Ice Hunt

11. Timeless

Bundled in a white parka, Viktor Petkov rode through the heart of a blizzard. His hands were encased in heated mittens, his face protected from the winds by the furred edge of his hood, a thick wool scarf, and a pair of polarized goggles.

But no amount of clothing could keep the cold from his heart. He was heading to the gravestone of his father, a frozen crypt buried in the ice.

He straddled the backseat of the hovercraft bike, harnessed in place. The skilled driver, a young officer under Mikovsky, handled the vehicle with a reckless confidence that could only come from youth. The craft flew over the ice, no more than a handspan above the surface, a rocket against the wind.

The storm continued its attempt to blow them off course, but the driver compensated, maintaining a direct line toward the lost station using the bike’s gyroscopic guidance system.

Viktor stared out at the snow-blasted landscape. Around him lay nothing but a wasteland, a desert of ice. With the sun blanketed by clouds and snow, the world had dissolved into a wan twilight. It sapped one’s will and strength. Here, hopelessness and despair took on physical dimensions. With winds wailing in his ears, the eternal desolation sank into his bones.

Here is where my father spent his last days, alone, exiled, forgotten.

The craft swung in a slow arc, following the shadow of a pressure ridge, the spines of a sleeping dragon. Then, out of the continual gloom, a misty light grew.

“Destination ahead, Admiral!” the driver called back to him.

The hovercraft adjusted course under him. Flanking the lead bike, the other two craft matched the maneuver like a squadron of MiG fighters in formation. The trio raced toward the light.

Details emerged through the blowing snow. A mountain range of ice, a black pool, square, man-made, and at the base of one peak, a shaft of light shone like a beacon in the storm.

They rounded the polynya and swept toward the opening to the base. Engines throttled down. The three hovercraft lowered to their titanium skis, touching down again, skidding across the ice. They slid to a stop near the entrance, parking in the lee of a ridge to protect the vehicles from the worst of the storm.

The driver hopped off while Viktor struggled with his harness’s buckle. Bound as he was in mittens, his dexterity was compromised, but even bare-knuckled, he would still have had difficulty. His hands shook. His eyes were fixed to the ragged shaft — blasted, hacked, and melted down to the tomb below. He had seen ancient burial sites ripped into like this by grave robbers in Egypt. That is what they all were — the Americans and the Russians — filthy grave robbers, fighting over bones and shiny artifacts.

He stared, unblinking.

I am the only one who belongs here.

“Sir?” The driver offered to help, reaching toward his harness.

Viktor snapped back to the moment, unbuckled on his own, and dismounted. On his feet now, he yanked off and pocketed the heated mittens. The cold immediately burned his exposed flesh, like Death’s handshake, welcoming him to his father’s crypt.

He stalked past his men, heading toward the entrance. He found a lone guard inside the shaft. The fellow snapped out of his shivering hunch.

“Admiral!” he said.

Viktor recognized the man as one of the senior officers of the Drakon. What was he doing standing guard duty? He was instantly alert. “What’s wrong, Lieutenant?”

The man fought his tongue. He seemed to be struggling to find the right words. “Sir, we’ve run into a couple of problems. One here, one back at Omega. Captain Mikovsky is awaiting your call on the UQC.”

Viktor frowned, glancing back at the empty polynya. A black line, almost buried in the snow, trailed from the lake and disappeared down the shaft. It was a UQC line, an underwater telephone, a type of active sonar that transmitted voices instead of pings. Such communication spanned only short distances, so the Drakon had to still be patrolling the local waters.

He waved the guard to proceed.

The half-frozen party headed down the tunnels, slipping past the blasted ruin of a Sno-Cat near the door. The guard continued to speak rapidly. “The problem here, sir, is that a handful of military men and civilians have barricaded themselves on Level Four. We couldn’t get to them because of some strange beasts that attacked our men.”

“Beasts?”

“White-skinned. Massive. The size of bulls. I didn’t see them myself. The creatures disappeared back into the ice caves by the time reinforcements arrived. We lost one man, dragged away by one of the creatures. The hall is under guard now.”

Viktor’s legs grew numb under him at the description. Before leaving, he had read his father’s secret reports in Moscow.

Grendels…could it be them? Could a few still be alive?

They were soon inside the main station. The black vulcanized line ended at a small radio unit. The radioman stood rapidly at the appearance of the admiral.

“Sir! Captain Mikovsky is holding for—”

“I heard.” He strode to the UQC phone, picked up the handset, and spoke into the receiver. “Admiral Petkov here.”

“Admiral, I have an urgent report from our forces at Omega.” The words echoed hollowly, like someone was speaking through a long pipe, but it was clearly Captain Mikovsky. “I wanted you updated immediately.”

“Go ahead.”

“There’s been a security breach. A female prisoner and a U.S. seaman escaped the barracks internment and reached a small aircraft.”

A fist tightened. How could this happen?

“They escaped, sir. With the storm, we have no way of tracking them. Most likely they’re heading to the Alaskan coast to raise the alarm.”

Fury built inside Viktor’s chest. Such a mistake should never have been allowed to happen. The mission called for no eyewitnesses to the war here. It had all been carefully timed. Under the cover of both blizzard and solar storm, the United States’ reconnaissance satellites would have been able to discern only vague infrared signatures at best. And while echoes of the prior battles would be recorded by patrolling subs and ships, without living eyewitnesses, there was a level of plausible deniability on the part of the Russian government. Even the U.S. research sub, the Polar Sentinel, had been allowed to leave unmolested with its evacuees. While the sub might have spotted the Drakon in these waters, they couldn’t visually verify what happened above the ice.

Plausible deniability. It was the new catchphrase of modern battle.

But now two prisoners had escaped, two eyewitnesses who could place him, a Russian admiral, on-site.

Viktor forced himself to take a deep calming breath. He stanched his anger, snuffing it out. His initial reaction had been reflexive, purely military. Ultimately it didn’t matter. He placed a hand over the Polaris wrist monitor, reminding himself of the larger picture.

Viktor found his calm center again. Besides, both governments had authorized this secret war, what was coyly termed in political circles as a skirmish. Such clandestine battles occurred regularly between foreign powers, including the United States. They were waged in hidden corners of the world: the waters off North Korea, the deserts of Iraq, the hinterlands of China, and more than once even here in the lonely wilds of the polar seas. The chains of command understood these skirmishes, but the details never reached the radar screens of the public at large.

Out of sight, out of mind.

“Admiral,” Mikovsky continued, “what are your orders?”

Viktor reviewed the current situation. It was unfortunate but salvageable — yet he could take no further chances. Omega and its prisoners were no longer an asset. The prize was plainly not over there. He kept his voice stoic and firm. “Captain, take the Drakon to Omega.”

“Sir?”

“Once there, draw back our men from the base and retreat.”

“And Omega…the prisoners?”

“Once our men are clear, ignite the buried charges. Melt the entire base into the ocean.”

A long pause. It was a death sentence for those innocents left behind. The captain’s words returned faintly. “Yes, sir.”

“Afterward, return here. Our mission is almost complete.” Viktor replaced the handset to its cradle. He turned to the men gathered around him. “Now to the other problem at hand.”

Matt gaped, horrified, along with the others. A long curving hall stretched out from the main lab room. Lit by bare bulbs, the passage followed the outer wall of this level, circling and vanishing around the curve of this tier. Inset into the back wall every couple of feet were steel tanks standing on end, taller than Matt by a foot. Thick rubber hoses and twisted conduits ran along both floor and ceilings, connecting tank to tank. Though the fronts of the tanks were windowed in thick glass, the details inside remained murky because of the thick frost over the clear surface.

But a dozen of the closest tanks had the frost recently scraped from them. The glow of the overhead bulbs shone plainly upon the sight inside. The interior of each tank was filled with solid ice, a perfect blue clarity.

And like an insect trapped in amber, a shape was embedded in the heart of each tank. Naked. Human. Each face contorted in a rictus of agony. Palms pressed against the glass, fingers blue and clawing. Men. Women. Even children.

Matt stared down the long tunnel. Tank after tank. How many were there? He turned his back on the macabre sight. He saw the shocked looks on the others’ faces.

Two members of the group, though, looked more embarrassed than horrified.

He walked back to the main room and faced them: Lieutenant Bratt and Amanda Reynolds. “What is all this?” He waved an arm down the hall.

Craig appeared at his side. Washburn and the civilian scientists gathered with him.

“It’s what the Russians are trying to cover up,” Amanda said. “A secret lab dating back to World War Two. Used for human experimentation.”

Matt studied the barred door. Greer and Pearlson stood guard there. For the moment, the Russians had given up on trying to get the door open. They were probably wary of the return of the grendels after chasing them back into the Crawl Space with gunfire. But that fear wouldn’t keep them out forever.

“What were the bastards trying to do here?” Washburn asked, looking the most shaken, her stoic demeanor shattered.

Amanda shook her head. “We don’t know. We locked down the lab as soon as we discovered what was hidden here.” She pointed to a glass cabinet that contained a neat row of journals, covering two shelves. “The answers are probably there. But they’re all coded in some strange script. We couldn’t read them.”

Craig approached and cracked the door open. He leaned over, studying the bindings. “There are numbers here. Dates, it looks like. He ran a finger down the journals. “If I’m reading this right, from January 1933…to May 1945.” He pulled the last one out and flipped through it.

“Twelve years,” Bratt said. “It’s hard to believe this operation ran for so long without anyone knowing.”

Amanda answered, “Back then, communication up here was scant. Travel rare. It wouldn’t be hard to hide such a place.”

“Or lose it when you wanted to,” Matt added. “What the hell happened here?”

The biologist, Dr. Ogden, spoke from the hallway. He straightened from one tank. “I may have an idea.”

Everyone turned to him.

“What?” Bratt asked brusquely.

“The grendels,” he said to the lieutenant commander. “You saw what happened. The specimens came to life after being frozen for centuries.”

Amanda’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible.”

Bratt turned to her. “No, ma’am. Dr. Ogden is right. I saw it happen with my own eyes.”

Dr. Ogden continued: “Such a miraculous resurrection is not unheard of in the natural world. Certain turtles hibernate in frozen mud over an entire winter, then rise again with the spring thaw.”

“But frozen solid?” Amanda asked.

“Yes. Arctic wood frogs freeze as hard as stone during the winter. Their hearts don’t beat. When frozen, you can cut them in half, and they don’t bleed. All EEG activity ceases. In fact, there’s no cellular activity at all. For all intents and purposes, they’re dead. But come spring, they thaw, and within fifteen minutes, their hearts are beating, blood pumping, and they’re jumping around.”

Matt nodded when Amanda glanced at him. “It’s true. I’ve read about those frogs.”

“How can that be?” Amanda argued. “When a body freezes, ice expands in the cells and destroys them. Like frostbite. How do the frogs survive that?”

“The answer is quite simple,” Ogden said.

Amanda raised an eyebrow.

“Sugar.”

“What?”

“Glucose specifically. There’s a Canadian researcher, Dr. Ken Storey, who has been studying Arctic wood frogs for the past decade. What he’s discovered is that when ice starts forming on a frog’s rubbery skin, its body starts filling each cell with sugary glucose. Increasing the osmalality of the cell to the point that life-killing ice can’t form inside it.”

“But you said the frogs do freeze?”

“Exactly, but it is only the water outside the cells that ices up. The glucose inside the cell acts as a cryoprotectant, a type of antifreeze, preserving the cell until thawed. Dr. Storey determined that this evolutionary process is governed by a set of twenty genes that convert glycogen to glucose. The trigger for what suddenly turns these specific genes on or off is still unknown, but a hormonal theory is most advocated, something released by the frog’s glandular skin. The odd thing, though, is that these twenty genes are found in all vertebrate species.”

Amanda took a deep breath. “Including the Ambulocetus…the grendels.”

He nodded. “Remember I told you that I would classify this new species as Ambulocetus natans arctos. An Arctic-adapted subspecies of the original amphibious whale. The gigantism, the depigmentation…are all common Arctic adaptations. So why not this one, too? If it made its home here — in a land ruled not by the sun, but by cycles of freezing and thawing — then its body might adapt to this rhythm, too.”

Bratt added. “Besides, we saw it happen with the monsters. We know they can do this.”

Ogden nodded and continued: “It’s a form of suspended animation. Can you imagine its potential uses? Even now university researchers are using the Arctic frogs as a model to attempt freezing human organs. This would be a boon to the world. Donated organs could be frozen and preserved until needed.”

Matt’s gaze had returned to the line of tanks. “What about these folk? Do you think that’s what’s going on here? Some type of sick organ bank? A massive storage facility for spare parts?”

Ogden turned to him. “Oh, no, I don’t think that at all.”

Matt faced him. “Then what?”

“I wager the Russians were attempting something grander here. Remember when I said the twenty genes that orchestrate the wood frog’s suspended animation are found in all vertebrate species. Well, that includes humans.”

Matt’s eyes widened.

“I believe that these people were guinea pigs in a suspended animation program. That the Russians were trying to instill the grendels’ ability to survive freezing into humans, seeking a means of practical suspended animation. They sought the Holy Grail of all sciences.” Ogden faced the questioning looks around him. “Immortality.”

Matt swung to face the contorted, pained figures in the ice. “Are you saying that these people are still alive?”

Before anyone could answer, a pounding sounded from the door, determined, stolid. Everyone went silent.

A hard voice called out to them. “Open the door immediately…if we have to cut our way through, you will suffer for our troubles.”

From the dead tone of the other’s voice, it was no idle threat.

The wolf was at their door.

Jenny fought the gale pounding at her windshield. It blew steady, but sudden gusts and churning winds kept her fingers tight on her controls, eyes glued to her instruments. She had not even bothered to glance out the windshield for the past ten minutes. What was the use?

Though she couldn’t see anything, she still wore her snow goggles. Even with the blizzard, the midday glare shot through the windshield. It made her want to close her eyes. How long had it been since she’d slept?

She pushed these thoughts away and watched her airspeed. Too slow. The headwind was eating her speed. She tried to ignore the fuel gauge. The needle pointed to a large red E. A yellow warning light glowed. Empty. They were flying on fumes into a blizzard.

“Are we sure about this?” Kowalski said. The seaman had given up trying to raise anyone on the radio.

“I don’t see we have much other choice,” Jenny said. “We don’t have enough fuel to reach the coast. We’d be forced to land anyway. I’d rather land somewhere where we had some chance of living.”

“How far out are we?” Tom asked from the backseat. Bane lay curled on the seat beside him, tail tucked around his body.

“If the coordinates you gave me are correct, we’ve another ten miles.”

Kowalski stared out the windshield. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Jenny ignored him. They had already debated it. It was their only choice. She struggled to eke out a bit more speed, taking every lull in the wind to surge ahead, lunging in spurts toward their goal. The controls had grown more sluggish as ice built on the wings and crusted on the windshield. They were slowly becoming a flying ice cube.

They traveled in silence for another five minutes. Jenny barely breathed, waiting for the props to choke out as her greedy engines consumed the last of her fuel.

“There!” Tom suddenly blurted, jamming an arm between Jenny and Kowalski. Bane lifted his head.

Jenny tried to follow where the ensign pointed. “I don’t see—”

“Ten degrees to starboard! Wait for the wind to let up!”

Jenny concentrated on where he indicated. Then, as the snow eddied out in a wild twist, she spotted a light ahead, glowing up at them. “Are you sure that’s the place?”

Tom nodded.

“Ice Station Grendel,” Kowalski moaned.

Jenny began her descent, studying her altimeter. Without fuel, they needed a place to land. They couldn’t go back to Omega and to touch down in the wasteland of the polar cap was certain death. There was only one other place that offered adequate shelter. The ice station.

It was risky, but not totally foolhardy. The Russians would not be expecting them. If they could land out of direct sight, Tom Pomautuk knew the layout of the station well enough to possibly get them into one of the exterior ventilation shafts that brought fresh air down to the buried station. They could hole up there until the Russians left.

And besides, their dwindling fuel situation left them little other choice.

The Otter lurched as the portside engine coughed. The prop skipped a beat, fluttering. In a heartbeat, the Twin Otter became a Single Otter. Flying on one engine, Jenny fought to hold the plane even while dropping her flaps. She dove steeply. “Hold tight!”

Kowalski had a death grip on both armrests. “I got that covered.”

There was no sight line to the ice fields below. Jenny watched her altimeter wheel down. The winds continued to fight, grabbing the plane, trying to hold it aloft.

Jenny bit her lower lip, concentrating. She tried to fix the position of the station’s beacon light, now gone again, in her mind’s eye. A map formed in her head, fed by data from her instruments and her own instinct.

As the altimeter dropped under the two-hundred-foot ceiling, she focused on her trim, fighting both the wind and the dead engine to hold herself level. The snow became thicker, not just from the sky but now blowing up at her from the ice plain below.

She intended to descend from here as gradually as possible. It was the only safe way to land blind. Slow and even…as long as the last engine held. She watched the altimeter drop under a hundred…then seventy…then—

“Watch out!” Tom called from the backseat.

Her gaze flicked up from her focus on her instruments. Out of the storm ahead, the winds parted in places to reveal a wall of ice ahead of them, broken and thrust up into jagged teeth, misted with blowing snow. It lay less than a hundred yards ahead. She thought quickly, weighing options in a heartbeat. She plainly didn’t have the engines to make it over them.

Beside her, Kowalski swore a constant string, his version of a prayer.

Jenny gnashed her teeth, then jammed her stick forward, diving more steeply. Screw it, she thought, I’m sticking this landing. She dropped the plane the last fifty feet, sweeping out of the sky, plunging toward the peaks of ice.

The ground was nowhere in sight.

Kowalski’s prayer became more heartfelt, finishing with “I really, really hate you!”

Jenny ignored him. She concentrated on her instruments, trusting them. They promised the ground was down there somewhere. She completely dropped her flaps; the plane dipped savagely.

It was too much for her last engine. The motor gasped, choked, and died. In that moment, they became a frozen rock with wings, hurtling earthward.

“Fuuuucccckkkk!” Kowalski cried, hands now pressed to the side window and dash.

Jenny hummed. The momentum of the glide continued to hold — barely. The needle on the altimeter slipped lower and lower, then settled to zero. There was still no sign of the ground.

Then her skis hit the ice, soft and even.

She punched up her flaps to brake their speed. They had landed at speeds much faster than she liked.

As the Otter continued to race over the slick surface, side winds threatened to topple it over on a wing, attempting to cartwheel them off to oblivion. But Jenny worked her flaps, plied the Otter with skill, and adjusted their course to keep the wings up.

“Ice!” Tom called from the backseat.

The peaks were rushing at them. The plane’s speed had hardly slowed. With skis for landing gear, the Otter had no hydraulic brakes — just flaps and friction. She had plenty of the former, little of the latter.

Still, after a decade of mushing in a dog sled, Jenny knew the delicate physics of ice and steel runners.

The Otter continued to skate toward the towering cliffs, sliding toward a certain crash. Jenny had already recognized the inevitable.

She was going to lose her plane.

“This is going to hurt,” she mumbled.

As the plane swept toward the cliff face, she prayed the ice remained slick. Everything depended on her flaps — and timing.

She watched the cliffs grow in front of her. She counted in her head, then at the last moment, she dropped the flaps on the starboard side and continued to brake with the other. The nimble plane fishtailed, spinning around like an Olympic figure skater.

The tail assembly swept backward and struck the cliff, absorbing a fair amount of the impact and tearing away in the process. Jenny jerked in her seat harness as the plane jarred. The wing glanced next, taking more of the impact, crumpling up and away. Then the cabin hit, striking the cliff broadside — but since the worst of the impact had already been absorbed by the tail and wing, their collision was no more than a fender bender.

Everyone was shaken but alive.

Bane climbed back into his seat from the floor, looking none too pleased by the whole experience. Jenny turned to Kowalski. He reached out with both hands, grabbed her cheeks, and kissed her full on the mouth.

“Let’s never fight again,” he said.

Outside, the engine on the crumpled wing broke away and hit the ice.

“We’d better get out of here,” Tom said.

They hauled out of the plane. Before climbing free, Jenny removed some supplies from the emergency locker: a flashlight, a pair of extra parkas and mittens, a large coil of poly-line rope, a flare gun, and a pocketful of extra flares. She glanced to the empty hooks that normally held her service shotgun and silently cursed Sewell for confiscating it.

She exited the broken plane and tossed one of the spare parkas to Kowalski.

“Looks like Christmas came early,” he muttered as he pulled into it. It was too small for his large frame. The sleeves rode four inches up his forearm, but he didn’t complain.

Jenny quaked in the winds, but at least she was sheltered by the cliffs, the worst of the storm blunted. She quickly donned her parka.

Bane trotted around the wreckage, then lifted his leg. His yellow stream misted steamily in the frigid cold.

Kowalski stared a moment. “Damn smart dog. If I had to go, I’d be doing the same thing, too. Remind me from here on out never to get into anything smaller than a 747.”

“Be respectful. She gave all she had to get you here.” Jenny stared at the wreckage, feeling a surprisingly deep pang of regret at the loss.

Tom tugged his parka tighter around his boyish shoulders. “Where now?”

“Off to where we’re not welcome,” Kowalski answered. He pointed to the mountain range. “Let’s see if we can sneak in the back door.”

As they headed off, Jenny asked, “Where does this supposed hidden ventilation shaft lead?”

Tom explained the base’s air circulation system. It functioned without pumps. Shafts were simply drilled from the surface to the deepest levels of the station — even below the station. The colder surface air, being heavier than the warmer air below would sink into these shafts and displace the warmer stagnant air. “This creates a passive circulation system,” Tom finished. “The fresh air is pocketed in a cavern system that wraps around the station. A reservoir of clean air, so to speak. It is then heated through baffles and used to service the station.”

“So the ventilation shaft empties into this cavern system?” Jenny asked.

Kowalski nodded. “We should be safe once we get there.”

Tom agreed. “We call it the Crawl Space.”

Matt fled with the others down the circular hall as it wound the circumference of this research level. To his right, he marched past the gruesome tanks, one after the other. Matt found himself counting. He was up to twenty-two.

He forced himself to stop. The tanks continued around the bend. There had to be fifty at least. He turned to the other wall of plate steel. It was interrupted by a few windows into offices, some sealed doors, and a few open hatches. He peered through one of these and spotted a hall of small barred cells. And in another, a larger barracks facility.

Here is where they must’ve housed the prisoners, Matt thought. He could only imagine the terror of these folk. Did they know their eventual fate?

Dr. Ogden trailed at Matt’s heels, while Amanda strode ahead of him. The biologist would occasionally rub at the frosted glass of a tank with the cuff of his sleeve, peer inside, and mutter.

Matt shook his head. He hadn’t the stomach for further scientific curiosity. He only wanted to get the hell out of here, back to the Alaskan backcountry, where all you had to fear was a hungry grizzly.

Behind him, a loud clang echoed from the main lab. The Russians were breaking in. After the threat from that icy voice, the group had fled, heading farther into this level.

Bratt led them. “It should be another ten yards or so.” He clutched a set of folded station plans in his hand.

Craig kept peering over the commander’s shoulder at the papers. The schematics came from a material sciences researcher from the NASA group. The scientist had mapped the entire physical plant of the station. Matt prayed the man knew his business.

Greer yelled. He was farther down the hall, scouting ahead. “Over here!” The lieutenant had dropped to one knee. A hatch lay between two tanks. Conduits and piping led out from it and spread to either side, trailing out along floorboards and ceiling to service the awful experiment.

Pearlson indicated a diagram plated to the wall above the hatch. It was the layout of this level. He tapped a large red X on the map. “You are here,” he muttered.

Matt studied the map, then glanced forward and back. They were at the midpoint of the storage hall. Halfway around this level.

Pearlson and Greer set to work unscrewing the panel, using steel scalpels. Around them, everyone carried pilfered weapons found in the labs before they fled: additional scalpels, bone saws, steel hammers, even a pair of meat hooks wielded by Washburn. Matt did not want to speculate on the surgical use of those wicked tools. He himself carried a yard-long length of steel pipe.

Matt studied their party as the sailors worked on the hatch. They had all reverted to a pack of stone-age hunter/gatherers…armed with expertly crafted surgical weapons. A strange sight.

Ogden was again rubbing at a nearby tank. The squeaking of wool on glass drew Matt’s attention. He had to resist clubbing the man with his pipe. Leave them be, he wanted to scream.

As if reading his mind, Ogden turned to him, eyes pinched. “They’re all indigenous,” he muttered. The man’s voice cracked slightly. Matt finally realized the tension wearing at the biologist, close to breaking him. He was trying to hold himself together by keeping his mind occupied. “Every one of them.”

Despite his previous objection, Matt stepped closer, brows bunched together. “Indigenous.”

“Inuit. Aleut. Eskimo. Whatever you want to call them.” Ogden waved a hand, encompassing the arc of tanks. “They’re all the same. Maybe even the same tribe.”

Matt approached the last tank the biologist had wiped. This one appeared at first empty. Then Matt looked down.

A small boy sat frozen in ice on the bottom of the tank.

Dr. Ogden was correct in his assessment. The lad was clearly Inuit. The black hair, the sharp almond eyes, the round cheekbones, even the color of his skin — though now tinged blue — all made his heritage plain.

Inuit. Jenny’s people.

Matt sank to one knee.

The boy’s eyes were closed as if in slumber, but his tiny hands were raised, pressing against the walls of his frozen prison.

Matt placed his own palm on the glass, covering the boy’s hand. Matt’s other hand clenched on the pipe he carried. What monsters could do this to a boy? The lad could be no older than eight.

A sudden flash of recognition.

He was the same age as Tyler when he died.

Matt found himself staring into that still face, but another ghost intruded: Tyler, lying on the pine table in the family cabin. His son had died in ice, too. His lips had been blue, eyes closed.

Just sleeping.

The pain of that moment ached through him. He was glad Jenny wasn’t here to see this. He prayed she was safe, but she should never see this…any of this.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, apologizing to both boys. Tears welled in his eyes.

A hand touched his shoulder. It was Amanda. “We’ll let the world know,” she said thickly, her pronunciation further garbled by her own sorrow.

“How could this…he was only a boy. Who was watching after him?”

But Matt’s face was turned to the glass. Still, her fingers squeezed in sympathy.

Ogden stood on his other side. Eyes haggard, he was half bent studying a panel of buttons and levers. One finger traced some writing. “This is odd.”

“What?” Matt asked.

Ogden reached to a lever and pulled it down with a bit of effort. The snap was loud in the quiet hall. The panel buttons bloomed with light. The glass of the tank vibrated as some old motor caught, tripped, then began to hum.

“What did you do?” Matt blurted, offended, anger flaring.

Ogden stepped back, glancing between Matt and Amanda. “My God, it’s still operational. I didn’t think—”

A loud crash reverberated down the hall, echoing to them.

“The Russians,” Bratt said. “They’re through.”

“So are we,” Greer said with a grimace. “Almost.” Pearlson struggled with the last quarter-twist screw.

Craig stood at their backs, eyes wide and unblinking, staring between their hurried labor and the hall. The reporter held a foot-long steel bone pin, a surgical ice pick, clutched to his chest. “C’mon, already,” he moaned.

Shouts could now be heard. Footsteps on steel plate, cautious still.

“Got it!” Greer spat. He and Pearlson lifted the service hatch free.

“Everyone out!” Bratt ordered.

Craig, the closest, dove first. The others followed, flowing through the opening.

Matt, suddenly weak and tired, still knelt by the frozen boy. His hand on the glass ached from the cold of the ice inside. He felt the vibration in the glass from the buried machinery.

Amanda stepped away. “Hurry, Matt.”

He looked one more time at the boy. He felt like he was abandoning the child as he stood. His fingers lingered an extra moment, then he turned away.

Greer helped Amanda through, then waved to Matt.

He shoved over and ducked under the hatch.

Washburn was crouched on the far side. She pointed one of her steel hooks, like some Amazonian pirate, down the crawlway.

Matt followed Amanda on hands and knees, pipe under one arm. Bratt led the party, followed by Craig and the biology group. Matt hurried, making room for the others behind him: Pearlson, Greer, and Washburn.

The tunnel was a mere shaft bored through the ice. Rubber mats lined the floor to aid in climbing through it. Conduits shared the space, running along both walls.

After five yards, the tunnel suddenly darkened. Matt peered over his shoulder. Greer had pulled the hatch in place, hopefully hiding their retreat or at least delaying its discovery. This fourth level was large and broken into many compartments. The Russians would lose time, hunting through the level; hopefully they’d miss the loose hatch for a while.

The way became darker — and colder.

Finally the chute dumped into some old service cubbyhole. It was merely a cube cut out of the ice. A few pieces of wooden furniture crowded the space, along with spools of conduit and copper wire, stacks of spare metal plates, a thick rubber hose, and a tool trunk.

A ladder, just wood rungs pounded into one of the ice walls, climbed to another shaft twenty feet above.

Bratt pointed the rolled sheaf of his schematics. He kept his voice low. “That should lead to the third level. They stairstep up, one level at a time.”

Washburn studied the next tunnel. “We might be able to make it to the old weapons locker on the third level. It’s in the main section of the station, but if the Russians’ attention were distracted for a moment, a small team might be able to reach it.”

Bratt nodded. “Up,” he ordered.

Surgical tools were pocketed in order to free hands. The group mounted the ladder in the same order as before. Matt followed Amanda. He reached the top and pulled himself into the next service shaft.

A shout sounded behind him. Russian. It came from down the tunnel to the lab on Level Four.

“Damn it,” Greer growled.

The Russians had already found their rabbit hole.

A shot rang out. The slug ricocheted down the shaft and rebounded into the cubbyhole. Ice blasted as the bullet struck the wall, inches from where Washburn climbed the ladder.

Matt reached down and helped haul her up. Nimble as a cat, Washburn slipped past him. “Get the others moving faster,” he urged her.

No further prompting was needed. Everyone in the chute had frozen at the rifle blast, but now they hurried away, Bratt in the lead.

A new commotion echoed down to them. Mumbled orders in Russian. They were hard to discern. Matt’s ears were still ringing, but he didn’t like the furtive tone of this new speech.

Matt leaned over the tunnel opening. “Get your asses up here!” he hissed down to the last two men. They had both splayed themselves against the walls to either side, wary of further gunshots.

Greer leaped to the ladder first, flying up like a monkey. Pearlson was at his heels, practically crawling up his partner’s legs.

Matt grabbed the loose hood of Greer’s parka and dragged the man to him, then shoved him after the others.

Pearlson had one hand on the lip of the service shaft. Matt turned to help him next. Over the seaman’s shoulder, he saw a black object bounce into the room below.

Matt’s eyes widened with horror. It looked like a matte-black pineapple.

Pearlson must have been looking at Matt’s face at that moment. “What…?” He glanced back over his own shoulder.

The black object danced on the ice, striking the wall at the base of the ladder.

“Shit!” Pearlson said, staring up at Matt.

Matt lunged out and grabbed the seaman’s hood.

Pearlson knocked his arm away and leaped up, covering the shaft’s opening with his own torso. “Go!” he wailed in grim terror.

Matt fell back as the grenade exploded. The concussion knocked him farther back. The flash of brightness blinded him. He felt a wash of heat over his face and neck. He surely screamed, but was deaf to it.

The flash died away immediately, but not the heat — it grew more intense.

The source became horribly clear as Matt’s vision blinked back.

Pearlson still blocked the exit, but his clothes were on fire. No, not his clothes — his entire body.

It had been no ordinary grenade, but an incendiary device, exploding with liquid fire.

Pearlson’s body tumbled backward as the end of the shaft melted toward Matt, the rubber matting bubbling. He backpedaled away. His face and neck felt sunburned. If Pearlson hadn’t shielded the chute, they all would’ve been parboiled inside. The residual heat still felt like an open oven. The ice turned to water, dripping all around.

The Russians must have known they ran a good chance of losing the escapees in the warren of service tunnels and chutes. Their ploy had been brutal and swift. The grenade would either kill them or flush them out.

A hand grabbed Matt’s shoulder.

It was Greer. The lieutenant stared unblinking toward the melted ruins. “Move it.”

Matt’s ears still throbbed. He barely heard the man, but he nodded.

Together they crawled after the others.

But where could they go? Death lay either way. The only question remaining was the method of their demise. Matt stared ahead, then behind.

Ice or fire.

12. Raiding Parties

The group of men and women awaited Captain Perry’s order. The Polar Sentinel hung at periscope depth under an open lead between two ice floes. Winds wailed just feet overhead, blasting at sixty miles per hour across the open plains, but here, submerged, it was deadly quiet.

Perry turned to the radioman, a freckle-faced petty officer, who looked as pale as the white sheaves of paper in his hand. “And there remains no expectation of satellite contact?” Perry asked.

The twenty-two-year-old radioman swallowed hard, but he bore the heavy weight of the group’s gazes. “No, sir. The magnetic storm is fiercer than the blizzard above. I’ve tried every trick I could think of.”

Perry nodded. They were still on their own. The decision could not be put off any longer. Half an hour ago, the same radioman had rushed into the conn. He had picked up a message in Russian over the UQC. The underwater phones, while convenient for communicating short distances, offered no privacy, especially to a boat equipped like the Sentinel. The small submarine was not only fast and silent, but it had the best ears of any vessel in the sea.

Sailing twenty miles away, they had intercepted the vague sonar communication between the Russian team’s leader and the captain of the Drakon. Their shipboard translator had made short work of the brief exchange. Perry had listened to the recording himself, heard the cold, hollow voice issue the order.

Ignite the buried charges. Melt the entire base into the ocean.

The Russians intended to lay waste to everything. The civilians, the remaining soldiers…all would be sacrificed, burned off the ice cap.

Upon hearing this, Perry had immediately ordered the helm to find someplace to raise their antenna. Even though it was doubtful anyone could still respond in time, an emergency Mayday had to be sounded. The timetable was too short.

But even this feeble effort had met with failure. Fifteen minutes ago, they had surfaced in a thin lead, hummocked by snowbanks on either side. The antenna array had been sent up into the topside blizzard, and the radioman went to work. But it was no use. Communications were still down.

Dr. Willig stepped forward now. The Swedish oceanographer had become the spokesman for the civilians aboard. “Those are our people over there, our colleagues, our friends, even family. We understand the risk involved.”

Perry studied the faces around him. His crew, manning their respective stations, wore expressions just as determined. He turned and climbed the step up to the periscope stand. He took a moment to weigh his own motivations. Amanda was over there…somewhere. How much of his judgment now was skewed because of his feelings for her? How much was he willing to risk: the crew, the civilians under his protection, even the boat?

He read the determination in the others, but it was ultimately his responsibility. He could either continue their flight to the Alaskan coast, or he could head back to Omega and do what he could to rescue the personnel.

But what challenge could the Sentinel offer the larger, fully armed Russian hunter/killer? They had only three weapons at hand: speed, stealth, and cunning.

Perry took a deep breath and turned to the waiting radioman. “We can’t wait any longer. Float a SLOT in the lead here. Set it for continual broadcast to NAVSAT, looped with the recorded Russian message.”

“Aye, sir.” The man fled back to his shack.

Perry glanced at Dr. Willig, then faced his second-in-command. “Diving Officer, make your depth eight-five feet, thirty-degree down angle…”

Everyone held his or her breath, awaiting his decision. Where would they go from here: forward or back?

His next order answered this question. “And rig the boat for ultra-quiet.”

Captain Mikovsky stood watch over the helmsman and planesman as the two men guided the surfacing submarine up into the polynya. His diving officer, Gregor Yanovich, watched the depth gauge, sounding their rise.

All was steady.

Gregor turned to him. The officer’s eyes were haunted by worry. The man had been his XO for almost a full year. The two men had grown to know each other’s moods, even thoughts. Mikovsky read his officer’s internal wrangling now: Are we really going to do this?

Mikovsky merely sighed. They had their orders. After the prisoners’ escape, the drift station had become more of a risk than an asset to their mission.

“All vents shut,” the chief called out, glancing to his captain. “Ready to surface.”

“Surface,” Mikovksy ordered. “Keep her trim and steady.”

Switches were engaged. Pumps chugged, and the Drakon rose, surfacing quickly and smoothly. Reports echoed up from the sub. All clear.

“Open the hatch,” he called out.

