With the butt of his weapon at his shoulder, he used the scope to track the lights of the Twin Otter in the evening sky. It banked on the far side of the station. Then a flash flared from its hull. Another explosion echoed across the ice. A small island of light went dark out there.
“I think that was one of our Sno-Cats,” Karen said, her voice strained with guilt. “I should’ve warned them to go dark.”
Gray noted another Sno-Cat parked on the ice to the right of the station, along with a trio of Ski-Doos. “Can you get those snow machines started fast enough? If you keep the lights off, you’ll be able to cover more ground than on foot.”
She nodded.
“What if the enemy has night-vision?” Jason asked, joining them.
“If they do, they’ll spot us just as easily on foot.” Gray pointed to the thick banks of fog settling to the icy shelf all around the station. “Once you’re moving, make for that cover as quickly as you can. It’s your best chance.”
Jason eyed that refuge doubtfully.
In a hope to better their odds, Gray turned to Kowalski and Barstow. “We’ll buy the others as much time as possible.” He motioned to the opposite side of the station from the parked snow machines. “If we fire from over there, we can keep the enemy’s attention on us.”
Kowalski shrugged. “I guess it’s better than freezing our asses off.”
Barstow also nodded.
With a plan in place, Gray ordered the two groups to split up.
Jason glanced over a shoulder as he led his party off. “One of the Ski-Doos is a three-seater.” He eyed Gray’s team. “I’ll leave it with the engine running. Just in case.”
Gray acknowledged this with a nod, impressed with the kid’s quick thinking.
With the matter settled, Gray led Kowalski and Barstow under the caboose of the station. He heard the snow engines grumble to life on the other side—at first cold and choking, then with more throaty power.
Gray watched the group slowly depart, disappearing into the fog, one after the other.
Satisfied, Gray stepped out from under the shelter of the station, weapon at his shoulder. He followed the Twin Otter in the sky as it turned and swung in his direction, seeming to climb higher as if sensing the hidden snipers below.
Its strange actions worried Gray. Suspicions jangled up his spine.
Why hadn’t it made any effort to land yet?
The plane continued a slow circle, like a hawk above a field. So far, the assault seemed targeted to isolate the base, to keep its occupants pinned down.
But to what end? What are they waiting for?
The answer came a heartbeat later.
A massive explosion—a hundredfold stronger than any of the prior rocket blasts—shook the world. At the far end of the station, a geyser of ice and fire blew high into the night. Then another detonation erupted, much closer, followed by yet another.
Gray and the others were knocked to their knees. He pictured a row of munitions buried deep in the ice. The line of charges must have been planted long ago.
The series of blasts continued on the far side of the station, running from one end to the other.
Gray stared beyond that line, toward the heavy fog bank.
As least the others got clear in time . . .
As Gray watched, fissures skittered outward, connecting the new craters together and extending yet again. He imagined the ice splitting downward as well, cleaving deep into the shelf of floating ice.
Gray suddenly understood the enemy’s plan.
His stomach knotted into a cold fist.
Confirming his worst fear, a final loud crack erupted, sounding like the earth’s crust shattering beneath them.
Slowly the ice shifted under his knees, tilting away from the new fracture and leaning out toward the dark sea. The buried bombs had succeeded in breaking loose a chunk of the Brunt Ice Shelf, calving a new iceberg—one that included Halley VI atop it.
The entire station shuddered and began to slowly slide across the slanting ice, skating atop its giant skis.
Gray stared upward in disbelief.
Kowalski watched it all, too. “Looks like I won’t be patching things up with my ex after all.”
13
April 29, 8:45 A.M. PDT
Yosemite Valley, California
“If you’re going to hide,” Drake said, “this isn’t a bad place to hole up.”
“Let’s hope she’s still here.” Jenna climbed out of the SUV into the morning drizzle. She pulled up her Gore-Tex jacket’s hood and appreciated the majesty that was the famous Ahwahnee Hotel, the crown jewel of Yosemite National Park.
Opened in 1927, the rustic mountain lodge was a masterful mix of Arts and Crafts style and Native American design, famous for its massive sandstone fireplaces, its hand-stenciled wood beams, and for its many stained glass windows. Though a night’s stay was too pricey for Jenna’s salary, she occasionally splurged for a brunch in the resplendent dining room, a three-story-tall space supported by massive sugar pine trestles.
But the main lodge wasn’t their destination this morning.
The four-man Marine team had parked their nondescript vehicle in a back lot. Drake led the way toward the woods bordering the hotel, drawing Jenna and Nikko with him. They were all dressed in civilian gear, made bulkier by the Kevlar body armor under their clothes, and kept their weapons out of sight.
Jenna had her compact .40-caliber Smith & Wesson M&P belted at her waist, hidden by the fall of her jacket, along with a pair of handcuffs hanging on her other hip.
Ten minutes ago, the team had been airlifted by helicopter over the Sierra Nevada range, passing through some rough weather, to reach the Yosemite Valley. The wide meadow next to the Ahwahnee was a common landing spot for rescue choppers in the park, but Drake had feared they might spook their quarry, so he chose a site farther out—landing at nearby Stoneman Meadow.
“Car,” Lance Corporal Schmitt said.
He pointed to a white Toyota Camry with Massachusetts plates. The license number was a match. The vehicle belonged to Amy Serpry.
An hour ago, Painter had expedited a GPS search for a vehicle matching the car’s VIN number. They had discovered it here, in Yosemite Valley, not far from the region of the mountains that had been evacuated and quarantined.
Initially everyone thought the woman had abandoned the car, possibly switching vehicles. An inquiry to the hotel had revealed no record of an Amy Serpry checking in. But a photo was sent to the front desk. It seemed a woman matching her description had booked a room under an alias, arriving with false identification and credit cards.