Jenny held back just a pinch of power. She would need it.

“What are you—?” Kowalski began, then finished with “Oh, shit!”

Like the barracks, a snowbank had blown against the windward side of the Jamesway hut, a frozen wave banking almost to the roof.

The Otter struck the icy slope, nose popping up. Jenny kicked the engines with the last bit of power. The runners rode up the bank, then shot skyward.

The skids brushed against the corrugated roof of the building with a rasp of metal on metal — then they were away, airborne into the teeth of the storm.

For the next few stomach-rolling minutes, Jenny fought for control of her craft. The plane bobbled, a kite in a storm. But while the winds were blowing fiercely, they were also steady. Jenny turned into the storm, using the wind’s rush over her wings to propel her upward. She eventually found her wings, and the Otter stabilized.

Sighing, she checked her gauges: altitude, airspeed, compass. In these whiteout conditions, the instruments were all she had to go by. Beyond the windshield, there was no discernible way of telling sky from ice.

“You’re fucking awesome!” Kowalski said, wearing a shaggy grin.

Jenny wished she could share his enthusiasm. Still watching her instruments, she felt her gut tighten. The gauge on the reserve fuel tank was draining away. The dial swept from full, to half, to quarter. One of the stray bullets must have torn a line. She was blowing fuel behind her. She checked her main tank.

It was holding fine — if you could call a mere eighth of a tank fine.

“What’s wrong?” Tom asked.

“We’re almost out of fuel.”

“What?” Kowalski asked. “How?”

Jenny pointed and explained.

Kowalski swore fiercely once she was done.

“How far can we get before we have to land?” Tom asked.

Jenny shook her head. “Not far. Maybe fifty miles.”

“Great…” Kowalski groaned. “Just far enough to land in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.”

Jenny understood his anger. Out here, lost, without food or warm clothes, they would not survive long in the freezing cold.

“What can we do?” Tom asked.

No one answered.

Jenny continued to fly. It was all she could do for now.

With no more tricks to play, Matt and Amanda had only one course left, the most basic means of defense. “Run!” Matt yelled, giving Amanda a rough push.

She let out a gasp, then leaped away like a startled doe.

Matt did his best to keep up with her, but barefoot, it was like running with two freezer-burned steaks tied around his feet.

They fled up the tunnels, but with every few steps, Matt was losing ground.

“I know…I know this place!” Amanda yelled. “We’re not far from the exit!”

Matt glanced over a shoulder.

The grendel flew down the tunnel toward them — only ten yards away now. It loped after them, sinuous and lethal, claws casting up spats of ice. It must have sensed that its prey was close to escaping. All caution gone.

“Get down!” This new shout came from the tunnel ahead of them, cutting through the constant buzz.

Matt swung around to see a bristle of weapons pointed his way.

The Navy team!

Amanda disappeared among them. Matt was too far behind. There was no way he could make it. He dove onto his belly, arms outstretched, ax held in both hands.

The passage erupted with gunfire. Bullets whistled over his head. Ice chipped from the walls and ceilings, pelting him from stray shots and ricochets.

Matt rolled to his back, staring back between his legs.

The grendel crouched only a yard away, head bulled down. It clawed toward him, determined to reach its prize. A bellow rumbled through its chest. Steam puffed from its buried nostrils. Blood spilled over its sleek features as flesh was macerated by bullets.

Matt backpedaled away, pushing with his bare feet.

Under fire from three automatic weapons, the beast still fought toward him. One claw lashed out and snatched Matt’s pant leg, pinning it to the ice. Matt tugged, but it wouldn’t budge. For a heartbeat, he met the hunter’s eye.

Matt read the fire in there.

The grendel’s lips snarled back. It might die, but it would take him with it.

Matt swung his ice ax — not at the beast but over his head, as far as his arm could reach. The pick end jammed into the ice. With his other hand, he unbuckled his pants and ripped loose the top button. Using the ax as an anchor, he hauled himself out of his pants and rolled from the beast.

Stripped to his thermals, he crawled away. The beast roared behind him, a haunted sound that crossed all spectrums, eerie and forlorn.

Matt reached the row of men.

Hands grabbed him, hauled him to his feet.

He looked back at the beast. It had also rolled around, half climbing the walls to turn. It fled away from the stinging attack and vanished around the far bend.

Matt joined Amanda, and together they approached the others: a cluster of scientists and a handful of Navy personnel.

Craig gaped at him. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

“We’re not out of this yet.”

Bratt organized his command: Greer, O’Donnell, Pearlson, and Washburn. He explained their situation.

Amanda stared hard at Bratt. “The Polar Sentinel left?”

“Captain Perry had no choice.”

Amanda seemed to shrink back, stunned. “What are we going to do?”

Bratt answered, “We can’t stay down here. We’re running low on ammunition. We’re going to have to take our chances with the Russians.”

