She returned to the tunnel, girding herself for the terrifying journey ahead. But as she fingered the handle to the ice ax, another memory was triggered. Earlier, when she had confronted Connor about searching for Lacy by himself, he had waved off her concern. Everyone was too busy, he had claimed. But then he had said something else. The words returned to her now.
Besides, I have a walkie-talkie.
Amanda spun around.
She dropped back to Connor’s body. She searched his ripped goose-down vest, leaking feathers and stuffing, and found the small handheld radio.
Kneeling, she twisted the dial. A small red battery light glowed. She pressed the walkie-talkie to her lips. “This is Amanda Reynolds.” She struggled to modulate her voice, trying to whisper, but fearing no one would hear her if she were too faint. “If anyone can hear me, I’m trapped in the Crawl Space. There is a large predator hunting the tunnels. It killed Lacy Devlin and Connor MacFerran. It is loose now, off somewhere…I don’t know where. I’m going to attempt to reach the upper levels. Please…please, if you read this, bring weapons. I will broadcast my location as soon as I can reach any of the marked tunnels.”
She placed her fingers over the radio’s speaker. Please, someone be listening. She waited, trying to feel any vibration in the speaker, some sign that someone was communicating with her, but there was nothing.
She stood again and faced the dark tunnel. The beam from her helmet lamp pierced ahead. She held the radio in one hand, the ice pick in the other.
She had to get out of the Crawl Space.
Then she’d be safe.
12:15 P.M.
ABOARD THE DRAKON
His men had performed flawlessly.
Captain First Rank Anton Mikovsky stood watch atop the submarine’s periscope stand, hands behind his back. He wore his underway uniform: green tunic and pants, cuffs tucked into boots. Reports continued to flow from battle stations.
All areas remained green.
He was taking no chances. Word from the shore team confirmed that Ice Station Grendel had been secured. The Americans who had crashed through the station’s doors in a Sno-Cat were still missing. The group—five men—had holed away like frightened rabbits, vanishing into the depths of the station. But they would be found. It was only a matter of time. The rest of the station was empty, cleared out by the submarine they had heard taking on ballast less than an hour ago.
Mikovsky knew his opponent. A United States research sub. The USS Polar Sentinel. It was no threat. It was an experimental model, unarmed. Surely by now it was fleeing with its evacuees. He was under orders not to pursue.
His primary mission was to occupy the base, secure it, set up a communication station, then dive to patrol the waters against the real threat. In the Arctic, the enemy was the fast-attack subs that constantly patrolled under the polar cap.
Their window on this mission was exactly twelve hours. Vhodi, vidi. Get in, get out. The confusion over at Prudhoe Bay would slow his opponents.
“Captain.” The radioman of the watch strode over to him. “I was able to raise Omega base.”
“Very good.” He climbed from the periscope stand and crossed to the communication shack. The radioman passed him the handset. “Captain Mikovsky here. I must speak to Admiral Petkov.”
Through the static, words cut in and out. “Right away, Captain. The admiral has been awaiting your call.”
On hold, Mikovsky planned his words. Admiral Petkov had remained behind at Omega, to interrogate the prisoners and search the U.S. base. Pektov wanted to make certain that whatever the Russian government sought inside Ice Station Grendel hadn’t already been transferred to the U.S. science labs at the research base.
Mikovsky had never seen a man so driven, yet so calm at the same time. It was disquieting. There were currents that ran through the man that were icier than anything found out here in the arctic. Petkov’s nickname—Beliy Prizrak, the White Ghost—was disturbingly fitting. A week ago, when Mikovsky had first been granted this mission to captain a flagship alongside an admiral from the Northern Fleet, he had been thrilled and honored. He had basked in the envy of his fellow ranked officers. But now…now he was happy the admiral was off his boat.
As if he heard him from afar, Petkov’s voice came on the line, stolid and emotionless. “Captain, what is your status?”
He swallowed hard, caught off guard. “Grendel is secure, sir. The station was evacuated just as you suspected, but there are five hostiles unaccounted.” He quickly recounted the crash of the Sno-Cat into the station. “I’ve doubled the strike team to twenty men. They will perform a level-by-level sweep. I will forward the all clear for your arrival.”
“I’m heading out there now. Has the nuclear charge been offloaded to the station?”
“Y-yes, sir.” Mikovsky pictured the meter-wide titanium sphere. As ordered, it had been bolted to the floor on the deepest level of the station. “But, Admiral, there’s no need for you to come here until we’re entirely secure. Procedure—”
“I don’t care if you find these Americans or not. Lock down the base, especially Level Four. I’m heading out with the hovercraft teams. Take your boat down immediately. Maintain deep patrol. Rendezvous scheduled at Grendel at sixteen hundred.”
“Yes, sir.” He checked his watch. Less than three hours. “Drakon will surface-at-ice here again at exactly sixteen hundred.”
“Very good.” The static went silent as the Ghost vanished into the ether.
Mikovsky turned to the radioman. “Get me the strike-team leader.”
“Yes, sir.”
A commotion drew his attention to the sonar team. They were bent over the various arrays, arguing.
He crossed to them. “What’s wrong?”
The sonar chief snapped up. “We’ve picked up an anomaly. But it makes no sense.”
“What sort of anomaly?”
“Multiple active sonar signals. Very weak.”
“Coming from where?” Mikovsky’s mind instantly ran through possible sources: the U.S. research sub, the approach of a fast-attack submarine, perhaps even surface ships beyond the cap. The answer was even more disturbing.
The chief looked up at him. “The signals originate from inside the station.”
12:22 A.M.
ICE STATION GRENDEL
Pistol in hand, Matt followed Lieutenant Greer through the double doors, leaving behind the organized structure of the ice station for the free-form flow of ice tunnels, chutes, sudden cliffs, and caves. Craig stuck to his side, trailed by stone-eyed Pearlson and a wincing O’Donnell. They ran down into the depths of the maze.