Ice Hunt

“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.”

3:38 P.M.

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.”