As a group, they worked their way up. It was a cold, sodden climb. Wet clothes turned to ice. Hair froze to skin. Limbs shook with petit mal seizures in a futile attempt to keep warm.
They all pushed free, one after the other, beaching themselves up onto the ice. It was not exhaustion that immobilized them, but the cold. It held them all as surely as any vise. It was inescapable.
The wind had kicked up. Snow and ice spun dizzily around her.
Her father somehow crawled to her, wrapping her in his arms, cradling her. It had been ages since he had held her like this. She had been only sixteen when she had lost her mother. For the next two years, an aunt and uncle had fostered Jenny while her father was in jail, then probational recovery. Afterward, she had barely spoken to him. But Inuit life was built around social gatherings: birthday parties, baby showers, weddings, and funerals. She had been forced to make an uneasy peace with her father, but it was far from close.
Especially not this close.
Tears flowed and froze on her cheeks. Something finally broke inside her. “Papa…I’m sorry.”
Arms tightened around her. “Hush, conserve your energy.”
“For what?” she mumbled, but she wasn’t sure she had even spoken aloud.
8. Hunter/Killer
“Skylight ahead!” the chief of the watch yelled. “Forty degrees to port!”
“Thank God,” Perry whispered to the periscope’s optical piece. He walked off the degrees, turning the scope. They had spent five minutes searching for the man-made polynya near the ice island. The storm surge through the area had shifted the surface ice by several degrees. Nothing was constant up here, he thought.
Through the scope, the ceiling of the world was black ice, but off to port, where the chief had indicated, he spotted an unnaturally square opening in the roof. It shone a brilliant aquamarine, lighting the waters under it to the pale blue of a Bahamian sea. He eyed his goal with a tight smile. “It’s the polynya! Port ahead one-third, starboard back one-third, right full rudder. Get us under that skylight!”
The term
His orders were relayed and a slight tremor vibrated the deck plates as the sub hoved around and aimed for their goal. He watched through the scope. “All ahead slow.”
As they neared the opening in the thick ice, he spoke without taking his eyes from the periscope. “Chief, what’s the ice reading above?”
“Looks good. The opening’s frozen over a bit.” The chief peered closer at the video monitor of the top- sounding sonar. “Across the skylight, I read no more than six inches of ice, but no less than three.”
Perry sighed with relief. It should be thin enough to surface through. He studied the dark ice surrounding the aquamarine lake, jagged and menacing, like the teeth of a shark.
“We’re under the skylight,” Bratt reported from the diving station.
“All stop. Rudder amidships.” As his orders were obeyed, he walked the periscope around, checking to make sure there was plenty of room for the sub to surface without brushing against the dragon-toothed walls of the canyon. Once satisfied, he straightened and folded the periscope grips. The stainless-steel pole descended below. “Stand by to surface.” He swung to Bratt. “Bring her up slowly.”
The soft chug of a pump sounded as seawater ballast was forced out of tanks inside the boat. Slowly the sub began to rise.
Bratt turned to him. “That Russian boat will surely hear us blowing ballast.”
“There’s no helping it.” Perry stepped down from the periscope deck. “Is the evac team ready to debark to the station?”
“Aye, sir. They’re suited up. We’ll empty that place in under ten minutes.”
“Make sure you get everyone out of there.” Perry’s thoughts turned to Amanda for the hundredth time.
Bratt seemed to read his mind, staring intently at him. “We won’t miss anyone, sir. That’s for damn certain.”
Perry nodded.
“Ready for ice!” the chief bellowed.
Overhead, the reinforced bridge crashed through the frozen crust, shuddering the boat. A moment later, the bulk of the submarine followed, cracking through to the surface. All around, valves were opened or closed, dials checked. Reports echoed from throughout the boat.
“Open the hatches!” Bratt yelled. “Ready shore team!”
The locking dogs were undone, and men in parkas gathered, rifles shouldered. One held out a blue parka for Bratt.
Bratt yanked into it. “We’ll be right back.”
Perry glanced to his watch. The Russians were surely already under way by now. “Fifteen minutes. No longer.”
“Plenty of time.” Bratt led his men out.
Perry stared as they climbed away. Cold air, fresh and damp, blew down from above. Once the last man was gone, the hatch slammed shut. Perry paced the length of the periscope stand. He wanted to be out there with Bratt, but he knew his place was here.
Finally, he could stand it no longer. “Chief, you have the conn. I’m going to watch from Cyclops. Patch any communication from the shore team to the intercom there.”
“Aye, sir.”
Perry left the bridge and headed toward the nose of the submarine. He climbed through the hatches and past the empty research suites. He opened the last hatch and entered the naturally illuminated chamber beyond.
He crossed under the arch of clear Lexan. The water sluicing over the glass splintered out in jagged lines of ice, growing visibly into complex fractal designs over the Lexan surface. Beyond the sub, the view was poor. Steam rose off the submarine’s carbon-plate hide, and flurries of snow swirled down in frosted strokes from the heights of the mountainous ice ridges.
Perry stared toward the cavernous opening that led down into the Russian station. He made out the vague shapes of men, trudging, bent against the wind. Bratt’s team. They disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel.
The intercom buzzed. A tinny voice spoke. “Captain, bridge here.”
He crossed and pressed the button. “What is it, Chief?”
“The watch radioman reports no reception from NAVSAT. We’re blanketed under another solar storm, leaving us deaf and dumb for the moment.”
He swore under his breath. With the satellites down, he needed word to reach the outside world. He jabbed the intercom button. “Any ETA on how long we’ll be out of satellite communication?”
“It’s anyone’s guess. Radioman says he expects short bursts of open air, but he can’t say when. Best guess is that the current bevy of solar storms will quit sometime after sunset.” Another long pause. “He’s going to try an ionosphere bounce with the UHF, but there’s no guarantee anyone’ll hear us in this weather. With a bit of luck, we might raise Prudhoe Bay.”
“Roger that, bridge. Have him keep trying as long as we’re surfaced. But I also want a SLOT configured and hidden out on the ice.” A SLOT, or Submarine-Launched One-Way Transmitter, was a communication buoy that could be deployed and set with a time delay to burst a transmitted satellite report. “Set the SLOT to transmit well after sunset.” This should help ensure their message got out after the solar storm passed and reopened satellite communication.
“Aye, sir.”
Perry checked his watch. Five minutes had passed. He stepped back under the Lexan arch. Visibility was