Gregor relayed the order with a wave to the sailor stationed by the locking dogs. As the crewman set to work, the XO strode up to Mikovsky. “The shore team is ready to debark.” The man’s words were stilted, stiffly spoken, forced professionalism because of the grim task before them. “Orders?”

Mikovsky checked his watch. “Secure the prisoners. Double-check that the incendiaries are deployed as instructed. Then I want all men back aboard in fifteen minutes. Once the last man is aboard, we’ll flood immediately and take her deep.”

Gregor still stood, eyes no longer looking at Mikovsky, but off toward some imagined distance where what they were about to do could be fathomed and forgiven. But no one had eyesight that stretched that far.

Mikovsky gave the final order. “As soon as the deck is awash, blow the V-class series. There must be no trace of the drift station.”

As Jenny climbed the next ice ridge, clawing her way up, she was glad her father had stayed behind at Omega. The terrain here was brutal. Her mittens already bore cuts from the knife-sharp ice. Her fingers ached, and the calves of her legs burned. The rest of her was chilled to the marrow.

With a gasp that was more of a moan, she pulled herself up to the lip of the ridge.

Already straddling the ridgeline, Kowalski helped her over, and together they slid on their butts and hands down the far side. “You okay?” he asked, pulling her to her feet.

She nodded, taking deep breaths of the frigid air, and turned as Bane and Ensign Pomautuk cleared the ridge next. The young man had to push the wolf’s rear to get him over the edge. Then they both slid and trotted down the far side.

“How much farther?” Jenny asked.

Tom checked his watch with a built-in compass. He pointed an arm. “Another hundred yards.”

Jenny stared where he indicated. It seemed impassable. It had taken them an hour, and they had barely crawled into the outer fringe of the mountainous pressure ridges that topped the buried station. Ahead, the land was folded, cracked, uplifted, and shattered. It was like hiking through a jumbled pile of broken glass.

But they had no choice.

They trudged onward. Winds crashed overhead, sounding like waves breaking against a stony shore. Snow frothed and foamed in billows and currents.

Jenny continued to use Kowalski’s bulk as a windbreak. The brawny seaman was like some clay golem, marching steadily through the snow and ice. She focused on his shoulders, his backside, matching him step for step.

Then Kowalski suddenly tilted, tumbling down to a knee, arms flying out as he fell. “Fuck!”

His boot had shattered through a pocket of thin ice, revealing a small pool, no larger than a manhole cover. He sank to his thigh before catching himself on the edge. He rolled away, swearing a litany as he hauled his soaked leg from the freezing depths. “Fucking great! I can’t seem to stop falling in the goddamn water.”

Despite his bravado, Jenny noted the glimmer of true fear in his eyes. She and Tom helped him up. “Just keep moving,” she said. “Your body heat and movement should keep you from icing up.”

He shook free of their arms. “Where is this goddamn ventilation shaft?”

“Not far!” Tom led the way from here, Bane trotting at his side. Kowalski followed, grumbling under his breath.

Jenny, a step behind, heard a slight sloshing sound behind her. She glanced over a shoulder. The broken chunks of ice bobbled up and down, disturbed from below. Just the currents.

She continued after the others.

After another five minutes of hiking, Ensign Pomautuk’s assessment proved true. They rounded a pinnacle of ice and found a true mountain of a peak blocking their way.

“We’ve reached the outer edge of the submerged ice island,” Tom said.

Jenny stared underfoot. It was hard to believe she was walking on top of an iceberg, a monster extending a mile deep.

“Where’s this ventilation shaft?” Kowalski asked, teeth chattering.

“Over there,” Tom said, pointing to a black tunnel opening near the base of the mountain. It was too square to be natural, about a yard on each side. A brass grate had once locked it closed, but it had been peeled open, half buried in snow.

Polar bears, Jenny thought, hunting for a den. She approached warily.

Tom crossed without fear and dropped to his hands and knees. “We have to be careful. It’s fairly steep. Forty-five degrees. We should rope up for safety.”

Jenny fished the Maglite flashlight from her pocket and passed it to the ensign. He flicked it on and shone it down the tunnel.

“It looks like it makes an abrupt right turn about ten yards down,” Tom said, pointing the flashlight. He slipped the coil of rope from around his shoulder. “Like one of the entrances to our snow houses.”

Jenny leaned closer. It was typical of Inuit architecture to build one or two sharp turns in the entrance shaft of an “igloo.” The turns blocked the snow-laden winds from a direct path into the home.

“Fuck it! Let’s just get the hell inside.” Kowalski shivered beside Jenny.

As Jenny straightened, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck suddenly quivered. As a sheriff, she had developed keen senses, a survival trait. They were not alone. She swung around, startling Kowalski with her sudden movement.

“What—?” he began, turning with her.

From around the pinnacle, something sloshed into view. It was heavy, with a bullet-shaped head, black eyes, claws digging in the ice. It lifted its muzzle and scented the air toward them.

Jenny stared, frozen. What the hell was it?

Bane jammed forward, barking a warning. His shoulders bunched, hackles bristled, head bent low.

The creature crouched at the threat. Blubbery lips rippled back to reveal the jaws of a great white.

That was enough for Jenny. Having grown up in Alaska, she knew that if it had teeth, it was going to try to eat you.

“Get inside!” she yelled, and grabbed Bane by his scruff. “Go!”

Tom didn’t have to be told twice. He knew how to jump at orders and demonstrated his skill now. He dove down the shaft, belly first, sliding on the slick ice.

Jenny backed to the shaft’s opening, dragging Bane.

Kowalski waved her inside. She lost her hold on Bane as she turned. The wolf trotted a few steps away and began to bark again. She reached for him, but she was blocked.

“Leave the dog!” Kowalski growled, manhandling her inside. He followed at her heels, leaving her no choice.

She slid down the steep ice chute.

“Bane,” she shouted sharply back. “Heel!”

She glanced over her shoulder, but her view was blocked by Kowalski’s bulk. The momentum of their slide slowed as they neared the sharp turn in the tunnel.

“Crawl! Move it!” he urged her.

The shaft suddenly darkened behind them.

“Shit! It’s following us!”

Jenny reached the sharp turn in the tunnel and glanced back. The creature clawed its way down the passage, scooting and undulating on its smooth belly, moving fast.

Bane raced only a few steps ahead of it, bounding down the shaft.

“Move!” Kowalski yelled, and tried to shove her around the corner.

But this time she held her spot, struggling with her parka. She ripped the emergency flare gun free from her pocket. “Get down!” She pointed it up the shaft.

The seaman flattened himself.

Jenny aimed past the wolf’s ear and fired. The flare flamed across the distance, earning a startled yip from Bane as it sailed past him, and exploded against the muzzle of the beast.

The beast roared as light burst around it, blinding all its senses. It pawed at its stung face.

As Bane leaped to their side, Jenny rolled away. Crawling and sliding, she headed after the vanished ensign with the flashlight.

Kowalski kept a watch behind them until they rounded the corner. “It looks like it’s heading back out.” He faced Jenny. “Found you too damn spicy for its liking.”

The way quickly became steeper. They were soon sliding headlong down the chute. Jenny did her best to brake herself with boots and hands, but the walls were slick.

After a minute, Tom called out to them, his voice echoing, “I’ve reached the end! It’s not much farther.”

He was right.

The light brightened, and Jenny found herself dumped out of the shaft into a large ice tunnel. Kowalski followed, landing almost on top of her, then Bane. Jenny rolled out of the way and stood, rubbing her hands. She stared around her. How far down into the ice island were they?

Tom stood by one wall. His finger traced a green diamond painted on the wall. “I think I know where we are…but…” He swung his flashlight back to the floor. Someone had spilled red paint.

Bane, his hackles still raised, sniffed at the marking.

Jenny climbed to her feet. Not paint…blood.

It was still fresh.

Kowalski shook his head. “We should’ve never left that damn drift station.”

No one argued with him.

Master Sergeant Ted Kanter lay in the snowdrift, half buried, dressed in a polar-white storm suit, covered from head to foot. He stared through infrared binoculars toward the U.S. research base. He had watched the Russian submarine surface fifteen minutes ago, steaming into the blizzard gale.

He lay only a hundred yards from the station. His only communication to the outside world was the General Dynamic acoustic earpiece clipped in place. He wore a subvocal microphone taped to his larynx. He had made his report and continued his watch.

He had been ordered to remain at alert but to make no move.

Such had been his orders since arriving.

A quarter mile away, two white tents bivouacked the remainder of the Delta Force advance team, minus his partner, who lay hidden in a snow mound a couple yards away. The six-man team had been stationed here for the past sixteen hours, flown in and dropped in the dead of night.

His team leader, Command Sergeant Major Wilson, designated Delta One for this mission, was with the rest of the assault team at Rally Point Alpha, four miles away. Their two helicopters were covered with Arctic camouflage, hidden away until the go-order was given.

In position this morning, Kanter’s team had watched from close quarters as the Russian submarine had arrived with the dawn. He monitored as the soldiers swamped the drift station and commandeered it. He had watched men killed, one shot only forty yards from his position. But he could not react. He had his orders: watch, observe, record.

Not act, not yet.

The mission’s operational controller had left standing orders to advance only once the go-code was transmitted. Matters had to be arranged, both political and strategic. In addition, the mission objective, nicknamed the “football,” had to be discovered and secured. Only then could they move. Until that moment came, Kanter followed his orders.

Fifteen minutes ago, he had watched the Russians leave the boat. He had counted the shore party, then added that number to the complement of hostiles previously stationed here, keeping track of the Russian forces.

Now men were returning. He squinted through his scopes and began counting down as the men returned to the sub and vanished through hatches. His lips tightened.

The pattern was clear.

He pressed a finger to his transmitter. “Delta One, respond.”

The answer was immediate, whispering in his ear. “Report, Delta Four.”

“Sir, I believe the Russians are clearing out of the base.” Kanter continued to subtract forces as additional men climbed over the nearby pressure ridge and headed to the docked sub.

“Understood. We have new orders, Delta Four.”

Kanter tensed.

“The go-code has been activated by the controller. Ready your men to move out on my order.”

“Roger that, Delta One.”

Kanter rolled back from his hiding spot.

Now the true battle began.

Perry paced the control bridge of his submarine as it raced under the ice. No one spoke. The crew knew the urgency of their mission, the risk. The plan was almost impossible to fathom. He knew that even if he succeeded, it could cost him his captain’s bars. He didn’t care. He knew right from wrong, blind duty from personal responsibility. Still another question nagged: Did he know bravery from simple stupidity?

While en route to Omega, he had come close a hundred times to calling the Polar Sentinel back around, ordering it to return to the safety of the distant Alaskan coast. But he never did. He simply watched the distance to their destination grow smaller and smaller. Had captains of the past been plagued by such doubts? He had never felt so unfit to lead.

But there was no one else.

“Captain,” his chief whispered to him. The Polar Sentinel was baffled and soundproofed, but no one dared speak too loudly lest the dragon in the waters should hear them. “Position confirmed. The Drakon is already surfaced at Omega.”

Perry crossed to the man. He checked their distance to Omega. Still another five nautical miles. “How long have they been there?”

The chief shook his head. Up until now, details had been sketchy. Without going active with their sonar, staying in passive mode, the exact whereabouts and location of the Drakon had been fuzzy. At least they had found the other sub. Still, that narrowed their own window considerably. The Russians must already be evacuating the station. According to the intercepted UQC communication, the captain of the Drakon would blow the base once he began his descent. The Russian captain wouldn’t risk damaging his own boat during the conflagration.

But what was the time frame?

His diving officer, Lieutenant Liang, stepped to his side. His features were tight with worry. “Sir, I’ve run the proposed scenario over with the helm crew. We’ve wrangled various options.”

“And what’s the time estimate for the maneuver?”

“I can position us in under three minutes, but we’ll need another two to rise safely.”

“Five minutes…” And we still have to get there.

Perry glanced to their speed. Forty-two knots. It was blistering for a sub running silent, but that was the Sentinel’s advantage. Still, they dared go no faster. If the Drakon picked up the cavitation of their propellers or any other telltale sign of their approach, they were doomed.

He calculated in his head the time to reach Omega, to get in position, to orchestrate the rescue…and escape. They didn’t have the time. He stared at his chief. If only the Drakon hadn’t already been in position, weren’t already evacuating Russian forces…

Liang stood quietly. He knew the same. They all did. Once again, he prepared to call their boat around. They had made a run for it, but it was hopeless. The Russians had beaten them.

But he pictured Amanda’s smile, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she laughed, the way her lips parted under his own, softly, sweetly…

“Chief,” Perry said, “we need to delay the Drakon’s departure.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to ping the other boat with active sonar.”

“Sir?”

Perry turned to his men. “We need to let the Drakon know someone shares their waters. That someone is watching.” He paced, running out his plan aloud. “They expected us long gone. That no one would be around to witness what is going to happen. By pinging them, it will force their captain to confer with his commander, delay a bit longer. Perhaps buy us the time we need.”

“But they’ll be on full alert with all their ears up,” Liang said. “As it is, we’ll be hard-pressed to sneak under their nose and perform the rescue maneuver.”

“I’m aware of that. We were sent north to run the Polar Sentinel through its paces. To prove its capacity in speed and stealth. That’s just what I intend to do.”

Liang took a deep, shuddering breath. “Aye, sir.”

Perry nodded to the chief. “One ping…then we go dead silent.”

“Aye to that, sir.” The chief shifted over to the sonar suite and began conferring.

Perry turned to his diving officer. “As soon as we ping, I want the helm to heel the boat away at forty-five degrees from our present course. I don’t want them to get a fix on us. We run fast and silent.”

“As a ghost, sir.” Liang turned on a heel and retreated to his station.

One of the sonar techs suddenly jumped to his feet. “Sir! I’m picking up venting! Coming from the Drakon!”

Perry swore. The Russian sub was preparing to dive, taking on ballast, venting air. They were too late. The evacuation had already been completed.

The chief stared over at him. His face was plain to read: Continue as planned or abort?

Perry met the other’s gaze, unflinching. “Ring their doorbell.”

The chief spun around and placed a hand on the sonar supervisor. Switches were flipped and a button punched.

The chief nodded to him.

It was done. They had just given themselves away. Now to observe the reaction. A long moment stretched even longer. The Sentinel swung under their feet, deck plates tilting as the sub adjusted to a new trajectory.

Perry stood with clenched fists.

“Venting stopped, sir,” the technician whispered.

Their call had been heard.

“Sir!” Another sonar tech was on his feet, hissing urgently for attention. The tech wore headphones. “I’m picking up another contact. Noise on the hydrophones.” He pointed to his earpiece.

Another contact? Perry hurried to him. “Coming from where?”

The tech’s eyes flicked upward. “Directly on top of us, sir.”

Perry waved for the phones. The technician passed them to him, and he pressed an earpiece to his head. Through the phone, he heard what sounded like drums, beating slowly…more than one…their cadence picked up rapidly.

Perry had once been a sonar tech. He knew what he heard drumming through the ice from above. “Rotor wash,” he whispered.

The technician nodded. “There are two birds in the air.”

Mikovsky was getting the same information from his sonar crew. A moment ago, their boat had been pinged, deliberately and precisely. Clearly someone was in the waters below — and now another party was in the skies above.

The Drakon was pinned down, trapped.

If the other sub had pinged them, then they certainly had a weapons lock. He could almost sense the torpedo aimed at his ass. The fact that no fish was already in the water suggested the ping had only been a warning.

Don’t move or we’ll blast your boat out of the water.

And he could not argue. He had no defense. Trapped in the polynya, the Drakon had no way to maneuver, no way to escape an enemy attack. Surrounded on all sides by ice, he couldn’t even get a decent sonar sweep. While surfaced here, he was half blind.

Still, that wasn’t the greatest danger.

He stared over the shoulder of his XO and studied the radar screen. The snowstorm and wavering magnetic fluxes in the region wreaked havoc with the readings. Two helicopters sped toward him, low over the ice, making contact difficult and target locks impossible, especially in the blowing whiteout surrounding the boat.

“They’re coming in shallow, hugging ridgelines,” Gregor warned.

“I’m detecting a missile launch!” another sonar man yelled.

“Damn it!” Mikovsky glanced to the monitors feeding from exterior cameras. He could make out vague outlines of the pressure ridges surrounding the lake. The rest of the world was solid white. “Aerial countermeasures. Blow chaff!”

There was no weaker position for a sub than surfaced. He’d rather be lying on the bottom of a deep ocean trench than where he was now. And that was where he was going…to hell with whoever had pinged them. He’d rather take his chances below.

“Flood negative!” he shouted to Gregor. “Sound emergency dive!”

“Flooding negative.” A klaxon blared down the length of the boat. The submarine rumbled as ballast tanks were swamped.

“Continue blowing chaff until sail is awash!” Mikovsky swung to the crew at the fire control station. “I want to know who’s down here with us. Weapons Officer, I need a lock and solution as soon as we clear the ice.”

Nods met his orders.

Mikovsky’s attention flicked back to the video monitor. From the deck of his boat, a cloud of shredded foil belched into the air. The chaff was intended to distract the incoming missile from its true target. But the blizzard winds tore the foil away as soon as it exited from the sub, stripping the boat, leaving it exposed.

As the dive tanks flooded, the Drakon dropped like a stone — but not before Mikovsky noted movement on the monitor.

A spiral of snow…coming right at them.

A Sidewinder missile.

They would not escape.

Then the sea swelled over the exterior cameras, taking away the sight.

The explosion followed next, deafening. The Drakon jolted as if struck by a giant hammer. The sub rolled, carrying the video camera back to the surface. The streaming feed on the monitor showed the back half of the polynya. Its edge was cratered away, a blasted cove. The docking bollards sailed skyward. Fire spread over ice and water.

The missile had missed! A near miss, but a miss nonetheless. A lucky blow of chaff must have pulled the weapon a few degrees off course.

But from the force of the concussion through the water, the sinking Drakon had been shoved to the side and forced slightly back to the surface, exposing itself again. But not for long. The sub rocked stable and recommenced its stony plunge. The outside decks slipped under the sloshing water.

Mikovsky thanked all the gods of sea and men and turned away.

Then something caught his attention. On another video monitor. This camera, submerged a yard underwater, was aimed back toward the surface. The image was watery, but through the blue clarity of the polar sea, the image remained strangely vivid, limned by the flaming explosion of the Sidewinder.

On the video monitor, a soldier, dressed in polar camouflage, climbed into view on the opposite ridge. He bore a length of black tube on one shoulder, aimed square at the camera.

Rocket launcher.

A spat of fire flamed from the far end of the weapon.

Mikovsky screamed. “Ready for impact!”

He didn’t even finish his shout when the Drakon shuddered from the rocket strike. This time it was no miss.

Mikovsky’s ears popped as the rocket pierced somewhere aft, exploding a hole through the plating. An armor-piercing shell.

They were flooding. Smoke billowed into the conn. The Drakon, already heavy with water in the ballast tanks, yawed as the seawater pounded into the stern, lifting the nose. His planesman fought his controls to hold them level. Gregor leaned over him, yelling.

Mikovsky’s ears rang. He could not hear his words.

The sub continued to tilt. A clanging hammered through the captain’s temporary deafness. Additional hatches were being closed, manually and electronically, as the flooding sections of the boat were further isolated.

Mikovsky leaned against the thirty-degree tilt in the floor.

From the video monitor, he watched the nose of the Drakon break the water’s surface, tilting high in the air like a breaching whale, while the stern, heavy with the flood, dragged downward.

They were exposed again on the surface.

Mikovsky searched quickly for the lone warrior who had fired the rocket — then spotted him. The parka-clad man ran along the ice ridge, diving down the far side, running full tilt.

Why was he fleeing?

The answer appeared out of the blowing snow a moment later. Two helicopters, both painted as white as the blizzard, a Sikorsky Seahawk and a Sikorsky H-92 helibus. From the bus, ropes tumbled out open doors as the craft slowed. Men immediately slid down the whipping lines, weapons on backs. The helibus then swung out in a wide arc, dropping soldiers behind it, aiming for the drift station.

Mikovsky could guess the identity of the new arrivals. He had been briefed by the White Ghost.

United States Delta Force.

The other helicopter, the Seahawk, flew over the listing submarine, buzzing it like a fly over a dying bull’s nose. Mikovsky stared, sensing his doom. Under him, the Drakon sank into the sea, stern first. The best its captain could hope for was leniency for his crew, mercy from his captors.

As he prepared the order to abandon ship, the Seahawk flew right over the exterior camera. Mikovsky squinted at the monitor. Something was strange about the undercarriage of the aircraft. It took a full breath for Mikovsky to recognize what he was seeing.

Drums…a score of gray drums were attached to the Seahawk’s belly, like a clutch of steel eggs.

He recognized them on sight. All sub commanders did.

Depth charges.

He watched the first drum drop free from the Seahawk’s undercarriage, tumbling end over end toward the foundering sub.

Mikovsky had his answer to the fate of his crew.

There would be no mercy.

Perry stood in the Cyclops chamber, surrounded by the open Arctic Ocean. The Sentinel had retreated a safe distance away from the fighting, remaining silent in the waters. Even their motors were stilled as they floated.

Upon the first missile strike on the surface, Perry had ordered the Sentinel to dive deep. The Drakon was clearly under attack from the surface. This was confirmed a moment later when his sonar chief had reported a successful rocket attack. Listening from a half mile away, they had heard the explosion and the resulting bubbling of a ruptured submarine.

“It looks like the cavalry finally arrived,” Lieutenant Liang had said, grimly relieved, voicing everyone’s opinion.

The XO was probably right. The attackers had to be the Delta Force team noted in Admiral Reynolds’s last message.

Still, Perry had wanted confirmation before letting anyone know of their presence in these waters. The timing of this attack was too perfect. How had the Delta Force team crossed the blizzard to arrive so opportunely? And why hadn’t the two helicopters been heard before now? Had they been flying too high and were only picked up by the hydrophones as they made their bombing dive toward the surface?

Perry didn’t like questions he couldn’t answer — and in a submarine, paranoia was a survival trait. It kept you alive in dangerous waters.

As such, Perry stood in the forward chamber, watching the battle through the Sentinel’s window. He had wanted to see with his own eyes what was happening. He had tried to use the exterior cameras from the control bridge, but they didn’t have the zoom capability to cross the distance.

So Perry had improvised. Standing now in the Cyclops chamber, he used a set of ordinary binoculars to watch the battle.

Half a mile away, the Drakon was nose up in the waters, silhouetted in the storm light beaming through the open lake above. She listed at close to sixty degrees, almost vertical in the water.

Perry watched, knowing that his counterpart on the other sub must be sounding the evacuation alarm. The battle was already over. The Russian crew had only one chance here: to abandon ship.

Then through the binoculars, a bright flash ignited the waters, freezing the image upon Perry’s retina before temporarily blinding him. He blinked away the dazzle as the dull explosion roared to him. It sounded exactly like a rumble of thunder, followed by the rattling of deck plates from the distant concussion.

Perry’s vision cleared. The Drakon was fully upright, surrounded in a whirlpool of bubbles. Chunks of ice, blown down from above, rattled back up out of the depths.

The room intercom buzzed. “Captain, Conn. We’re reading a depth charge!”

Perry hurried away, tapping the intercom as he passed. “Pull us out of here!” he called out, then ducked through the hatch and ran back toward the bridge.

Another explosion shuddered through the boat, rocking the Sentinel.

These icy waters were about to get too damn hot.

John Aratuk accepted death. He had seen entire villages, including his own, meet brutal and harsh ends. He had held his wife’s hand as she lay dying, trapped in the wreckage of his drunken accident. Death was a constant in his life. So as others around him shouted or cried, he sat quietly, his hands bound with plastic ties behind his back.

Another explosion shook the barracks building, setting the hanging lamps to swinging. The ice under the buildings bowed and rattled from the forces of the nearby explosions, threatening to shatter the entire area.

Around John, the military men were struggling to get free of their bonds, using whatever sharp edge they could find to saw through the tough plastic.

The Russians had bound them after Jenny and the seaman had escaped, keeping them under constant armed guard. Then a few moments ago, the Russians had fled. It was clear from their hurried departure and frantic grab for supplies that they were abandoning the base.

But why? Had they discovered what they came to find? And what was to be their own fate? These questions had been bandied about, mostly among the civilian scientists. But John had seen the answer in Lieutenant Commander Sewell’s eyes. He had overheard the conversation about the V-class incendiary bombs planted throughout the drift station. There was no doubt what was going to happen, what the Russians intended.

Then the blasts had started, rocking the ice, deafening even the storm.

“Everyone stay calm!” Sewell yelled in a firm authoritative voice. His attempt at assuredness was weakened as he almost lost his footing with another rattle of ice. He caught himself on one of the bed frames. “Panic will not help us escape!”

John continued to sit, unconcerned. Jenny had escaped. He had heard the Twin Otter buzz by overhead. John positioned his feet closer to the space heater.

At least he’d die warm.

Master Sergeant Kanter lay on the far side of a steep pressure ridge. The rocket launcher he had used to pierce the sub was propped beside him, but it was no longer needed. His ears ached from the concussion blows of the depth charges. Even though he was half shielded by the ridgeline, the explosions felt like punches to his solar plexus. Each one pounded at him.

He watched drum after drum drop into the sea, sink the preset ten feet, and blow. Water ballooned up, then exploded skyward, casting a funnel of water and ice high into the air. The float ice under Kanter bucked with each blow.

The wide lake of the polynya had turned into a roiling and hellish pool. Fires burned onshore. The edges of the lake were shattered. Steam flowed into the snowy blizzard, masking and shrouding the bulk of the sinking submarine. It foundered in the lake, vertical in the water, only its nose visible — and even this was sinking rapidly.

Kanter spotted a pair of Russian sailors bob up in the lake, struggling to keep their heads above water. They wore orange float suits. Evacuees, attempting to escape. It did them no good. A depth charge landed a yard from them. It blew, casting their shattered and broken forms through the air to smash against both ice and their own boat.

There would be no escape.

Farther out, the Sikorsky helibus circled the hovering Seahawk. It had dropped the remaining team members and awaited further orders. Somewhere Delta One was organizing ground forces to retake the U.S. research base.

But Kanter’s attention remained on the polynya.

The majesty of the attack was breathtaking, a symphony of ice, fire, water, and smoke. He felt each explosion down to his bones, becoming a physical part of the attack himself.

Kanter had never been prouder than at this moment.

Then he spotted movement on the flank of the dying sub.

Mikovsky was strapped in a seat, as were most of the key bridge crew, trying to keep some semblance of order. Their boat was dead: compartments crushed, flooding everywhere, engines almost gone. Smoke choked through the bridge, making it difficult to think, to see. The explosions deafened them. The bridge crew wore emergency air-breathing masks, but such meager safety devices would not save them — only allow them one last act of revenge.

“Message relayed through digital shortwave!” the radioman yelled from the neighboring communication shack, half his face burned by an electrical fire he had managed to put out. His words sounded as if they came from down a long tunnel, hollow and whispery.

Mikovsky glanced to his weapons officer. He got the nod he wanted. They could not carry on proper protocol, but communication was still intact. His weapons officer confirmed the fire control solution and target fix — one unlike any calculated before.

Their vessel might be doomed, but they weren’t dead.

The Drakon carried a full complement of two-hundred-knot Shkval torpedoes, SS-N-16 antisubmarine missiles, and one pair of UGST rocket torpedoes. This last pair were the latest in Russian design, powered by a liquid monopropellant with its own oxidizer. They were mounted in special flank tubes that deployed by pushing out from the sides of the boat. It had been an accident in such a deployment that had led to the Kursk tragedy back in 2000, a mishandling that led to the loss of all aboard.

There was no mishandling today.

He got the nod that the starboard UGST rocket tube was flooded and ready, target locked. All that remained was one word from him.

The last word he would ever speak.

“Fire!”

“I’m reading a weapons launch!” the sonar chief yelled, jerking to his feet. “Torpedo in the water!”

Perry started toward the man. “Target?”

The Polar Sentinel was in full retreat from the hot zone. The bombardment of depth charges threatened his own boat. The cap of ice overhead trapped the concussive waves from the explosions, radiating them outward under the ice. Like dropping a cherry bomb down a toilet.

But as the Sentinel fled, Perry kept tabs on the Russian sub. He was taking no chances.

“Target does not appear to be us,” the sonar chief said.

“Then who?”

Frantic, Master Sergeant Kanter tried to raise Delta One. He needed to get the warning out.

“Delta One, here.”

Kanter still wore his subvocal microphone — where the barest whisper could be heard — but now he yelled. “Sir, you have to tell the Seahawk—”

He was too late. From his vantage on top of the ice ridge, Kanter saw a blast of fire ignite below the churning waterline of the foundering submarine. From the flank side of its drowned bulk, a lance of gray metal burst out of the water, leaping into the air.

The missile rocketed skyward, aimed dead center on the Seahawk helicopter hovering overhead. It was impossible for the craft to get out of the way in time.

“Christ!” Delta One screamed in his ear, spotting the danger.

The torpedo struck the helicopter. It seemed for a moment to spear completely through the Seahawk, an arrow piercing its target.

Kanter held his breath.

Then the rotors slammed into the thrusted tip of the torpedo rocket. The blast — accentuated by the two remaining depth-charge drums still attached to the helicopter’s undercarriage — shattered outward in a ball of metal and flame.

Kanter dove behind his ridgeline, seeking shelter from the rain of oil and steel, covering his head. Through the noise of the explosion, he heard the telltale whup-whup of another chopper.

He glanced back over a shoulder.

The remaining helicopter, the Sikorsky helibus, raced overhead. Kanter saw it pelted with flaming debris, cutting right through the craft. A section of the Seahawk’s broken rotor flipped end over end and crashed into the forward crew cabin. The helibus lurched over on its side, its blades chopping vertically at the air.

Kanter struggled to his feet, but the slick ice and blowing winds betrayed him. He fell. He fought again, fingers digging at the sharp ice. The toes of his boots fought for purchase.

He snapped a look up. The helibus plummeted toward him, spinning toward the crash, whipping around and around.

It was impossible to get out of the way in time.

Kanter simply rolled to his back. Staring skyward, he faced his death. “Shit…” He had nothing more profound to say and that bothered him more than anything.

Perry listened as stations reported their status.

He hardly heard, his mind still on what had just happened.

Moments ago, the Drakon had sunk away and rolled into the deep ocean trench below, fading beyond crush depth. Perry had listened himself to the final bubbling as the Russian submarine gasped its last breath and was gone.

But it had not died alone.

Float ice is a great drum, transmitting sound to the waters below. Perry had heard it all happen. Then a helicopter had jammed into the cap, shattering through it. It had been visible through the periscope. The wreckage hung for a stretch, lit by the fires of its own oil and fuel. Then the surrounding ice melted from the heat of the conflagration and released its hold. The twisted wreckage sank into the sea, chasing the Drakon down into the depths.

Now all had gone dead quiet.

Perry kept his own boat running silent, patrolling the waters.

What the hell was going on? Cut off from the world, he was unsure what to do next. Should they surface and attempt to contact those who’d taken out the Russians? Was it indeed a Delta Force team or could it be a third combatant? And what about the Russian ice station? Was it still commandeered by a team of Russian ground forces?

“Sir?” Lieutenant Liang was staring at him. “Do we prepare to surface?”

That was the most logical next step — but Perry held off.

A submarine was at its most effective when no one knew it was there, and he wasn’t ready to give up that advantage. He slowly shook his head. “Not yet, Lieutenant, not yet…”

Admiral Kent Reynolds strode through the foot-thick steel blast doors of the command’s flag plot room. Already in the cavernous room were his handpicked team, experts in their fields called in last night, most buzzed from their beds and set to work here.

The heavy door shut behind him, the locks engaging.

In the center of the room stretched a long conference table, constructed of polished native koa wood, a true Hawaiian treasure in rich, dark hues — not that any of the table’s handsome surface could be seen through the piles of loose papers, books, folders, charts, and laptop computers.

Around the table, his team of communication, intelligence, and Russian experts worked singly and in small groups. Their voices were hushed, keeping private their conversations from one another. Even here, secrets were shared reluctantly among the factions gathered.

A tall, gangly fellow stepped away from one of the backlit wall maps. He wore an Armani suit minus the jacket, shirtsleeves rolled up. It was Charles Landley of NRO, the National Reconnaissance Office. A good family friend, he was married to one of Reynolds’s nieces. He had been poring over a chart of the Arctic region, a map looking directly down upon the North Pole.

He turned now, wearing a tired expression, no welcoming smile. “Admiral Reynolds, thank you for coming so quickly.”

“What is it, Charlie?”

Five minutes ago, Admiral Reynolds had been interrupted from a conference call with COMSUBLANT, his counterpart on the Atlantic coast, but Charles Landley wouldn’t have summoned him away unless it was urgent.

“SOSUS has picked up a series of explosions.”

“Where?” SOSUS was an ocean-based listening system of linked hydrophones. It could pick up a whale’s fart anywhere in the seven seas.

Charlie stepped to the wall and tapped a spot on the map. “We believe with eighty-five percent probability that it was at the coordinates of the Omega Drift Station.”

Admiral Reynolds had to take a deep breath. Fear for his daughter, Amanda, always present these last hours, flared to an ache behind his sternum. “Analysis?”

“We believe it was a series of depth charges. We also detected signature bubbling of an imploding submarine.” Charlie lifted one eyebrow. “Prior to these strong detects, we also picked up what sounded like helicopter bell beats…but they were too weak to say for certain.”

“A strike team?”

Charlie nodded. “That is what current intel believes. Without pictures from the Big Bird recon satellite, we’re blind to what’s going on.”

“How long until the spy platform is clear of the solar storm?”

“At least another two hours. In fact, I believe that is why the Russians dragged their feet for two weeks after being leaked news of the Arctic discovery. They were waiting for this blackout window to open so they could proceed free of spying eyes.”

“And the strike team that sank the sub?”

“We’re still working on that data. It could be either a second Russian assault team — in which case, it was the Polar Sentinel that was sunk. Or it’s our Delta Force team, and the Drakon has been scuttled.”

Admiral Reynolds allowed himself a moment of hope. “It has to be the Delta Force team. The word I’ve gleaned from Special Forces is that the Delta teams were deployed in advance of the Russian attack.”

Charlie stared at him, eyes pinched, pained. The admiral braced himself for his friend’s next words. Something was wrong.

“I’ve learned something else.” These words were spoken in hushed tones.

Admiral Reynolds’s gaze flicked to the team gathering and collating data. Charlie had not shared whatever he had discovered with these others. The admiral sensed the next bit of news was the true reason he had been so urgently summoned. The throbbing behind his ribs grew more lancing.

Charlie led him over to a side table under one of the maps. A titanium laptop rested atop it, floating the NRO icon over its flat-screen monitor. Charlie booted the laptop and typed in his security code. Once it was up and running, he opened a file that required him to place his thumb over a glowing print-reader to open.

Stepping away, Charlie waved him forward.

Admiral Reynolds leaned toward the screen. It was a Pentagon memo stamped top secret. It was dated over a week ago. The heading was in bold type: GRENDEL OP.

Charlie shouldn’t have been able to access this file, but NRO moved within its own channels. Its organization had its fingers and eyes everywhere. His friend deliberately concentrated on the wall map of Asia. It had nothing to do with the current situation, but he kept his attention focused there anyway.

Slipping a pair of reading glasses from a pocket, Admiral Reynolds leaned closer and read the message. It was three pages. The first section detailed what was known about the history of the Russian ice station. As he read, Admiral Reynolds found his vision blurring, as if his body were physically trying to deny what it was seeing. But there could be no doubt. The dates, the names, were all there.

His gaze settled on the words human experimentation. It took him back to his father’s war stories, of the liberation of Nazi concentration camps, of the atrocities committed within those dark halls.

How could they…?

Sickened, he continued to read. The last part of the report detailed the U.S. military’s response: the purpose, the objectives, the endgame scenarios. He read what was hidden at the ice station and the ultimate mission statement of Grendel ops.

Charlie reached a hand to his shoulder as he straightened, steadying him, knowing he would need it. “I thought you deserved to know.”

Admiral Reynolds suddenly found it hard to breathe. Amanda…The pain behind his sternum stabbed outward, lancing down his left arm. Bands of steel wrapped around his chest and squeezed.

“Admiral…?”

