Ice Hunt

The young lieutenant who had relayed the update still stood stiffly at his shoulder, awaiting his response. Viktor had yet to acknowledge the man’s hurried report.

A moment ago, the lieutenant had rushed in, insisting on speaking to the admiral immediately. The radio operator ma

“Depth charges,” the lieutenant had related. “The radioman believes he was hearing the concussion of depth charges.”

But that wasn’t the worst of the news. Amid the explosions, a weak static-chewed message had been transmitted on shortwave. A Mayday from the Drakon. Their submarine was under attack.

It had to be the U.S. Delta Force team, finally having arrived on the playing field. Late, but making up for its tardiness with deadly efficiency.

The lieutenant had then finished his message, barely keeping the panic from his voice. “The radioman reported definite bubbling, marking a sub implosion.”

Viktor fixed his gaze on the gaps in the shelf of journals. There was no doubt who had stolen the volumes: the same person who called the attack down upon the Drakon, the Delta Force controller, the leader sent in advance to covertly obtain his father’s research, to secure it before calling in the clean-up crew. Now with the prize in hand, the Delta Forces had been mobilized.

“Sir?” the lieutenant mumbled.

Viktor turned. “No one else must know about the Drakon.”

“Sir…?” There was a long pause as the admiral fixed the man with his steel-gray eyes, then a strained response: “Yes, sir.”

“We will hold this station, Lieutenant. We will find the Americans who were here earlier.” He continued to clench a fist. “We will not fail in this mission.”

“No, sir.”

“I have new orders to pass on to the men.”

The lieutenant stood straighter, ready to accept his assignment. Viktor told him what he wanted done. The Polaris engine had been unpacked and bolted to the floor on Level Five. By now, all the crew had been briefed with the mission assignment: to retrieve the research here, then erase all signs of the base. And while the crew certainly knew the destructive nature of the explosive device on Level Five — believing it to be a mere Z-class nuclear incendiary device — none knew its true purpose.

The lieutenant paled as Viktor gave him the code to prime the Polaris device. “We will not let the Americans steal the prize here,” he finished. “Even if it costs all our lives, that must not happen.”

“Yes, sir…no, sir,” the young man stammered. “My men will find them, Admiral.”

“Don’t fail, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

The lieutenant fled away. There was no threat like one’s own death to motivate a crew. The Americans would be found, and the prize recaptured, or no one would be leaving this base alive — not the Americans, not the Russians, not even himself.

Viktor studied his wrist monitor as he listened to the lieutenant’s footsteps retreating below. On the monitor, the Polaris star glowed brightly, marking his continued contact with the array. The center trigger remained dark.

He waited.

Before detonating Polaris, he had first hoped to return to Russia with his father’s research in hand, to clear his family name. But now matters had changed.

Viktor had risen through the ranks to become admiral of the Northern Fleet because of his ability to mold strategies to circumstances, to keep the larger picture in mind at all times. He did so now as he stared at the tiny red heart-shaped icon in the lower corner of the wrist monitor, slipping back to another time.

He was eighteen, entering his apartment, full of pride, clutching his admission papers to the Russian Naval Academy. He smelled the urine first. Then the gusty breeze through the open door set his mother’s body to swinging from her broken neck. He rushed forward, the admission papers fluttering from his fingers and landing under his mother’s heels.

He closed his eyes. He had come full circle now, leaving his mother’s body and ending here at his father’s crypt.

From one death to another.

It was now time to complete the cycle.

Vengeance weighed far heavier on his heart than honor.

That was the bigger picture.

He opened his eyes and found the monitor had changed — subtly but significantly. The five points of the star continued their sequential flashing, winding around the dial, and the small heart icon still blinked with each pulse beat in his wrist. But now a new glow lit the monitor, a crimson diamond in the center of the star.

The lieutenant had followed orders.

The Polaris engine had been primed.

All was in readiness, requiring only one last act.

Viktor reached to the one button he had held off touching until now. He depressed the red bezel on the side of the wrist monitor, holding it for the required minute.

Seconds counted away — then the central trigger light on the wrist monitor began to flash. Activated.

He studied the blinking. The trigger marker flashed in sync with the heart icon in the corner of the screen. Only then did he let go.

It was done.

The detonation of the Polaris device was now tied to his own heartbeat, to his own pulse. If his heartbeat ceased for a minute’s time, the device would blow automatically. It was an extra bit of insurance, a fallback plan in case all should turn against him.

Victor lowered his arm.

He was now a living trigger for the array. There was no abort code, no fail-safe. Once it was initiated, nothing could stop Polaris.

With its detonation, the old world would end, and a new one would begin, forged in ice and blood. His revenge would be exacted on all: the Russians, the Americans, the world. Viktor’s only regret in such a scenario was that he would not be around to see it happen.

But he knew how to live with regret…he had done it his entire life.

As he began to turn away, a sailor ran up to him, coming from the hall that held the frozen tanks. “Sir! Admiral Petkov, sir!”

He paused. “What is it?”

“S-something…” He motioned back to the hall. “Something is happening down there.”

“What? Is it the Americans?” Viktor had left a group of guards by the service vent. They were to wait until the caustic blast from the incendiary grenade cooled, then proceed and hunt down any survivors.

“No, not the Americans!” The sailor was breathless, eyes wide with horror. “You must see for yourself!”

…two…one…

From his post beside the electrical panel, Matt watched as Bratt finished his silent count, ticking down with his fingers, ending with a clenched fist in the air.

…zero…go!

Washburn began yanking at the fuses that powered Level One, but the old glass tubes were stubborn, corroded in place. She was going too slow.

Matt motioned her aside and used the butt of his fire axe to smash the line of fuses. The tinkling cascade of shards blew outward. A wisp of electrical smoke followed, snaking into the air.

The effect was immediate. Distant shouts echoed to the group.

Bratt waved them all to the door. Through the window, Matt saw a handful of men in white parkas rush toward the central spiral staircase. Rifles were at the ready. More shouting followed, interspersed with barked orders.

Two of the four men mounted the stairs and fled upward. Two remained on guard.

“A couple birds aren’t leaving the nest,” Greer grumbled.

“We’ll have to take them out,” Bratt said. “We have no other choice. Our hand is played.”

The two soldiers, dressed in unzipped parkas, continued to man their posts, but they kept their attention fixed toward the stairs, their backs to the electrical suite.