Ice Hunt

He took the headset, noting the tremble in her fingers. Fury, frustration, or both? He palmed the microphone to keep his next words private with her. “Is he still keeping the information under lock and key?”

Amanda snorted and stood. “And electronic padlock and voiceprint recognition and retinal scan identification. Fort Knox couldn’t be more secure.”

Perry smiled at her. “He’s doing his best. The bureaucratic machinery under him grinds slowly. With such sensitive matters, diplomatic cha

“But I don’t know why. This goes back to World War Two. After so long, the world has a right to know.”

“It’s waited for fifty years. It can wait another month or so. With the already strained relations between the U.S. and Russia, the way has to be greased before letting the information out.”

Amanda sighed, stared into his eyes, then shook her head. “You sound just like my father.”

Perry leaned in. “In that case, this would be very Freudian.” He kissed her.

She smiled under his lips and mumbled, “You kiss like him, too.”

He choked a laugh, pulling back.

She pointed to the headset. “You’d best not keep the admiral waiting.”

He slipped the headset in place and pulled up the microphone. “Captain Perry here.”

“Captain, I trust you’re taking good care of my daughter.” His voice cut in and out a bit.

“Yes, sir…very good care.” One hand reached over and squeezed Amanda’s hand. Their affection for each other was no secret, but it had grown deeper over the past two months, slipping past fondness to something more meaningful. For propriety’s sake, they restricted any outward displays to private moments. Not even the admiral, Amanda’s father, knew of the escalation of their affections.

“Captain, I’ll keep this brief,” the admiral continued. “The Russian ambassador was contacted yesterday and given a copy of your report.”

“But I thought we weren’t going to contact them until—”

Now it was Perry’s turn to be cut off. “We had no choice,” the admiral interrupted. “Word had somehow reached Moscow about the rediscovery of the old ice station.”

“Yes, sir. But what does this mean for those of us out here?”

There was a long pause. Perry was momentarily unsure if the solar storm had cut off communication — then the admiral spoke again, “Greg…”

The informal use of his first name instantly drew him to full alert.

“Greg, I need you to be aware of something else. While I may be out here on the West Coast, I’ve been in this business long enough to know when the hive back in D.C. is buzzing. Something is going on over there. Midnight meetings between the NSA and the CIA over the matter. The secretary of the Navy has been recalled from a junket in the Middle East. The entire cabinet was recalled early from their Easter break.”

“What’s it all about?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. Something broke high in command, higher than my station. Word has yet to reach me…if it ever will. Some political shit storm is brewing over this. D.C. is locking up hatches and battening down. I’ve never seen its like before.”

A cold finger of dread ran up Perry’s spine. “I don’t understand. Why?”

Again his words stuttered in the electronic chop. “I’m not sure. But I wanted to give you heads-up about the escalation down here.”

Perry frowned. It all sounded like the usual politics to him. He would note the admiral’s concern, but what else could he do?

“Captain, there’s one other thing. A strange tidbit that has trickled down to me; actually it was passed by an aide to the undersecretary. It’s a single word that seems to be the center of the shit storm.”

“What’s the word?”

“Grendel.”

Perry’s breath went out of him.

“Perhaps a code name, a name of a ship, I don’t know,” the admiral continued. “Does it mean anything to you?”

Perry closed his eyes. Grendel…The discovery had only been made today. The steel plaque had been covered in ice and hoarfrost and was easy to miss. It was near the main surface entrance into the buried ice station.

“Greg?”

His mind continued to spin. How did Washington know…? Omega’s translator and the Sentinel’s own linguistic expert had argued over the plaque’s translation, especially the last word, until finally coming to the same conclusion.

It was the name of the buried base: Ice Station Grendel.

“Captain Perry, are you still there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does the word mean something?”

“Yes, sir, I believe it does.” His voice remained tight. Besides the word being etched on the plaque, Perry had seen the same Cyrillic lettering in one other place, on one of the station’s doors…a door before which he himself had posted armed guards.

Until today, he had not known the meaning of the Cyrillic letters stenciled upon that monstrous door.

Now he did.

But he hadn’t been the first.

Matt led the way up the steep slope, guiding Mariah by the reins. Craig rode on top, hunched down, clinging to the saddle horn. Matt dared not ride double, at least not yet, not until they were headed downhill or at least on flat land. He feared taxing the horse too soon.

Ahead, his four dogs ranged toward the top of the valley. They all had to get out of these steep peaks. Only Bane seemed to sense his master’s fear, sticking close, ears perked.

Matt glanced behind. The sky divers had surely landed by now, but there was no growl of motorcycle engines. No sign of a chase, but the dense forest of spruce and aspen obscured his view.

Already a twilight gloom had settled over the valley, the sun disappearing both into the surrounding peaks and the stacks of dark clouds overhead. Being April, the days had begun to lengthen from the continual dark of winter toward the midnight sun of summer.

Squinting, Matt watched over his shoulder. But there was no telling what was going on. He frowned. Maybe he had been wrong…maybe he had grown too paranoid out here in these empty woods.

Craig must have noticed his concerned expression. “Could it have been a rescue party? Are we ru

Matt opened his mouth to speak — then an explosion took his words away. Both men stared downhill. From the gloom below, a fiery ball rolled skyward. The blast echoed away.

“The plane…” Craig mumbled.

“They destroyed it.” Matt’s eyes grew wide. He pictured Brent Cumming’s body razed.

“Why?”

Matt squinted, thinking. He could come up with only one reason. “They’re covering their tracks. If the plane had been sabotaged, they’d need to destroy the evidence — and that includes any witnesses.” Matt pictured the clear trail of hoof, boot, and paw prints heading away from the crash site. He’d had no time to mask their path.

From below a new noise cut through the forest like a band saw. A motorcycle engine roared to life, growling fiercely then settling to a low rumble. A second soon joined the chorus.

Bane echoed the motors, rumbling deep in his chest.

Matt stared at the weak glow of the fading sun. The clouds were lowering still. They’d get more than a sifting of snow overnight. A fact he was sure their pursuers knew, too, which meant the saboteurs would attempt to run them down before the sun set.

“What can we do?” Craig asked.

As answer, Matt tugged Mariah’s lead and headed for the top of the rise. He had to find a way to delay them…at least long enough until the skies opened.

“Is there somewhere we can hide?” Craig’s voice trembled. He hunched farther over the saddle as Mariah clambered up a tumble of talus rock.

Matt dismissed Craig’s question for now. Foremost in his mind was simply to survive until nightfall. They were at a distinct disadvantage. One horse, two men. Their pursuers each had a snow chopper. Not good odds. Already the rumble of the cycles throttled up as the chase began.