go after that? He couldn’t hide forever in the fog. He had to lose the Russians, get them off his tail.
Movement drew his eye out to the open ice fields. He saw a billow of blue blowing across the ice — an ice racer. It was chased by two hovercraft. Then a large explosion erupted near the boat, casting up ice and fluming water high. A last-moment jag by the boat was all that saved it, but ice rattled down atop it. The bikes closed in on the foundering boat.
Closer, a bullet cracked into the ice by Matt’s heel. He danced away, turning his attention to his own predicament. More bullets blasted at him. But as he turned his attention from the ice racer, another sight caught his eye.
He tried to judge the distance, then thought,
Matt changed course. He sprinted directly toward the rocket impact, aiming for the steaming hole. He remained in plain sight, letting the Russians clearly see him. Bullets chased after him, striking closer now.
Reaching the hole, Matt dove over the edge, arms wide.
Below, chunks of ice floated at the bottom of the blast hole. He wrested his body around to avoid knocking himself out on a chunk, then plunged into the frigid waters.
The cold cut through him immediately, closing like a vise grip, burning rather than freezing. He fought his body’s attempt to curl fetally against the affront. His lungs screamed to gasp and choke.
It was death to give in to these reflexes.
Instead, he clamped his chest tight and forced his legs to kick, his arms to pull himself down under the edge of the ice shelf. Exertion helped — as did the triple-layer Gore-Tex parka. He swam out into the dark ocean.
The waters were as black as ink, but he focused toward the target he had glimpsed from the surface. Sixty yards away, murky storm light beamed down into the ocean depths.
It was the man-made lake through which the Russian submarine had surfaced earlier. Matt swam toward it, keeping just under the plane of ice. He kicked against the cold, against the weight of his clothes. He had to make it.
The Russians would believe him dead after his suicidal plunge. They would give up the chase. When able, he would climb free of the polynya and strike out for some ice cave in the peaks. In an inside pocket of his stolen parka were a pack of Russian cigarettes and a lighter. He would find some way to start a fire, keep warm until the Russians left.
It was not the best plan…in fact, it had too many faults even to list.
But it was better than being shot in the back.
Matt struggled toward the light.
But the shaft of lifesaving light did not seem to be getting any closer. He thrashed and crawled through the waters, kicking against the occasional ice ridge overhead to speed him toward the open water.
His lungs ached, and pinpricks of light swirled across his vision. His limbs quaked from the cold.
Matt refused to let panic set in. He had been through all manner of training in the Green Berets, in all terrain. He simply continued to kick with his legs and draw with his arms. As long as his heart still pumped, he was alive.
But a deeper terror arose in his heart.
He shoved this thought aside and continued his determined crawl toward the light. But the fear and guilt persisted.
A small stream of bubbles escaped his lips as his lungs spasmed. The shaft of light grew dimmer.
But a part of him refused to believe it. His legs continued to thrash. He clawed toward the light. It seemed closer now. For an endless time, he fought toward his salvation — both now and in the past. He would not die. He would not let guilt kill him, not any longer, not like it had been doing to him slowly over the past three years.
Matt kicked into the light, momentum carrying him out under the lake. Brightness bathed down upon him.
He would live.
With the last of his air dying in his chest, he crawled upward, toward light, toward salvation. A trembling frozen hand reached toward the surface — and touched clear ice.
The surface of the open lake had frozen over during the storm.
Matt’s buoyancy carried him upward. His head struck a roof of ice. He pawed around and over him, then pounded a fist against the ice. It was thick, at least six inches. Too solid to punch through from below.
He stared upward toward the light, to the salvation denied him by a mere six inches.
Despair set into him. His gaze drifted down, following the light into the icy depths below.
Deep down, movement drew his eye. Shapes glided into view. First one, then another…and another. Large, graceful despite their bulk, perfectly suited to this hellish landscape. The white bodies spiraled upward toward their trapped prey, climbing toward the light.
Matt’s back pressed against the ice roof overhead as he stared downward.
At least he wouldn’t die like Tyler.
Amanda raked her sails forward, struggling to skate her boat past the rain of blasted ice. A blue boulder, the size of a cow, landed a yard in front of the prow, bounced, then rolled ahead of the boat.
She leaned into the keel with her hip, fighting to angle off to the side. They flanked past the rolling boulder as it lost momentum and slowed.
Twisting around, Amanda watched more ice rain silently down from the skies. Behind them, a deep divot had been blasted out of the cap. The two hover-cycles circled to either side, continuing the chase.
Amanda worked the boat’s foot pedals, sweeping them back and forth at erratic intervals. It slowed the boat’s forward progress, but they couldn’t count on pure speed to escape the minirockets or the cycles. The best course was a crooked, jagged path, to make them as hard a target as possible.
Amanda concentrated on the landscape ahead of them. Jenny and Craig had rolled to their bellies and watched behind her. They kept their faces turned so she could read their lips when needed.
Jenny mouthed to her, “Damn fancy sailing.”
She allowed a grim smile to form, but they weren’t safe yet.
Craig wiggled around and extracted his hidden radio earpiece. He pushed it in place, then pulled up the collar of his parka. His lips were covered as he spoke.
Amanda could not read what he said, but she could imagine he was frantically calling in help from the Delta Force unit. Craig was free of the station. The “football” he carried was safely away from the Russians’ clutches for the moment. Craig dared not risk a fumble and interception so late in the game. Not when he was so close to the goal.
Jenny waved to her, pointing back.
Amanda swiveled in her seat. The hovercraft to the right was angling closer, swinging in, blazing across the flat snowscape.
She turned back around and straightened the boat, speeding faster now, taking advantage of a fiercer gusting of wind. She tried to put more distance between the boat and the cycle.
Jenny’s lips moved. “They’re lining up to fire again.”
Amanda peeked back over a shoulder. The rider on their tail was bent over his bike, as was his passenger. They had to be pushing the limits of their cycles.
She would have to do the same.
Amanda glanced to her boat’s laser speedometer. She was clocking up toward sixty. The fastest she had ever sailed this craft.
She tried to ignore the danger and focused on the boat under her: fingers on ropes, toes on foot pedals,