The hand tightened on his shoulder, catching him as his legs weakened. Through a haze, he noted others in the room slowly turning their way.

Somehow he was on the floor, on his knees.

“Get help!” Charlie shouted, half cradling him.

Admiral Reynolds reached up and clutched at Charlie’s arm. “I…I need to reach Captain Perry.”

Charlie stared down at him, his eyes bright with worry and sorrow. “It’s too late.”

13. Run of the Station

Matt shivered as he leaned over the station schematics. The map was unfolded and spread on the floor of the cramped cubbyhole, another of the old service rooms carved out of the ice. He knelt on one side of the paper, flanked by Craig and Amanda. On the far side crouched Washburn, Greer, and Lieutenant Commander Bratt.

Off to the side, the group of biologists kept to themselves. Dr. Ogden stood, leaning on one wall, eyes glazed. His lips moved silently as if he were talking to himself, going over something in his head. His three grad students — Magdalene, Antony, and Zane — huddled together, wearing matching expressions of misery and fear.

A full half hour had passed since the fiery death of Petty Officer Pearlson. Racing on pure adrenaline, the remaining group had fled here to one of the service sheds on Level Three.

Since then, they had weighed several different strategies: from staying put and holing up, to dividing their numbers and fleeing throughout the warren of service passages to lessen the risk of the entire group’s capture, even to trying to escape to the surface and make for the parked Sno-Cats and Ski-Doos. But as the pros and cons of each were discussed, one fact became clear. In each scenario, they would have a better chance of survival if they had additional firepower.

So before any decision about where to go next was made, they needed to reach the armory. Washburn had inventoried the WWII weapons locker. It held several boxes of Russian grenades, a trio of German-made flamethrowers, and a wall of oiled and sealskin-wrapped Russian rifles.

“They still work,” Washburn said. “I test fired a pair last week. The ammunition is boxed in straw-filled crates. Here and here.” She jabbed the end of her steel meat hook at two corners of the armory marked on the map.

Matt leaned closer, studying the layout. He had to shift the weight on his knees. Having lost his pants to Little Willy, he was left with only his long underwear. And kneeling on the ice was testing the limits of the garment’s thermal capability.

Washburn continued: “We should be able to get in and out in under a minute. The problem is getting there.”

Bratt nodded. Greer had returned a moment ago from scouting the service tunnel that led back to the station base. On this floor, the service hatch opened into the generator room and battery compartment. Unfortunately, the armory lay on the far side of the level, clear across the open central space.

Matt squinted, trying to force his brain to thaw and think. There has to be a way…Along with the others, he pored over the map.

The generator room had a side door that led to a neighboring electrical room, but from there, they would have to cross the open central space. Without a doubt, it would be guarded. And with the pilfered medical supplies as their only weapons, they would be hard-pressed to subdue the guards without rousing the rest of the base.

Matt sat back, lifting his knees from the ice and rubbing them. “And there’s no other access into this level? We have to enter through the generator and electrical rooms.”

Bratt shrugged. “As far as we know. We have only these plans to go by.”

Craig spoke up. “Well, the obvious distraction would be to switch off the generators, black out the station, and make a run for the armory.”

Greer shook his head. “We have to assume that the Russians know where the main generators are. If we knock out the power grid, they’ll be swarming right where we don’t want them.” He tapped the map. “Level Three.”

Amanda had been studying the lieutenant as he spoke, reading his lips. “Besides,” she added, “even if we turn off the generators, the batteries will retain enough power to keep most of the lights on. They’ve been charging since the generators were first overhauled by the material sciences team.”

Matt considered all sides of the discussion. “What if we leave the generators running”—he rested his finger on the designated room, then shifted it to the neighboring electrical suite—“but cut only the circuits to the top level of the station? If Lieutenant Greer is correct, such a blackout would draw the Russians’ attention to that level, away from us.”

Greer nodded to Bratt. “He’s right, sir. I’d wager the Russians already have most of their forces up top. They’d be on heightened guard, believing we might make a break for the surface. Cut off the power to just that level and the whole occupying force will be rushing up there.”

“Well, let’s just hope that includes the guards stationed on our level,” Bratt grumbled. He stared at the map, considering this option.

“Whatever we do,” Amanda said, “we’d better act fast. At some point, the Russians are going to start sending search parties into these service tunnels.”

“Or simply lob more incendiary grenades down here,” Craig said dourly. The reporter crouched on his heels, arms wrapped around his chest. His gaze flicked to the three tunnels that left the small room, clearly watching for Russian commandos to storm through or for another of the black pineapples to bounce in and incinerate the lot of them.

Bratt nodded and straightened. “Okay. Let’s scout out the electrical room. See if it’s even possible and do a head count on the Russians on this tier.” He eyed the group. “Greer and Washburn are with me.”

“I’m coming, too,” Matt said. He was not about to be left behind.

Greer supported Matt’s decision. “The man was Green Beret, sir. And we sure as hell could use an extra body if we have to take out any guards.”

Bratt eyed Matt up and down, then nodded. “The rest will stay here.”

Matt raised his hand. “We should also have someone on watch in the generator room. In case we get in trouble, they could haul ass back here and get everyone else moving up higher.”

“Very good,” Bratt acknowledged.

“I’ll do it,” Craig said, but he looked like the words had to be choked out of him.

“Then let’s get this done.” Bratt folded up the schematic and passed it to Amanda. He quickly reviewed the plan. “We hit the lights. Use the distraction to take out any soldiers that remain here. Then make a dash-and-grab on the weapons locker.”

Matt picked up the length of sharpened pipe from the floor. He met Amanda’s worried gaze and offered a smile that he hoped looked reassuring.

“Be careful,” she said.

He nodded and followed the Navy trio into the service duct. Craig crawled on hands and knees behind him. The generator room was only sixty feet down the tunnel. They reached the end, and Washburn used her meat hooks to work the vent free.

They crawled into the room. The reek of diesel oil and exhaust gases hung heavy in the humid, heated air. The generators rattled in their stanchions, plenty of noise to cover their invasion.

As they gathered, Matt noted the stacks of batteries against the left wall; each was the size of a standard air-conditioning unit. As he eyed the power storage units, a glint on the neighboring wall caught his eye. The corners of his mouth lifted with pleasure.

He dropped his pipe and crossed to the wall. He removed the heavy fire ax from its wall pegs.

“Oh, man,” Greer griped, lifting the foot-long steel bone pins in his hands. “I wish I had seen that first.”

“Finders keepers,” Matt said, hefting the ax to his shoulder.

Bratt led them to the neighboring room. All four walls were covered with electrical panels. As they searched for the controls to Level One, Matt saw the difficulty immediately. Everything was coded in Russian Cyrillic.

“Here,” Washburn whispered. She pointed to a set of hotdog-sized glass-and-lead fuses. “These are the relays for the first level.”

“Are you sure?” Matt asked.

“My father was an electrician with Oakland PG&E,” she said.

“And she reads Russian,” Greer said. “My sort of woman.”

“The main switch is corroded in place,” she said. “I’ll have to pull the fuses.”

“Wait.” Bratt crossed and posted himself at the door that led to the main room. A small window in the door allowed him to spy into the central open space. He pointed to his eyes with two fingers, then splayed four fingers up in the air.

He spotted four guards.

Bratt turned to them. “Mr. Teague,” he whispered tersely, pointing to Craig. “Close the generator door. We don’t want the noise to alert the guards when we open the main door.”

The reporter nodded, closing the door and keeping guard in front of it.

Bratt turned to the others. “On my count,” he whispered tersely. “Pull the fuses, then be ready to bolt.” He lifted his hand, all fingers up. He counted down, lowering one finger at a time.

Five…four…three…

Admiral Viktor Petkov stood in the entrance room to Level Four’s research labs. The steel door lay on the floor behind him, the hinges and security bar cut away. Across the door’s surface, letters were scored in Russian Cyrillic:

It was the name of the laboratory, the name of the base, the name of the monsters that nested in the neighboring ice caves.

Grendel.

His father’s project.

Viktor stood in front of an open cabinet. It contained dated journals, coded and stored, written in his father’s own handwriting. Viktor didn’t touch anything. He simply noted the missing volumes. Three of them. Whoever had been here knew what they had been looking for. A fist clenched. He could guess the identity of the thief — especially considering the news just related to him.

The young lieutenant who had relayed the update still stood stiffly at his shoulder, awaiting his response. Viktor had yet to acknowledge the man’s hurried report.

A moment ago, the lieutenant had rushed in, insisting on speaking to the admiral immediately. The radio operator manning the UQC underwater phone had picked up some disturbing noises over the unit’s hydrophone. He reported hearing distant blasts echoing under the ice shelf: multiple explosions.

“Depth charges,” the lieutenant had related. “The radioman believes he was hearing the concussion of depth charges.”

But that wasn’t the worst of the news. Amid the explosions, a weak static-chewed message had been transmitted on shortwave. A Mayday from the Drakon. Their submarine was under attack.

It had to be the U.S. Delta Force team, finally having arrived on the playing field. Late, but making up for its tardiness with deadly efficiency.

The lieutenant had then finished his message, barely keeping the panic from his voice. “The radioman reported definite bubbling, marking a sub implosion.”

Viktor fixed his gaze on the gaps in the shelf of journals. There was no doubt who had stolen the volumes: the same person who called the attack down upon the Drakon, the Delta Force controller, the leader sent in advance to covertly obtain his father’s research, to secure it before calling in the clean-up crew. Now with the prize in hand, the Delta Forces had been mobilized.

“Sir?” the lieutenant mumbled.

Viktor turned. “No one else must know about the Drakon.”

“Sir…?” There was a long pause as the admiral fixed the man with his steel-gray eyes, then a strained response: “Yes, sir.”

“We will hold this station, Lieutenant. We will find the Americans who were here earlier.” He continued to clench a fist. “We will not fail in this mission.”

“No, sir.”

“I have new orders to pass on to the men.”

The lieutenant stood straighter, ready to accept his assignment. Viktor told him what he wanted done. The Polaris engine had been unpacked and bolted to the floor on Level Five. By now, all the crew had been briefed with the mission assignment: to retrieve the research here, then erase all signs of the base. And while the crew certainly knew the destructive nature of the explosive device on Level Five — believing it to be a mere Z-class nuclear incendiary device — none knew its true purpose.

The lieutenant paled as Viktor gave him the code to prime the Polaris device. “We will not let the Americans steal the prize here,” he finished. “Even if it costs all our lives, that must not happen.”

“Yes, sir…no, sir,” the young man stammered. “My men will find them, Admiral.”

“Don’t fail, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

The lieutenant fled away. There was no threat like one’s own death to motivate a crew. The Americans would be found, and the prize recaptured, or no one would be leaving this base alive — not the Americans, not the Russians, not even himself.

Viktor studied his wrist monitor as he listened to the lieutenant’s footsteps retreating below. On the monitor, the Polaris star glowed brightly, marking his continued contact with the array. The center trigger remained dark.

He waited.

Before detonating Polaris, he had first hoped to return to Russia with his father’s research in hand, to clear his family name. But now matters had changed.

Viktor had risen through the ranks to become admiral of the Northern Fleet because of his ability to mold strategies to circumstances, to keep the larger picture in mind at all times. He did so now as he stared at the tiny red heart-shaped icon in the lower corner of the wrist monitor, slipping back to another time.

He was eighteen, entering his apartment, full of pride, clutching his admission papers to the Russian Naval Academy. He smelled the urine first. Then the gusty breeze through the open door set his mother’s body to swinging from her broken neck. He rushed forward, the admission papers fluttering from his fingers and landing under his mother’s heels.

He closed his eyes. He had come full circle now, leaving his mother’s body and ending here at his father’s crypt.

From one death to another.

It was now time to complete the cycle.

Vengeance weighed far heavier on his heart than honor.

That was the bigger picture.

He opened his eyes and found the monitor had changed — subtly but significantly. The five points of the star continued their sequential flashing, winding around the dial, and the small heart icon still blinked with each pulse beat in his wrist. But now a new glow lit the monitor, a crimson diamond in the center of the star.

The lieutenant had followed orders.

The Polaris engine had been primed.

All was in readiness, requiring only one last act.

Viktor reached to the one button he had held off touching until now. He depressed the red bezel on the side of the wrist monitor, holding it for the required minute.

Seconds counted away — then the central trigger light on the wrist monitor began to flash. Activated.

He studied the blinking. The trigger marker flashed in sync with the heart icon in the corner of the screen. Only then did he let go.

It was done.

The detonation of the Polaris device was now tied to his own heartbeat, to his own pulse. If his heartbeat ceased for a minute’s time, the device would blow automatically. It was an extra bit of insurance, a fallback plan in case all should turn against him.

Victor lowered his arm.

He was now a living trigger for the array. There was no abort code, no fail-safe. Once it was initiated, nothing could stop Polaris.

With its detonation, the old world would end, and a new one would begin, forged in ice and blood. His revenge would be exacted on all: the Russians, the Americans, the world. Viktor’s only regret in such a scenario was that he would not be around to see it happen.

But he knew how to live with regret…he had done it his entire life.

As he began to turn away, a sailor ran up to him, coming from the hall that held the frozen tanks. “Sir! Admiral Petkov, sir!”

He paused. “What is it?”

“S-something…” He motioned back to the hall. “Something is happening down there.”

“What? Is it the Americans?” Viktor had left a group of guards by the service vent. They were to wait until the caustic blast from the incendiary grenade cooled, then proceed and hunt down any survivors.

“No, not the Americans!” The sailor was breathless, eyes wide with horror. “You must see for yourself!”

…two…one…

From his post beside the electrical panel, Matt watched as Bratt finished his silent count, ticking down with his fingers, ending with a clenched fist in the air.

…zero…go!

Washburn began yanking at the fuses that powered Level One, but the old glass tubes were stubborn, corroded in place. She was going too slow.

Matt motioned her aside and used the butt of his fire axe to smash the line of fuses. The tinkling cascade of shards blew outward. A wisp of electrical smoke followed, snaking into the air.

The effect was immediate. Distant shouts echoed to the group.

Bratt waved them all to the door. Through the window, Matt saw a handful of men in white parkas rush toward the central spiral staircase. Rifles were at the ready. More shouting followed, interspersed with barked orders.

Two of the four men mounted the stairs and fled upward. Two remained on guard.

“A couple birds aren’t leaving the nest,” Greer grumbled.

“We’ll have to take them out,” Bratt said. “We have no other choice. Our hand is played.”

The two soldiers, dressed in unzipped parkas, continued to man their posts, but they kept their attention fixed toward the stairs, their backs to the electrical suite.

Bratt pointed to Washburn and Matt. “You take the one on the left. We’ll take the other.” He nodded to Greer.

Matt readied his ax. He had never killed a man with such a crude weapon. In the Green Berets, he had shot men, even bayoneted one, but never hacked one with an ax. He glanced over to Craig.

The reporter stared, wide-eyed, unblinking at them. He sheltered by the door to the neighboring generator room.

“Watch through this window,” Matt said. “If anything goes wrong, you haul ass back to the others. Get them running.”

Craig opened his mouth, then closed it and nodded. He hurried over. Something fell out of his coat and clattered against the floor.

Bratt scowled at the noise, but the rumbling generators more than covered it. Matt retrieved the object. A book. He recognized it as one of the journals from down in the lab. He lifted an eyebrow and handed it back to Craig.

“For the story,” the reporter said hurriedly, tucking it back away. “If I ever get out of this mess…”

Matt had to give the guy credit. He stuck to his guns.

“Ready,” Bratt said.

Nods all around.

Bratt reached for the handle. He waited for a flare-up of shouting from the levels above, then tugged the door open. The four of them ran through, splitting into two teams to cross toward the guards, whose backs still remained toward them.

Matt raced, oblivious to the ache in his feet. He carried the ax in both hands. Washburn flew beside him, outdistancing him in five steps.

But with her speed, she failed to spot the abandoned dinner tray on the floor.

Her foot hit it and skidded out from under her, turning her efficient sprint into a headlong tumble. She tried to catch herself on a table, but only succeeded in taking it down with her at the heels of the two guards.

The crashing noise drew both men around, weapons raised.

Bratt and Greer were close enough. With a flash of silver, Bratt whipped a scalpel at the man. It flew with frightening accuracy, impaling the man’s left eye. He fell backward, mouth open, but before he could scream, Greer dove on top of him.

Matt faced his own target, leaping over Washburn’s struggling form. “Stay down!”

Still in midair, he swung his ax in a wide arc — but he was too slow, too far away.

Gunfire spat from the end of the Russian’s AK-47. It chewed a path over his shoulder, then oddly continued up toward the ceiling.

Only then did Matt notice Washburn below him. She had lashed out with one her meat hooks, impaling the soldier through the calf and ripping him off balance.

Matt landed as the guard fell back, hitting the floor hard. With the detachment that could only come from years of Special Forces training, Matt brought his ax down upon the head of the soldier. The skull gave way like a ripe watermelon.

Matt quickly let go of the handle, rolling away on his knees, as his target convulsed under the embedded ax.

Matt’s hands shook. Too many years had passed since he’d been a soldier. He had made the mistake of looking into the eyes of the man he killed — rather, boy he had killed. No older than nineteen. He had seen the pain and terror in his victim’s eyes.

Bratt was at their side. “Let’s go. Someone surely heard that shooting. We can’t count on the confusion buying us much time.”

Matt choked back bile and climbed to his feet. Sorrow or not, he had to keep moving. He remembered Jenny’s Sno-Cat vanishing into the blizzard’s gloom amid sounds of gunfire and explosions.

They had not started this war.

A step away, Greer stripped his target’s camouflage gear: parka and snow pants. “With all the noise, we’ll need someone to act as lookout.” He rubbed the bloodstains off the waterproof coat and began to pull it on, ready to stand in for the fallen soldier.

“Let me,” Matt said. “You know better what we’ll need from the armory.”

Greer nodded and tossed the gear at him.

Sitting in a chair, Matt yanked the pants on over his boots. The man had a larger frame, making it easier. Once suited, he pulled the oversized parka over his own Army jacket and retrieved the AK-47 from the floor.

Meanwhile, Washburn and Bratt had dragged the bodies behind two overturned tables while Greer had used the butt of his weapon to shatter a few overhead bulbs, creating deeper shadows.

“Okay, let’s move out,” Bratt said, and led Washburn and Greer at a dead run toward the armory.

They vanished through the doorway.

Alone now, Matt pulled the parka’s hood over his head, hiding his features. He stared down at himself.

If nothing else, at least I’ll die with pants on.

He stepped closer to the stairway, placing himself between the stairs and the smeared pools of blood. So far no one had come to investigate the short spate of gunfire — but they would. Bratt was right. The confusion would last only so long.

Matt prayed it lasted long enough.

His prayer was not answered. Footsteps suddenly sounded on the stairs, echoing from above, pounding down toward this level.

Damn it…

Matt moved closer, but he kept his head tilted to keep his features hooded. A line of soldiers appeared, bristling with weapons, ready for combat. They barked at him in Russian.

Too bad he didn’t understand a word of it.

Instead he hurried forward, feigning panic. He kept his weapon lowered, but his finger remained on the trigger. He pointed his other arm down, frantically motioning toward the lower levels. With all the shouting and noise, the soldiers probably couldn’t tell for sure from which level the gunfire had originated. He tried to indicate it came from farther below.

To reinforce the act, Matt took a step forward, like he meant to follow the others down.

The leader of the squad waved him to hold his position, then motioned his squad down the stairs. They continued their dash into the depths of the station.

Matt backed away as the last man spiraled away into the ice. He let out a loud sigh. His ruse would not last long — but luckily it didn’t have to.

Bratt appeared at the armory door, both shoulders loaded with weapons. “Quick thinking there.” He nodded to the staircase. He must have been watching from the doorway.

Behind Bratt, Washburn and Greer exited, similarly loaded, lugging a wooden crate between them.

“Grenades,” Greer said as he passed, his words bitter. “Now it’s our turn for a surprise or two.”

Together the group fled back to the electrical suite, then into the generator room. Craig was no longer there. He must have retreated back to the others.

With a bit of manhandling, they crawled through the vent, hauling their arsenal, dragging the box of grenades behind them.

Matt led them, carrying the pilfered AK-47 and two additional rifles on his back. His parka pockets were full of ammunition.

Reaching the end, he rolled out of the duct and into the service cubbyhole. He stood up, his eyes darting around the room.

The place was empty. The others were gone.

Washburn came next. Her expression soured. “The reporter must have been spooked by the gunfire. He did what we told him and bugged out with the others.”

Matt shook his head as the others crawled inside.

Greer scowled as he eyed the empty room. “I hate this. We go to all the trouble to bring in the party supplies and everyone’s already left.”

“But where did they go?” Matt asked.

Bratt had been searching the floor. “I don’t know, but they took the station schematics with them. Our only map to this damn place.”

Admiral Petkov followed the young ensign down the hall. He kept his attention away from the frosted tanks with their frozen sentinels inside. He felt the eyes of the dead upon him, sensing the accusations of those unwilling participants in his father’s experiments.

But those were not the only ghosts who laid claim to the lost base. All the researchers stationed here, including his father, had died — entombed in ice as surely as the poor unfortunates in this hall.

Among so many ghosts, it was only fitting that the Beliy Prizrak, the White Ghost of the Northern Fleet, should stride these halls now, too.

Ensign Lausevic led him onward, half stumbling as he tried to hurry but did not want to rush his superior. “I’m not sure what it means, but we thought you should see it for yourself.”

Viktor waved the man on. “Show me.”

The curved hall followed the exterior wall of this level. They were almost halfway around when laughter from up ahead trailed back to Viktor. They rounded the curve and spotted a cluster of five soldiers. They had been lounging, one smoking, until the admiral appeared.

Laughter strangled away, and the group straightened. The cigarette was hastily stamped out.

The group parted for the admiral. They had been clustered around one of the tanks. Unlike the other dark, frosted vessels, this one glowed from within. The frost had melted and wept down the glass front.

Victor crossed to it. He felt the heat coming from its surface. A small motor could be heard chugging and wheezing behind it, along with a faint gurgling.

“We didn’t know what to do,” Lausevic said, running a hand through his black hair.

Inside the tank, what was once solid ice was now a bath of warm water, gently bubbling, its ice melted by a triple-layered heating mesh that covered the entire back half of the chamber. The mesh was the source of the light. The outer layers glowed with a ruddy warmth, while the deeper levels shone more intensely, brighter.

“Why wasn’t I alerted to this earlier?” Victor intoned.

“We thought it was a ploy by the Americans to distract us,” one of the other men said. “It’s right by the duct they fled through.” He pointed to a nearby vent. A bit of smoke from the incendiary grenade still wafted through its opening.

“We weren’t sure it was important,” Lausevic added.

Not important? Victor stared at the tank. He was unable to take his eyes from the sight.

Within the tank, a small boy floated, suspended within the bubbling water. His eyes were closed as if in slumber. His face looked so peaceful, smooth, olive-skinned, framed in a halo of shoulder-length black hair. His limbs floated at his side, angelic and perfect.

Then his left arm twitched, jerking as if pulled by the strings of an invisible puppeteer.

The young ensign pointed. “It’s been doing that for the past few minutes. Starting with just a finger twitch.”

The boy’s leg kicked, spasming up.

Viktor stepped closer. Could he still be alive? He remembered the missing journals. That was the quest here. To retrieve his father’s notes. To see if the last report made by his father was true. He had read this final report himself, hearing his father’s voice in his head, as if he were speaking directly to his son.

He remembered the final line: On this day, we’ve defeated death.

He watched the boy. Could it be true? If so, the stolen notebooks wouldn’t matter. Here was proof of his father’s success. Viktor glanced to the soldiers. He had witnesses to verify it. Though the exact mechanism and procedure were locked in his father’s coded notes, the boy would be living and breathing proof.

“Is there a way to open the tank?” Viktor asked.

Ensign Lausevic pointed to a large lever on one side of the tank. It was locked at the upper end marked CLOSED in Russian. The lower end of the levered slot was lettered in Cyrillic: OPEN.

Viktor nodded to the ensign.

He stepped forward, gripped the heavy handle with both hands, and tugged. It resisted the ensign’s efforts for a moment. Then, with a loud crack, the lever snapped out. Lausevic used his shoulders to pull the lever and slam it down into the “open” slot.

Immediately a rush of water sounded, not unlike a toilet flushing. From his position, Viktor saw the grated bottom of the tank open. Water flowed down a drain.

Caught in the swirling force of the draining water, the boy’s body spun, arms flailed out. His body seemed boneless, limp. He bumped against the glass, the back mesh. Then, as the water drained fully away, he settled in a loose pile on the bottom of the tank, as lifeless as some deep-sea denizen washed up on a beach.

Then with a soft, damp pop, the seal on the glass released. The entire front of the tank swung open like a door, blowing out compressed air from within. There was a faint hint of ammonia that came with it.

Lausevic pulled the door aside for the admiral.

Viktor found himself stepping forward, dropping to his knees beside the naked boy. He reached to the boy’s arm, draped half out the door.

It was warm, heated by the bubbling bath.

But there appeared to be no life.

His hand slipped from wrist to the small fingers. He tried to will the boy back to life. What stories could he tell? Had he known his father? Did he know what had happened here? Why the base had gone dead quiet so suddenly?

It had been the last years of World War II. The Germans were marching into Russia, laying siege to city after city. Then a remote research station in the Arctic went quiet, late reporting in…first one month, then another. But with the war heating up at home, no one had time to investigate. With communication being what it was and travel through the polar region so difficult, there were no resources for a full investigation.

Another full year passed. Nagasaki and Hiroshima were bombed. Nuclear weaponry became the grand technology, hunted and sought by all. Ice Station Grendel and its research project were now antiquated, not worth the cost or manpower to discover its fate. The currents could have taken the station anywhere. The ice island that berthed it might even have broken apart and sunk, something not uncommon with such floating giants.

So more years passed.

The last report of his father, with its wild claims of breaching the barrier between life and death, was dismissed as exaggerated rants and shelved. The only bit of proof was supposedly locked in his journals, lost with the base and its head researcher.

The secret of life and death.

Viktor stared down at the slack face of the boy, so peaceful in slumber. Lips a faint blue, face gray and wet. Viktor wiped the face dry with one hand.

Then small fingers clamped onto his other palm, harder and stronger than Viktor could have imagined.

He gasped in surprise as the boy’s body suddenly convulsed inside the tank, legs kicking, head thrown back, spine arched up, contorted.

Water poured from his open mouth, draining down the tank’s grating.

“Help me get him out!” Viktor yelled, drawing the boy to him.

Ensign Lausevic squeezed in and grabbed the thrashing legs, getting a good kick to his temple in the process.

Between the two of them, they hauled the boy out to the hall. His body jerked and thrashed. Viktor cradled his head, keeping him from cracking his skull on the hard floor. The boy’s eyes twitched behind their lids.

“He’s alive!” one of the other soldiers said, backing a step away.

Not alive, Viktor silently corrected, but not dead either. Somewhere in between.

As the convulsions continued, the boy’s skin grew hot to the touch; perspiration pebbled his skin. Viktor knew that one of the main dangers of epileptic patients during violent or prolonged seizures was hyperthermia, a raising of body temperature from muscle contractions that led to brain damage. Was the boy dying, or was his body fighting to warm life back into it, heating away the last dregs of its frozen state?

Slowly the convulsions faded to vigorous shivering. Viktor continued to hold the boy. Then the boy’s chest heaved up, expanding as if something were going to burst out the rib cage. It held that swelled state, back arched from the floor. Blue lips had warmed to pink, skin flushed from the violence of the seizures.

Then the boy’s form collapsed in on itself, seeming to cave in, accompanied by a strangled choke. Then he lay still again, back to tired slumber, dead on the floor.

A pang of regret, mixed inexplicably with grief, ran through Viktor.

Perhaps this is the best his father had ever achieved, significant but ultimately not successful.

He studied the boy’s face, peaceful in true death.

Then the boy’s eyes opened, staring up at him, dazed. His small chest rose and fell. A hand lifted from the floor, then settled back weakly.

Alive…

Lips moved. A word was mouthed, groggy, breathless still. “Otyets.”

It was Russian.

Viktor stared up at the others, but when he gazed back down at the boy, the child’s eyes were still on him.

Lips moved again, repeating his earlier word. “Otyets…Papa.”

Before Viktor could respond, the pounding of many boots suddenly echoed to them. A group of soldiers appeared, armed. “Admiral!” the lieutenant in the lead called out as he approached.

Viktor remained kneeling. “What is it?”

The man’s eyes flicked to the naked child on the floor, then back to the admiral. “Sir, the Americans…power’s out on the top level. We think they’re trying to escape the station.”

Viktor’s eyes narrowed. He stayed at the boy’s side. “Nonsense.”

“Sir?” Confusion crinkled the officer’s eyes.

“The Americans are not going anywhere. They’re still here.”

“What…what do you want us to do?”

“Your orders have not changed.” Viktor stared into the eyes of the boy, knowing he held the answers to everything. Nothing else mattered. “Hunt them. Kill them.”

A level below, Craig crawled down the service tunnel, map crumpled in his hand. The chamber had to be close. The others trailed behind him.

He paused at a crossroads of ductwork. The intersection was tangled with conduit and piping. He pushed his way through and headed left. “This way,” he mumbled back to the rest of the party.

“How much farther?” Dr. Ogden asked from the rear of their group.

The answer appeared just ahead. A dim glow rose through a grated vent embedded in the floor of the ice shaft.

Craig hurried forward. Once near enough, he lay on his belly and spied through the grate to the room below. Viewed from above and lit by a single bare bulb, the chamber appeared roughly square, plated in steel like the station proper, but this room was empty, long abandoned and untouched.

It was the best hiding place Craig could think of.

Out of the way and isolated.

He wiggled around so he could use his legs to kick the grate loose. The screws held initially, but desperation was stronger than rusted steel and ice. The vent popped open, swinging down.

Craig stuck his head through to make sure it was clear, then swung his feet around and lowered himself into the room.

It was not a long drop. The room had flooded long ago. The water had risen a yard into the room, then froze. A few crates and fuel drums were visible, half buried in the ice. A shelving unit stacked with tools rose from the ice pool, its first three shelves anchored below.

But the most amazing sight was the pair of giant brass wheels on either far wall. They stood ten feet high with thick hexagonal axles attached to massive motors, embedded in the ice floor. The toothed edges of the wheels connected to the grooves of a monstrous brass wall that encompassed one entire side of the room.

The wheel on the right side lay crooked, broken free from some old blast. Scorch marks were still visible on its brass surface. The dislodged wheel had torn through the neighboring steel wall, cracking through to the ice beyond. Perhaps it was even the source of flooding.

Craig peered through the crack. It was too dark to see very far.

“What is this place?” Amanda asked as she landed in a crouch. She stood, staring at the gigantic gearworks.

Craig turned to her so she could read his lips. “According to the schematics, it’s the control room for the station’s sea gate.” He pointed to a grooved brass wall. “From here, they would lower or raise the gate whenever the Russian submarine docked into the sea cave below.”

By now the others — Dr. Ogden and his three students — had dropped into the room. They stared around nervously.

“Will we be safe here?” Magdalene asked.

“Safer,” Craig answered. “We had to get out of the service ducts. The Russians will be swarming and incinerating their way through there. We’re better off holing up here. This room is isolated well off the main complex. There’s a good chance the Russians don’t even know this place exists.”

Craig crossed to the single door, opposite the sea gate. There was a small window in it. Beyond he could see the narrow hall that led back to the station. It had flooded almost to the roof. No Russians would be coming from that direction.

Amanda had to lean in close to read his lips. “What about Matt and the Navy crew?”

Craig bit his lip. He had a hard time meeting her eye. “I don’t know. They’ll have to take care of themselves.”

Earlier, while watching from the electrical room, he had seen Washburn slip and fall, alerting the two Russian guards. The resulting rifle fire had driven him back to the civilian party. Surely Matt and the others were dead or captured. Either way, he couldn’t risk staying around. So he had led their group off — going down rather than up. The gate control room seemed the perfect hiding place.

Dr. Ogden, along with his graduate students, stepped to join them, careful of the icy floor. “So are we just going to hide here, simply wait for the Russians to leave?”

Craig shifted aside a wooden box of empty vodka bottles. The last survivors of Ice Station Grendel must have had a party at the end. The bottles clinked as he moved them. Wishing for a stiff drink himself, he sat on one of the crates. “By now, someone must know what’s going on here. Help has to be on its way. All we have to do is survive until then.”

Amanda continued to stare hard at him, her gaze penetrating. Craig sensed her deep anger. She had not wanted to flee earlier, not without knowing the exact fate of Matt and the Navy crew. But she had been outvoted.

Craig looked away, unable to face that silent accusation. He needed something to distract himself, something to get all their minds off of their current situation. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out one of the three volumes he had looted from the research laboratory. Here was a puzzle to help them bide their time. Perhaps even one of the scientists might have a clue to deciphering this riddle.

Amanda’s eyes widened, recognizing the book. “Did you steal that?”

Craig shrugged. “I took the first volume and the last two.” He slipped the other books from his jacket and passed one to Amanda and one to Ogden. “I figured these were the best. The beginning and the end. Who needs to read the middle?”

Amanda and Dr. Ogden opened their copies. The biologist’s students peered over their professor’s shoulder.

“It’s written in gibberish,” Zane, the youngest of the trio of grad students, commented, his face screwed up.

“No, it’s a code,” Amanda corrected, fanning through the pages.

Craig cracked the third volume that still rested in his lap. He stared at the opening line.

“But what’s this script?” Craig asked. “It’s clearly not Russian Cyrillic.”

Amanda closed her book. “All the journals are like this. It’ll take a team of cryptologists to decipher them.”

“But why code it at all?” Craig asked. “What were they hiding?”

Amanda shrugged. “You may be reading too much into the code. For centuries, scientists have been paranoid about their discoveries, hiding their notes in arcane manners. Even Leonardo da Vinci wrote all his journals so that they could only be read when reflected in a mirror.”

Craig continued to stare at the odd writing, trying to find meaning in the squiggles and marks. But no answer came. He sensed something was missing.

As he sat, a new sound intruded. At first he thought it was his imagination, but the noise grew in volume.

“What is that?” Magdalene asked.

Craig stood up.

Amanda stared around at the others, confused.

Craig followed the noise to its source. It echoed out of the crack, where the broken wheel had shattered through the wall. He crouched, ears cocked.

“I…I think…it’s barking,” Zane said as the others crowded around.

“It’s definitely a dog,” Dr. Ogden said.

Craig corrected the biologist. “No, not dog…wolf!” Craig recognized the characteristic bark. He had heard it often enough over the past few days. But it made no sense. He could not keep the amazement out of his voice. “It’s Bane.”

14. Three Blind Mice

Crouched at an intersection of tunnels, Jenny signaled Bane to be quiet by raising a clenched fist. At her side, the wolf cross growled deep in his throat, pushing tight to her, protective. Matt had trained the dog to respond to hand commands, an especially useful tool while hunting out in the woods.

But in this case, they were the prey.

Tom Pomautuk stood behind her, flanked by Kowalski. He pointed to the green spray-painted diamond that marked the tunnel to the left. “That way,” he whispered, breathless with terror.

Jenny pointed for Bane to take the lead. The dog trotted ahead, hackles raised, alert. They followed.

For the past half hour, they had caught glimpses of the beasts: massive, sleek, and muscular creatures. But similar to their experience with the first creature, they had found a way to keep them at bay.

Jenny gripped her flare gun. The explosion of light and heat from a flare blast was enough to disorient the creatures and send them scurrying back — but they continued to dog their trail. And now they were down to two charges, loaded already in the double-barreled gun. After that, they were out of ammunition.

The light around them suddenly flickered, going pitch-dark for a long moment. Tom swore, knocking the flashlight against the wall. The light returned.

Kowalski groaned. “Don’t even think about it.”

The flashlight, retrieved from the emergency kit in the Twin Otter, was old, original gear that came with the plane. Jenny had never changed its batteries. She cursed her lax maintenance schedule as the flashlight flickered again.

“C’mon, baby,” Kowalski moaned.

Tom shook the light, throttling it with both hands now. But no amount of rattling could fan the flashlight back to life. It died.

Darkness fell around them, weighing them all down, pressing them together.

“Bane,” Jenny whispered.

