Nodding, he pulled off his right glove and dug into his parka. He’d walked into Red Cloud’s hut several days ago when he knew the others were either asleep or outside. Paul had the odd schedule, often working alone as night guard. Rummaging in the Algonquin’s desk, he’d found his cell phone in the bottom drawer and taken it. If he was only getting half-pay, then he was only half of the company’s employee. As he stood alone out here on the pack ice, Paul took the cell phone out of his parka and managed a sour grin.
It hurt the cold corner of his mouth. He didn’t wear a ski mask anymore, letting his growth of whiskers do the job for him.
Look at this. He had a single bar on the cell. They had a cell-phone relay cube at the base. Someone must have forgotten to take it offline, which they usually did so people like him couldn’t phone home. It was a new policy since the destruction of the Californian oil rig. Many in the business were certain the blown oil well had been an inside job.
Paul clicked off his flashlight, hooking it to his belt. He then punched in Cheri’s numbers and listened to it ring.
“Paul?” she asked, answering the call.
“Hey baby, I’m still near at the North Pole.”
“What do you mean ‘still’?” she asked. “Have they fired you?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong? I can hear by your voice that something is.”
Paul shifted uncomfortably. “Look, I’m going to give you my account number. There isn’t much left in it, maybe five hundred bucks now.”
“You got fired,” she said, sounding dispirited.
“My boss is an Algonquin warrior.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I’m trying to tell you. He’s Algonquin—Red Cloud fought in Quebec, in the Canadian Shield. Algonquin is an Indian name,” he said, “a tribal name. They fought with the French-Canadian separatists. I remember going up against some Algonquin soldiers during the war. They were sneaky in the woods. I remember they trapped Joe and we had to fight our way out.”
“You fought against the French Indians?” Cheri asked.
“Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”
“So your boss is an Indian, too?”
“One that hates U.S. Marines.”
“He fired you?”
“Technically not yet, but he will soon.”
“He can’t just fire you because you’re a Marine or were a Marine.”
“You’d be surprised what these guys can do. Anyway, that’s not important right now. I’m going to give you my account number. I want you to empty it and use the money.”
“…I don’t know,” Cheri said.
“Do you have a paper and pen?”
“Okay,” she said. “Just a minute.”
“Sure,” Paul said, hearing her set the phone on a counter. He tried to picture his ex. What time was it over there?
He heard a click and then the line went dead.
“Hello?” Paul asked. Nothing—the line was pure dead. “Stupid phone,” he said, punching in the numbers again. He listened, but it was still dead. “What the heck?” he said. Then he saw the bars on his cell—or the lack of them.
Paul’s features tightened. Someone had just taken the relay cube offline. Now Cheri would think he’d hung up on her.
“That’s it,” Paul said. It was the final straw.
He thrust the cell into his parka, shoved his hand back into the thick glove, and picked up his M14. He slung the leather strap over his shoulder and started marching for the base. It was time for a showdown with Red Cloud. The Algonquin wasn’t going to fire him and the French Indian
“Firing me is discrimination,” Paul said aloud. Cheri was right. Red Cloud couldn’t fire him just because he’d been in the Marines. That was total B.S.
Paul marched back toward the base. After taking perhaps three hundred steps, he heard crackling sounds in the distance. Before he was aware of it, Paul thudded onto the ice on his belly, the M14 in his hands. He stared wide-eyed at the derricks. The nearest one had a flashing red light that winked on and off, reminding him of an airplane warning light.
That sound: it had been small-arms machine gun fire. There was an Uzi on the Algonquin’s wall. Was Red Cloud out test-firing it?
Paul cocked his head as he heard the sound again. It wasn’t just one man firing a machine gun. It sounded as if an entire squad was opening up—killing.
Adrenalin pumped through him. He found himself clutching his rifle and staring through the darkness at the frozen oil rig.
“Think,” he hissed at himself.
How did the terrorists get out here? Okay, there were three ways: They walked. They flew or they swam under the ice. Or they came by submarine.
Terrorists could have bought a plane, a smaller one, or several such planes. They could have landed several miles away and marched to the base. Yeah, that made a lot more sense than coming in by submarine.
Paul scrambled to his feet and began jogging toward the base. The cold air hit his lungs almost right away. It reminded him of Quebec. Hard memories and harder-learned lessons began surfacing. There were enemy combatants out there. It made his flesh tingle with the fear and adrenalin that always hit just before he knew he was going into a firefight.
Paul chambered a round. He had the one magazine in his rifle and two more in his pocket.
Dirty terrorists, killing oilmen trying to make a living for their families. Paul wondered briefly if this was Greenpeace. Some of the environmental people could get pretty worked up about these things. They might even have more expertise than al-Qaeda terrorists.
Paul heard shouts then and heavier machine gun fire. It sounded like the enemy had set-up kill zones.
Skidding to a stop, Paul panted as cold mist steamed out of his mouth. He’d better start thinking. If the terrorists had infrared goggles, he would be exposed as he ran straight into the base.
He shook his head. He doubted they would expect anyone out on the ice so far away. If they had infrared sights, they’d check several times and find it clear. Later, he’d surprise them.
The drifting shouts and the heavy machine gun fire—Paul lowered his head and began running. Half-pay or full, he was here and the enemy was killing good guys, the ones he’d been hired to protect.
Twenty minutes later, Paul was stretched behind a pressure ridge. He peered over it, his rifle propped against the ice. The M14 had its uses. It was the last American battle rifle, meaning the last that fired full-power rifle ammunition. In this case, that was .308 Winchester. The rifle had a twenty-round detachable box magazine, and altogether weighed about twelve pounds. It had good accuracy at long-range—about eight hundred and seventy-five yards with optics. Paul used the selector switch and chose single-shot fire.
In the darkness of an Arctic night, the oil rig looked deserted. Then he saw a trio of men exit one of the buildings. In their parkas and heavy pants, they looked like stuffed dolls. Something seemed different about them,
