Ice Hunt

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.