She felt the familiar rub on her leg. Her fingers touched fur. She patted the dog’s side. A growl rumbled deep in him, silent but felt through his ribs.

“What now?” Tom asked.

“The flares,” Kowalski answered. “We can strike one of ’em, carry it. It might last till we find somewhere safe to hole up away from these monsters.”

Jenny clutched her flare gun. “I only have two charges left. What’ll we use to chase the creatures off?”

“Right now, we need to see the creatures if we have any hope of surviving down here.”

Jenny couldn’t argue with that logic. She cracked open the weapon and fingered one of the charges.

“Wait,” Tom whisped. “Look over to the right. Is that light?”

Jenny stared, straining to see anything in the darkness. Then she noted a vague spot of brightness. Something glowing through the ice. “Is it the station?”

“Can’t be,” Tom answered. “We should still be a ways off from the base entrance.”

“Well, it’s still a source of light.” Kowalski stirred beside Jenny. “Let’s check it out. Light one of the flares.”

“No,” Jenny said, staring toward the ghostly light. She reseated the flare and closed her gun. “The brightness will blind us to the source.”

“What are you saying?” Kowalski grumped.

“We’ll have to seek our way in the dark.” Jenny pocketed the gun and groped out for Kowalski. “Join hands.”

Kowalski took her palm in his. She fumbled and found Tom’s hand.

“Heel, Bane,” she whispered as they set off, Kowalski in the lead.

Like three blind mice, they crept down the tunnel, making the next turn that headed toward the light source. It was slow going. Jenny felt an odd tension in her jaw, as if she were clenching it, a minute vibration deep behind her molars. It had been with them ever since they entered the tunnels. Perhaps it was a vibration from whatever generators or motors powered the station above them.

But she wasn’t convinced. If they were far from the station, why did it seem to be growing stronger?

They made a few more turns, zeroing toward the light.

“It feels like we’re heading deeper again,” Kowalski said.

In the pitch dark, it was hard to tell if the seaman was correct.

“We have to be well off that marked trail we were following,” Tom said. “We could just be getting ourselves lost.”

“The light’s stronger,” Jenny said, though she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just her eyes growing accustomed to the darkness. The inside of her head itched. What was that?

“This reminds me of my grandfather’s stories of Sedna,” Tom whispered.

“Sedna?” Kowalski asked.

“One of our gods,” Jenny answered. She knew they probably shouldn’t be talking so much, but in the darkness, it was a comfort to hear another’s voice. “An Inuit spirit. Like a siren. She is said to lure fisherman into the sea, chasing after her glowing figure until they drowned.”

“First monsters, now ghosts…I really hate the Arctic.” Kowalski squeezed her fingers tighter.

They continued on, sinking into their own thoughts and fears.

Jenny heard Bane padding and panting at her side.

After a full minute, they rounded a curve in the tunnel and the source of the light appeared. It came from an ice cave ahead — or rather from a crumbled section of the back wall. The ice glowed with a sapphire brilliance, piercing after so much darkness.

They let go of one another and edged forward.

Kowalski entered the cave first, searching around. “A dead end.”

Tom and Jenny joined him, studying the shattered section of wall. “Where’s the light coming from?” Jenny asked.

She was heard.

A voice called out from ahead. “Hello!” It was a female voice.

Bane barked in response.

“Tell me that’s not Sedna?” Kowalski hissed.

“Not unless she’s learned English,” Tom replied.

Jenny shushed Bane and returned the shout. “Hello!”

“Who’s out there?” another voice called, a man this time.

Jenny reacted with shock as she recognized the voice. “Craig?”

A pause. “Jenny?”

She hurried forward. The shattered section of wall revealed a vertical crack in the surface. The light streamed out toward them. Through a crack, only two inches wide, faces peered back at her. They were only a yard away. Tears rose in her eyes.

If Craig was here, then surely Matt…

“How…What are you doing here?” Craig asked.

Before she could answer, Bane began to bark again. Jenny turned to quiet him, but the wolf faced back toward the passage from which they’d come.

At the tunnel mouth, red eyes stared out at them, reflecting the feeble light.

“Shit,” Kowalski said.

The creature hunkered into the cavern, wary and snorting, coming toward them. This beast was the largest they’d seen yet.

Jenny yanked out her flare gun, aimed, and fired. A trail of fire arced across the ice cavern and burst between the forefeet of the beast. The exploding flare blinded them all with its flash.

Against the glare, the beast reared up, then slammed down. It backpedaled its bulk down the passage, away from the fiery display.

Tom and Kowalski edged closer. “We can’t trust that thing will stay gone for long,” the seaman said.

Jenny clenched her gun. “I only have one more flare.” She turned to the crack in the wall. “Then we have nothing to chase them off with.”

Craig heard her. “They’re grendels. They’ve been hibernating down here for thousands of years.”

Jenny pushed such matters aside for now and asked the other question utmost in her mind. “Where’s Matt?”

Craig sighed. He took a moment too long in answering. “We got separated. He’s somewhere in the station, but I don’t know where.”

Jenny sensed something unspoken behind his words, but now wasn’t the time to question him. “We need to find another way out of here,” she continued. “Our flashlight is out, and we’re down to one flare to defend ourselves.”

“How did you get down here?” he asked.

Jenny waved vaguely behind her. “Through a ventilation shaft back there. It goes to the surface.”

“Well, it’s not safe anywhere out there. We’ve some metal tools in here. Maybe we could hack the crack wider. Get you through to us.” His voice was full of doubt.

The ice was a yard thick. They’d never make it.

Another voice spoke from behind Craig. A woman, the same one who had called out earlier. “What about the fuel drums for the sea-gate motors? Maybe we could create a gigantic Molotov cocktail. Blow a way through.”

Craig’s face moved away from the crack. “Hang on, Jen.”

She heard muffled words, arguing, as the group beyond sought some solution or consensus. She heard something about the noise alerting the Russians. She glanced over to the flare as it began to fade. She would rather take her chances with the Russians.

Craig again appeared at the crack. “We’re going to try something. You’d better stand back.”

Something was shoved into the crack. It looked like a hose nozzle. It smelled of kerosene and oil.

Jenny scooted back from the wall. Tom and Kowalski continued to guard the tunnel with Bane at their side.

A flicker of flame dazzled in the crack, then a whoosh of fire blasted toward Jenny. She fell backward as a ball of flame rolled past her face. The heat singed her eyebrows.

“Are you okay?” Kowalski asked, stepping toward her.

She waved him back, pushing up. “I don’t think I need to worry any longer about that bit of frost nip on my nose.”

“You’re lucky you still have a nose.”

In the crack, a blazing inferno glowed. Flames lapped out into the cavern. Steam sizzled and billowed, instantly precipitating and wetting walls, floors, and bodies. Runnels of fiery oil seeped into their cavern.

It was surreal to see flames dancing atop ice.

“They’re trying to melt a path through for us,” Jenny realized.

The fiery channels traced across the floor toward them, driving them back.

Kowalski frowned. “Let’s hope they don’t set us on fire first.”

Amanda held the hose nozzle while one of the biology students, Zane, manned the manual pump. “Keep the pressure up,” she ordered, yanking the release lever and spraying more fuel onto the fire in the crack, careful not to let the flames leap to the hose. She had to be careful. Strong outward pressure had to be maintained. It was like trying to add lighter fuel to an already burning barbecue.

Craig was on the other side of the crack, shielding his face with his hand. Steam roiled out, along with smoky billows. Underfoot, channels of water ran into the room as the ice blockage melted. Floating oil burned in several patches, washed out with the meltwater. The biology team smothered them with fire blankets found among the supplies on the shelves.

Craig turned to her. “We’re about halfway through.”

“How wide?” she asked, reading his lips.

“A foot and a half, narrow but enough to squeeze through, I think.”

Amanda nodded and continued her deft fueling. It would have to do. They didn’t want the melted tunnel too wide or the grendels could follow the other party in here.

But the grendels weren’t the only danger.

Magdalene waved from her post by the door, drawing Amanda’s attention. “Stop!” she mouthed.

Amanda cut the hose feed.

The biology postgrad had pressed against the wall beside the door. She thumbed toward it. “Soldiers.”

Craig crossed to her. He peeked through the door window, then ducked away. He faced Amanda. “They’ve pried open the far door. The hall out there is flooded and frozen over, but they surely spotted the flickering flames through the window.”

“But they can’t know it’s us,” Ogden said, clutching his fire blanket.

Craig shook his head. “They’ll have to investigate the fire. Until they’re finished here, they won’t want the base blowing up under them.”

Amanda spoke, careful to modulate her voice to a whisper, “What are we going to do?”

Craig eyed the crack. “Come up with a new plan since this one’s screwed.”

“What—?”

Craig shook his head, his face going unusually hard. He pulled the drawstring on his parka’s hood and pressed it to his ear, then lifted the wind collar of his coat and pressed it against his throat.

Amanda watched his lips.

“Delta One, this is Osprey. Can you read me?”

“Delta One, respond,” Craig repeated more urgently.

He listened for any response. The miniature UHF transmitter in the lining of his parka was efficient at bursting out strong signals, capable of penetrating ice. Yet it still required a special receiving dish pointed at his exact coordinates to pick up the signal. The radio dish was established at the Delta team’s rendezvous camp about forty miles from here. The unit had been tracking him since he flew in last night.

And while it took only a whisper to communicate out to the Delta team under his command, the radio’s reception was a problem. The anodized thread woven throughout the parka’s stitching was a poor receiving antenna through so much ice. He needed to get out of this frozen hole to clear his communication.

Still, faint words finally reached him, cutting in and out. “Delta…receiving.”

“What is your status?”

“The target…sunk. Omega secured. Awaiting further orders.”

Craig allowed himself a surge of satisfaction. The Drakon had been wiped off the chessboard. Perfect. He pressed the throat mike tighter. “Delta One, the security of the football is compromised. Extraction complicated by Russian presence. Any direct hostile action on your part could result in a defensive reaction to destroy the data along with the station. I will attempt to get clear of the ice station. I will radio for evacuation when clear. Only move on my order.”

Static answered him, then a scatter of words: “…complication…two helicopters down…men on the ground…only one bird still flying.”

Shit. Craig had to forgo trying to ascertain what had happened. There was too much interference, but clearly the Russian submarine had put up a fight. “Are your forces still mobile?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Hold Omega secure. Mobilize an evac team only on my all-clear order. I will attempt to reach you.”

“…One…roger that.”

“Osprey out.” Craig yanked the drawstring receiver, and it zipped back into its hood. He found the group, wide-eyed, staring at him.

“Who are you?” Amanda asked.

“My real name is not important. Craig will do for now.”

“Then what are you?”

He tightened his lips. What was the use of subterfuge now? If he was going to secure the data files, he would need the cooperation of everyone here. He answered the question honestly. “I’m CIA, liaison to the Special Forces groups. Currently in temporary command of a Delta Force unit which has retaken Omega.”

“Omega is free?” Amanda asked.

“For the moment.” He waved toward the crack. “But that fact will do us no good here. We need to get out of this station.”

“How?” Dr. Ogden asked, standing nearby.

Craig waved to the crack in the wall. “They somehow got in here. We’ll get out the same way.”

“But the grendels…?” Magdalene asked.

Craig crossed to the crate of empty vodka bottles that he had moved earlier, then eyed the entire party. “To survive, we’re going to have to work together.”

Jenny watched the flames flare up again in the crack, driving her back.

Thank God…

A moment ago, as the fires had temporarily died, she had taken a cautious step closer and peered into the heart of the recent conflagration. A foot away, the ice crack had been melted into a true passage, narrow but passable.

They were almost through.

For a moment, she had feared the others were out of fuel. She had heard anxious whispering — then the hose had reappeared, forcing her back.

Now flames again lapped greedily from the tunnel, boring through the remainder of the ice. They were going to make it. Still, Jenny held her breath. She turned to Tom and Kowalski.

The pair, along with Bane, guarded the other tunnel, watching for the approach of any of the creatures.

Tom caught her eye. “It’s still down there. I keep seeing shadows moving.”

“Bastard’s not about to give up on its meal,” Kowalski concurred.

“It should stay away as long as the fire keeps going,” Jenny said, adding a silent I hope.

“In that case,” Kowalski grumped, “I want a goddamn flamethrower for my next birthday.”

She studied the dark tunnel and tried to understand what lurked out there. She remembered Craig’s name for the beast: grendel. But what was it really? There were myths among her people about whale spirits that left the ocean and dragged off young men and women. She had thought such stories just superstitious tales. Now she wasn’t so sure.

The fury of the blaze had died down again, drawing back her attention. What are they doing over there?

Jenny waited. The fires died to flickers. She stepped forward again, ready to call out. But a dark shape appeared instead, pushing out the narrow crack. It was a figure cloaked in a soggy blanket.

The blanket was tossed back, throwing out light and revealing a tall, slender woman, dressed in a blue thermal unitard. The light came from a mining lantern held in one hand. She lifted it now.

“Amanda…Dr. Reynolds!” Tom exclaimed.

Jenny recognized the name, the head of the Omega Drift Station.

“What are you doing?” Kowalski asked. He waved an arm at the crack. Another figure pushed out of the melted passage. “I thought we were joining you.”

“Change in plans,” she said, staring around at them. “Looks like it’s safer out here than in there.”

To punctuate her statement, a blast of rifle fire echoed from the other side, ringing off metal.

The second figure shook free of the blanket. It was Craig. He helped the next person out of the crack. “Not to sound trite, but the Russians are coming.”

Another four people pushed into the cavern: three men and a woman. They wore matching terrified expressions. Bane sniffed at them, weaving among their legs.

The eldest of the new group spoke to Craig. “The Russians are shooting at the door.”

“Must be trying to keep us pinned there,” Craig said. “More soldiers are probably already on their way through the ducts.”

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

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

“What then?” Jenny asked.

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

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

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

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

“But the Russians—”

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

Jenny was stunned into silence.

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

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

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

“What?” Jenny swung toward Craig.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt crawled out and stretched his back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt stared over to Bratt.

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

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

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

“And do what?”

Bratt pointed toward the closed doors. “Be our eyes.”

Matt listened to the plan as it was hurriedly related. His heart thudded in his chest, but he found himself nodding.

Bratt finished, “With the current commotion from the booby trap, we might not have a better chance.”

“Let’s do it,” Matt agreed.

Washburn was already using one of her multipurpose meat hooks to free the grate.

Once the vent was open, Bratt touched Matt’s arm. “This plan all depends on your acting ability.”

“I know.” Matt took a deep breath. “I’d better find my motivation for this scene.”

“How about survival?” Greer growled behind him.

“Yeah, that’ll do.” Matt crawled out of the vent and stood up, facing the double doors.

The others followed him, taking up positions in the galley. They moved quickly. Timing was everything.

Bratt gave Matt a questioning stare. Are you ready?

Jenny kept Bane beside her as she walked with Craig. Ahead, Kowalski lobbed another fiery charge down the long passage. It burst with a shatter of glass and a splash of flames across floor and walls.

The way was clear.

Not a single grendel had been seen in the last twenty minutes.

Dr. Ogden, the biologist, had offered an explanation. “These creatures live in darkness and ice. And while heat and light might attract them, these bombs are sensory overload. Painful and disorienting to the creatures. So they flee.”

So far his assessment had proved valid. They had succeeded in reaching the original marked trail unmolested and unchallenged and were now winding down into the depths of the ice island, heading toward the ventilation shaft. The only disturbance had been when an echoing blast of some distant explosion sounded far above them. The tunnels had rattled, stopping everyone. But with no other repercussions or explosions, they had continued onward.

Behind Jenny, Amanda remained in whispered discussions with the biology team while Tom watched their backs, armed with a pair of Molotovs.

Craig continued his quiet explanation: “I was the advance man, the surgical op for the mission. I was sent in to find the data and secure it. But the Russians must have caught wind of my cover and mission and tried to ambush me in Alaska. If it hadn’t been for Matt, they would’ve succeeded.”

“You could have told us.”

Craig sighed. “I was under strict orders. A need-to-know basis only. This comes from the highest positions of power. Especially after the attack on Prudhoe Bay. The stakes were too high. I had to get here.”

“All for some possible research into cryogenics.” Jenny tried to picture the tanks with the frozen bodies inside them. It seemed impossible, too monstrous.

Craig shrugged. “I had my orders.”

“But you used us.” She thought back to his discussions and arguments on the Twin Otter after the explosions at Prudhoe Bay. He had manipulated them. “You played us.”

He smiled apologetically. “What can I say? I’m good at what I do.” His smile faded, and he sighed. “I had to use the resources at hand. You were the only means for me to get here under the Russians’ radar. Again I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would get this messy.”

Jenny kept her gaze fixed forward as the group edged past the exploded Molotov. She kept one question to herself. Was this man still playing them?

Craig continued, but now it sounded more like he was speaking to himself. “All we have to do is get clear of the station. Then the Delta team can come in with full forces and secure this place, too. Then it will all be over.”

Jenny nodded. Over…if only it were that easy. She kept one hand on Bane, needing to feel the simple, uncomplicated loyalty at her side. But it was more than that. And she allowed herself to admit it. Bane also was a physical connection back to Matt. Her fingers rubbed into the dog’s ruff, feeling his body heat. Craig had told her about Matt, how he and a group of Navy men had attempted to raid the station’s old weapons locker.

No one knew what happened after that.

Bane leaned against her leg, seeming to sense her fear.

“I see the ventilation shaft!” Kowalski called back.

The group headed after the tall seaman, their pace increasing. Jenny guided Bane past the flames of the exploded Molotov. The heat was stifling, reeking of burned hydrocarbons. The ice melted and ran underfoot, slick and treacherous. Streams of fire traced channels across the floor.

Once they were past, the way grew dark again. Kowalski led, the lantern raised above his head.

Ahead a black chute opened on the left wall. The end of the ventilation shaft.

The group gathered in front of it. Jenny pushed forward. From here, it was up to her. The tunnel was too steep to climb with just boots and hands. Tom handed her an ice ax that they had found in the sea-gate control room. She checked the tool’s balance, weight, and most importantly, its sharp edge.

Dr. Reynolds sat on the floor and unbuckled her ice crampons, taking them off. “I should be the one doing this,” the woman said.

“They fit me, too,” Jenny argued. “And I’ve been ice climbing many times in Alaska.” She left unsaid what had already been discussed. The crampons were too small for any of the men, and Amanda’s deafness was a handicap if she got into any trouble in the shaft.

Dr. Reynolds passed her the steel crampons.

Jenny quickly snugged them to her boots. The spiked tips and soles would allow her to scale the shaft. The ice ax was both to aid in this and to protect her.

Once she was outfitted, Tom passed her two of the remaining Molotovs. “I dropped the rope right near the entrance when we were…were attacked. If you anchor it to the grate above, it should just about reach down here.”

Jenny nodded, shoving the firebombs in the pocket of her parka. “No problem. Keep a watch on Bane. The grendels have him wired. Don’t let him run off.”

“I’ll make sure he stays, and I’ll follow behind him up the shaft.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

Kowalski bent a knee and offered a hand to help her up. She climbed him like a ladder, ducking into the shaft and pulling up her feet to kick in with her crampons. They dug deep, the sharp points well maintained.

“Be careful,” Kowalski said.

She had no voice to reassure him or herself. She set off up the shaft, practicing what her father had taught her long ago while glacier hiking and climbing: Keep two points of contact at all times.

With both feet spiked in place, she reached up with the ice ax and jammed it tight. Once it was secure, she moved one leg up, kicked in, then brought the other up.

It was slow going. Slow is safe, her father’s old words whispered in her ear.

Working up the shaft, one step at a time, she allowed a small measure of relief to buoy her at the thought of her father. At least he’s safe. Commander Sewell promised to look after him, and now the Delta units have arrived.

All she had to do was reach them.

But what about Matt?

Her left foot slipped out of its plant, gouging ice. She smacked to her belly on the ice. All her weight was carried on the ice ax until she was able to resecure her feet. Once planted, she still took a moment to suck in large gulps of cold air.

Two points of contact — at all times.

She shoved aside her fears for Matt. It did her no good. She had to focus, to survive. After that, she could worry. This thought raised an unbidden smile. Matt had once said she could worry a hole through plate steel.

Wishing for a tenth of Matt’s composure now, she planted her ax farther up the ventilation shaft and continued onward. Ahead the bend in the shaft appeared. Almost to the top. She rounded the corner and spotted the glare of daylight at the end of the shaft. It was open, clear.

With her goal in sight, she hurried upward — but not so fast as to be careless. The two men in her life whispered in her ears.

Slow is safe.

Don’t worry.

And lastly, words reached out of her past, from a place deep and locked away. She remembered soft lips brushing her neck, warm breath on her nape, words husky with ardor: I love you…I love you so much, Jen.

She held these words to her heart and spoke aloud, remembering what had been forgotten and knowing it to be true. “I love you, too, Matt.”

Disguised in the Russian parka, Matt pushed out the galley doors and entered the main station. Though the level remained darkened, he kept one arm raised, shielding his face, holding the furred edge of his white hood low over his brow. He carried the AK-47 on one shoulder.

Men continued to bustle, oblivious to his appearance. He kept to the level’s outer edge, crossing along the periphery, staying in the dark. Most of the commotion was in the room’s center, where soldiers gathered, staring down the spiral steps. From below, smoke billowed up from the explosion of the booby-trapped armory.

A pair of men hauled a heavy form stretched in black plastic wrap.

Body bag.

Another pair of soldiers, laden as grimly as the first, followed. Comrades watched the procession with angered expressions. Shouts continued to echo up from below. Men spoke heatedly all around. Flashlights circled and patrolled.

A beam passed across his form. Matt kept his head turned away. As he maneuvered around the area’s tables, he bumped a chair, knocking it over. As it clattered, he hurried on. Someone yelled at him. It sounded like a curse.

He simply gestured vaguely and continued along the room’s edge. He finally reached a vantage point where he could see into the hall that led out to the storm. He spotted the wreckage of the Sno-Cat still partially blocking the way, but it had been shoved aside enough to allow a narrow space to pass to the surface. Two men stood by the Cat, but he could see movement behind the crashed vehicle.

From the corner of his eye, he continued to stare into the distance. That was his mission: recon the level and determine how many hostiles stood between them and freedom. If escape looked possible, he was to signal the others, then use the grenade hidden inside his pocket to create a distraction, lobbing it toward the central shaft. The ruckus should cover the Navy crew’s rush toward the entrance. Matt was to offer cover fire with his own rifle. But first, he had to decide if escape through the hall was even possible.

He squinted — then jumped when someone barked right at his shoulder. He had not heard the man’s approach.

Matt turned partially toward the newcomer, a hulking figure in an unzippered parka. Seven feet, if he was an inch. Matt glanced briefly, looking for some insignia of rank. Though the man’s face was rugged and storm-burned, he appeared young. Too young to be of significant rank.

Matt stood a bit straighter as the man continued in Russian, pointing his rifle toward the two bagged bodies as they were sprawled across one of the mess hall tables. His cheeks were red, spittle accumulated at the corners of his lips. He finally finished his tirade, huffing a bit.

Only understanding a few words of Russian, Matt did the one thing everyone did when faced with such a situation. He nodded. “Da,” he mumbled grimly. Along with the word nyet, it was the extent of his Russian vocabulary. In this case, it was a toss-up which to use: da or nyet.

Yes or no.

Clearly the man had delivered an impressive rant, and agreement seemed the best response. Besides, he was not about to disagree with the giant.

“Da,” Matt repeated more emphatically. He might as well commit.

It seemed to work.

A hand as large as a side of beef clapped him on the shoulder, almost driving him to his knees. He caught himself and remained standing as the fellow began to pass.

He had pulled it off.

Then the grenade secreted inside his parka jarred loose and bounced to the floor with a loud clatter. The pin was still in place, so there was no real danger of it exploding.

Still Matt winced as if it had.

The grenade rolled to the toes of the giant.

The man bent to pick it up, his fingers reaching, then pausing. He had to recognize the armament as ancient. Half bent, the fellow glanced up at him, bushy eyebrows pinched as the gears in his brain slowly turned.

Matt was already moving. He swung his assault rifle around from his shoulder and drove its stock into the bridge of the man’s nose. He felt bone crush. The soldier’s head snapped back, then forward. His body followed.

Not missing a beat, Matt dropped to his knees beside the fellow, pretending to help the guy stand as eyes looked toward them. He laughed hoarsely as if the man had tripped.

Before anyone grew wiser, Matt reached the grenade under the man, pulled the pin, and bowled it under the tables toward the central shaft. It wouldn’t get the distance compared to throwing it, but it would have to do.

Unfortunately, it didn’t get far at all. It struck an overturned chair, the same one he himself had knocked down a moment ago. It bounced back toward him.

Crap…

He ducked, shielding himself with the giant’s body. The fellow groaned groggily, arms scrabbling blindly.

Matt swore, realizing he had forgotten to signal the others.

Fuck it…they’ll get the message.

The grenade blew.

A table flew into the air, spinning end over end. Matt barely saw it. The force of the blast drove him and his unwilling partner across the floor. Shrapnel ripped through the soldier’s thick neck. Blood spouted in a hot gush over Matt’s face.

Ears ringing from the blast, Matt rolled away. He was deaf for the moment to any shouting. He watched men picking themselves up off the floor. Flashlights searched the room, now smoky from the blast.

Movement caught his eye.

Through the double doors to the galley, a trio of figures rushed toward him. Bratt was in the lead. They aimed for him.

Matt, still shell-shocked, couldn’t understand why they weren’t making for the exit. Still on the ground, he lolled around.

Oh, that’s why…

He was sprawled right in the entrance to the hall that led out.

The Sno-Cat lay just a few yards away.

Even closer, only five steps from him, two soldiers stood with weapons leveled. They shouted…or he assumed so, since their lips were moving. But his ears still rang. He couldn’t hear, let alone understand if he could.

They came toward him, weapons firming on shoulders, aiming at his head.

Matt took a gamble. He lifted his arms. “Nyet!” It was a fifty-fifty chance. Da or nyet.

This time he chose wrong.

The closer man fired.

15. Storm Warning

From a couple of paces away, Amanda stared toward the ventilation shaft. The sheriff had vanished beyond the reach of the lantern’s light. The other members of the party gathered at the opening, anxious, eyes darting all around.

She felt isolated. She had thought herself accustomed to the lack of auditory stimulation, to the way it cut you off from the world more thoroughly even than blindness. Hearing enveloped you, connected you to your surroundings. And though she could see, it was always like she was watching from afar, a wall between her and the rest of the world.

The only time in the past years when she had felt fully connected to the world had been those few moments in Greg’s arms. The warmth of his body, the softness of his touch, the taste of his lips, the scent of his skin…all wore down that wall that separated her from the world.

But he was gone now. She understood he was a captain first, a man second, that he had to leave with the other civilians, had to rescue those he could. Still, it hurt. She wanted him…needed him.

She hugged her arms around herself, trying to squeeze the terror from her own body. The burst of courage she had been riding since seeing a grendel for the first time had waned to a simple will to survive, to continue moving forward.

Tom stirred beside her, petting Bane as he stood watch. Kowalski guarded the opposite side of the hall. The tension kept their faces locked in a stoic expression, eyes staring unblinkingly.

She imagined she appeared the same.

The waiting wore on them all. They kept expecting an attack that never came. The Russians…the grendels…

She followed Tom’s blank stare down the hall. She recalled her earlier discussion with Dr. Ogden.

The biologist had developed a theory about the grendels’ social structure. He imagined that the species spent a good chunk of their life span in frozen hibernation. A good way to conserve energy in an environment so scant on resources. But to protect the frozen pod, one or two sentinels remained awake, guarding their territory. These few hunted the surrounding waters through sea caves connected to the Crawl Space or scoured the surface through natural or man-made egress points. While exploring down here, Ogden had found spots in the Crawl Space that looked like claws had dug a grendel free from its icy slumber. He had his theory: “The guardians must change shift every few years, slipping into slumber themselves to rest and allowing a new member to take over. It’s probably why they’ve remained hidden for so long. Only one or two remain active, while the rest slumber through the centuries. There’s no telling how long these things have been around, occasionally brushing into contact with mankind, leading to myths of dragons and snow monsters.”

“Or Beowulf’s Grendel,” Amanda had added. “But why have they stayed here on this island for so long?”

Ogden had this answer, too. “The island is their nest. I examined some of the smaller caves in the cliff face and found frozen offspring, only a few, but considering the creatures’ longevity, I wager few progeny are necessary to maintain their breeding pool. And as with most species with small litters, the social group as a whole will defend their nest tooth and nail.”

But where are they now? Amanda wondered. Fire would not hold the grendels at bay forever, not if they were defending their nest.

Tom swung around, clearly attracted by some noise.

She turned and looked. The group by the ventilation shaft stirred. She immediately saw why. A length of red rope snaked from the opening, dangling to the floor. Jenny had made it to the top.

The group gathered closer.

Craig faced them with a hand up. His lips were illuminated by his lantern. “To minimize the load on the rope, we should go up in groups of three. I’ll go with the two women.” He pointed to Amanda and Magdalene. “Then Dr. Ogden and his two students. Then the Navy pair with the dog.”

He stared around, waiting to see if there were any objections.

Amanda glanced around herself. No one seemed to be disagreeing. And she surely wasn’t going to. She was with the first group. Without any protests, Craig helped Magdalene up, then offered a hand to her.

She waved for him to go ahead. “I’ve been climbing all my life.”

He nodded and mounted the rope, pulling himself up.

Amanda then followed. The climb was strenuous, but fear drove their party quickly upward, away from the terror below. Amanda had never been happier to see daylight. She scrambled up after the other two, then rolled into open air.

The winds buffeted her as she stood.

Jenny helped steady her. “The blizzard is breaking up,” she said, her eyes on the skies.

Amanda frowned at the blowing snow, blind to the surroundings beyond a few yards. The cold already bit into her exposed cheeks. If this storm was breaking up, how bad had it been before?

Craig bent to the hole, clearly calling to those below, then straightened and faced them. “We’ll have to hurry. If the storm is letting up, we’ll have less cover.”

They waited for the next party — the biology group. It didn’t take too long. Soon three more figures rolled out of the ventilation shaft. Craig bent again to the shaft.

Amanda felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck quiver. Deaf to the storm and the chatter around her, she sensed it first. She swung around in a full circle.

Sonar…

“Stop!” she yelled. “Grendels…!”

Everyone tensed, facing outward.

Craig was still at the hole. He scrambled in his parka for one of the Molotovs. She saw his lips moving. “…screaming down the shaft. The creatures are attacking below, too.”

Henry Ogden struggled to light his own Molotov, but the wind kept snuffing his lighter. “…a coordinated attack. They’re using sonar to communicate with one another.”

Amanda stared into the whiteout. It was an ambush.

From out of the deep snow, shadowy figures crept toward them, slipping like hulking phantoms from the heart of the storm.

Henry finally got his oily rag burning and tossed his bottle outside, toward the group. It sailed through the snow, landed in a snowbank, and sizzled out. The beasts continued toward them.

Amanda caught movement from around another ice peak to the far right. Another grendel…and another.

They were closing in from all sides.

Craig stepped forward, a flaming Molotov in his raised hand.

“Avoid the snow,” Amanda warned. “It’s fresh, wet.”

Craig nodded and threw the fiery charge. It arced through the blowing snow and struck the knifed edge of a pressure ridge. Flame exploded across the path of the largest group.

The beasts flinched, stopping.

Run away, she willed at them.

As answer, Amanda felt the sonar intensify, a grendel roar of frustration. Out in the open, they were less intimidated by the fiery display.

Craig turned to her, to the others. He pointed an arm. “Back down the ventilation shaft!”

Amanda swung around in time to see Bane leap out of the same shaft, snarling and barking, as wild as a full wolf. But Jenny caught her dog, trying to keep him from running at the grendels.

Around them, there was much shouting. Amanda heard none of it. People were too panicked for her to catch what was being said. Why was no one diving into the shaft?

Then she had her answer.

Kowalski scrambled out of the hole, shouting, red-faced. “Get back!” She was able to read his lips as he yelled. “They’re right on our tail!”

Tom appeared next, the left arm of his parka singed and smoldering. He rolled out, shoving his arm into the snow. Smoke billowed from the shaft. “The shaft caved in with that last Molotov. It’s blocked.”

Kowalski stared toward the flames out in the storm, his face sinking. “Shit…”

Amanda turned. The fires from Craig’s Molotov were foundering in the snowmelt. The beasts, obeying some sonar signal, began to march toward the group again, splashing and stamping through the remaining flames.

As Amanda backed, the party pulled tighter together.

There was no escape.

Standing only a yard away with his AK-47, the Russian fired at Matt’s head. Muzzle flash flared from the rifle barrel. Still deafened from the grenade blast, Matt didn’t hear the shot—or the one that took out the shooter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It made no sense.

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

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

“No!” Matt cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pop…pop…pop…

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

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

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

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

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

But first they had to get there.

It was a hundred-yard dash.

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

It was too much to hope they were unguarded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kowalski had agreed, “Sounds like grenades.”

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

It wasn’t artful. Simply down and dirty.

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

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

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

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

Kowalski took another step. Tom dogged behind him.

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

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

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

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

The smell of burning flesh filled the small ice vale.

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

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

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

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

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

The party fled through fire and ice, running full tilt.

Kowalski had their last Molotovs. He kept a fiery path blazing ahead of them. The grendels scattered out of their way.

Then a scream…

Jenny turned and saw Antony down, one leg plunged through a hole in the ice. Tom and Zane helped draw the panicked boy out.

Kowalski had stopped, waiting for them a few yards down. “Sucks, doesn’t it!” They would all have to be careful of such sinkholes. A leg could be easily broken…or a neck.

Zane helped his friend to his feet.

“Shit, that’s cold,” Antony said.

Ice cracked behind him. Up from the hole, a grendel burst forth, battering from below. It lunged and snatched the boy’s leg, biting deep. Zane and Tom were thrown backward as the ice shattered outward. The half-ton beast dropped back into the hole, dragging Antony with it.

He didn’t even have time to scream before he was gone.

Amid cries and shouts, everyone raced forward haltingly. With the snow covering the ice, it was impossible to discern the thinner patches.

“They’re pacing us,” Ogden said, panting. “Tracking us under the ice by our footsteps.”

“We can’t stop,” Kowalski said.

No one wanted to. They continued onward, but more slowly. Kowalski bravely took the point. Everyone kept to his footsteps, not wanting to take any unnecessary chances.

Jenny had seen polar bears hunting seals in such a manner, pouncing up from below to nab their unsuspecting prey. The area must be riddled with iced-over breathing holes, permanent cracks in the ice protected by the pressure ridges around here.

They would have to be careful.

Jenny spotted a mound of snow rise as something heavy pushed up from below. She heard the crinkle of breaking ice from beneath it. The grendels were still following them.

“Around the next ridge!” Tom called from the back. “The station’s parking lot is just ahead!”

They cautiously increased their pace.

Jenny rounded the bend and saw he was right. The jumble of peaks opened into flat ice. They were almost out of the treacherous pressure ridges.

As they made for the opening, gunfire cracked through the whine of winds. Kowalski reached the edge and raised his arm, halting them all while he scanned ahead. More gunfire sounded close by, a real firefight.

Tom pulled up next to them. “Someone’s fighting the Russians.”

“Could it be the Delta team?” Amanda asked Craig.

He shook his head.

Kowalski hissed to them. They all moved forward, gathering together. He pointed an arm. Just ten yards from their hiding place rested a Sno-Cat, with snowmobiles and other vehicles lined up just past it.

Beyond the parking lot, Jenny spotted two figures out on the ice, firing toward the peaks to the left. Gunfire answered them, spattering into the short ridge that sheltered the pair.

It was impossible to tell who was who. Though the snowfall from overhead had died away, the winds continued to blow surface snow in scurfs and eddies, obliterating detail.

Bane suddenly lunged forward, breaking away from the group. He raced between the parked vehicles, heading out toward the open plain.

Jenny made to leap after him, but Kowalski grabbed her elbow and hissed. He pointed an arm.

Beyond the firefight, the glowing entrance to the base shone in the stormy gloom. Figures appeared, limned against the light, pouring out from inside. A major battle was about to begin.

She turned her attention, but Bane was gone, lost among the parked snow craft.

