Ice Hunt

Bratt pointed to Washburn and Matt. “You take the one on the left. We’ll take the other.” He nodded to Greer.

Matt readied his ax. He had never killed a man with such a crude weapon. In the Green Berets, he had shot men, even bayoneted one, but never hacked one with an ax. He glanced over to Craig.

The reporter stared, wide-eyed, unblinking at them. He sheltered by the door to the neighboring generator room.

“Watch through this window,” Matt said. “If anything goes wrong, you haul ass back to the others. Get them ru

Craig opened his mouth, then closed it and nodded. He hurried over. Something fell out of his coat and clattered against the floor.

Bratt scowled at the noise, but the rumbling generators more than covered it. Matt retrieved the object. A book. He recognized it as one of the journals from down in the lab. He lifted an eyebrow and handed it back to Craig.

“For the story,” the reporter said hurriedly, tucking it back away. “If I ever get out of this mess…”

Matt had to give the guy credit. He stuck to his guns.

“Ready,” Bratt said.

Nods all around.

Bratt reached for the handle. He waited for a flare-up of shouting from the levels above, then tugged the door open. The four of them ran through, splitting into two teams to cross toward the guards, whose backs still remained toward them.

Matt raced, oblivious to the ache in his feet. He carried the ax in both hands. Washburn flew beside him, outdistancing him in five steps.

But with her speed, she failed to spot the abandoned di

Her foot hit it and skidded out from under her, turning her efficient sprint into a headlong tumble. She tried to catch herself on a table, but only succeeded in taking it down with her at the heels of the two guards.

The crashing noise drew both men around, weapons raised.

Bratt and Greer were close enough. With a flash of silver, Bratt whipped a scalpel at the man. It flew with frightening accuracy, impaling the man’s left eye. He fell backward, mouth open, but before he could scream, Greer dove on top of him.

Matt faced his own target, leaping over Washburn’s struggling form. “Stay down!”

Still in midair, he swung his ax in a wide arc — but he was too slow, too far away.

Gunfire spat from the end of the Russian’s AK-47. It chewed a path over his shoulder, then oddly continued up toward the ceiling.

Only then did Matt notice Washburn below him. She had lashed out with one her meat hooks, impaling the soldier through the calf and ripping him off balance.

Matt landed as the guard fell back, hitting the floor hard. With the detachment that could only come from years of Special Forces training, Matt brought his ax down upon the head of the soldier. The skull gave way like a ripe watermelon.

Matt quickly let go of the handle, rolling away on his knees, as his target convulsed under the embedded ax.

Matt’s hands shook. Too many years had passed since he’d been a soldier. He had made the mistake of looking into the eyes of the man he killed — rather, boy he had killed. No older than nineteen. He had seen the pain and terror in his victim’s eyes.

Bratt was at their side. “Let’s go. Someone surely heard that shooting. We can’t count on the confusion buying us much time.”

Matt choked back bile and climbed to his feet. Sorrow or not, he had to keep moving. He remembered Je

They had not started this war.

A step away, Greer stripped his target’s camouflage gear: parka and snow pants. “With all the noise, we’ll need someone to act as lookout.” He rubbed the bloodstains off the waterproof coat and began to pull it on, ready to stand in for the fallen soldier.

“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.”

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.