“Sir, I know a few places we could hide on Level Three,” the tall black lieutenant said. She nodded back up the tunnels. “There are service shafts and storage spaces. Also an old weapons locker. If we could make it there without being seen…”

“Anywhere’s better than these fuckin’ tunnels,” Greer said.

Bratt nodded. “We’ll have to be careful.”

Matt would be happy to be out of these ice passages himself. The nagging buzz was beginning to ache his ears.

He suddenly jolted.

Oh, God…

He swung around. His ears had been ringing from the close-quarter rifle fire. Only now that it had faded did he feel it.

The creature had been driven off — but the buzzing continued.

He saw the look of recognition in Amanda’s eyes.

“We’re not alone!” Matt yelled.

Flashlights suddenly shot up, poking down other tunnel openings. Pair after pair of red eyes reflected back at them.

“They’re the thawed group from the caves!” Bratt called out, waving everyone back. “They finally got around that damned carcass.”

“The rifle fire must have drawn them!” the biologist yelled in terror, pulling back.

“Out!” Bratt yelled. “We don’t have the firepower to hold off this many!”

Together, they ran up the tunnel in a mad rush.

The sudden movement drew the beasts, like cats after fleeing mice.

“This way!” Amanda screamed.

The double doors to the station appeared ahead.

In a mad rush, they hit the doors. Matt held the way open and waved the civilians through. “Move, move, move!”

The Navy personnel kept up a rear guard, then quickly followed into the station.

As the doors were slammed shut, a shot rang out ahead of them. Matt ducked from a ricochet off the metal wall.

It seemed their gunfire had drawn more than just grendels.

“Halt!” a soldier in a white parka barked at them in heavily accented English. He and four others had a post at the other end of the hall. Assault rifles were trained on them. “Drop weapons! Now!”

No one moved for a breath.

Amanda had been continuing forward, deaf to the command, but Matt grabbed her elbow. She glanced to him.

Matt shook his head. “Stay with me,” he mouthed.

“Do as they say,” Bratt ordered, tossing aside his rifle as example. Other weapons clattered. “Keep moving forward. Get away from the doors.”

“Keep hands in air!” the Russian yelled at them. “Move in single line to here!”

With a nod from Bratt, they followed their captor’s instructions.

Quickly forming a line, they hurried down the long hall. They hadn’t taken more than ten steps when something huge hit the double doors behind them. The metal doors buckled.

Everyone froze.

“Down,” Bratt ordered.

They dropped to hands and knees. Matt pulled Amanda down with him.

A single shot fired, perhaps in startled reflex. But the aim was good. O’Donnell was a moment too slow in dropping with the others. The back of his head exploded, showering bone and blood. Then his body toppled backward, limbs flung out.

A flurry of Russian commands followed, yelling at each other.

“Goddamn it,” Bratt swore on the floor, his face purpling with rage.

Matt glanced between the trigger-happy Russians and the buckled door. Neither choice was good.

The Russian in charge stepped forward. “What trick—?”

Something again charged the door, hitting it like a runaway train. Hinges ripped clean, and both doors flew into the hall.

Accompanying the doors, a grendel barreled into the hall. Others followed.

Chaos ensued as everyone surged forward on the floor.

Shots rang out, wild with fear.

“Stay down!” Bratt yelled. “Crawl forward.”

They would never make it. If they didn’t catch a stray bullet like O’Donnell, they’d be ravaged by the beasts.

“Over here!” Amanda yelled. She had rolled to the wall and reached up to a door handle above her head. A bullet came close to shaving off a finger, but she managed to yank the handle. Using her other hand, she hauled the door open. The thick steel hatch now acted as a shield against the bullets. “Inside!”

They all tumbled after her.

Greer was last, diving through, a grendel at his heels.

Amanda slammed the door shut behind him as the beast struck. The concussion knocked her into Matt. He steadied her, but she shoved to the door.

In the dark, Matt heard a metal bar slide home.

Muffled as they were by the thick hatch, the echo of the gun battle still reached them. Occasional heavy bodies collided with the walls and door.

As the battle waged in the hallway, they all lay panting on the floor, huddled in a mass just inside the doorway. Matt took a moment to pull out his moosehide boots and cram them over his aching, frozen feet.

“We should be safe for the moment.” Amanda spoke from the darkness. “This door is solid plate steel.”

“Where are we?” Matt asked, lacing his boots.

“The heart of the station,” Bratt answered. “Its main research lab.”

A light switch was flipped and bare bulbs flickered to life.

Matt stared around the clean and orderly lab. Steel tables were aligned with military precision. Glass-fronted cabinets housed beakers and polished tools. Refrigeration units lined one wall. Other smaller rooms opened off the main lab, but they were too dark to see into.

As Matt’s gaze circled the room, another chain of lights flickered into existence. Each bulb flared, one after the other, illuminating a curving concourse that arced away into the distance. The corridor seemed to follow the outer wall, probably circled the entire level.

Matt bore witness to what each bulb illuminated. “Oh, dear God…”