Ice Hunt

Slipping his moosehide boot into a stirrup, Matt pulled himself into the saddle. His dogs danced around at the edges of the camp. They knew they were heading out. “C’mon, boys, time to play heroes.”

SEVEROMORSK NAVAL COMPLEX

MURMANSK, RUSSIA

Viktor Petkov stood at Pier Four, bundled in a long brown greatcoat and fur cap. The only markings of his rank were on the red epaulets and the front of his cap: four gold stars.

He smoked a cigar, Cuban, though it was all but forgotten. At his back rose the Severomorsk Naval Complex, his home and domain. Bounded in razor wire and concrete blast barriers, the small city housed the massive shipyards, dry docks, repair facilities, weapons depots, and operations buildings of the Russian Northern Fleet. Positioned on the northern coast, the city-complex faced the Arctic Ocean and braved the harsh winters of this hostile land. Here were forged not only mighty seagoing vessels but even harder men.

Viktor’s storm-gray eyes ignored the ocean and focused on the rush of activity down the length of the pier. The submarine Drakon was almost ready to be tugged away from her berth. The shore-power cables were already being hauled and secured.

“Admiral Petkov,” the young captain said, standing at attention. “On your orders, the Drakon is ready to be under way.”

He nodded, checking his watch. “Once aboard, I’ll need a secure landline before we leave.”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll follow me.”

Viktor studied Captain Mikovsky as he was led down the pier to the gangway. The Drakon was the man’s first command assignment. He recognized the pride in the other’s gait. Captain Mikovsky had just returned from a successful shakedown cruise of the new Akula class II vessel and was now taking the admiral of the Northern Fleet on a mission whose specifics were still sealed from all eyes. The thirty-year-old captain—half Viktor’s own age—strode down the pier like the c**k of the walk.

Was I ever this foolish? Viktor wondered as they reached the gangway. Only a year from retirement, he could hardly remember being so young, so sure of himself. The world had become a less certain place over the past decades.

The captain preceded him, announcing the admiral’s arrival shipboard, then turned back to him. “Request permission to be under way, sir.”

He nodded and flicked the stub of his cigar into the waters below.

The captain began issuing orders, relayed through a bullhorn by the officer of the deck positioned atop the sail’s bridge to the crew on the pier. “Lose the gangway. Take in line one. Take in line two.”

A crane hauled the gangway up and away. Line handlers scurried among the bollards and ropes.

Mikovsky led the way up the steel rungs of the conning tower. Once there, he gave final orders to his officer of the deck and junior officer of the deck, then led Viktor down into the submarine itself.

It had been almost two years since the admiral had been aboard a submarine, but he knew the layout of this boat down to every screw and plate. Since he was an old submariner himself, the designs had passed through his office for inspection and comment. Despite this knowledge, he allowed Mikovsky to walk him through the busy control station and down to the captain’s stateroom that he was commandeering for this voyage.

Eyes followed him, respectfully glancing away when caught. He knew the image he presented. Tall for a submariner, lean and lanky. His hair had aged to a shock of white, worn uncharacteristically long to his collar. This, along with his stolid demeanor and ice-gray eyes, had earned him his nickname. He heard it whispered down the boat.

Beliy Prizrak

The White Ghost.

At last, they reached his cabin.

“The communication line is still active as you requested,” Mikovsky said, standing at the door.

“And the crates from the research facility?”

“Stored in the stateroom, as you ordered.” The captain waved to the open door.

The admiral glanced inside. “Very good.” He slipped off his fur cap. “You’re dismissed, Captain. See to your boat.”

“Yes, Admiral.” The man turned on a heel and departed.

Viktor closed the stateroom door and locked it behind him. His personal gear was piled neatly by the bed, but at the back of the small room was a stack of six titanium boxes. He crossed to the sealed red binder resting atop the stack. One finger checked the seal against tampering. It was secure. Across the face of the binder was stenciled one word:

It was a name out of legend.

Grendel.

His fingers formed a fist over the folder. The name for this mission had been derived from the Nordic tale Beowulf. Grendel was the legendary monster that terrorized the northern coasts until defeated by the Norse hero Beowulf. But for Petkov, the name carried a deeper meaning. It was his own personal demon, a source of pain, shame, humiliation, and grief. It had forged the man he was today. His fist clenched harder.

After so long…almost sixty years…He remembered his father being led away at the point of a gun in the middle of the night. He had been only six years old.

He stared at the stack of boxes. It took him a long moment to breathe again. He turned away. The stateroom, painted green, contained a single bunk, a bookshelf, a desk, a washbasin, and a communication station that consisted of the bridge speaker box, a video monitor, and a single telephone.

He reached and picked up the phone’s receiver, spoke rapidly, then listened as his call was routed, coded, and rerouted again. He waited. Then a familiar voice came on the line, frosted with static. “Leopard, here.”

“Status?”

“The target is down.”

“Confirmation?”

“Under way.”

“You know your orders.”

A pause. “No survivors.”

This last needed no validation. Admiral Petkov ended the call, settling the receiver down into its cradle. Now it started.

5:16 P.M.

BROOKS RANGE, ALASKA

Matt urged his horse up the ridgeline. It had been a hard climb. The neighboring valley was a thousand feet higher in elevation. Up here, snow still lay on the ground, thicker in the shadow of the trees. His four dogs were already loping ahead, sniffing, nosing, ears perked. He whistled to keep them from getting too far ahead.

From the ridgeline, Matt surveyed the next valley. A spiral of smoke, thinning now, marked the crash site, but the forest of spruce and alder blocked the view of the crumpled plane. He listened. No voices were heard. A bad sign. Frowning, he tapped his heels on his mare’s flanks. “Off we go, Mariah.”

He walked his horse down, mindful of the ice and snow. He followed a seep creek trickling through the forest. A mist hung over the thread of water. The quiet grew unnerving. Mosquitoes buzzed him, setting his teeth on edge. The only other noise was his horse’s steps: a crunching sound as each hoof broke through the crust of ice over the snow.