Ice Hunt

Lacy dug in her blades, but her momentum and the downward tilt of the tunnel betrayed her. She flew over the cliff edge and into empty space. A scream, sharp enough to shatter ice, burst from her. She tumbled into the chute, dropping away into darkness.

The shear pit was not a deep one, no more than fifteen feet, and she struck the ice floor with her blades. The impact was too much. Despite the Kevlar ankle guard, one ankle cracked. Her other knee struck so hard that she felt it in her shoulder. She crumpled to the floor in a heap.

Pain drove away her fear, traveling out to all her nerve endings.

She looked upward, to the cliff’s edge.

Her light rose in a beacon.

At the precipice, the beast hesitated. It peered down at her with those dead eyes, glowing red in the reflection of her light. Claws dug into the ice. Shoulders bunched as it leaned over the edge. Rapid huffs of mist curled from each slitted nostril as a deep rumble flowed from it, seeming to vibrate the very air.

Staring up, Lacy knew she had been mistaken a moment ago. With this realization, terror drove sanity to the edges of her consciousness.

It was half a ton in mass, its skin smooth, shining oily, more like a dolphin’s skin. Adding to this appearance, its head was sleek, earless, but domed high, sweeping down to an elongated muzzle, giving it a stretched appearance. The slitted nostrils rose too high on its face, almost above its wide-spaced eyes.

Lacy stared numbly. It was too large, too muscular, too primeval for the modern world. Even in her madness, she recognized what she was seeing: something prehistoric, saurian…yet still mammalian.

The beast studied her in turn, its lips rippling back from its long snout to reveal rows of jagged teeth as bright as broken bone against pink gums. Razored claws sank into the ice.

Some primitive part of her responded to the age-old instincts of predator and prey. A small mewling whimper escaped Lacy’s throat.

The beast began its slow climb into the pit.

7:48 A.M.

OMEGA DRIFT STATION

Matt was tired of having guns pointed at him. An hour ago, he and the others had been corralled into a mess hall and were now seated at one of the four tables in the room. A small kitchenette occupied the back half of the space. Empty and cold. Breakfast must have already been served.

They had been offered leftover coffee—and though it was as thick as Mississippi mud, it was hot and welcome. Craig hunched over his mug, clutching it with both hands as if it was all that stood between him and a slow, painful death.

Jenny sat beside her father on the other side of the table. Her initial scowl at being forced from her plane had not subsided. If anything, her frown lines had deepened. Her sheriff’s badge and papers had done nothing to dissuade the Navy security team from leading them at gunpoint into this makeshift holding cell.

As Matt had suspected, after the attack on Prudhoe, no one was taking any chances. The chain of command had to be followed. Matt knew this only too well from his own military days.

He stared over at the two guards—from their uniforms, a petty officer and a seaman. Each bore a rifle across his chest and a holstered pistol on his belt. Jenny’s weapon had been taken from her, along with the service shotgun stored in the back of the Otter.

“What is taking them so long?” Jenny finally whispered under her breath, teeth clenched.

“Communication is still bad,” Matt said. The head of the security team had left twenty minutes ago to verify their identification. But that meant reaching someone on the coast, who, in turn, would surely need to reach Fairbanks. They could be here all morning.

“Well, who the hell is in charge here?” she continued.

Matt knew what she meant. The entire security team seemed to consist of the six men who had escorted them to the station. Where were the other Navy personnel? Matt remembered the empty polynya and the docking bollards hammered into the ice. “Those in charge must be out in the submarine.”

“What submarine?” Craig asked, perking up from his mug.

Matt explained what he saw from the air. “The old SCICEX stations were serviced by Navy subs. This is surely no exception, especially as deep as we are into the polar pack. I’d bet my eyeteeth that the senior Navy personnel are aboard the submarine on some mission. Perhaps off to help at Prudhoe.”

“What about the head of the research team?” Craig asked. “There has to be a chain of command among the civilians. If we could get someone to listen…”

Since their arrival, a handful of men and women had drifted through to gawk at the newcomers. Their faces were a blend of scientific curiosity and raw need for news of the outside world. One of the men, a researcher with a NASA group, had to be forcibly escorted away by one of the guards.

“I don’t know who’s in charge of the civilian researchers, but I’d wager that person is gone, too.” Matt nodded to their guards. “I’m sure the civilian head of the drift station would’ve barged right past these two.”

As if hearing him, the door burst open—but it wasn’t the head of the base. It was Lieutenant Commander Paul Sewell, head of the security team. He strode over to the table.

Bane rose from where he lay, but Matt placed a hand on the wolf. The dog settled to his haunches, remaining alert.

The Navy leader placed Jenny’s badge and identification on the table. “Your credentials checked out,” he said, and eyed the others. “But your superiors in Fairbanks seemed to know nothing about what you’re doing up here. They said you were on vacation.”

He passed out the other pieces of identification: Matt’s Fish and Game badge, John’s driver’s license, and Craig’s press credentials.

Jenny gathered her badge and ID. “What about my sidearm and shotgun?”

“They’re in lockup until the captain returns.” His tone brooked no argument. Matt respected Lieutenant Commander Sewell’s civil but no-nonsense manner.

Jenny did not. Her scowl grew darker. She did not like being unarmed.

“Sir,” Craig said, “we didn’t come here to start trouble. We heard about your discovery of an abandoned ice base.”

This drew a startled response from the lieutenant commander. “The Russian base?”

Matt practically spit out his coffee. Russian…Jenny’s eyes widened in surprise. John settled his own mug of coffee very slowly to the table.

Only Craig kept his face still and unresponsive. He didn’t miss a beat as he continued: “Yes, exactly. I was sent by my paper to report on the discovery. These folks agreed to escort me after I ran into some…um, problems in Alaska.”