The gunfire grew more intense.

“Now what do we do?” Tom asked.

From his position behind the ice ridge, Matt watched as Washburn was tackled, swamped under three men. She kicked and fought, but it was no use. More soldiers moved out, flanking the entrance. Additional men took up sniping positions within the shelter of the entrance hall.

It wouldn’t be long until Matt and Bratt were outflanked and shot. Matt covered the men near the entrance, trying to keep them from edging into a position from which they could shoot directly at his group. Bratt did the same with the group hiding among the tents.

But they were running low on ammunition.

“I’ll try to draw their fire,” Bratt said. “Make for the vehicles. Try to grab one and head out.”

“What about you?”

Bratt shied from the question. “I’ll do what I can to hold them off you for as long as possible.”

Matt hesitated.

Bratt turned to him, his eyes fierce. “This isn’t your war!”

And it isn’t yours either, Matt wanted to add, but now was not the time for debate. He simply nodded, acquiescing.

Bratt turned his attention, pulling out a grenade from a pocket. He pointed and signaled his plan. “Ready.”

Matt took a deep breath and pushed himself from his belly into a crouch, keeping low. “Go!”

Bratt lobbed the grenade. He didn’t have the arm to reach the group in the tents, not against the winds blowing out from the ice mountains. But he did a damn good job anyway. The explosion of ice obliterated the view.

That was Matt’s cue. He took off at a full sprint. Behind him, Bratt twisted to fire at the men positioned near the station entrance.

The plan might have worked, except that the Russians by the tents had managed to load their rocket launcher. Matt heard the fizzling blast, followed by the telltale whistle.

He dove and twisted, skidding a few yards on his shoulder. The sharp ice shredded his parka. He watched Bratt turn, ready to leap away, but the distances were too short, the rocket too fast.

Matt covered his face, both to protect himself and not to watch.

The rocket struck with a resounding blast. The ice shuddered under Matt. He lowered his arm and pushed up. Their temporary shelter was now a smoking hole of steam.

There was no sign of Bratt.

Then a boot landed beside him, thudding in the snow, sizzling against the ice.

Horrified, Matt rolled away. He shoved to his feet. Not allowing the man’s sacrifice to be in vain, he ran for the vehicles.

Jenny stared at the lone figure running across the ice. He wore a white parka…one of the Russians. Then a gust of snow and steam blanketed over him.

“We have to move out now,” Craig said beside her, drawing her attention. “Use the distraction to grab what vehicles we can.”

“Who can drive a Cat?” Kowalski asked, pointing to the sturdy vehicle. It was only ten yards away. So close…

Ogden raised his hand. “I can.”

Kowalski nodded. “Tom and I’ll grab a couple snowmobiles to act as flankers and decoys. The Cat should hold the rest of you. I’ve got two Molotovs left.” He tossed one to Tom. “We’ll do what we can to keep the Russians off your asses.”

“Let’s do it,” Craig said.

The group bolted toward the nearby Cat. Tom and Kowalski divided and ran for two Ski-Doos.

Henry reached the Sno-Cat first and yanked the door open. Zane and Magdalene clambered into the front seat while Henry tried the engine. It sputtered, then caught. The noise seemed loud, sure to draw the attention of the Russians now that the firefight had stopped. Hopefully the soldiers were still deafened by the rocket explosion. And if not, there was always the perpetually howling wind to cover the sound.

Jenny searched for any sign that they were heard. But the cloud from the rocket attack continued to mask the area. The winds blew the steamy smoke toward the station’s entrance, keeping the view blanketed. But it would not last long.

She heard one Ski-Doo engine wind up, then another. Tom and Kowalski had found their mounts.

“Inside!” Craig urged, pulling open the rear door for Amanda and Jenny.

As Amanda grabbed the edge of the doorframe, sharp barking cut through the engine noise.

Jenny stepped around the rear of the Cat. Bane…

She searched, then spotted movement. A figure lumbered from the snow fifty yards away. The lone Russian in the white parka. She hissed to Craig.

He came over. Amanda paused in the open door.

Jenny pointed to the armed figure, who seemed unaware of them. He had been close to the explosion. Probably dazed and deaf.

“We’ll have to take him out,” Craig said.

Then Jenny spotted another figure, dark and low to the ground. It was Bane. The wolf mix leaped at the man, bringing him down.

Craig saw it, too. “It looks like we won’t have to deal with the man after all. That is some mutt. A real attack dog.”

Jenny watched with a frown. Bane was not that sort of dog.

She watched the man wrestle the dog, then sit up on his knees and hug him, pulling the dog tight. She fell forward two steps. “It’s Matt!”

A sob escaped Matt as he clutched Bane. How had the dog gotten here? All the way from Omega? It seemed a miracle.

He heard a small cry in the wind, but he couldn’t tell from where. He glanced up. Then he heard it again. Someone was calling his name.

Bane dashed a few steps, then turned back to Matt, clearly urging him to follow.

He did, one leg numbly stumbling after the next. He trudged after the dog, not believing his luck.

And he never should have.

Again a characteristic whistling wail pierced the winds.

Another rocket.

The Russians must know his goal. They were going to take out the parking lot, cutting off any means of escape.

Matt stumbled after Bane, meaning to catch the damn dog, drag him down. But the wolf kept running ahead. He raced among the first of the vehicles.

“Bane! No!”

Ever obedient, Bane stopped and spun back to look at him.

Then the rocket hit, blasting Matt back from the force of the concussion. He landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He felt the wash of heat from the explosion roll over him.

He cried in his heart and aloud. “No!”

He sat up. The parking lot ahead was gone, a blasted ruin of ice and torn vehicles. At the center gaped a hole clear to the ocean below.

Matt covered his face with his hands.

Jenny must have blacked out for a fraction of a second. One moment, she was standing by the Sno-Cat, calling out to Matt — the next she was on her back. She sat up, the world spinning slightly.

Her ears ringing, she lay some twenty feet from the Sno-Cat. She remembered the jolt as ice bucked under her, throwing her high. Across the way, the Cat was crashed on its side, toppled over by the force of the explosion.

Matt…

She flashed back to seeing him just before the attack. The fear drove away her momentary daze.

Jenny struggled to stand. Craig was doing the same ten feet to her right. Surprisingly, Amanda was already up. She stood by the Sno-Cat, seemingly unfazed.

Beyond them, the ice field was obliterated, swirling in steam. A large hole had been blasted through to the ocean below. Wreckage of vehicles lay all around, thrown and scattered like so many toys. There was no sign of Matt or Bane, but steam still misted thickly.

Closer, Jenny saw Tom sprawled in the snow, pinned under his snowmobile. The young ensign was not moving. A trail of crimson flowed from under him.

Oh God…

She spotted Kowalski’s vehicle halfway up the neighboring pressure ridge, on its side, motor still chugging. But there was no sign of the seaman.

“We need to help them,” Amanda said.

Jenny stumbled over to her.

Amanda turned. Her words were slurred more than usual. “The blast…” She shook her head. “It almost fell on top of me.”

Jenny placed a hand on her shoulder. It must be terrifying to see that play out without a single sound.

Craig joined them.

Through the Cat’s windshield, figures moved. Ogden bore a gash on his forehead. He and Magdalene were trying to calm Zane. He was dazed, flailing, half conscious.

“We have to get them out,” Jenny said.

“The door’s jammed,” Amanda said. “I tried…I couldn’t…maybe all of us together.”

Craig stepped away from the toppled Sno-Cat. “We’re not going to have the time.” He stared out beyond the blasted pit in the ice.

As the winds blew the steaming mist from the blast zone, a line of figures in white parkas were setting out across the ice, weapons ready.

Craig turned to them. “The cleanup squad. We have to get away from here before they spot us.”

Jenny stared at the spread of ruined vehicles. “Where?” She pointed to the pressure ridges. “Back into grendel territory.”

Craig shook his head, trying to map out some plan. “The Delta team could be here in twenty minutes…if we could hole up till then.”

Amanda had been following their conversation. “I may know a better way. But we’ll have to hurry. Follow me.” She turned and started away, heading out from the parking lot.

Jenny stared from the figures in the Sno-Cat to Tom’s limp form. She hated abandoning them, but she had no choice. Especially unarmed. Her fingers rested on her empty holster. Frustrated, guilty, she turned away.

As Jenny started after Craig and Amanda, the sound of engines whined into existence behind them. She glanced over her shoulder and spotted a pair of headlamps glowing beyond the fog and mists. They sped off to the side in tandem, circling around the zone of the rocket attack.

Hover-cycles.

She ran faster.

Thirty yards ahead, Amanda vanished around a shelf of ridgeline. Craig followed. As she reached the ridge, Jenny skidded to a stop. She cast one look back at those she was abandoning. Movement drew her eye. Tom, still buried under his bike, weakly lifted an arm.

She gasped, “Tom’s still alive!”

Craig yelled to her from the niche in the ice, a naturally sheltered cove. “We don’t have time to go back! The Russians will be on us any second!”

Jenny spotted their means of escape. Inside the niche stood a single-masted sailing boat, an iceboat, resting on long titanium runners. Amanda was near the prow of the boat, grasping a small hand ax. She chopped through the ropes that secured the boat.

Jenny hovered at the entrance to the niche and glanced back to Tom. His arm fell back to the snow, motionless again.

She gritted her teeth and made a hard choice. They could not risk capture again. She turned her back on Tom and the others and strode to the iceboat.

“One to each side!” Amanda instructed as she worked quickly, hopping around the boat with her ax. “We’ll have to push her out a ways!”

Jenny hurried to obey as the whine of hovercraft echoed over the ice. Craig glanced meaningfully at her. Time had indeed run out. Rescue of the others was truly impossible. They worked faster.

With the boat untethered, Amanda tossed the ax inside, then shoved from the prow. “Back her out ten feet, then I’ll let out the sails.”

They all pushed, but it was damn heavy. It refused to budge. They would never get it out in time.

“C’mon,” Craig mumbled on the starboard side.

Then suddenly the boat broke free. It wasn’t heavy. The runners had just been ice-locked in place. They quickly hauled the boat clear of the shelter and out into the stronger winds.

“Everyone aboard, up near the front!” Amanda yelled as she ran around to the stern end. “One person on each side for balance.”

Jenny and Craig clambered aboard.

From the stern, Amanda unhitched the sail with the speed of experience. In moments, sailcloth caught the stiff winds, unfurled, and snapped to the ends of their ties.

The boat immediately sped straight backward, pushing away from the pressure ridges, shoved by the winds blowing down from above.

As they skated in reverse, Jenny spotted the two hover-cycles beyond the boat’s prow. They were circling toward the Sno-Cat. She spotted two riders on each vehicle.

Unfortunately the Russians spotted them, too.

The cycles turned toward them.

“Damn it!” Craig swore on the other side.

The passengers on the cycles fired at them, peppering the ice in front and around the boat. A couple rounds punched through the sail but did little damage.

Amanda called from the stern. “Lie flat! Keep your heads down!”

Jenny was already doing that, but Craig pressed lower.

Overhead the sail’s boom sprang around, whipping at a speed that would crack a skull. The boat soon followed suit. The craft spun on the ice, lifting up on one runner.

Jenny held her breath, sure they would topple, but then the boat jarred back to the ice. The sails popped like a sonic boom — and they were off.

Winds tore past them.

Jenny risked a peek up and backward. With the boat turned around properly, they raced away from the cycles, their speed escalating. Past Amanda, Jenny watched the two hover-bikes begin to fade back. In this gale, they were no match for the racing boat.

Jenny allowed a bit of hope to warm inside her.

Then she spotted a flash of fire from either side of the lead cycle.

Minirockets!

Matt ran across the ice, staying low, as bullets pelted and ricocheted around him. Anger fueled him as he dodged around overturned vehicles and wreckage, seeking whatever shelter he could, but the line of Russian soldiers moved determinedly behind him.

Ahead, the blasted pit in the center of the parking lot blocked his path. He would have to circle around it, losing time, but at least the foggy steam rising from the ragged hole was thicker around its edges.

He headed toward the windward side, aiming for where the mists were the most dense. But where could he go after that? He couldn’t hide forever in the fog. He had to lose the Russians, get them off his tail.

Movement drew his eye out to the open ice fields. He saw a billow of blue blowing across the ice — an ice racer. It was chased by two hovercraft. Then a large explosion erupted near the boat, casting up ice and fluming water high. A last-moment jag by the boat was all that saved it, but ice rattled down atop it. The bikes closed in on the foundering boat.

Closer, a bullet cracked into the ice by Matt’s heel. He danced away, turning his attention to his own predicament. More bullets blasted at him. But as he turned his attention from the ice racer, another sight caught his eye.

Maybe…

He tried to judge the distance, then thought, Fuck it. He preferred to die trying to save himself rather than simply being shot in the head by the Russians.

Matt changed course. He sprinted directly toward the rocket impact, aiming for the steaming hole. He remained in plain sight, letting the Russians clearly see him. Bullets chased after him, striking closer now.

Reaching the hole, Matt dove over the edge, arms wide.

Below, chunks of ice floated at the bottom of the blast hole. He wrested his body around to avoid knocking himself out on a chunk, then plunged into the frigid waters.

The cold cut through him immediately, closing like a vise grip, burning rather than freezing. He fought his body’s attempt to curl fetally against the affront. His lungs screamed to gasp and choke.

It was death to give in to these reflexes.

Instead, he clamped his chest tight and forced his legs to kick, his arms to pull himself down under the edge of the ice shelf. Exertion helped — as did the triple-layer Gore-Tex parka. He swam out into the dark ocean.

The waters were as black as ink, but he focused toward the target he had glimpsed from the surface. Sixty yards away, murky storm light beamed down into the ocean depths.

It was the man-made lake through which the Russian submarine had surfaced earlier. Matt swam toward it, keeping just under the plane of ice. He kicked against the cold, against the weight of his clothes. He had to make it.

The Russians would believe him dead after his suicidal plunge. They would give up the chase. When able, he would climb free of the polynya and strike out for some ice cave in the peaks. In an inside pocket of his stolen parka were a pack of Russian cigarettes and a lighter. He would find some way to start a fire, keep warm until the Russians left.

It was not the best plan…in fact, it had too many faults even to list.

But it was better than being shot in the back.

Matt struggled toward the light. Just a little farther…

But the shaft of lifesaving light did not seem to be getting any closer. He thrashed and crawled through the waters, kicking against the occasional ice ridge overhead to speed him toward the open water.

His lungs ached, and pinpricks of light swirled across his vision. His limbs quaked from the cold.

Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all…

Matt refused to let panic set in. He had been through all manner of training in the Green Berets, in all terrain. He simply continued to kick with his legs and draw with his arms. As long as his heart still pumped, he was alive.

But a deeper terror arose in his heart.

Tyler died this way…drowning under ice.

He shoved this thought aside and continued his determined crawl toward the light. But the fear and guilt persisted.

Like father, like son.

A small stream of bubbles escaped his lips as his lungs spasmed. The shaft of light grew dimmer.

Maybe I deserve it…I failed Tyler.

But a part of him refused to believe it. His legs continued to thrash. He clawed toward the light. It seemed closer now. For an endless time, he fought toward his salvation — both now and in the past. He would not die. He would not let guilt kill him, not any longer, not like it had been doing to him slowly over the past three years.

Matt kicked into the light, momentum carrying him out under the lake. Brightness bathed down upon him.

He would live.

With the last of his air dying in his chest, he crawled upward, toward light, toward salvation. A trembling frozen hand reached toward the surface — and touched clear ice.

The surface of the open lake had frozen over during the storm.

Matt’s buoyancy carried him upward. His head struck a roof of ice. He pawed around and over him, then pounded a fist against the ice. It was thick, at least six inches. Too solid to punch through from below.

He stared upward toward the light, to the salvation denied him by a mere six inches.

Like father…like son…

Despair set into him. His gaze drifted down, following the light into the icy depths below.

Deep down, movement drew his eye. Shapes glided into view. First one, then another…and another. Large, graceful despite their bulk, perfectly suited to this hellish landscape. The white bodies spiraled upward toward their trapped prey, climbing toward the light.

Grendels.

Matt’s back pressed against the ice roof overhead as he stared downward.

At least he wouldn’t die like Tyler.

Amanda raked her sails forward, struggling to skate her boat past the rain of blasted ice. A blue boulder, the size of a cow, landed a yard in front of the prow, bounced, then rolled ahead of the boat.

She leaned into the keel with her hip, fighting to angle off to the side. They flanked past the rolling boulder as it lost momentum and slowed.

Twisting around, Amanda watched more ice rain silently down from the skies. Behind them, a deep divot had been blasted out of the cap. The two hover-cycles circled to either side, continuing the chase.

Amanda worked the boat’s foot pedals, sweeping them back and forth at erratic intervals. It slowed the boat’s forward progress, but they couldn’t count on pure speed to escape the minirockets or the cycles. The best course was a crooked, jagged path, to make them as hard a target as possible.

Amanda concentrated on the landscape ahead of them. Jenny and Craig had rolled to their bellies and watched behind her. They kept their faces turned so she could read their lips when needed.

Jenny mouthed to her, “Damn fancy sailing.”

She allowed a grim smile to form, but they weren’t safe yet.

Craig wiggled around and extracted his hidden radio earpiece. He pushed it in place, then pulled up the collar of his parka. His lips were covered as he spoke.

Amanda could not read what he said, but she could imagine he was frantically calling in help from the Delta Force unit. Craig was free of the station. The “football” he carried was safely away from the Russians’ clutches for the moment. Craig dared not risk a fumble and interception so late in the game. Not when he was so close to the goal.

Jenny waved to her, pointing back. Trouble.

Amanda swiveled in her seat. The hovercraft to the right was angling closer, swinging in, blazing across the flat snowscape.

She turned back around and straightened the boat, speeding faster now, taking advantage of a fiercer gusting of wind. She tried to put more distance between the boat and the cycle.

Jenny’s lips moved. “They’re lining up to fire again.”

Amanda peeked back over a shoulder. The rider on their tail was bent over his bike, as was his passenger. They had to be pushing the limits of their cycles.

She would have to do the same.

Amanda glanced to her boat’s laser speedometer. She was clocking up toward sixty. The fastest she had ever sailed this craft.

She tried to ignore the danger and focused on the boat under her: fingers on ropes, toes on foot pedals, palm on the keel bar. She felt the winds tugging at the sails, at the boat. She attuned her entire form to match the racer. She extended her senses outward, listening with the boat in a way only someone deaf could. Through her connection, she heard the whistle of the runners, the scream of winds. Her handicap became her skill.

She eked out more speed, watching the speedometer climb past sixty…sixty-five…

“They’re firing!” Jenny shouted soundlessly at her.

…seventy…seventy-five…

A flash of fire struck to the right; ice shattered skyward. Amanda shifted the boat, turning the sails to catch the blast’s force.

…eighty…

They struck a lip of ice. The boat jumped high in the air, like a Wind-surfer catching the perfect wave. Fire exploded under them, taking out the ridge.

But the boat flew clear and away. Amanda lifted in her seat, but still trimmed her sail to carry them level. They hit the ice again, skating at impossible speeds.

…ninety…ninety-five…

Ice again rained down around them, but they were beyond the worst of the blast area. The boat flew across the ice, one with the storm, one with its pilot.

Craig pointed an arm. “Christ, they’re turning back. You did it!”

Amanda didn’t even bother to glance around. She knew she had succeeded. The racer skated, barely touching the ice now. She let the craft glide, blown by the storm. Only as their speed began to edge downward on its own did she touch the brake.

From the flaccid response of the handle, she immediately recognized the danger. The last jump had shattered the ice brake.

She continued to pump the handle. No response. She tried to reef the sail a bit, but the winds had too tight a grip. The ropes were taut bands of iron, jammed in their racks. The boat was not built for these speeds.

The others saw her struggle, eyes widening.

The winds gusted up. The needle on the speedometer crept up again. …ninety-five…one hundred…

That was as high as the speedometer could read.

They rocketed over the frozen plain. They were at the mercy of the storm winds, flying headlong out into the ice, at speeds at which a single mistake could kill.

There was only one course left to them.

Something Amanda loathed to do.

She yelled to the others. “We need an ax!”

Near to blacking out, Matt faced the rising pod of grendels. They circled up from below, slow, patient. They were in no hurry. Like Matt, they knew he could not escape. He was trapped between the ice above and the teeth below.

He remembered Amanda’s trick of luring the monsters away with her helmet and heating mask. If he could only find a way to bait them away…something hot…something bright…

Then a thought struck him. Something forgotten.

He pawed into the pocket of his parka, praying it hadn’t fallen loose, an object he had nabbed from the severed hand of a Russian soldier while fleeing the ice station. It was still there.

He pulled out the black pineapple. It was one of the Russians’ incendiary grenades, the same as had killed Pearlson.

As Matt’s vision tunneled from lack of oxygen, he flipped up the trigger guard and pressed the button that glowed beneath it. He stared at the closest grendel, a white shadow spiraling upward, and dropped the grenade toward it, trusting the explosive’s weight to carry it down into the depths.

It dropped quickly, rolling down toward the waiting pod.

Unsure of the timer on the grenade, Matt curled into a tight ball. He covered his ears and exhaled all the stale air out of his chest, leaving his mouth open afterward. Seawater swamped into his throat. He kept one eye toward the rising sea monster.

The grendel nosed the grenade as it rolled past, nudging it.

Matt closed his eyes. Please…

Then the world below blew with blinding fire. Matt saw it through his closed eyelids at the same time as the concussion wave struck him like a Mack truck, driving him upward, collapsing his chest, squeezing his skull in a vise grip. He felt a wash of fiery heat, searing his frozen limbs.

Then his body was blown upward. As the ice roof shattered with the explosion, he flew into open air, limbs flailing. He took one shuddering breath, caught a glimpse of the open ice plains, then fell back toward the sea, now covered in block and brash. Fire danced over the surface in oily patches.

Matt hit the water, sank, then sputtered up, dazed, his head throbbing. He paddled leadenly in the wash.

Ahead, a large form hummocked out of the depths, sluicing ice and flames from its back. It was pale white. Black eyes stared at him.

Matt scrambled away.

Then the bulk rolled…and sank down into the sea.

Dead.

Shaking from both cold and terror, Matt stared up at the column of steam rising into the air. So much for his clandestine escape. As he searched for a way to climb out, figures appeared at the edge of the pit.

Russians.

Rifles pointed at him.

Matt clung to a chunk of ice. He was out of tricks.

16. Fathers and Sons

Staying low, Jenny freed the ice ax trapped under her body. As she lifted up, she peeked beyond the boat’s rail at the landscape whipping by. They were flying under the full force of the storm. Winds screamed. The hiss of the runners sounded like an angry nest of snakes under the keel. The vibrations through the hull set her skin to itching.

The ax in one hand, Jenny clung to the handrail with the other. She felt like she’d be kited off the shallow deck at any moment. “What do you want me to do?” she yelled into the wind.

Amanda pointed an arm to the boom. “We need to cut the sail loose! Rope’s jammed! It’s the only way to slow down!”

Jenny stared up at the ballooned sail, then back to Amanda so she could read her lips. “Tell me what to do,” she mouthed.

Amanda pointed, leaning forward so she could be understood. “I need the sail to break, but not tear away. We still need to power the boat. To do that, you must chop through some of the ties, get the sail to flutter. Once it’s loosened, I’ll be able to work the ropes. At least, I hope.” She indicated which ties she wanted Jenny to ax.

The first were easy. They were where the sail was secured to the boom. Jenny simply had to lie on her back and hack at them. As each rope was cut, the ties snapped away, popping from the tension. The sail shuddered, but held tight.

The next were trickier. Jenny had to crawl up to her knees, then lean into the wind. With one hand clutched to the mast, she swung up with the ax and sliced ropes that secured the sail to the mast. She worked her way up the pole, holding her breath. One lash point exploded, whipping out, striking her cheek.

She fell back, losing her grip on the mast. She headed overboard.

But Craig caught her by the waistband, pulling her back to the mast.

Jenny regained her grip. Blood trickled hotly down her chin.

Rather than succumbing to fear, Jenny got angry. She pulled herself closer and hacked determinedly.

“Careful!” Amanda yelled to her.

The sail flapped as its conformation suddenly altered. The boom quaked.

Amanda fought a rigged line. Suddenly the capstan spun loose, ropes lashed out. “Down!” she yelled.

Jenny turned to obey, but it was too late. The boom sprang around in a deadly arc. She could not get out of its way in time. Instead of dropping, she leaped up.

The boom missed her, but the loose sail slammed into her. She snatched an edge, grabbing what she could. Fingers found a few lash points near the mast to cling to as the boom carried her beyond the boat’s hull.

Ice raced under her toes as she hung from the rigging.

Then the sail caught the wind again and punched out at her, swelling full. She was torn from her perch, flying through the air. A scream blew from her lips.

Then she hit — not the ice, but the boat.

Amanda had expertly maneuvered the shell under Jenny, catching her as she fell.

“Are you okay?” Craig asked.

Jenny couldn’t speak, unsure of the answer anyway. She panted where she lay, knowing how close she had come to dying.

“I’ve got control of the sail!” Amanda called to her. “I’m slowing us down.”

Thank God.

Jenny remained where she fell, but she sensed the boat decelerating. The winds didn’t seem as fierce, and the hiss of the runners gentled.

She sighed with relief.

Then a new noise intruded: a deep, sonorous whump-whump.

Jenny rolled around and peered beyond the prow. From out of the low storm clouds, a white helicopter appeared. She spotted the American flag emblazoned on it.

“The Delta Force team,” Craig said from across the way.

Only now did Jenny allow tears to rise to her eyes.

They had made it.

Craig spoke into his throat mike. “Osprey, here. We’re safe. Heading to home base now. Someone put on a big pot of coffee for us.”

Matt sat in a cell, groggy. He wore a set of dry Russian underway clothes: pants, a green hooded sweatshirt, and boots a size too large. He vaguely remembered putting them on. Still he shivered and tremored from the recent dunking in the Arctic Ocean. His wet clothes were piled in the corner of the guardroom outside the cell. Every piece and pocket had been thoroughly searched.

One guard stood by the exit door. The pair of men who had stripped him, roughly searched him, and tossed the dry clothes to him had already left, vanishing with his identification papers. But before leaving, they had emptied his wallet and pocketed the soggy bills themselves. So much for their old Communist ideals.

He stared over to the neighboring cells. Though he had been dazed when brought down here, he knew where he was. He had glimpsed the line of cells when fleeing from the Russians earlier. He was back on Level Four, in the containment cells that must have once housed the poor folk frozen in the tanks.

Each cell was a cage of bars. The only solid wall was the one at the back of the cell. No privacy. No toilets. Just a rusted bucket in the corner. The only other furniture in the room was a steel cot. No mattress.

He sat on the bed now, holding his head in his hands. The concussion of the grenade still throbbed behind his ears. His jaw ached from the strike of a rifle butt to his face. His nose still leaked blood. But he wasn’t sure if it was from the blast or the pistol whipping.

“Are you all right?” his neighbor asked from the adjacent cell.

He tried to remember the boy’s name. One of the biologists. He couldn’t think straight yet. “…mm fine,” he mumbled.

Sharing the boy’s cell were the other two biologists: Dr. Ogden and the girl. He vaguely wondered where the other student was. Hadn’t there been a third? He groaned. What did it matter?

“Pike,” a firmer voice said behind him. He twisted around.

In the other cell, Washburn stood by the front bars. Her lower lip was split, her left eye swollen shut.

“What happened to Commander Bratt?” she asked.

He simply shook his head. His brain rattled inside. Nausea washed over him. He swallowed back bile.

“Shit…” Washburn murmured.

They were the only survivors.

Ogden stepped to the bars that separated their two cells. “Mr. Pike…Matt…there’s something you should know. Your wife…”

Frowning, Matt’s head sprang up. “What…what about her?”

“She was with us,” Ogden said. “I saw her, that CIA guy, and Dr. Reynolds fleeing in a boat.”

Matt heard the bitterness in the other’s voice, but he could not comprehend what the biologist was saying. There were too many things that made no sense. He recalled seeing the ice racer chased by two hover-cycles. “Jenny…”

Ogden told him his story.

Matt did not want to believe the man, but he remembered Bane’s sudden appearance…and end. His fingers crept over his face both to hide his grief and hold it back. Jenny…she had been so close. What had happened to her?

Ogden continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I speak some Russian. I overheard what the guards were saying when they were searching us. They’re looking for some books. Books that the CIA guy took with him.”

“I heard the same,” Washburn said, edging closer, keeping her words low.

Matt frowned. “What CIA guy?”

One of the students answered. Matt finally remembered his name. Zane. The boy mumbled, “He said his name was Craig Teague.”

Stunned, Matt felt a surge of heat flow through him. He blustered for a moment, trying to find his tongue. “Craig…Teague is CIA?”

Ogden nodded. “Sent here to secure the Russian data on suspended animation and escape.”

Matt thought back on all his dealings with the supposed reporter. All along, he had sensed some deeper strength in the man, some hidden well of resourcefulness that would shine through occasionally. But he had never even suspected…

Matt clenched a fist. He had saved the jackass’s life and this is how he repaid him. “Goddamn bastard…”

“What do we do now?” Washburn asked.

Matt had a hard time concentrating, balanced between fury and fear for Jenny.

“Why are they keeping us here?” Washburn continued.

Before anyone could answer, the guardroom door swung open. It was the pair of guards who had left with their identification papers. They pointed and spoke to the lone armed guard. The group approached Matt’s cell. “You come with us,” one said in halting English.

The guard keyed open the lock and pulled the door wide. The other two bore pistols in their hands. Matt judged what it would take to make a grab for one of the weapons. He stood. His legs wobbled under him. He almost fell. So much for a full frontal attack.

He was waved out at the point of a pistol.

I guess this answers Washburn’s question. They were going to be interrogated. And after that? Matt eyed the pistol. The prisoners’ usefulness would surely be at an end. They had seen too much. There was no way they would be allowed to live.

Flanked by the two guards, Matt was led deeper into the heart of Level Four. Rather than going out to the encircling hall with their dreaded tanks, Matt was led to an inner hall. The passage ended at a solitary room.

He was waved inside.

Matt stepped through the door into a small office, exquisitely appointed in mahogany furniture: wide desk, open shelves, cabinets. There was even a thick bearskin rug on the floor. Polar bear. Its head still attached.

The first sight that drew his eye was of a small boy, dressed in a baggy shirt. It fit him like a full-length robe. He knelt on the rug and was petting the polar bear’s head, whispering in its ear.

The boy glanced up to him.

Matt gasped and tripped on the edge of the rug, going down on one knee. He could not mistake that face.

One of the guards barked at him in Russian, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck.

Matt was too stunned to respond.

A new voice spoke, cold and commanding. Matt raised his eyes, focusing on the room’s other occupant. He stood up from the leather chair he had been sitting on and waved the guard away.

The man was tall, six-foot-five, broad of shoulder, wearing a black uniform. But his most striking features were his pale white hair and storm-gray eyes. Those eyes pierced through him now.

“Please take a seat,” the man said in perfect English.

Matt found himself rising, obeying reflexively. But once up, he refused to sit. He knew who stood behind the desk. The leader of the Russian forces.

The door to the office clicked shut behind him, but one guard remained in the room. Matt also spotted the pistol holstered at the leader’s hip.

Hard gray eyes stared back at him. “My name is Admiral Viktor Petkov. And you are?”

Matt spotted his wallet resting atop the desk. There was no reason to lie. It would get him nowhere. “Matthew Pike.”

“Fish and Game?” This was spoken with thick doubt.

Matt kept his voice firm. “That’s what my papers say, don’t they?”

One eye twitched. Clearly the Russian admiral was not someone who was faced with insolence very often. His voice steeled. “Mr. Pike, we can do this civilly or—”

“What do you want?” He was too tired to play the cordial adversary. He was no James Bond.

The admiral’s pale face colored, his lips thinning.

Before anything more could be said, the child rose from his seat on the rug and wandered over to the older man. The admiral’s eyes tracked the Inuit lad. The boy touched his hand.

“That’s the child from the ice tanks,” Matt said, unable to keep the true amazement from his voice.

The admiral’s hand curled around the tiny fingers, protective. “The miracle of my father’s research here.”

“Your father?”

Petkov nodded. “He was a great man, one of Russian’s leading Arctic scientists. As the head of this research station here, he was delving into the possibility of suspended animation and cryogenic freezing.”

“He experimented on human subjects,” Matt accused.

Petkov glanced down to the boy. “It is easy to judge now. But it was a different time. What is considered myerzost, or an ‘abomination,’ today was science back then.” His words grew softer, half ashamed, half proud. “Back in my father’s time, between the two World Wars, the dynamics of the world were tenser. Every country was trying to discover the next innovation, the next bit of technology to revolutionize their economies. With war pending, world tensions high, the ability to preserve life on the battlefield could make a difference between victory and defeat. Soldiers could be frozen until their wounds could be attended to, organs could be preserved, entire armies could be put into cold storage. The possibilities for medical uses and military innovations were endless.”

“So your government forced some of your own native peoples into servitude here. To be experimental guinea pigs.”

Petkov’s eyes narrowed. “You truly don’t know what was going on here, do you?”

“I don’t know a goddamn thing,” Matt admitted.

“So you don’t know where my father’s stolen journals are? Who has taken them?”

Matt thought about lying, but he was not feeling particularly protective of Craig Teague. “They’re gone.”

“In the iceboat that escaped.”

Escaped? Dare he hope? Jenny was supposedly on that boat. He struggled to find his voice. “They got away?”

Petkov stared tightly at him, as if trying to weigh the risk of telling the truth, too. Perhaps he heard the pleading in Matt’s voice or maybe he simply considered Matt no threat. Either way, he answered the question. “They outran my men and reached Omega.”

Matt stepped back and sank into the seat he had refused a moment ago. Relief washed through him. “Thank God. Jen…my ex-wife was on that boat.”

“Then she’s in more danger than you.”

Matt’s brow pinched, tensing again. “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t over. Not for any of us.” Petkov’s gaze flicked to the boy. “This ice station. It’s not a Russian research base.”

Matt felt a heavy weight settle in his gut.

Petkov’s eyes returned to Matt. “It’s American.”

Jenny climbed from the skate boat, her feet settling to the ice. She stared over at the ruin of the nearby polynya. It was blasted, stained with black soot and rusty trails of oil. Fires still burned within the wreckage of two helicopters crumpled on the ice. The air reeked of smoke and fuel.

The thunderous whump of the lone remaining helicopter echoed over the frozen terrain as it circled to land near the iceboat. Amanda busied herself with securing the boat, tying down the sails and finding a spare set of wooden chocks to brace the runners. She glanced over her shoulder as the Sikorsky Seahawk glided out of the blowing winds and settled to the ice.

Craig crossed toward the helicopter, leaning against the rotor wash. He held his throat mike under his chin as he spoke to the Delta Force leader inside the craft.

From out of the cluster of Jamesway huts, a group of soldiers in white snow gear ambled out, weapons in hand, but not raised. They were taking no chances with the Russians so near.

One of the men approached the two women by the boat. “Ma’am, if you’ll follow me, I’ll get you inside with the others. The Russians planted a slew of incendiary devices throughout the base. We don’t know if any of them are booby-trapped.”

Jenny nodded, glad to follow, but fearful to discover the fate of her father. Was he okay?

They wound back through the nest of buildings. The snowfall had stopped, but the winds continued to gust fiercely through the Jamesway huts. Jenny almost lost her footing, too worried with her goal so close. As they walked, she knew where they were being taken. To the same barracks from which she and Kowalski had escaped.

This thought generated more tears. She had thought herself done crying on the boat ride here, relieved, but at the same time full of grief. Kowalski was missing. Tom was most likely dead. Bane, too. And Matt…

Now all were gone.

She needed someone to still be alive.

Her pace hurried as the guard opened the door to the hut. Jenny crossed through, followed by Amanda. The soldier walked them down the hall to the double doors leading to the barracks.

Jenny noted the two armed soldiers posted by the doorway.

“For your protection,” their escort said as he led them past. “We’re trying to keep everyone in one place until we know the base is safe. And with the Russians entrenched only thirty miles away, nowhere else is safe.”

Jenny was not about to object to a little protective custody. After what she had just gone through, the more, the merrier.

