Ice Hunt

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.”

2:35 P.M.

ABOARD THE DRAKON

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.”

2:50 P.M.

ICE STATION GRENDEL

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.