Ice Hunt

“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!”

3:07 P.M.

USS POLAR SENTINEL

“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?”

3:07 P.M.

OUTSIDE OMEGA DRIFT STATION

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.

3:14 P.M.

USS POLAR SENTINEL

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…”

3:22 P.M.

PACIFIC SUBMARINE COMMAND

PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII

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.