The warmth of the barracks struck her like a wet blanket to the face. The heat was stifling from both the heaters and the number of bodies. Jenny quickly glanced through the crowds.

She spotted Commander Sewell immediately. He sat in front. Half his face was bandaged. His arm was in a sling. She stepped in front of him, her eyes wide.

He stared at her with the one good eye that peeked from the bandages. “You just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

“What happened?” Her gaze traveled over his beaten form.

“You ordered me to protect your father.” He shrugged. “I take orders seriously.”

The crowd parted and a familiar figure pushed through. Tired-eyed, but unharmed.

She hurried into his arms. “Papa!”

He hugged her tight. “Jen…honey.”

She could not say anything more. Something broke inside her. She began to sob. Not simply tears, but racks of pain and gulping breath. It was uncontrollable, rising from a well deep inside her. It hurt so much. She had survived. So many others had not. “M-Matt,” she managed to sob out.

Arms tightened.

She continued to cry while her father drew her back to a bed and pulled her down beside him. He didn’t try to console her with words. Words would come later. Right now she simply needed someone to hold and someone to hold her.

Her father gently rocked her.

After a period of time, she became aware of her surroundings again, emptied and numb. She slowly lifted her face. At some point, Craig had joined them. He was seated with Amanda, Commander Sewell, and a man in a storm suit.

This last fellow carried a helmet under one arm. His hair was black, short, slicked back. He appeared to be in his midthirties, but a hard midthirties. His skin was ruddy with a wicked scar that trailed under his ear to the his neckline. He fingered the scar as he leaned beside Craig, studying something on a table that had been dragged over. “I don’t see that any of this matters,” the soldier said. “We should strike now before the Russians can entrench any further.”

Jenny extracted herself, concerned about what they were discussing. She patted her father’s hand.

“Jen…?”

“I’m better.” At least for the moment, she added silently. She stood and walked over toward the group. Her father followed.

Craig glanced up at her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“As well as can be expected.”

He turned back to his discussion with the others. “These are the journals I was assigned to acquire. But they’re coded. I can’t make any headway deciphering them.”

Amanda glanced over to Jenny. “He can’t be sure he has the right ones.”

“What does it matter?” the storm-suited newcomer asked. “My team can take the station in under two hours. Then you can send in as many encryption experts as you’d like.”

Jenny eyed him. He must be the head of the Delta Force team.

Craig answered, “The Russian admiral is no fool. He’ll blow the station before letting us commandeer it. Before we go in shooting blindly, we need more intelligence.”

Jenny agreed. Intelligence was definitely in short supply here. She stared down at the open book resting atop two others. The stolen journals. She glanced to line after line of symbolic markings, her eyes settling on the title line:

She leaned over and picked up the book. Craig frowned at her. She ran a finger over the lines. “This last word is Grendel.”

Craig swung around in his seat. “You can read the code?”

Jenny shook her head. “No. It makes no sense to me.” She turned and showed it to her father.

He shook his head. “I can’t read it.”

Craig stared between them. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Jenny said, flipping through the book. “This is all written in Inuktitut — or rather the Inuit script, but it’s not the Inuit language. This last word, Grendel, I can read because it’s a proper name, spelled phonetically in Inuit symbols.”

Craig stood up next to her. “Phonetically?”

She nodded.

“Can you read the opening line? How it would sound spoken aloud?”

Jenny shrugged. “I’ll try.” She pointed to the title line and read it, slowly and haltingly. “ ‘Ee — stor — eeya — led — yan — noy — stan — zee Grendel.’ ”

Craig jerked straighter, listening with a bent ear. “That’s Russian! You’re speaking Russian.” He repeated her words more clearly. “Istoriya ledyanoi stantsii Grendel. It translates ‘History of the Ice Station Grendel.’ ”

Jenny stared up at him, her eyes widening.

Craig hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Of course, the doctor who ran the station would know Inuit. They were his test subjects. He would need to communicate with them. So he used their symbolic code to record his own Russian notes.” He turned to Jenny. “I need you to translate the books for me.”

“All of them?” she asked, daunted.

“Just some key sections. I must know if we have the right books.”

Amanda had been following their discussion intently. “To ensure the research data is secure.”

Craig nodded, barely hearing her, glancing down at the book in Jenny’s hands.

Edgy from all that had happened, Jenny risked a glance toward Amanda, unsure she understood all that was going on here. Over Craig’s shoulder, she mouthed words at Amanda. Not speaking, merely moving her lips: Do you trust him?

Amanda remained still, then gave the tiniest shake of her head.

No.

Viktor Petkov enjoyed the look of surprise on the prisoner’s face. He was so sick of Americans blithely ignoring their own histories, their own atrocities, while vilifying the same actions among other governments. The hypocrisy sickened him.

“Bullshit. There’s no way this is an American base,” the man insisted. “I’ve crawled all through here. Everything’s written in Russian.”

“That’s because, Mr. Pike, the discovery here in the Arctic was our own. The Russian government refused to allow you Americans to steal what we found. To claim all the glory.” He waved a hand. “But we did allow the United States to fund and oversee the research.”

“This was a joint project?”

A nod.

“We put up the dough, and you spent it.”

“Your government supplied more than just money.” Viktor pulled the small boy onto his knee. The boy leaned into him, sleepy, seeking the solace of the familiar. Viktor stared over to the American. “You supplied the research subjects.”

A horrified expression widened the man’s eyes as understanding dawned. His gaze took in the boy in his lap. “Impossible. We would never take part in such actions. It goes against everything the United States stands for.”

Viktor educated him. “In 1936, a crack unit of the United States Army was dropped near Lake Anjikuni. They emptied a remote village. Every man, woman, and child.” He stroked the boy’s hair. “They even collected dead bodies, preserved in frozen graves, as comparative research material for the project. Who would miss a few isolated Eskimos?”

“I don’t believe it. We wouldn’t participate in human experiments.”

“And you truly believe this?”

Pike glared, defiant.

“Your government has a long history of using those citizens it considers less desirable as research subjects. I’m sure you’re familiar with the Tuskegee Syphilis Study. Two hundred black men with syphilis are used as unwitting research subjects. They are not told of their disease and treatment is withheld from them so that your American researchers could study how painfully and horribly these men would die.”

The prisoner had the decency to glance down. “That was back in the thirties. A long time ago.”

“It didn’t stop in the thirties,” Viktor corrected him. “Nineteen-forty, Chicago. Four hundred prisoners are intentionally sickened with malaria so experimental drugs could be evaluated. It was this very experiment that the Nazis used later to justify their own atrocities during the Holocaust.”

“You can’t compare that to what the Nazis did. We condemned the Nazis’ actions and prosecuted all of them.”

“Then how do you justify Project Paperclip?”

The man frowned.

“Your intelligence branches recruited Nazi scientists, offering them asylum and new identities, in exchange for their employment into top-secret projects. And it wasn’t just the German scientists. In 1995, your own government admitted doing the same to Japanese war criminals, those who had firsthand involvement with human experimentation on your own soldiers.”

By now, the color had drained from Pike’s face. He stared at the Inuit boy, beginning to comprehend the truth here. It was painful to have one’s innocence ripped away so brutally. “That was long ago,” he mumbled, struggling to justify what was too hard to accept. “World War Two.”

“Exactly.” Viktor lifted his hands. “When do you think this base was built?”

Pike simply shook his head.

“And don’t delude yourself that such secret experimentation upon your own people was ancient history, something to be dismissed. In the fifties and sixties, it is well documented that your CIA and Department of Defense sprayed biological and chemical agents over major U.S. cities. Including spreading mosquitoes infected with yellow fever over cities in Georgia and Florida, then sending in Army scientists as public health officials to test the unwitting victims. The list goes on and on: LSD experiments, radiation exposure tests, nerve-gas development, biological research. It is going on right now in your own backyards…to your own people. Does it still surprise you it was done here?”

The man had no answer. He stared, trembling slightly — whether from his recent near drowning in the Arctic Ocean or from the truth of what really had gone on here, it didn’t matter.

Viktor’s voice deepened. “And you judge my father. Someone forced at gunpoint into service here, torn away from his family…” Viktor had to choke back his anger and bile. It had taken him years to forgive his father — not for the atrocities committed at the station, but for abandoning his family. Understanding had come only much later. He could expect no less from the man seated before him. In fact, he didn’t know why he was even trying. Was he still trying to justify what happened here to himself? Had he truly forgiven his father?

He stared into the face of the boy on his lap. His voice grew tired, fingers waved. “Take him away,” he called to the guard. “I have no further use for this man.”

The motion startled the little boy. A tiny hand raised to a cheek. “Papa,” he said in Russian. The child had imprinted to him like a gosling after first hatching.

But Viktor knew it was more than that. He knew what the child must think. Viktor still had a few worn pictures of his father. He knew now how much he looked like his father did. Same white hair. Same ice-gray eyes. He even wore his hair like the last picture of his father. For the boy, fresh from his frozen slumber, no time had passed. He awoke to find the son had become the father. No difference to the boy.

Viktor touched the child’s face. These eyes looked upon my father. These hands touched him. Viktor felt a deep bond with the child. His father must have cared for the boy to engender such clear affection. How could he do any less? He ran a finger along one cheek. After losing all his family, he had finally found a connection to his past.

Practicing a smile, the boy spoke to him, softly. It was not Russian. He didn’t understand.

The American did. “He’s speaking Inuit.” Pike had stopped by the door, held at gunpoint, staring back.

Viktor crinkled his forehead. “What…what did he say?”

The man stepped back into the room. He leaned toward the boy, bowing down a bit. “Kinauvit?”

The child brightened, sitting straighter and turning to Pike. “Makivik…Maki!”

The man glanced to Viktor. “I asked him his name. It is Makivik, but he goes simply by Maki.”

Viktor pushed a wisp of hair from his face. “Maki.” He tried the name and liked it. It fit the boy.

The child reached up and pulled a lank of his own hair. “Nanuq.” This was followed by a giggle.

“Polar bear,” the prisoner translated. “From the color of your hair.”

“Like my father,” Viktor said.

Pike stared between them. “He mistakes you for your father?”

Viktor nodded. “I don’t believe he knows how much time has passed.”

Maki, now with an audience, chattered blearily, rubbing an eye.

Pike frowned.

“What did he say?” Viktor asked.

“He said that he thought you were supposed to still be sleeping.”

“Sleeping?”

The men stared at each other, realization dawning on both of them.

Could it be?

Viktor’s gaze flicked off in the direction of the outer hall, toward the circle of frozen tanks. “Nyet. It is not possible.” His voice trembled — something it never did. “A-ask him. Where?”

Pike stared silently at him, clearly knowing what he wanted, then concentrated on the child. “Maki,” he said, gaining the boy’s attention. “Nau taima?”

The exchange continued, ending with the boy crawling off Viktor’s lap.

“Qujannamiik,” Pike whispered to the boy, then in English. “Thank you.”

Viktor stood. “Does he know where my father might be?”

As answer, Maki waved. “Malinnga!”

Pike translated. “Follow me…”

Amanda sat at the table as the decoding of the journals continued. Jenny read from the text, translating the Inuktitut symbols, speaking slowly so Craig could decipher the spoken Russian.

The first book was skimmed. It was the history behind the founding of the station, dating back to the infamous tragedy of the Jeannette back in 1879.

The U.S. Arctic steamer Jeannette, captained by Lieutenant George W. DeLong, had been sent to explore for a new route between the United States and Russia, but the boat became trapped in the polar ice cap, frozen in place. The steamer remained icebound for two winters until it was crushed by the floes in 1881. The survivors escaped in three life rafts, dragging the boats over the ice until they reached open water. But only two boats ever reached landfall in Siberia.

The fate of the third was lost to history — but apparently not to the Russians. “Saturday, the first of October, in the year of Our Lord, 1881.” Jenny and Craig translated a bit of a diary entry included in the journal. “We are blessed. Our prayers have been answered. After a night of storms, huddled under a tarp, bilging our boat hourly, the day broke calm and bright. Across the seas, an island appeared. Not land. God is not that kind to sailors. It was a berg, pocked with caves, enough to get out of the storms and seas for a spell. We took what refuge we could and discovered the carcasses of some strange sea beasts, preserved in the ice. Starving as we were, any meat was good meat, and this was especially tasty. Sweet on the tongue. God be praised.”

Jenny glanced around the room. Everyone in the barracks room knew what “beasts” had been discovered on that lone iceberg. Grendels. Even the meat being notably sweet was consistent with Dr. Ogden’s comparison of the grendel’s physiology to that of the Arctic wood frog. Like the frogs, it was a glucose, or sugar, that acted as the cryoprotectant. But Amanda kept quiet about this as Jenny and Craig continued.

“October second…we are only three now. I don’t know what sins we cast upon these seas, but they have returned a hundredfold. In the night, the dead awoke and attacked our sleeping party. Creatures that had been are meals became the diners that night. Only we three were able to make it to the lifeboat and away. And still we were hunted. Only a fortuitous harpoon stab saved us. We dragged the carcass behind our boat until we were confident it was deceased, then took its head as our trophy. Proof of God’s wrath to show the world.”

This last decision proved not a wise choice. After three more days at sea, the survivors made landfall at a coastal village of Siberia, bearing their prize and story. But such villagers were a superstitious lot. They feared that bringing the head of the monster into their village would draw more beasts to them. The three sailors were slain, and the head of the monster was blessed by the village priest and buried under the church to sanctify it.

It wasn’t until three decades later that the story reached a historian and naturalist. He traced the tale to its source, exhumed the skull of the monster, and returned to St. Petersburg with it. It was added to the world’s most extensive library of Arctic research: the Arctic and Antarctic Research Institute. From there, a search began to discover the whereabouts of this infamous ice island. But even using the maps of the slain sailors, it would take another two decades to rediscover the berg — now frozen and incorporated into the ice pack. But it was worth the search.

The sailors’ story proved true. The grendels were found again.

At that part of the story, Craig, growing impatient, had Jenny stop reading the history text and jump ahead to the last two journals, the research notes of Vladimir Petkov, the father of the admiral who had attacked Omega and the ice station.

“That’s what we really need to know about,” Craig said.

As the new translations began, the Delta Force team leader — who gave his name only as Delta One — entered the barracks room, pushing through the double doors, flanked by two of his men.

He strode over and reported to Craig. Amanda read his lips. “The bird’s ready to fly on your word. All we need is the go-ahead to proceed to Ice Station Grendel.”

Craig held him off with a raised hand. “Not yet. Not until I know for sure that we have all we need.”

As time was critical, they did a quick scan through the next sections, looking to make sure they had the final notes on the research here. But what quickly became apparent was that Dr. Vladimir Petkov was no fool. Even in the coded text, the researcher had been wary of revealing all.

His scientists had isolated a substance from the deep glands of the grendel’s skin, a hormone that controlled the ability to send the beasts into suspended animation. It seemed these glands responded to ice forming on the skin and released a rush of hormones that triggered the cryopreservation.

But all attempts to inoculate test subjects with this hormone had met with disastrous failure. There were no successful resurrections after freezing.

Craig recited, troubling over some of the words: “ ‘Then I made an intuitive leap. A…a cofactor that activated the hormone. This led to my first successful resuscitation. It is the breakthrough I had been hoping for.’ ”

The victim had been a sixteen-year-old Inuit girl, but she did not live long, dying in convulsions minutes later. But it was progress for Dr. Petkov.

Jenny paled with the telling of this last section. Amanda understood why. These were the woman’s own people, used so cruelly and callously.

According to the dates of the journal, Dr. Petkov spent another three years refining his technique, going through test subjects. Craig had Jenny skimmed these sections, much of it ancillary research into sedatives and soporifics. Sleep formulas that had no bearing on the main line of research.

But near the very end, Craig found what he had been looking for. Vladimir finally hit upon the right combination, as he stated, “an impossible concoction that would be maddening to reconfigure, more chance than science.” But he had succeeded. He synthesized one batch of this final serum.

Then the journal abruptly ended. What had become of those samples and the fateful end of the station remained a mystery.

Jenny closed the last book. “That’s all there is.”

“There must be more,” Craig said, taking the book.

Amanda answered, speaking from experience with scientists. “It looks like Dr. Petkov became more and more paranoid as his successes grew. He split his discovery into notes and samples.”

Craig frowned.

Delta One stood straighter. “Sir, what are your orders?”

“We’ll have to go back,” Craig mumbled. “We only have half the puzzle here. I have the notes, but the Russians control the samples. We must get to them before they’re destroyed by Admiral Petkov.”

“On your word, we’re ready to head out,” Delta One said gruffly.

“Let’s get it done,” Craig said. “We can’t give the Russians time to find the sample.”

Delta One barked orders to his two flanking men, heading away.

“I’ll join the team in a moment,” Craig called to him. “Ready the bird.” He continued to study the books, then turned to Jenny, wearing a pained expression. “I can’t leave the journals here. They must be protected. But I also need them reviewed in more detail. In case we’re missing any obvious clues.”

“What are you asking?” Jenny said.

“I need someone to come with us who can read the Inuktitut.” His gaze flicked between her and her father. “We must know if there are any directions or hints in the books.”

“You want one of us to go with you?” Jenny stepped in front. “Don’t you think we’ve put our necks out far enough in this matter? Sacrificed enough?”

“And your knowledge could still save lives. Dr. Ogden, his students, and anyone else holed up over there. I won’t force you to come, but I do need you.”

Jenny glanced to her father, then back to Craig. Her eyes were full of suspicion, but she was clearly a woman of strong reserves. “I’ll go under one condition.”

Craig looked relieved.

Jenny patted her empty holster. “I want my goddamn pistol back.”

Craig nodded. “Don’t worry. This time around, we’re all going armed.”

This seemed to relieve her.

Amanda stood to the side as final preparations were made. Through a window, she watched Craig hunch next to Delta One out in the snow. The storm was kicking up again, but she could almost make out their lips. She turned to Lieutenant Commander Sewell. He was overseeing his own men. They would defend the base until the Delta team returned. The entire team was leaving on this last mission.

“Commander Sewell,” she said. “Could I borrow your field binoculars?”

He frowned but passed her his pair from a pocket of his parka.

Amanda focused on Craig and Delta One as they conversed under one of the lamp poles.

“Is everything ready here?” Craig asked.

A curt nod. Amanda read the tension at the corner of Delta One’s eyes. She also read his lips. “All is ready. The Russians will be blamed.”

A figure stepped to her side, startling her. She turned. It was John Aratuk.

“What are you watching?” he asked.

Amanda prepared to answer, ready to voice her fear and suspicions. But as terror iced through her, a new sensation arose — a familiar one.

No…it wasn’t possible.

The tiniest hairs vibrated on her arms. She felt the telltale tingle behind her deafened ears. But it sounded like alarm bells to her now.

Could the grendels have traveled all the way here?

“What’s wrong?” John asked, sensing her panic.

She turned to him, rubbing the tingling hairs on her arms. “Sonar…”

Matt held the boy’s hand and followed him down the hall, back through the prison wing, and around to the outer circular hall.

“Malinnga!” the boy repeated. Follow me!

Behind Matt, the Russian admiral followed. Viktor Petkov was accompanied by the two armed guards. There was no chance of a quick escape. Matt feared for little Maki’s safety. He would not abandon the boy.

While they passed through the prison section, his fellow captives cast questioning glances toward him. Dr. Ogden’s gaze traveled to the boy. Matt saw the shock of surprise on his face.

Matt clutched the tiny fingers, so warm in his palm. It seemed impossible that this was the same child who’d been frozen in ice only hours ago. He flashed back on his own son, Tyler, walking with him hand in hand. Both boys had died in ice, but now one had returned.

As the two entered the curving wall of tanks, the boy stared at the hazy figures inside. Did he know what they held? Were his own parents inside one of these tanks?

Maki pushed a thumb in his mouth, eyes round and wide. He hurried past, scared.

Petkov spoke behind them. “Does he know where he’s going?”

Matt relayed the question in Inuktitut.

“Ii,” Maki answered around his thumb, nodding his head.

The hall curved to its end. A wall appeared ahead, blocking the way. They had circled the entire level. There was no way forward. No door.

The boy continued toward the passage’s end. To the right, the tanks finally ended. Maki led Matt toward the blank section of wall. It appeared seamless and solid, but the boy’s tiny fingers found a small hidden panel. It swung in, revealing a foot-wide brass control wheel.

Maki played with the panel, swinging it back and forth. He spoke in Inuktitut. Matt translated for Petkov. “He says past here is your secret room.”

The admiral gently moved the boy’s arm out of the way and stared at the brass wheel. He stepped back and waved Matt forward. “Open it.”

Matt bent to the hole and grabbed the wheel. It wouldn’t budge, frozen solid. “I need a crowbar,” he gasped as he struggled.

The boy reached under the wheel and flipped a hidden catch. The wheel immediately spun in his hand, well oiled and preserved.

As the wide handle revolved to a stop, seals popped with a slight hiss. A full section of the wall cracked open. A secret door.

Matt was guided back at gunpoint. Another of the guards stepped forward and pulled the door open.

The cold flowed out as if from an open freezer. Lights flickered on, revealing that it was indeed an icebox inside. Similar to the service huts, it was another room cut directly out of the island. But it was no maintenance closet, but a lab sculpted from the blue ice.

Abutting the three walls were worktables carved from the ice. Shelves of slab ice rose above them, covered with an assortment of stainless-steel equipment: crude centrifuges, measuring pipettes, graduated cyclinders. But the shelves of the back wall, lit by a row of bare lightbulbs, had cored receptacles drilled into them. Inserted into each of the holes were glass syringes, their plungers sticking up. The ice was glassy enough to see through to the amber-colored liquid filling each of the syringe’s chambers. There had to be over fifty of the loaded doses.

Matt stared around as he stepped into the ice lab. Work must have been done in a totally frozen state.

The boy entered, still sucking his thumb. His eyes grew wider. He stared into the room, then back out toward the Russian admiral.

Matt understood his confused expression.

“Papa,” the boy said in Inuktitut, then repeated it in Russian.

Upon the floor slumped a figure, seated, legs out, head lolled. Even through the frost on the features, there could be no doubt who it was. The family’s snow-white hair was unmistakable.

A gasp from Petkov confirmed the identity. He shoved forward, dropping to his knees before the body and reaching out.

The elder Petkov’s face was tinged blue, the clothes frosted with rime and ice. One sleeve had been rolled up. A cracked syringe lay on the floor. Blood trailed from a puncture on the inside of the arm to the needle.

Matt crossed to the wall of syringes. He pulled one free. The liquid was unfrozen, impervious to the subzero cold. He glanced down to the figure. “He dosed himself,” he muttered.

Petkov glanced between the boy and his father. Then to Matt. From his expression, his thoughts were easy to read. Like the boy, could my father still be alive?

Matt spotted a journal, like all the others, on the table under the shelves. He flipped open the brittle cover to find line after line of Inuktitut script scrawled across the pages, until the notes ceased. Taught by Jenny and her father to read the language, Matt could make it out, but it made no sense. He mumbled aloud, trying to determine the meaning.

Petkov glanced up to him. “You speak Russian.”

Matt frowned and indicated the book. “I’m just reading what’s written here.”

Still on his knees beside his father’s remains, Petkov gestured for the journal. He flipped through what was clearly the last of the journals. Petkov passed it to him. “Read it…” His voice cracked. “Please.”

Maki wandered to the admiral’s side and leaned into him, tired and needing reassurance. Petkov put an arm around the boy.

Matt was in no position to argue with two pistols pointed at him. Plus he was curious. He read as Petkov translated aloud. The admiral paused every now and then to question and to ask Matt to reread a section.

Slowly the truth came out.

The journal was the final testament of Vladimir Petkov. It seemed that in the decade he’d spent here, Viktor’s father had slowly grown a conscience. Mostly because of the boy Maki. The child was born here, orphaned when his parents died during the tests. Missing his own son back in Mother Russia, Vladimir had developed an attachment and affection for the boy, which was always a mistake in research. Never name your test animals. Through this lapse of judgment, however, Vladimir inadvertently rediscovered his humanity, losing his professional detachment.

This occurred about the same time he answered the puzzle of activating the grendel hormone. The hormone had to be collected from living specimens, thawed and unfrozen. If collected from dead specimens or frozen ones, it would be rendered inert. Furthermore, once a sample had been drawn by syringe directly from a living grendel, it had to be treated carefully, maintained at a constant temperature.

The temperature of the ice caverns.

Matt glanced around the special lab, understanding its necessity now.

The answer to the puzzle was fire and ice again: the fire of a living grendel and the ice of the island. Nowhere else could such a discovery be made.

It was this realization that had finally broken Vladimir Petkov. Sickened by his own complicity in what went on here, in the lives lost, he had refused to allow his discovery to reach the outside world, especially after hearing about the Holocaust in Germany.

“We have Russian Jews in our own family,” Petkov quietly added.

Matt understood. When it was your people being persecuted, it opened your eyes to the inhumanity of your actions. But understanding wasn’t enough. Vladimir needed a final act of contrition. The world could never benefit from what had been done here. So he and a handful of others made the ultimate sacrifice. They sabotaged their own base: damaging the radios and scuttling the station’s transport sub. Cut off and adrift on currents, they would allow themselves to disappear into the silent Arctic. Several base members attempted an overland escape, but clearly they never made it.

To protect the innocent prisoners here, Vladimir sent them into a frozen sleep.

Matt glanced out to the hall, weighing whether such an act was mercy or further abuse. Still, from the syringe in the scientist’s arm, it was clear that Vladimir took the same medicine. But had it worked?

Petkov mumbled, aghast. “My father destroyed this station. It wasn’t treachery.”

“He had no choice, not if he was to live with himself,” Matt answered. “He had to bury what had been gained so foully.”

Petkov stared down at his father. “What have I done?” he mumbled, and fingered a thick wristwatch on his right arm. Tiny lights blinked on its face. Some form of radio device. “I’ve brought everyone here. Fought to thwart my own father’s sacrifice. To bring his discovery back to light.”

A commotion at the door drew their attention around. A Russian soldier pushed inside, then stood stiffly before the admiral. He spoke rapidly in Russian, clearly agitated.

The admiral answered, climbing to his feet. The soldier fled away.

Petkov turned to Matt. “We’ve just confirmed hearing the bell beat of an approaching helicopter over the UQC hydrophone. It just left the vicinity of the Omega base.”

The Delta Force team, Matt guessed silently. The cavalry was finally en route. But did that mean Jenny was safe? He could only hope.

Petkov motioned to the guards to move Matt out. “My father gave his life to hide his discovery here. I won’t let it be stolen now. I will finish what my father started.” He shoved his coat sleeve over his large wrist radio. “This is not over yet.”

Jenny rode in the back of the Sikorsky Seahawk. She stared outside the window. Not that there was much to see. The rotor wash from the helicopter’s blades whirled snow about the rising craft. They lifted from the ice in a whiteout cloud.

But as they cleared from the surface, the snow fell away. Winds buffeted the Seahawk, but the pilot was skilled, compensating, holding the craft steady.

Craig spoke to Jenny from the front. She couldn’t see him, but his voice reached her through the radio built inside her sound-dampening earphones. “We should be at the station in twenty minutes. If you could continue to read from the last journal, I’ve set your microphone to record. I’ll also listen as we ride. Any clue could mean the difference between success and failure.”

Jenny touched the journal in her lap and glanced across the crew bay. Delta One was strapped in the jump seat, ready to respond with the rest of his twelve-man team at a moment’s notice. The stern man stared dully out at the snowfields.

Jenny followed his thousand-mile gaze. The red buildings of Omega were now a hazy smear on the ice. The sun was near the horizon, still up as the days grew longer, heading toward the round-the-clock sunlight of midsummer.

Would this long day ever end?

She returned to the journal in her lap, ready to continue the translation, but a flash of fire drew her eyes back to the window.

The horizon flared up in a rose of flame and swirling snow.

Then the concussion hit her. Even through the earphones, she heard the low boom. It thudded against her chest, a mule kick.

God…no…no…

Jenny leaned against the straps, pressing toward the window, her eyes open with raw shock. It was too horrible to believe. Her hearing stretched, all sounds hollowing out as something inside her wailed.

The helicopter banked, swinging around.

For a moment the view was gone. Jenny prayed it was not what she feared. Then the fiery tornado reappeared out in the ice fields, a swirling column of flame, twisting on thermals. Where Omega had once stood, flames leaped as high as the retreating helicopter.

Slowly, the blazing cascade fell back earthward, consumed by the winds and snow.

Jenny’s hearing returned. Cries of surprise and dismay spread through the cabin. Men shifted for better views, wearing masks of anger and pain.

Across the frozen wasteland, lit by the smoldering flames, a huge hole smoked like some Arctic volcano. The surrounding ice was covered in burning pools.

There was no sign of Omega. It was obliterated, blasted off the face of the world.

Jenny could not breathe. Her father…all the others…

Craig yelled over the radio on a general channel. “Goddamn it! I thought you said all the Russian booby traps had been disabled!”

A sergeant answered, “They were, sir! Unless…unless I missed one…”

Jenny still could not breathe. Tears welled but remained trapped in her eyelashes. She read the honest surprise in everyone’s face — all except one person.

The Delta Force team leader still stared out at the flaming landscape. His expression had not changed, still stoic, unaffected…not surprised.

He glanced to her.

With dawning horror, Jenny understood the true situation here.

She listened to Craig yell at the sergeant. She heard the lie in his voice. It had all been a setup. The team leaders here were operating under the same guise as the Russians: grab the prize and leave no one to tell the tale. A clean-sweep operation.

No witnesses.

Jenny maintained the fixed look of shock on her face, hiding her comprehension. She stared over at Delta One. He faced her now, trying to read her. She would live only as long as she was useful. Her immediate knowledge of the Inuktitut script was all that stood between her and a bullet in the head.

Craig whispered condolences in her ears, but she remained deaf to him. Instead, she stared down at the book.

From the corner of her eye, flames danced. Tears rolled down her cheek — born of both grief and anger. Papa…

One hand crept to her belt holster. Another promise not kept.

It was still empty.

17. Trial by Fire

Matt sat in his cell, having been returned at gunpoint. Oddly the boy had been left with him. The child, Maki, lay curled on the bed, in a cocoon of blankets. Perhaps the admiral had wanted the boy and his translator close by. Matt had not objected to his role as baby-sitter. At the foot of the bed, he kept vigil on the lad, watching the boy sleep, his tiny fingers curled by his lips as if in prayer.

Maki’s features were clearly Inuit: the olive complexion, the ebony hair, the brown almond eyes. As Matt watched over him, he was struck by memories of Tyler, the same dark hair and eyes, like his mother. His heart ached, beyond terror and fear, only a deep sense of loss.

“It’s hard to believe…” Dr. Ogden murmured from the neighboring cell, looking on. Matt had related the findings in Vladimir Petkov’s journal.

Matt merely nodded, unable to take his eyes from the boy.

“What I wouldn’t give to study the boy…maybe a sample of his blood.”

Matt sighed and closed his eyes. Scientists. They never lifted their noses from their research to see who was affected.

“A hormone from the grendels,” Ogden continued. “That makes sense at least. To produce the cryosuspension, it would require an immediate enzymatic cascade of the gene sequence. And skin glands would be perfect vehicles to initiate the event. The skin ices up, it triggers a hormonal release, the genes are activated through the body’s cells, glucose pours into cells to preserve them, then the body freezes. And with the grendels being mammals, their hormonal chemicals would be compatible with other mammalian species. Like insulin from cows and pigs that’s been used to treat human diabetes. The work here was ahead of its time. Brilliant, in fact.”

Matt had had enough. He swung around. “Brilliant? Are you fucking mad? Try monstrous! Do you have any idea what was done to these people? How many were killed? Goddamn it!” He pointed to Maki as he stirred. “Does that look like a damn lab rat?”

Ogden backed from the bars. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

Matt noted the shadows under the doctor’s eyes. Ogden’s hands trembled as they dropped from the bars. Matt knew the man was as tired and frightened as any of them. He didn’t need someone yelling at him. Lowering his voice, he continued: “Someone has to take responsibility. A line has to be drawn. Science cannot ignore morality in its desire to leap forward. We all lose when that happens.”

“Speaking of losing,” Washburn said behind him, “what’s up with the Delta Force team? Can they take this place?”

Matt saw the two biology students stir at her question. It was their only hope: rescue. But he also remembered the fierce determination of Admiral Petkov. The Russian commander was not about to surrender, not even against superior forces. Matt had also noted a glint in his eyes, a cold dispassion that frightened the American more than the guns or the grendels.

Only the boy seemed to warm that edge from the man. Matt glanced at Maki. As with Vladimir Petkov, the child might hold the key to the admiral’s salvation. But such a transformation required time…time they didn’t have. Petkov was a Russian bear cornered in its den. There was nothing more dangerous — or unpredictable.

Matt turned back to Washburn. “I counted at least twelve soldiers. And the Russians have the advantage of being entrenched in here. It would take a full frontal assault to breach this place, then a bloody, brutal, level-by-level clearing.”

Magdalene spoke from her cot. “But they’ll still come, won’t they?”

Matt stared at the small number of survivors. Five of them, six if the child Maki was counted. If the Delta Force team was returning here, it was for more than just a rescue mission. Craig must have heard about the samples. The ultimate success of his mission would require obtaining them.

Washburn knew this, too. “They aren’t coming for us,” she said, answering Magdalene’s question. She met Matt’s eye. “We’re not the priority.”

The door to the prison wing opened. Admiral Petkov strode inside, accompanied by the same two guards. The trio approached Matt’s cell.

Here we go again, Matt thought, standing to face them.

Petkov spoke with his usual bluntness. “Your Delta Force team blew up the drift station.”

Matt took a breath to assimilate what had just been said.

Washburn swore off to the side. “Bullshit.”

“We recorded the explosion minutes after their helicopter took off.”

Washburn scowled, but Matt knew Petkov was not lying. It was not his way. Omega had been destroyed. But why?

Petkov answered his silent question with two words. “Plausible deniability.”

Matt weighed this answer. He sensed the truth to it. Delta Force teams were covert, operating with minimal supervision, surgical-strike teams. They entered a combat zone, completed their mission, and left no witnesses behind.

No witnesses…

Inhaling sharply, Matt realized what this news meant. He stumbled, hitting the back of his legs on the bed, jarring it. The child woke with a start.

Petkov pointed for a guard to open the cell. “It seems your government seeks the same objective as my own. To seize the research for themselves, and leave no one to claim otherwise. At any and all cost.”

The cell was opened. Pistols were again pointed at him.

“What do you want with me?” Matt asked.

“I want you to stop them both. My father sacrificed all to bury his research. I will not let either government win.”

Matt narrowed one eye. If what the admiral had related was true — if this truly was a black ops mission — then perhaps he had just found an ally. They shared a common enemy. He faced the admiral. Anger churned in him. If the Delta team had murdered everyone at Omega…it seemed unfathomable, but also horribly possible…he would do what he could to avenge them all.

He pictured dark eyes, staring at him with love.

Jenny…

Fury built in him. He saw a matching determination in Petkov’s eyes. But how far could he trust this cold fellow?

“What do you propose?” Matt finally choked out.

Petkov answered icily, “That you bear the white flag. I would talk with this Delta Force team leader, the one who stole my father’s journals. Then we will see where we stand.”

Matt frowned. “I don’t think Craig will be in the talking mood when he gets here. I imagine he and his team will do all their talking with M-sixteens.”

“You will have to convince him otherwise.”

“What makes you think he’ll listen?”

“You’ll be taking someone with you whose presence he can’t dispute.”

“Who’s that?”

Petkov’s eyes settled upon the small boy on the bed.

Through tears, Jenny read the text on her lap. She had no idea what she was saying. She simply translated the Inuktitut symbols in phonetic Russian. It was all she could do to keep from screaming. She knew Craig was listening, recording, seeking some clue.

Across from her, Delta One continued his vigil by the window. The flames of the incinerated drift station had long faded into the twilight. Before leaving, the helicopter had circled the blast zone. But there had been no survivors.

Words cut off her recitation, coming over the general radio. “Ice station dead ahead!” the pilot reported.

“Ready for missile attack,” Craig said. “On my word.”

Missile attack? Jenny sat straighter.

“Coordinates locked.”

“Fire.”

Before she could react, a hissing explosion sounded from outside the door. A flash of flame accompanied it.

She leaned forward as the Seahawk banked into the wind.

Out the window, a spiraling trail marked the passage of a rocket. It struck the peaks to the left of the station entry. Ice and fire blasted upward and rolled out into the open ice fields. A flutter of orange, a tent, flapped up in the gale.

Jenny knew the target. It was the site from which the Russians had fired rockets at them. It seemed Craig was clearing the field to land the helicopter — and perhaps getting payback.

Under the roil of steam and smoke, the Seahawk rotored down toward the ice.

“Ready Team One!” Delta One yelled, startling Jenny.

The doors on the opposite side swung open. Winds howled into the cabin. The cold bit at her exposed flesh. Then soldiers began bailing out, rappelling down, one after the other. They zipped out of view, vanishing below in seconds.

“Team Two!”

The door on Jenny’s side swung open, and the crosswinds tore at her. Nearly losing her grip on the journal in her hand, she clutched it to her chest.

Men pushed past her, grabbing lines and leaping free as fast as the ropes themselves were unfurled. The cabin emptied out of all but three men, including Delta One.

“Man the side guns!” the leader barked.

Already in place, two soldiers swung up huge cannons by the doors.

“Strafe on my command!” Delta One ordered. “Full perimeter fire!”

Jenny risked leaning forward to stare below. The smoke from the rocket attack had begun to disperse. Below, she spotted the off-loaded men. White-camouflaged figures scurried and dropped to bellies.

“Fire!” Delta One ordered.

The guns roared, chattering, spitting fire. Spent cartridges dropped like brass rain. Below, the ice was torn apart in a wide swath around the men, protecting them.

A lone soldier, Russian, fled from a hidden bunker in the ice. He was cut in half by the gunfire, staining the ice red like a squashed bug on a windshield. There seemed to be no other survivors out on the ice.

“Take us lower,” Craig ordered the pilot, still on the general line.

The Seahawk descended, retreating slightly to put the ground forces between them and the mouth of the station.

Delta One held one of his earphones firmly to his head. “Reports coming in!” he relayed. “Surface is ours! Station’s entrance under heavy guard!”

“Is it safe to land?” Craig asked.

“I’d rather keep the bird in the air until the station is taken,” Delta One answered. “But fuel’s a concern. We’ve a long haul back to Alaska. Hold on!” He leaned into his earphone, listening. He pressed his throat mike, conversing with someone below. Finally he pulled up his radio microphone. “Sir, ground teams report movement by the station entry. Someone’s coming out. Unarmed. He’s waving a truce flag.”

“What? Already? Who is it?”

The helicopter turned as it hovered. Jenny spotted the figure a hundred yards off. He stood out against the snow, though traces of smoke still smudged across the view. He was wearing a green jacket, bright against the snow. Even across the distance, she recognized the faded coat. She had washed, mended, patched, ironed the damn thing for ten years.

She could not keep the joy and amazement from her voice. “It’s Matt!” A sob of relief followed.

The general channel was still open. Craig heard her. “Jen, are you sure?”

Delta One spoke up from across the cabin. “Sir, there’s a boy with him.”

Now brought to her attention, she saw the child clinging to Matt’s leg. He kept one arm around the boy; the other held a pole with a scrap of white parka waving from it.

“Land!” Craig ordered.

The Seahawk began its descent.

Delta One urged caution. “Perhaps we should remain airborne until the matter is cleared up.”

“He’s been sent out as an envoy. We may be able to use this to our advantage.”

Fear wormed through Jenny’s relief. Since the beginning, she and Matt had been pawns in this game between superpowers. It seemed their duty was not over yet.

The skids settled onto the ice. Snow swirled and eddied around the craft. The rotors slowed.

Delta One passed on an order to the pilot. “I want this engine kept hot.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Craig squeezed back from the cockpit into the main cabin. “We’ll leave the journals here.” He pointed at Delta One. “They’re going to be your responsibility to guard.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I’m going to meet that man out there. He’s pulled my butt out of the fire often enough. Let’s see if he can do it again.” He turned to Jenny. “I’d prefer you to stay put.”

“Like hell I will.” She unbuckled her seat harness. They’d have to shoot her to keep her here.

Craig watched her a moment, plainly judging her sincerity, then shrugged. He probably preferred all his targets together anyway.

The pair climbed out of the Seahawk and onto the ice. They ducked under the rotors and were met by a trio of Delta Force team members, who were moving forward under an armed escort.

Jenny barely noticed these others. Her eyes were on the figure standing thirty yards from the station opening. Matt! She had to restrain herself from running toward him. She feared such a sudden action would get them both shot.

So she kept to the group, flanked and led by the soldiers. They crossed the ice, passing beyond the circle of defense and out into neutral territory.

Matt was down on one knee, sheltering the boy, his attention on the child. The little guy hugged Matt. He was swaddled from head to toe in someone’s parka, wearing it like a full-length greatcoat. The sleeves hung to the ground. In Matt’s arms, he wiggled around to stare wide-eyed at the approaching party.

Jenny saw the boy’s face clearly for the first time: the black hair, the large brown eyes, the tiny features. She tripped, her legs going suddenly weak. “Tyler!”

Matt had his hands full with the boy. As soon as they had stepped out of the tunnel and into the wind, Maki had clung to him like an eel. The explosions and roar of the gunship’s 50mm weapons had already spooked the kid. And now out in the open, he acted agoraphobic, panicking at the wind and snow. Matt could guess why. He had probably spent all his young years isolated below, possibly even limited to Level Four. Here in the open, with the entire world spread out around him, he came unhinged.

He needed something to cling to, an anchor — and that was Matt.

Matt hardly noted the approach of the others. He had spotted Craig among the soldiers, then had to keep Maki from bolting back toward the station.

“Tyler!”

The familiar cry tore him around.

From out of the group of soldiers, Jenny shoved free. Her eyes were wild, but she quickly collected herself as she stepped out. She recognized her mistake as soon as she uttered it. Pure reflex, Matt understood.

“His…his name’s Maki,” Matt gasped out as he stood. The child clung to his knee, but Matt didn’t object this time. His legs weak from the relief of seeing Jenny alive, he needed the boy’s support now.

She rushed at him.

Matt didn’t know what to expect, cringing slightly at her approach.

Then she was in his arms, pulling tight to him, her own arms around his neck. It came so naturally that it surprised Matt. She fit to him, as if she always belonged there. It was as if no time had passed between them at all. Drawing Jenny even tighter to him to make sure it wasn’t all a dream, he smelled her hair, the nape of her neck. She was real…she was in his arms.

She sobbed in his ear. “Back at the base…Papa…”

Matt stiffened. John wasn’t with her, or on the helicopter. Her father had been left back at Omega. From Jenny’s reaction, Petkov’s earlier report had not been a lie. The place had been blown up.

“Jenny, I’m so sorry.” Even to him, the words sounded lame. All he could do was offer her his strength, his shoulder, his arms.

She shook in his grip. Words reached up to him, whispered, meant for his ears only. “It was Craig. Don’t trust him.”

Matt’s fingers clutched her parka. He stared past Jenny to the figure in the familiar blue parka. He kept his face stoic, pretending he hadn’t heard the words whispered in warning.

It was all true. Everything.

He slowly peeled himself from Jenny, but he kept one arm around her.

Craig stepped forward. “Matt, it’s good to see you alive. But what’s going on? What are you doing out here?”

Matt fought back the urge to punch the man square in the face. But such an action would only get him killed. To survive from here on out, it would take an artful game of half-truths and lies.

So first, a lie. “God, it’s good to see you all here.”

Craig’s tentative grin firmed up.

“The Russian admiral remains in control down there, but he sent me up here. He figures if you all were going to shoot blindly and ask questions later, then it might as well be one of us Americans that gets killed.”

“Why did he send anyone?”

“To parley a truce. To quote the admiral, both sides have half the key to the miracle here. You have the technical notes. He controls the samples. Either is useless without the other.”

Craig stepped closer. “Is he telling the truth?”

Matt stepped aside and pushed little Maki between his and Jenny’s legs. The boy kept tight to Matt’s thighs. “Here’s the proof I was sent up with.”

Craig frowned and bent down to stare closer at the boy. “I don’t understand.”

Matt shouldn’t have been surprised. Craig had been trained to be single-minded, to tunnel-vision toward the goal and ignore all the rest. Especially the bodies left by the wayside.

“It’s the boy from the tank,” he explained. “The ice tank that Dr. Ogden activated.”

Craig’s gaze flicked up to him. “My God, that’s the boy? He resuscitated? It actually works?”

Matt kept himself composed. He couldn’t let the man know that he understood the deadly intent of the Delta Force team. “It worked, but the only surviving samples of the elixir are secured in a hidden vault down below. I’ve seen the place myself. But Admiral Petkov has wired the base to explode. He’ll destroy it all.”

Craig’s gaze darkened. “What does he want?”

“A truce. A parley between the two of you. On Level One. He’ll pull his men down below. You can come in with five of your men, armed as you like. But if any harm comes to the admiral, his men have orders to shoot the prisoners and explode the vault. I don’t see that you have much choice. It’s either lose everything or make a pact with this devil.”

Matt waited, unsure if he had overplayed his hand.

Craig snorted and turned away. He raised the collar of his jacket and spoke into it, then pulled his hood’s drawstring and held it to his ear. A hidden radio, Matt realized.

Jenny sidled closer to him. “He’s consulting with the Delta Force commander. The stolen journals are in the helicopter with the man. But what about this parley? Is there anyone we can trust?”

“The only person I trust is standing next to me.”

She squeezed his hand. “If we get out of this—”

“When,” he corrected her. “When we get out of this.”

“Matt…”

He leaned in and gently pressed his lips to hers. It wasn’t so much a kiss as a promise of more to come. A promise he intended to keep. He tasted the salt of her tears on her mouth. They would survive this.

Craig turned to him as more men gathered around him. They readied weapons. “You’re right. It looks like we have no choice but to meet with the bastard.”

Matt counted Craig’s team. Five. “You have one too many,” he said, nodding to the soldiers.

Craig crinkled his brow. “What do you mean? You said five.”

Matt gestured toward Jenny. “She’s coming in with us. You’ll need to get her a sidearm.”

“But—”

“Either she comes or I don’t go back. And if I don’t return as ordered, Petkov will blow the vault.”

Shaking his head, Craig waved off one of the men. “Fine, but she’s safer out here.”

Matt didn’t respond. For better or worse, they were sticking together. Jenny gave his hand a final squeeze and held out an open palm for a pistol.

One of the soldiers passed her his sidearm. Matt had to guide Jenny’s hand to her holster. As angry as she was, she might just shoot Craig where he stood.

Once ready, they set off toward the station. Matt pulled the boy up in his arms. Maki stared over at Jenny, his small eyes haunted. They trudged through the blasted opening and down the tunnel again. The warmth of the station breathed out at them.

Matt wondered if Petkov was prepared. The Russian admiral had been vague about his plans. Get Craig inside was his mission objective. Petkov would do the rest. But what could the admiral hope to do? The Russian contingent was outnumbered and outgunned.

Matt led the way onto Level One. The lights were back on. Someone must have found spare fuses and powered up the level. The place was too bright. The blood on the floor stood out garishly. Bodies lined one wall. The tables had been pushed away.

In the center of the room, Petkov stood by the spiral stair. The elevator had been raised from below. The Russian admiral stood with one foot on the elevated platform.

“Welcome,” he said coldly.

Petkov stepped onto the platform. He shared the space with a strange device. It was a titanium globe on a tripod. A small series of blue lights raced across the sphere’s equator. Though it was unmarked, it had bomb written all over it.

Matt had a sudden sinking feeling that his newfound ally in this war between superpowers had not been as forthcoming as he would have wished. What game was being played now?

Behind Matt, footsteps suddenly pounded. He swung around. Another five Delta Force soldiers raced into the room, fanning out. It seemed neither side was going to honor the truce.

Matt shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was.

Petkov remained stoic, unreadable. He continued to stand on the elevator stand. “You risk your mission,” he finally said. “On my word or death, the samples will be destroyed.”

Craig strode up beside Matt. He picked Maki out of his arms, earning a startled yelp from the boy. “This is all I need,” he said, holding the boy aloft. “An issledovatelskiy subyekt. A research subject. Jenny here was kind enough to read more of your father’s journal while en route here. It seems the hormone remains active in a revived specimen for a full week. Between his notes and the boy, we will distill the hormone on our own. What you hold is worthless. But I’ll still make an offer. Your life in exchange for the samples you hold. The offer will last for exactly one minute.”

“Thank you for your gracious offer,” Petkov said, “but I won’t need the minute.”

The explosion rocked the level, bucking the floor and tossing them all skyward. Smoke rolled out from behind them. Matt landed in a pile beside Jenny. He twisted around.

The exit to the surface was gone. A tumble of broken ice blocked the way, caved in, spilling out onto this level. He rolled to his feet, ears ringing. Craig and what was left of the Delta Force team picked themselves off the floor. Two men were dead, crushed by falling ice near the shaft.

Lights flickered. Smoke set everyone to coughing.

Matt searched the central staircase. Petkov was gone, having fled down the staircase. Matt glanced between Craig and the vanished Russian. He was trapped between two madmen, buried with them.

He stared across to the titanium sphere resting on the elevator platform. The blue flashing lights raced around and around the device.

This was not going to end well.

Aboard the Polar Sentinel, Amanda crouched beside Captain Greg Perry. Together they studied the monitor of the sub’s DeepEye sonar. Others gathered behind them, some watching the screen, others staring out the Lexan eye of the sub.

Greg rested a hand on her knee. He was clearly not letting her out of his reach…and she was fine with this arrangement.

Half an hour ago, back at Omega, she had been in full panic. She had struggled to raise the alarm among the others — about the deceit planned by the Delta Force leaders and of the nerve-jangling sonar frequency, indicating the presence of grendels. But it hadn’t been grendels. It had been the Polar Sentinel activating its DeepEye sonar.

Before she could even get Commander Sewell’s attention, the double doors to the barracks had popped open and Greg had rushed into the room with a small squad. He had ordered everyone to remain quiet.

Too shocked by the miracle, Amanda had flown into his arms. Ignoring decorum, he had pulled her to him, kissed her, and whispered that he loved her.

Together, they had waited until the Delta Force helicopter lifted off. Then they were all running. With Greg in the lead, they raced through the shadows to the oceanography shack. Inside, Amanda found a strange sight. Thrust up within the lab’s main research room stood the conning tower of the Polar Sentinel. The sub had surfaced its tower through the square hole cut in the ice. The small port was normally used by the oceanographers to raise and lower their two-man bathysphere. But now it serviced the sub’s tower, the proverbial square peg in a round hole.

With time ticking down, the party had fled into the submarine.

As soon as all were aboard, Greg had ordered the submarine to crash-dive. The Polar Sentinal fell away like a brick. They were at forty fathoms when the Russian V-class incendiaries blew off the top of their world.

Amanda had been in Cyclops at the time. She had witnessed the blinding flash, the impossible sight of flames shooting down through the water. The submarine had been rocked, shoved deep, but with the insulation of almost three hundred feet of water, they had survived, no more than rattled.

Greg had then related her father’s frantic VLF message, his warning about the ultimate mission of the Delta strike team. “I was already here, planning a rescue attempt under the Russians’ noses. I never imagined that I’d have to rescue you from our own forces.” This last was spoken bitterly.

He had also shared the news about her father’s medical condition. A heart attack. But he was recovering well in the naval hospital on Oahu. “Even before he’d let them treat him, he insisted the warning be sent first.”

The timing had saved them.

Now once again, the Polar Sentinel spied from below. This time the submarine hovered beside the inverted mountain of ice that hid Ice Station Grendel. Through the DeepEye’s penetrating sonar, they had watched the assault upon the buried station. It was eerie watching the silent play unfold on the screen, the ghostly images of men and gunfire.

Then the explosion erupted, appearing as a wash of yellow on the monitor.

It slowly cleared.

Greg squeezed her knee, indicating he wanted to speak to her. She turned and looked at him. “I don’t know what we can do to help,” he said. “It looks like the entrance collapsed. They’re trapped in there.”

Over Greg’s shoulder, a figure stirred, moving forward. “Jenny.” It was the woman’s father. He pointed to the screen and tapped one of the phantoms, the form billowy from the sonar. “That’s my daughter.”

Amanda glanced back to him. “Are you sure?”

He leaned forward and ran his finger down the figure’s lower half. “She broke her leg when she was twenty-two. They had to pin it back together.”

Amanda focused the DeepEye slightly. The old man could be right. The penetrating sonar was similar to X rays. And there appeared to be a distinct metallic density in the lower extremities. It could be her.

She turned to John and read the raw fear in his face. He knew it was his daughter. Amanda struggled to think of some other way to rescue Jenny and any other folk trapped between the two forces.

Greg pointed to the monitor. Throughout the upper levels of the station, spats of yellow appeared on the monitor. She didn’t have to read his lips to know what it was. Gunfire.

A large flare of amber flashed midlevel in the station.

She turned to him.

“Grenade,” he mouthed.

She turned back as flashes and flares continued to descend into the depths of the station.

It was all out-war.

Another grenade exploded, rocking the floor under Jenny. In her arms, she held the Inuit boy. He screamed and sobbed, covering his ears, squeezing his eyes tightly closed. She rocked him as she crouched.

Matt hovered over them both, a rifle in his hand.

Screams and shouts wafted up the central shaft, along with billows of smoke and soot. Fires were raging somewhere below. Most of the base was steel, brass, and copper. But a significant part of its infrastructure was straw and flammable composites.

It was burning.

Even if the Delta Force team could commandeer the station, what then? They would either die in flames or be buried in the ice as the station collapsed.

And then there was always the third possibility.

Hovering amid the column of smoke, the large titanium sphere rested on the elevator platform. One of the soldiers, a demolition expert, knelt in front of an open hatch at the bottom of the sphere. He had been studying it for the past ten minutes, tools spread at his knees, untouched. It was not a good sign.

Craig barked at her shoulder as the gunfire ebbed below. He was yelling into his radio while he surveyed the level. Two other Delta Force soldiers held positions by the shaft. The remainder of the squad continued its guerrilla war down below.

Lowering his throat mike, Craig stepped to them. He eyed the collapsed exit. “There’s no way for the few men left above to dig us out. It would take days. Any attempt to blast a way through with a missile would just get us all killed.”

“So what are they going to do?”

Craig closed his eyes, then opened them. He stared over to the bomb. “I ordered them to stand down, to retreat thirty miles off. I can’t risk losing the journals.”

“Thirty miles?” Matt asked. “Isn’t that overkill?”

Craig nodded to the device being examined over the shaft. “It’s nuclear. That’s as much as Sergeant Conrad can tell us right now. Unless we can deactivate it…” He shrugged.

Jenny had to give the guy credit. He was one cold fish. Even in their current straits, his mission was his first priority.

Matt continued to watch over them, eyes sweeping all around. “The shooting…I think it’s slowing…”

Jenny realized he was right. She cradled the boy. The gunfire had died to sporadic bursts.

Over by the central shaft, the two guards stirred. One yelled back to them. “Friendlies coming up!”

A pair of Delta Force team members clambered up the steps. They led a Russian soldier, hands on top of his head, at gunpoint. A young man, no older than eighteen, he blinked at the blood that ran down his face. Soot covered his clothes.

One of his captors snapped at him in Russian. He dropped to his knees. The other came to report to Craig. “They’re surrendering. We’ve another two prisoners on Level Three.”

“And the others?”

“Dead.” The soldier glanced back to the stairwell. The gunfire had ended. “We cleared all the tiers, except for Level Four. Men are sweeping it now.”

“What about Admiral Petkov?” Matt asked.

The man nudged the prisoner. Weak with terror and loss of blood, he fell on his side, afraid even to lower his hands to catch himself. “He says that the admiral fled into Level Four. But so far, we’ve not found him. The prisoner might be lying. He may need a little encouragement.”

Before the matter could be addressed, Sergeant Conrad approached from his examination of the nuclear bomb.

Craig turned his full attention toward the man. “Well?”

The soldier shook his head. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. As far as I can tell, it’s a low-yield nuclear device. Minimal radiation risk. But it’s certainly no standard bomb. I’m guessing more of a disrupter of some type. Like the EM-pulse weapons under development. The explosive capability is small for a nuclear weapon, but its energy could generate a massive pulse. But I don’t think it’s an electromagnetic pulse. Something else. I don’t know what.”

Matt interrupted his report. “You said the explosion would be small. That’s the part I want to know about. How small?”

He was answered with a shrug. “Small for a nuclear device. But it’ll crack this island like a hard-boiled egg. If it blows, we’re all dead, no matter what pulse it sends out.”

“Can you deactivate it?”

The sergeant shook his head. “The trigger is based on subsonics. It’s tied to an external detonator. Unless we can get the abort code to turn this thing off, this baby’s going to blow in”—he checked his watch—“in fifty-five minutes.”

Craig rubbed his left temple. “Then we need to find the admiral. He’s our only chance.” His gaze settled on the frightened youth at his feet. He nodded to the soldier who had kicked the man. “Find out what he knows.”

The prisoner must have understood. He babbled in Russian, terrified, his hands still on his head.

Matt stepped between the prisoner and the soldier. “Don’t bother. I can find Petkov. I know where he must be holed up.”

Craig turned to him. “Where?”

“Down on Level Four. I’ll have to show you.”

Craig narrowed his eyes, glancing between the youth and the shaft. “All right. I doubt this fellow knows anything anyway.” He pulled out his pistol and shot the man in the head.

The retort was loud in the silent station. Skull, brains, and blood splattered across the floor.

“Jesus Christ!” Matt yelled, stumbling back as the blast echo died. “Why did you do that?”

Craig’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t play me for a fool, Matt. You know why.” He headed toward the shaft, waving for a pair of soldiers to flank him. “It’s either us or them. Pick sides and let’s go.”

Matt remained frozen but stared toward Jenny, who had twisted from the body, shielding the boy.

The gunshot had sent the boy into another bout of wailing. Jenny held him tightly.

Matt stepped over and leaned down, hugging them both. “Go,” she whispered, defying her own heart’s desire. She wanted him to stay with them. “But watch your back.”

A small nod. He understood her. The biggest danger right now was the bomb. Once that was nullified, they’d find some way to survive both the Russians and the Delta Force strike team.

Matt stood, shouldering his rifle.

Jenny closed her eyes, not wanting to see him leave. But as he stepped away, she opened her eyes. She watched his every movement: the set of his shoulders, the length of his stride. She drank him in, not knowing if she’d ever see him again, regretting the waste of bitter years.

Then they were gone. Two guards watched the shaft. Otherwise she was alone with the gently sobbing boy. She comforted him, as she had not been able to comfort Tyler. She ran fingers through his hair, whispered wordless sounds to soothe.

Across the way, the two guards by the stairs talked softly together. There was no more gunfire, no more explosions. Smoke still hazed the level. Through the oily fog, the lone beacon still shone, beating like a titanium heart, counting down.

As she cradled the boy, a voice whispered behind her, ghostly and vague. She was not even sure she heard it. Then her name was spoken.

“Jenny…can you hear me?”

She cautiously glanced behind her. She did not recognize the voice. It came from an overturned set of electronics.

“Jenny, it’s Captain Perry of the Polar Sentinel .”

Perry stood in the communication shack by the bridge. He spoke into the UQC underwater telephone. “If you can hear me, move toward the sound of my voice.”

As he waited, he switched to the shipboard intercom. He hailed the Cyclops chamber. “John, can Amanda see Jenny on the monitor? Is your daughter responding?”

A short pause, then an answer came through. “Yes!” He heard a father’s hope in the man’s voice.

For the past five minutes, they had waited, spying with the DeepEye until Jenny was alone. Earlier, Perry had eavesdropped on communication between the station and the Drakon through the underwater phone. He had hoped the rubber landline that draped into the ocean had not been severed by the blast.

“Jenny, we can see you with our sonar. Is there any way you can transmit? There should be a receiver. Just like an old-fashioned phone. If you find it, simply talk into it.”

Perry waited, praying. He didn’t know what help they could offer, but he needed to know the situation in the station to formulate a plan.

The line remained quiet.

C’mon…we need some break. A bit of luck.

The silence stretched.

Jenny clutched the telephone receiver in her hand. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. The cord was cut. There was no way to communicate out. She wanted to bang the handset on the ground in frustration. Instead she simply set it down.

So far the two guards remained busy with their own discussion. She kept one arm around little Maki, not wanting to attract attention.

The captain’s voice returned. “There must be a problem at your end. But we’re monitoring all means of communication coming from the station. We have all our ears up. You simply need to find a radio of any sort. Even a walkie-talkie. Our ears are very good out here. Get to it. But don’t let any of the Delta team see you.”

Jenny closed her eyes.

“Just know we’re watching you. We’ll do what we can to help.”

She listened to his confidence, but it shed from her like water off a seal’s fur. Even if she could reach a radio, what good would it do? How could they help?

She stared at the blue lights circling around and around the titanium sphere. A sense of despair and hopelessness settled over her. She was too tired to fight any longer. She had been up almost two days straight. The constant terror and tension had burned all substance from her. She felt hollow and empty.

Then a new voice whispered from the tiny speaker. “Jenny, we’re here. We won’t leave until we get you all out of there.” She barely heard the words, it was the voice that held her attention: the familiar slight slurring, the drawled consonance.

“Amanda…” She was naming a ghost.

“I have someone who wants to speak to you.”

There was a pause during which Jenny sought to make sense of it all.

“Honey…Jen…”

Tears flowed, filling the hollow space in her heart. “Papa!”

Her outburst drew the guards’ attention. She leaned over the boy, speaking to him, covering her mistake.

Behind her, her father spoke to her…alive! “Do as Captain Perry says,” he urged her. “We won’t leave you.”

Jenny hunched over the boy, rocking, hiding her sobs. Her father still lived. The miracle of it pushed back her despair. She would not give up.

She lifted her head and stared over to the dead Russian teenager. From the upper pocket of his fatigues, a black walkie-talkie protruded.

Jenny stood up, pulling the boy in her arms. As she paced with Maki, softly humming, she edged closer to the body. Once near enough, she waited until the guards’ backs were turned. Then she darted down, snatched the walkie-talkie, and sprang back up.

She hid the radio where no one would think to look.

But what now?

Across the room, the titanium sphere continued its deadly countdown. There could be no rescue until that threat was addressed.

It was all up to the man she loved.

Matt led the way down the long curving hall of frozen tanks.

Craig followed with his two men. Other members of Delta Force manned key positions throughout this level. With all the remaining Russians executed, the base was once again an American station…all except for one Russian admiral.

Matt reached the end of the hall, where the line of tanks stopped. He crossed to the secret panel. Pausing, he weighed the evils here: Craig versus the Russian admiral. But he also pictured Jenny and the little boy. He took strength from her heart, her will to protect the innocent. Before any other matters could be decided, the bomb had to be deactivated.

His fingers tightened on the rifle in his hand.

“There’s nothing here,” Craig said suspiciously.

“Nothing?” Matt reached and swung open the hidden panel, revealing the wheeled latch to the ice lab’s door. He glanced over to Craig with one eyebrow raised. “Then you go in first, because I doubt we’re going to get a very warm welcome.”

Craig waved Matt aside and had one of the Delta Force guards work the wheel. Matt allowed him to struggle a moment, remembering his own frustration. But time was critical. He leaned forward and hit the secret switch that unlocked the wheel. It spun free. The door cracked open.

No one moved to open it farther.

Craig stepped closer. “Admiral Petkov!” he called. “You asked for us to meet, to parley a solution. I’m still willing to talk if you are.”

There was no answer.

“Maybe he killed himself,” one of the guards mumbled.

This theory was quickly disproven as Petkov called out, “Come in.”

Craig frowned, unsettled by the admiral’s yielding. He glanced to Matt.

“I’m not going in there first. This is your goddamn game.”

Craig motioned everyone to either side, then pulled the door open himself, shielding his body behind the door. There was no gunfire.

One of the soldiers, a sergeant, extended a small spy mirror around the corner. He studied the room for a few moments. “All clear,” he said, not hiding his surprise. “He’s just sitting in there. Unarmed.”

Making the soldier prove his words, Craig waved him in first. Raising his rifle, the sergeant slid from his vantage point and ducked low through the doorway. Dropping to a knee, he swept his weapon around, ready for any threat. None arose.

“Clear!” he yelled.

Craig cautiously stepped around the door, his pistol pointing forward. He crossed into the room. Matt followed, while the other guard remained posted in the hall.

Little had changed inside the ice lab. Nothing had been moved or destroyed. Matt had at least expected Petkov to have smashed the samples, but the glass syringes were still secured across the back shelves.

Instead, the admiral sat on the ice floor beside his father. The two could have been brothers, rather than father and son.

“Vladimir Petkov,” Craig said.

There was no need to confirm the obvious.

Craig’s eyes took in the wall of syringed samples. He kept his gun pointed at the admiral. “It doesn’t have to end this way. Give us the abort code to the bomb upstairs and you can still live.”

“Like you allowed my men to live, like you allowed your own people at Omega to live.” Petkov scowled. He lifted an arm and shook back his sleeve, revealing the hidden wrist monitor. “The bomb upstairs is a sonic charge, set to go off in another forty-two minutes.”

Craig no longer even tried to lie. “I can turn those forty-two minutes into a lifetime of pain.”

Petkov laughed bitterly at the threat. “You can teach me nothing about pain, huyok.”

Craig bristled at the clear insult.

“What do you mean a sonic charge?” Matt interrupted. “I thought it was a nuclear bomb?”

Petkov’s gaze flicked to him, then back to Craig. The Russian admiral knew the true enemy here. “The device has a nuclear trigger. After a sixty-second sonic pulse, the main reactor will go critical and blow. It’ll take out the entire island.”

Craig shoved his pistol closer, threatening. The hammer cocked back.

Unfazed, Petkov simply tapped his exposed wrist monitor. “The trigger is also tied to my own heartbeat. A fail-safe. Kill me and the time before detonation will drop to one minute.”

“Then maybe something else will persuade you.” He shifted his pistol and pointed it at Petkov’s father’s head. “Matt told me your story. Your father took the elixir along with the Eskimos. If he did that, then a part of him wanted to live.”

Petkov remained unreadable, stone. But there was no response this time.

“Like the boy, he may still be alive even now. Would you take that chance at rebirth from him? I understand the shame and grief that drove your father to his decision, but there can be no redemption in death, only in life. Would you deny your father that?” Craig stepped forward and crushed the glass syringe Vladimir had used decades ago. “He injected himself. He wanted to live.”

Petkov glanced to his father. One hand twitched up, then down, plainly wavering.

Matt pressed, “And what about little Maki? Your father put him to the final test himself, the boy he took as his foster son. He wanted the boy to live. So if not for yourself or your father, consider the boy.”

Petkov sighed. His eyes closed. The silence became a physical weight on them all. Finally, tired words flowed from the admiral. “The abort code is a series of letters. They must be entered forward, then reentered backward.”

“Tell me,” Craig urged. “Please.”

Petkov opened his eyes. “If I do, I want one promise from you.”

“What is that?”

“Do with me what you will, but protect the boy.”

Craig narrowed one eye. “Of course.”

“No research labs. You mentioned using him again as an issledovatelskiy subyekt, a research subject.” He indicated the wall of syringes. “You have more than enough here. Just let the boy live a normal life.”

Craig nodded. “I swear.”

Petkov sighed again. “I suggest you write the code down.”

Craig pulled a small handheld device from his pocket. “A digital recorder.”

Petkov shrugged. “The code is L-E-D-I–V-A-Y-B-E-T-A-Y-U-B-O-RG-V.”

Craig played it back to make sure he got it right.

The admiral nodded. “That’s it.”

“Very good.” Craig lifted his pistol and pulled the trigger.

The noise in the small space sounded like a grenade. Several of the syringes shattered.

Again, Matt was startled from the sudden violence. He stumbled back. The guard at the door, obeying some hidden signal, snatched the rifle from his fingers. The other soldier’s weapon pointed at his face.

Petkov remained on the floor. His father’s body had fallen over his legs, headless now. The frozen skull had shattered half away from the point-blank shot.

Matt gaped at Craig.

The man shrugged. “This time I did it because I was pissed off.”

Victor held his father’s body. Parts of his skull littered his lap, the floor, the shelves. A shard had sliced his own cheek, deeply, but he barely felt the sting. He clutched the cold flesh.

A moment ago, there had been hope that some part of his father yet lived, suspended in time. But now all such hopes had been shattered away as thoroughly as the frozen skull.

Dead.

Again.

How could the pain be so fresh after so many years?

Though his heart thudded painfully in his chest, no tears came. He had shed his tears for his father when he was a boy. He had no more.

Craig spoke by the door to one of his guards. “Take them both to the cells to join the others. Bring the woman and boy down, too.”

The boy…

Viktor stirred, finding purpose. “You swore,” he called out hoarsely.

Craig paused at the door. “I will keep my promise as long as you haven’t lied.”

Matt watched the admiral struggle to his feet and noted there was still a strength to him. Petkov’s hands were bound so that he couldn’t access the wrist monitor, and in short order, he and Petkov were escorted at gunpoint from the room.

It was over. Craig had won.

With the bomb deactivated, the bastard had plenty of time to recall the remainder of the Delta team and dig himself free. And with the notes and samples, he had all he needed from the ice station.

All that was left was to clean up the mess.

Returned to their cell, Matt and Petkov drew stunned gazes from the other prisoners, Ogden and the two biology students in one cell, Washburn alone in the other.

It didn’t take long for Jenny and Maki to be herded down as well. They were thrust into the cell with Washburn.

Matt met Jenny at the bars. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. Her face was ashen, but her eyes were twin sparks of hellfire. Washburn took Maki from Jenny and sat with the boy on the bed. He seemed fascinated by the lieutenant’s dark skin.

“What happened?” Jenny asked.

“Craig got the samples, the books, and the abort code.”

Petkov stirred behind Matt, speaking for the first time. “The huyok got nothing,” he spat out thickly.

Matt turned to the man. His face was pure ice. “What do you mean?”

“There is no abort code for the Polaris Array.”

It took half a second for Matt to assimilate the information. The admiral had tricked Craig, outfoxed him at his own game. And while Matt might have appreciated it in other circumstances, the outcome was bleak for all of them.

“In twenty-nine minutes,” Petkov said, “the world ends.”

18. North Star

Perched on the elevator platform, Craig typed in the code on the electronic keyboard wired to the titanium sphere. He hurried. They had wasted a precious ten minutes hooking up the connection.

Still, despite the urgency, Craig carefully listened to the digital recording. He typed in each letter as dictated. Then, as directed by the admiral, he retyped the same sequence in reverse this time. His fingers moved quickly and surely.

V-G-R-O-B-U-Y-A-T-E-B-Y-A-V–I-D-E-L

Once done, he hit the “enter” button.

Nothing happened.

He hit it again with the same result.

“Is this hooked properly?” he asked Sergeant Conrad, the demolition expert.

“Yes, sir. I’m registering that the device has accepted the code, but it’s not responding.”

“Maybe I typed it in wrong,” he mumbled. If there was any mistake, it was probably when he typed the sequence in backward. He looked at those letters more closely. Then he saw his mistake.

“Goddamn it!” he swore, clenching a fist.

The reversed letters separated into Russian words: V grobu ya tebya videl. The translation was a common Russian curse. I will see you in your grave.

“Nothing appears wrong,” Conrad said, bent half under the device, misinterpreting his outburst.

“Everything’s wrong!” Craig snapped back, leaping off the platform. “We’ve got the wrong code.”

He pounded back down the steps. He knew one way to make the bastard talk.

The boy.

Matt listened as Admiral Petkov finished his description of Polaris. The sonic bomb on Level One was only one of the devices. There were another five amplifiers out on the ice, ready to spread the destruction in all directions. The pure ambition struck him dumb — to destroy the entire polar ice cap, to bring ruin down upon the globe, and potentially trigger the next great ice age.

He finally found his tongue. “Are you nuts?” It wasn’t the most diplomatic response, but he was way beyond diplomacy at this point.

Petkov merely glanced toward him. “After all you’ve seen, is this truly a world you want to protect?”

“Hell, yes. I’m in it.” He reached between the bars and took Jenny’s hand. “Everything I love is in it. It’s fucked up. No question there, but hell, you don’t throw the damn baby out with the bathwater.”

“No matter,” Petkov said. “Polaris cannot be stopped. The detonation will commence in twenty minutes. Even if we could escape here, the secondary amplifiers are planted fifty kilometers away, all around the island. You’d have to disable and remove at least two of the five to break the array’s full effect. That could never be done. It is over.”

Matt had tired of the admiral’s defeatism, but it was beginning to spread to him, too. What could they do?

Jenny slipped her hand from his. “Hold on.” She eyed the pair of Delta Force guards. They stood by the prison-wing door, one watching out, one in. They were sharing a smoke, passing it between them, ignoring them.

With no one watching, Jenny crossed the cell and reached out to Maki. The boy was half asleep in Washburn’s arms, exhausted and shell-shocked. Jenny parted the child’s parka, and with her back to the guards, she removed a black walkie-talkie.

She tucked the radio in her own jacket and crossed back.

“Who do you think you’re going to call with that?” Matt asked.

“The Polar Sentinel…I hope.”

Washburn heard her. “Captain Perry’s here?” she hissed, stirring from the bed.

Jenny waved her back down. “He’s been monitoring everything here, seeking a way to rescue us.” She shook her head. “If what this guy says is true, rescuing us is impossible — but maybe they can do something about this Polaris Array.”

Matt nodded. It was a long shot, but they had no other option. “Try to raise them.”

Washburn helped shield Jenny. The lieutenant carried Maki, singing a lullaby to cover her attempt to communicate.

Matt stepped toward the Russian. “If we are to have any hope for this to work, we need the exact coordinates of the secondary amplifiers.”

Petkov shook his head, not so much in refusal as hopelessness.

Matt resisted the urge the throttle the man. He spoke rapidly, sensing the press of time, the falling ax. “Admiral, please. We are all going to die. Everything your father sought to hide will be destroyed. You’ve won there. His research will be forever lost. But the revenge you seek upon the world…because of an atrocity you thought was committed upon your father by your government or mine…it’s over. We both know what truly happened. The tragedy here was your father’s own doing. He cooperated in the research, and only at the end found his humanity.”

Petkov’s expression was tired, his head sagging a bit.

Matt continued, pointing over to the boy. “Maki saved your father. And your father attempted to save him, preserving the boy in ice. Even at the end, your father died with hope for the future. And right there lies that hope.” Matt stabbed a finger toward Maki. “The children of the world. You have no right to take that from them.”

Petkov stared over at the boy. Maki lay in Washburn’s arms, head cradled against her neck. She sang softly. “He is a beautiful boy,” Petkov conceded. His gaze flicked to Matt, then a nod. “I’ll give you the coordinates, but the sub will never make it there in time.”

“He’s right,” Jenny said this as she stepped back to the bars, covering the radio with her jacket. “I’ve raised the Sentinel. Perry doesn’t think he could even run to one of the amplifiers, let alone two. But he’s heading away at full steam. He needs the exact positions.”

Matt rolled his eyes. He’d give his right arm for one optimist in the damn group. He waved for the radio. “Pass it here.”

Jenny slipped the walkie-talkie through the bars. Matt pressed the transmitter and held the radio toward Petkov’s lips. The admiral’s hands were still bound behind his back. “Tell them.”

Before the man could speak, a loud thud sounded by the door. All eyes turned back to the entrance. One of the guards was on the floor. A dagger hilt protruded from his left eye socket. The other fell back, someone on top of him. An attempt to shout an alarm was cut from the soldier’s throat by a wicked long knife. Blood shot across the floor.

As the soldier gurgled, grabbing at his own bloody throat, his attacker shoved up. He was a true gorilla of a man.

Jenny rushed to the front of the cell. “Kowalski!”

The man wiped the blood from his meaty hands on his jacket. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

“How…I thought…the rocket attack?”

He worked rapidly, searching the guard. “I was blown into a snowbank. I burrowed down deep when I saw the situation out there. Then I found another ventilation shaft. Way the fuck out there.”

“How?”

Kowalski jabbed a thumb toward the door. “With a little help from my friends.”

Another man entered the room, a bandage around his head and a rifle in his hands. He covered the door.

“Tom!” Jenny called out. She clearly knew the pair.

But the fellow was not alone. At the man’s knee, a shaggy form loped into the room, tongue lolling, eyes bright.

“My God!” Matt said, dropping to the floor. “Bane.” His voice caught in his throat. The dog leaped on the cell door, pushing his nose through the bars, trying to squeeze through, whining, squirming.

“We found him in the ice peaks.” Kowalski spoke rapidly as he keyed open the cell doors “Or rather, he found us. The Russians left Tom as dead meat in the snow, but he was only knocked out. I dragged him off.”

“You survived,” Jenny said, still sounding incredulous.

Kowalski straightened with a handful of keys. “No thanks to you guys…running off and leaving us for dead. Next time check a goddamn pulse, for God’s sake.”

As Matt’s cell was unlocked, he pushed open the door and worked fast. Time was against them. He removed the dagger from the corpse and sliced the admiral’s hands free, then searched the guards for further weapons, taking everything he could find. He passed weapons around as the other cells were opened. “We’d better haul ass.”

“This way,” Tom said, rushing the line of prisoners out and around to the curving exterior hallway. The group hurried to the same service duct through which Matt and the others had fled hours ago.

As they were ducking away, a commotion sounded from across the level. Yelling. Matt straightened, listening as he waved the biology group into the tunnels. It was Craig. He must have realized the abort code was a ruse. Matt didn’t want to be here when Craig found out they had escaped.

Matt dove through the vent, following Bane and Jenny.

Kowalski led them into the service shafts. “We’ve been rats in the walls ever since the attack started. Tom knows this station like the back of his hand. We were waiting for a chance to break you free.”

“Where’s this ventilation shaft?” Washburn asked as the group piled into one of the service huts. She still held Maki in her arms. The boy was silent, eyes wide.

“About half a mile,” Tom said. “But we’re safer down here.”

Matt turned to the admiral. “What’s the blast range of the Polaris bomb?”

Kowalski swung toward them, eyes wide. “Bomb? What bomb?”

Petkov ignored the man. “The danger is not so much the blast as the shock wave. It’ll shatter the entire island and the ice for miles around. There’s no escape.”

“What fucking bomb?” Kowalski yelled.

Jenny told him.

He shook his head as if trying to deny the truth. “Fucking fantastic, that’s the last time I rescue you guys.”

“How much time do we have left?” Tom asked.

Matt checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes. Not nearly enough time to get clear.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

Matt removed one of the confiscated weapons. One of the black pineapples. “I may have an idea.”

“Buddy, that grenade’s not strong enough to blast a hole to the surface,” Kowalski said.

“We’re not going up.”

“Then where?”

Matt answered, then led them off in a mad dash as time was running out.

Kowalski pounded after him. “No fucking way.”

Craig stared at the empty row of cells, the pair of dead guards. Everything was unraveling. He spun on the pair of soldiers at his side. “Find them!”

Another soldier rushed through the door. “Sir, it looks like they fled into the service shafts.”

Craig clenched a fist. “Of course they did,” he mumbled. But what were they trying to do? Where could they go? His mind spun. “Send two men in there. The Russian admiral must not—”

A muffled blast cut him off. The floor under his feet rattled.

The guards stiffened.

Craig stared down between his toes. “Shit!”

A floor below, Matt tested the docking bay’s hatch. The others were lined up along the wall on Level Five. A moment ago, he had opened the hatch and tossed in a pair of the incendiary grenades, one collected from each of the two dead guards.

Matt touched the metal door with his bare fingers. It had gone from ice cold to burning hot. The blast of the V-class incendiaries continued to impress him. But were they strong enough to do the job here?

There was only one way to find out.

As the blast echoed away, Matt swung open the door. It led to the docking lake for the Russian transport sub, an old I series. A moment ago, the room had been half filled with ice, completely encasing the docked conning tower. Matt remembered Vladimir’s final confession. Petkov’s father had scuttled the sub, blowing all ballast, driving the sub up and jamming it in place. Over the years, the room had flooded and frozen.

Matt stared into the room. The pair of grenades had transformed the frozen tomb into a fiery hell. Water bubbled on the surface. Pools of flame dotted the new lake formed around the sub. The smell of phosphor and steam rolled out.

As Matt studied the chamber, his eyes and face burned. It was still too hot to enter.

“Next time,” Kowalski groused, shielding his face, “let’s try just one grenade.

Despite the residual heat, at least the mound of ice covering the conning tower had melted away. The sub’s hatch was uncovered.

Now if only they could get to it.

Matt checked his watch. Thirteen minutes. With his face sweating, he turned to the others. They didn’t have time to spare. “Everyone inside!”

Washburn splashed into the room first, followed by the biology group. The water was knee-deep. Tom went with them. “Get that hatch open!” Matt called to the Navy pair.

Kowalski and Matt covered the door, keeping their weapons fixed toward the stairs. Despite the thick insulation of the docking bay, everyone had to have heard the grenade explosion.

Matt motioned Jenny. “Get everybody into the sub!”

Jenny nodded, starting across with Bane at her side and Maki in her arms. Beside her, Petkov still spoke into the walkie-talkie, passing the coordinates to the Polar Sentinel.

Jenny called back to him: “Matt!” He heard the distress in her voice and turned. “The water’s getting deeper! It’s filling up!”

She was right. The level had risen to her thighs. Suddenly a geyser of water shot up from the half-frozen lake, exploding up with a soft whoosh.

“Damn it,” Matt swore, understanding what was happening. The Russian incendiaries had been too good. They had melted spots down to the open ocean, weakened others. The outside water pressure, held back by thick ice, was breaking through. Another geyser erupted. Water flooded into the room.

Jenny and the admiral stood halfway across the burning lake. The level had already climbed waist-high.

“Hurry,” she called back to him.

Gunfire erupted at Matt’s side. Kowalski had his rifle raised to his cheek, the barrel smoking. “They’re coming after us!” he hissed.

No surprise there.

Matt retreated a step with Kowalski.

Behind them, Washburn and Tom had gotten the sub’s hatch open. The biology group was already clambering down inside. The sub was dead, defunct. Their only hope of survival was to hole up in the old vessel, trusting its thick hide to insulate them as the ice shattered from the device’s shock wave. The chance of survival was slim, but Matt still had a stubborn streak.

Until he was dead, he’d keep fighting.

A metallic pinging drew his full attention back to the outer corridor. A grenade bounced down the stairwell.

“Crap!” Kowalski yelled. He reached out, grabbed the hatch handle, and yanked the door shut. “Jump!”

Matt leaped to one side, Kowalski to the other.

The grenade blew the door off its hinges. The bay’s hatch flew up, hit the sea cave’s ice ceiling, and rebounded into the water with a crash.

Matt scrambled away from the open door.

Kowalski waved an arm, firing with the other. “Everybody! Inside!”

Matt trudged across the rapidly flooding chamber, half dog-paddling, half kicking. Kowalski retreated with him.

Jenny and the admiral had almost reached the sub. Bane was already being hauled up and in by Tom and Washburn.

Then a geyser blew, throwing Jenny and Petkov apart.

Jenny landed in the water, cradling the boy. She came up sputtering. Maki wailed.

The admiral slogged toward her.

Then a large white hummock surfaced between them. At first Matt thought it was a chunk of ice. Then it thrashed and vanished under the dark water. Everyone knew what it was, freezing in place in terror.

A grendel.

The predator must have slipped through the opening water channels, coming to search the new territory.

Jenny clutched Maki higher in her arms.

Matt stared around. There was no way of knowing where the beast was. They feared moving, attracting it. But it was also death to stay where they were.

Matt glanced to his watch. Twelve minutes.

He stared back out. Across the deepening lake, the water remained dark and still. The grendel could be anywhere, lurking in wait.

Fearing to attract it, they dared not move.

Perry studied the computer navigation and mapping. “Are you certain those are the coordinates of the closest amplifier?” he asked the ensign.

“Yes, sir.”

Damn. He recalculated in his head what the computers confirmed. He checked his watch, a Rolex Submariner, wishing for once that it weren’t so accurate. Twelve minutes…

They’d never make it. Even at their top-rated speed of fifty-two knots, they’d barely reach one of the Polaris amplifiers, not the necessary two. At their current speed, the entire sub vibrated as the nuclear engines generated steam at ten percent above design pressure. There was no need to run silent now. It was a brutal race to the finish.

“We need more power,” he said.

“Engineering says—”

“I know what the engineers said,” he snapped, tense. He would risk the entire boat if they pushed her any harder. There were limits that carbon plate and titanium could withstand. And he didn’t have the time to surface and get instructions from Admiral Reynolds. The decision was his.

“Chief, tell engineering we need to press the engines another ten percent.”

“Aye, sir.” His orders were relayed.

After a few more moments, the shuddering in the boat set clipboards and pens to rattling. It felt as if they were riding over train tracks.

Everyone sat tensely at their stations.

Perry climbed the periscope stand and paced its length. Earlier he had consulted with Amanda. As an expert in ice dynamics, she had confirmed at least the theory behind the Polaris Array. Such a global threat was possible.

The sub’s speed was called out as it climbed. “Sixty knots, sir.”

He glanced to the ensign at the map table. The young officer shook his head. “Still ten miles out from the first set of coordinates.”

He had to push the boat harder.

“Get me engineering,” he ordered.

Matt stood in water up to his armpits. Pools of flaming oil lit the room but failed to reveal the grendel hidden in the dark waters around them. Occasional ripples marked its passage as it stalked among them.

They were trapped as time pressed down on them.

Ten minutes.

They were doomed if they fled, doomed if they stayed.

A voice suddenly called from beyond the smoky, blasted doorway. “Don’t move!”

“Great,” Kowalski growled. “Just great.”

“We have you covered!” Craig yelled. “Any aggression and we’ll start shooting.”

Emphasizing this threat, razor-sharp lines of laser sights crisscrossed the hazy room and settled on their chests. “Don’t move,” Craig repeated.

No one dared disobey him — but it wasn’t the guns that held them all frozen in place.

The waters continued to remain dark and quiet.

“Like I’m going to move,” Kowalski grumbled.

Beyond the doorway, figures shifted within the smoke.

Craig called out to them. “I want the admiral over here now!”

Ten feet from Matt, the waters welled with movement.

Matt met Jenny’s eyes, urging her not to move. It was death to do so.

He checked his watch. Nine minutes…

The choices were not great: guns, grendels, or nuclear bombs.

Take your pick.

Matt glanced to Jenny one more time. There was only one chance for the others. I’m sorry, he wanted to say — then turned and stepped toward the doorway.

Viktor knew what the American was attempting. A sacrifice. He intended to draw the grendel to him, allowing the others to break free and make for the sub. His eyes lingered on the boy in the woman’s arms.

His father had adopted the boy as his son, and at the end, sacrificed so much to keep him safe. Anger flared in him, some of it selfish, a bit of jealousy at the affection given the boy and denied him. But mostly, he felt a connection to his father through the small child. One forms a family where one can. His father had lost so much up here, but at the end, not his humanity.

Viktor turned away. He had brought this ruin upon them all.

Like his father before him, Viktor knew what he had to do.

He yelled over to the blasted doorway. “I’m coming out!” he bellowed, stopping the American in mid-stride.

“What are you—” the other began.

“Here,” Viktor said, and tossed the walkie-talkie toward Pike.

He caught it easily.

“Take care of the boy,” Viktor called, and began splashing toward the exit, pushing through the water. “I’m coming out!” he yelled again, placing his now empty hands atop his head. “Don’t shoot.”

“Admiral,” Pike warned.

His gaze flicked to the man. “One minute,” he said under his breath, tapping a finger atop his wrist monitor. “You have one minute.”

One minute? Matt frowned and glanced to his own wrist. According to his watch, they still had a full eight minutes before the bomb went—

Then it dawned on him.

He spotted the wake that appeared in the water. It began in a lazy S, then focused and tracked in on the wading admiral.

Matt’s gaze fell back to Petkov’s wrist monitor. Once his heart stopped beating, the bomb’s timer would drop immediately to one minute.

The wake in the water sped toward Petkov’s splashing form.

He was taking the bullet for Matt — but it would shorten the time before the bomb exploded.

Matt swung to face Jenny. Her eyes were confused, terrified.

“Be ready to run,” he warned Jenny and Kowalski.

Craig appeared at the doorway, flanked by two guards. They were on higher ground. The flooding water had barely reached their knees. Rifles followed the admiral. All attention was on Petkov.

He was only four yards from Craig when the grendel struck. It surged out of the water, jaws wide, striking him from behind.

The admiral’s head snapped back from the impact at the same time as his body was rammed forward. Propelled by the grendel, he flew high, lifted out of the water. Then the monster rolled, its prey caught in its jaws. Petkov was slammed back into the water.

Craig and his men fell back in horror.

“Run!” Matt yelled.

Jenny was closest, but she was also in the deepest water, up to her neck. She swam with Maki in her arms, kicking with her legs. Once she was within reach of the conning tower, Tom lunged out, snatched the boy from her and pulled him to safety.

Her arms free, Jenny grabbed the outside rungs of the ladder and clambered upward.

Matt retreated with Kowalski.

By the door, the waters thrashed as the grendel whipped its prey, bashing it through the water. A stain of blood pooled around the creature’s white bulk. An arm flailed weakly.

Craig and his guards sheltered back from the savage attack, forgetting about the others for the moment.

Kowalski reached the sub first. Matt waved him up.

The seaman mounted the ladder, scrambling. He glanced back, then stumbled a step. One arm shot out. “Behind you!”

Matt twisted in the water. Another white shape surfaced. Then another. The blood was drawing more of the pod.

Matt weighed caution versus speed. He opted instead for panic. He kicked and paddled, fighting his way toward the sub.

Kowalski reached the top of the tower. He began to fire into the lake, offering some defense.

Matt finally reached the sub and grabbed the lower rung of the ladder. Pulling himself up, he struggled to get his legs under him.

His toes slipped, numb from the cold and slippery from the water.

Kowalski leaned down, grabbed him, half hauling him up the ladder

Beneath Matt, something struck the tower, clanging into it. Jarred, Matt lost his footing and fell free of the wet ladder. But Kowalski still had a fist wrapped in the hood of Matt’s sweatshirt, holding him from a plunge into the waters below.

Matt sought to plant his feet on the rungs. Between his toes, a large white shape surged out of the water.

A grendel, jaws wide, lunged up at him.

With a groan of effort, Kowalski heaved Matt higher. Jaws snapped, catching Matt’s boot heel. The weight of the falling beast yanked the boot clean off. The beast disappeared with its prize.

Matt snatched the ladder and climbed the rest of the way up. “Damn bastard!”

Kowalski was already rolling into the hatch. “What?”

Matt glanced back to the waters below. He had recognized the grendel who had just attacked him. He had noted the pocked and macerated bullet holes. It was the same creature that had hunted Amanda and him in the Crawl Space, the one that had stolen his pants.

“Now the greedy bastard’s got my goddamn boot, too!”

Kowalski shook his head and dropped down the hatch.

Following him, Matt twisted to climb down the ladder when bullets ricocheted off the plate near his head. He ducked lower, crab-crawling down into the hatch.

He looked back to the docking-bay doorway, spotting Craig. A rifle was leveled at Matt. Between them swam a small pod of grendels.

There was no trace of the admiral’s body.

How much time until—

The answer came a moment later. The grendels suddenly went crazy. The waters churned as the monsters thrashed, rolling, leaping, snapping at the air.

Matt understood what had upset the beasts, driving them to a frenzy. He felt it, too. From his head to his toes. A vibration through the station, like a tuning fork struck by a sledgehammer.

A sonic pulse.

Matt knew what it meant.

Polaris had activated.

Just as the admiral had described, the device would generate a sonic pulse. And according to Petkov, the pulse would last sixty seconds, then the nuclear trigger would blow, destroying the island and concussing out in a deadly shock wave.

Across the churning lake, Craig had backed a step away, his rifle still in his hands, his head cocked, listening.

Matt pushed up higher. “One minute!” he called over to Craig, tapping his empty wrist, repeating Petkov’s earlier warning.

Craig’s gun dropped as the realization stuck him.

The admiral was dead…the sonic pulse…

Time had just run out for all of them.

Satisfied by Craig’s look of horror, Matt dropped through the hatch, clanging it shut behind him. He dogged it tight and climbed down to the others.

Kowalski sealed the inner hatch, locking it tight. Tom and Washburn held flashlights. No one spoke. Bane sensed the tension, whining at the back of his throat.

There was no stopping Polaris now.

“We have less than a minute?” Perry asked, incredulous.

Scratchy static came over the phone as he listened. “Yes,” the man confirmed. “…can’t say…only seconds left!”

Perry glanced over to Amanda. She had read his lips, saw his expression. She mirrored his reaction. The race was over before it began. They were defeated.

“…nuclear trigger…” the man continued. “Get clear…”

Before Perry could answer, Amanda’s fingers dug into his arm. Her voice slurred at her sudden anxiety. “Get us deep! Now!”

“What?” he asked.

But she was already running. “As deep as the boat will go!” she yelled back at him.

Perry responded, trusting the woman’s urgency. “Emergency dive!” he yelled to the crew. “Flood negative! Now!

Klaxons rang throughout the sub.

Craig pounded down the hall of Level Four. He knew his destination, but did he have time? There was no telling. He patted his parka’s pocket, hearing a satisfying clink.

He ran past one of the Delta Force team members. The sergeant major called to him as he fled past. “Sir…?”

He didn’t slow, running headlong around the curving hall. His goal came in sight. He needed a secure place to hide, somewhere to ride out the blast wave, someplace waterproof. He knew only one sure place.

The door to the solitary tank was still open, empty of its recent occupant, the Inuit boy. Craig dove inside. He twisted around and yanked the glass door closed. Still powered on the generators, it automatically locked down and was sealed, closing him in.

But was it secure enough? He touched the glass. It vibrated from the sonic pulse of Polaris.

Craig sank to the bottom of the cylinder, bracing himself.

How much time was left?

Matt lay with Jenny. In each other’s arms, the pair was nestled between two mattresses, crammed and sandwiched in one of the bunks. The others were similarly padded, limited two to a bunk. Washburn watched over Maki. Even Bane had been penned in a padded cell of mattresses.

After boarding the sub, there had been no time for niceties or plans. They had all fled to the sub’s berths and found ways to secure themselves from the coming explosion.

And now the waiting.

Matt buried himself into Jenny. The admiral must have survived longer than he’d guessed. Or perhaps the lag time on the device was a bit longer than one minute.

He clutched Jenny, and she him. Hands sought each other, moving from memory, reflexively. His mouth found hers. Soft lips parted under him. They murmured to each other, no words, merely a way to share their breath, reaching out to each other in all ways, a promise unspoken but heartfelt.

He wanted more time with her.

But time had run out.

Under the twilight sky, Command Sergeant Major Edwin Wilson, currently designated Delta One, stood on the ice. The Sikorsky Seahawk rested five paces behind him. Its rotors slowly spun, engines kept hot, ready for immediate action. As ordered, he had retreated thirty miles from the submerged ice island. With the discovery of the bomb at the station, it was up to him to protect the stolen journals. He was only to return if an all clear was dispatched by the mission’s operational controller.

Until then, he waited. No further updates had been transmitted.

Under his feet, the ice had begun to vibrate. At first he thought it was his imagination, but now he was not so certain. The trembling persisted.

What was happening?

He faced northeast, staring through high-powered binoculars, equipped with night vision. The terrain was so flat and featureless that he was able to make out the tall line of pressure ridges near the horizon.

Nothing. No answers there.

He checked his watch. According to the timetable of the original report, there were only a few more minutes to spare.

Frowning, he lifted the binoculars again.

Just as he raised them to his face, the world ignited to the north. The flash of green through the scopes whited out the view, blinding him. Stumbling back, he let the scopes drop around his neck.

He blinked away the glare and stared to the north. Something was wrong with the horizon. It was no longer a smooth arc. It now bowed up, rising like a wave.

He snatched the binoculars and stared again. A deep green glow marked the center of the cresting wave, like a signal buoy riding a wave.

Then it was gone.

A roar like the end of the world rumbled over the ice.

He continued to stare. The bomb had clearly gone off, but what was happening? He couldn’t understand what he was seeing through the scopes.

Then it hit him. He suddenly understood why the glow at the center of the explosion had vanished. It was blocked from his view — by a wall of ice rolling toward him, as wide as the horizon.

As he stared, the cresting wave spread out from ground zero, like a boulder dropped into a still lake.

A tidal wave of ice.

His heart leaped to his throat as he ran for the idling helicopter. “Go!” he screamed as the world continued to rumble ominously. Instead of the explosion fading and echoing away, it was growing louder.

He fled to the Seahawk’s door.

One of his men pushed the door open. “What’s happening?”

Wilson dove in. “Get this bird in the air! Now!”

The pilot heard him. The rotors immediately began to kick up, spinning faster, rotating toward lift off.

Wilson dove to the copilot’s seat.

The blast wave of ice raced toward them.

He stared upward, praying. Overhead, the rotors spun to a blur. The Seahawk lifted from its skids, bobbling a bit as the rotors dug at the frigid air, trying to find purchase.

“C’mon!” Wilson urged.

He stared as the horizon closed in on them.

Then the bird took to the air, shooting straight up.

Wilson judged the distance of the surging ice-tsunami. Was its speed slowing? Fading?

It seemed to be.

It was!

They were going to make it.

Then a half mile away, something blew under the ice. The entire cap slammed up at them, striking the skids of the helicopter. It tilted savagely.

Wilson screamed.

The amplified wave struck the helicopter, swatting it out of the sky.

Amanda stared at the screen of the DeepEye. A moment ago, the monitor’s resolution had fogged from a deep sonar pulse, wiping out detail. Then worse — the screen went suddenly blue.

Only one effect registered that hue on a sonar device.

A nuclear explosion.

John Aratuk stood beside her. The elderly Inuit maintained his vigil in the Cyclops room. He stared up through the dome of Lexan glass. The seas lay dark around them. They were nearly at crush depth. Here the world was eternally sunless.

John pointed.

A star bloomed in the darkness. Off to the south, high above.

Ground zero.

The old man turned to Amanda. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His grief was plain in every line of his face. He had aged decades in a single moment.

Amanda spoke. “I’m so sorry.”

He closed his eyes and turned away, inconsolable.

Amanda turned back to the DeepEye. The man’s daughter, all the others, they had sacrificed everything in an attempt to save the world.

But had they wasted their lives?

The Polaris trigger had blown. That was plain on the DeepEye monitor. But what of Amanda’s attempt to block the two amplifiers?

She stared at the blued-out screen. Her idea had been a simple one, employed rapidly. She had ordered the Polar Sentinel to dive deep. She needed distance from the surface.

As the submarine had plummeted into the Arctic depths, she had rapidly punched in the coordinates and aligned the DeepEye toward the locations of the two nearest amplifiers in the array. Once it was deep enough, she had pointed the DeepEye and widened the breadth of the sonar cone to encompass both devices, needing the distance and depth to accomplish this. Then she had turned the full strength of the DeepEye upon the pair of amplifiers and prayed.

For Polaris to work, the array had to propagate a perfect harmonic wave, just the right frequency to generate an ice-shattering effect. But if the DeepEye was transmitting across the wave front, it could alter the harmonics just enough to disrupt and perhaps jangle the wave front from igniting the two amplifiers within the DeepEye’s cone.

Amanda stared over at the monitor, waiting for it to clear.

Had her plan worked?

Burrowed between two mattresses, Jenny clung to Matt. The world cartwheeled around them both, not smoothly, but jarringly, like a paint shaker. Even with the cushioning, she felt battered and bruised. Her head rang from the concussion of the explosion.

But she was still alive.

They both were.

Matt hugged her tight, his legs and arms wrapped around her. “We’re heading down,” he yelled in her ears.

She also felt the increasing pressure.

After a long minute, the world slowed its spin, settling out into a crooked angle.

“I think we’ve stabilized.” Matt slid an arm from her and peeled away one edge of the mattress to peek out.

Jenny joined him.

In a berth across from them, Kowalski had already poked his head out. He waved a field flashlight up and down the crew quarters. The floor was tilted down and canted to the side, still rolling slightly. “Is everyone okay?” he called out.

Like butterflies leaving cocoons, the rest of the party emerged. Muffled barking confirmed Bane’s status.

Magdalene cried from farther back. “Zane…he fell out…!”

Zane answered faintly from the other direction, “No, I’m okay. Broke my wrist.”

Everyone slowly crawled free, checking their own limbs. Washburn carried Maki. She sang softly to the child, soothing him.

Tom worked his way up the narrow passage between the stacked bunks. His eyes were on the walls and ceilings. Jenny knew why. She heard the creak of seams, the pop of strained joints. “We’re deep,” he muttered. “The explosion must have thrust us straight down.”

“But at least we survived the explosion,” Ogden said.

“It was the ice around the sub,” Tom said dully. “It shielded us. The hollow sea cave was a structural weak point of the station. It simply shattered away, carrying us with it.”

“Are we going to sink to the bottom?” Magdalene asked.

“We’ve positive buoyancy,” Tom answered. “We should eventually surface like a cork. But…”

“But what?” Zane asked, cradling his arm.

All of the Navy crew stared at the walls as they continued to groan and scrape. Kowalski answered, “Pray we don’t reach crush depth first.”

With a start, Craig woke in darkness, upside down. He tasted blood on his tongue, his head ached, and his shoulder flared with a white-hot fire. Broken clavicle. But none of this stimulation woke him.

It was the spray of cold water in his face.

In the darkness, it took him a moment to orient himself. As he righted himself, his hands reached out to glass walls. He felt the source of the jetting spray. A crack in the tank’s glass door. The water was ice-cold.

His eyes strained for any sign of where he was. But the world remained as dark as oil. Water rose under him, filling the tank. He could hear the bubble of escaping air. The tank was no longer intact. He had survived the shockwave of the bomb, but he was deep underwater.

And still falling.

The spray grew fiercer as the depth grew deeper.

Ice water soaked through him, thigh-high now. His teeth chattered, half from cold, half from shock, but mostly from growing panic.

He secretly feared being buried alive. He had heard tales of agents being eliminated in such a manner.

This was worse.

The cold rose through him faster than the water. Which would kill him first, he wondered, hypothermia or drowning?

After a full minute, the answer came.

The loud bubbling stopped, and the spray of water slowed to a trickle, then stopped. He had reached some equilibrium point. The pocket of air was holding the water back…at least for now.

But he was far from safe. The small pocket would quickly stale, and even before that, the cold would kill him.

Or maybe not.

Fingers scrambled into the pocket of his parka. The clink of glass sounded. His fingertips touched broken glass, cutting. Still, he searched and found what he sought. He pulled out one of the glass syringes, unbroken. He had taken two samples from the ice lab, insurance at the time.

Now it was survival.

He thumbed off the needle cap.

There was no way he could find a vein in the dark.

With both hands, he stabbed the long point into the flesh of his belly. The pain was exquisite. He shoved the plunger, pushing the elixir into his peritoneal cavity. From there, it should slowly absorb into his bloodstream.

Once emptied, he pulled the syringe free and dropped it into the icy pool at his waist. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, his limbs soon followed.

A fear rose through his panic.

Would the cryogenic elixir absorb fast enough?

Only time would tell.

Holding his breath, Matt stood with the others. The old sub groaned and popped. Kowalski swung his flashlight up and down the passage. Distantly a soft hiss of water whispered in the boat. A leak. The darkness pressed down upon them.

Jenny held his hand, fingers tight, palms damp.

Then Matt felt the shift under his legs, a slight rolling of his stomach. He turned to Kowalski and Tom, trusting the Navy men’s senses more than his own.

Tom confirmed his hope. “We’re rising.”

Jenny’s fingers squeezed his. They were heading back up.

Murmurs of relief echoed among the others.

But Kowalski’s face remained tight. Tom did not look any more relieved.

“What’s wrong?” Matt asked.

“There’s no way to alter our buoyancy,” Tom answered.

Kowalski nodded. “It’s an uncontrolled ascent. We’re going to keep climbing faster and faster.”

Matt understood, remembering Tom’s earlier analogy. The sub was like a cork shoved deep into the water. It was now back on its way up, gaining speed, propelled by its own buoyancy. Matt’s gaze drifted up, picturing what would happen.

Once they reached the surface, the speed of their ascent would be deadly. They’d strike the underside of the polar ice cap like a train wreck.

“Back into the mattresses?” Matt asked.

“That won’t do much good,” Kowalski said. “It’ll be pancake city once we hit the surface.”

Still they had no other recourse. The party fled back to the padding and security of the mattresses. Matt pushed in next to Jenny. He sensed their rate of ascent accelerating. He felt it in his ears, a popping sensation. The incline of the sub grew steeper as it rose.

Jenny sought him with her hands. He curled into her, not knowing if this would be his last chance to do so. His hands reached to her cheeks. They were damp.

“Jen…”

She shook in his arms.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I always have. I never stopped.”

Her body quaked with silent sobs, but still she reached him with her lips, seeking his mouth. She kissed him deeply, hugely. She didn’t have to speak. She answered with her entire body and soul.

They clung to each other, shutting out the world, the terror. Here, in this moment, there was only forgiveness and love and simple need. One for another. How could they have forgotten something so simple?

The moment stretched to a crystalline eternity.

Then the sub hit the surface.

The moon was full, a bright coin breaking through the storm clouds. Its light cast the Arctic stillness into silver, shining off the ice. The only blemish was a half-mile-wide dark hole, still smoldering and smoking. The rest of the world remained a perfect plain of sterling silver.

But it was not to last. Perfection never did.

A mile from the hole, something smashed through from below, a black whale breaching from the water. It thrust itself high into the air, leaving the seas fully behind. It hung in the air until gravity claimed it again.

The length of iron and steel crashed, belly first, to the sea, vanishing under the ice for a moment, then rolling back up, sloshing and rocking in the slush.

Matt lay in a tangle with Jenny. In the darkness, pressed between mattresses, it was hard to say whose limbs were whose.

A moment ago, they had struck the surface. They must have. Locked in each other’s arms, they had been thrown upward, held weightless for a long breath as if they were flying. Then they were inexplicably falling again.

The crash jarred them back to their berth, landing them in a pile.

Cries of surprise reached them from the others.

The sub rolled and canted.

Matt extracted himself from Jenny and helped them both from their nest. His feet were unsteady — or was it the rocking sub? Matt kept one hand clutched to the frame of his berth. “What just happened?” he asked.

Kowalski scratched his head with his flashlight. “We should be dead. Crushed.” He sounded oddly disappointed, his firm faith in the physics of buoyancy and ice betrayed.

“Well, I’m not complaining,” Matt said, gaining his balance as the sub settled. “Let’s see where we are.”

Keeping a firm grip on Jenny’s hand, he led the party back to the center of the boat. The inner hatch was unlocked. It dropped open, drenching Kowalski with water.

“Crap,” he swore. “Why am I the one always getting soaked?”

Matt climbed the ladder to the top of the boat’s sail, cracking the upper hatch of the conning tower. He threw it open with a clang. Cold air swept over him. He had never felt anything more wonderful.

He climbed out to the flying bridge to make room for the others below. As he stood, he gaped at the sight beyond the submarine.

The storm had broken. Moonlight turned the world silver.

But it wasn’t solid silver.

The submarine lolled in a sea of slush. Ripples spread out from the rocking boat. A hundred yards away, the gentle waves lapped against a shore of solid ice. It marked the boundary between two worlds — one of regular ice and one of decomposed slush.

Matt stared out. A huge black hole separated these two worlds.

Jenny joined him, slipping her hand back into his. “What happened?”

“The Polaris Array did what it was supposed to do,” he said, waving a hand over the vast sea of slush and broken ice. “But it was only half a success. It looks like the other half of the array didn’t blow.”

“Was it the Polar Sentinel?”

Matt shrugged. “Who else could it be?”

Kowalski echoed Jenny’s words. “The Polar Sentinel.”

Matt glanced to him. He was pointing out into the slushy sea. A black bulk shoved upward, shedding ice as it rose. The submarine’s large eye, aglow from the lights inside, stared back at them, as if surprised to see them alive.

Matt pulled Jenny under his arm, recognizing how well she fit against him, two becoming one once again.

He had to admit, he was surprised, too.