Zero Hour

minutes. They’re too dehydrated and weak to be of any use. You and your people will take their place.”

“Not all of our people are healthy either,” Kurt said. “Four of them are in your sick bay.”

“Only three,” Kirov corrected. “It seems one of them died during the night. From lingering effects of shock.”

“All they needed were basic treatments,” Kurt said angrily. “What kind of people are you?”

“The kind who will draw blood if we need to,” Gregorovich said, taking the conversation back from Kirov and unmistakably referencing their chess game and the altercation that nearly ended in both of their deaths. “The others will get the attention they deserve as long as you cooperate.”

Kurt stared. “Who do you want to bring?”

“You, your friend Zavala, and Ms. Anderson.”

“There’s no reason to bring her at this point,” Kurt said.

“I don’t need a reason,” Gregorovich said.

Kurt wondered if the Russian knew this was exactly what he’d hoped for. “Fine,” he said. “But not until I’m sure the others have been treated.”

A smirk appeared on the Russian’s rugged face. “Still protecting your pawns?” he asked. “So be it. They will receive what they need. But for you and I, the time has come. We’ll finish our game tonight right here where you said we’d be: at the very ends of the Earth.”

THIRTY-TWO

NUMA vessel Gemini

Gamay Trout sat in the darkened room of the Gemini’s ROV control center. She stared at the flickering black-and-white monitor in front of her. Twelve thousand feet below them, one of the ship’s deep-diving ROVs had come across a debris field.

Broken and mangled wreckage littered the seafloor in a familiar pattern. She had seen dozens like it before as NUMA explored and cataloged various wrecks. Only, this wreck was one of their own.

“Magnetometer reading peaking,” Paul said from beside her. “She’s got to be close.”

Paul and Gamay and the Gemini’s captain were crowded into the room along with three other techs. The quarters were tight, and no one wanted to see what they were about to find. Gamay slowed the ROV and tilted the camera upward. A moment later, the red hull plating of the Orion’s keel came into view along with her bent rudder and six-bladed propeller. The ship was lying on her side.

“That’s her,” the captain said grimly. “Bring the ROV up a hundred feet. Let’s see the big picture.”

Gamay did as ordered, operating calmly, despite the sick feeling in her stomach.

The ROV rose above the wreckage to reveal the true extent of the damage. The ship’s keel had been split wide open, like someone cracking a giant egg. Somehow, the two halves remained attached as she sank, but there was so much damage it was hard to make sense of it.

“No wonder they went down so fast,” Paul said.

As the ROV drifted on the current, they could see that the breach ran the width of the hull.

“Never seen a ship holed like that,” the captain said.

The ship began to drift out of view.

“Gamay?” Paul said, concerned at seeing her white face.

She stood up. “Someone else take over, please.”

As one of the other techs took her seat, she stepped through the crowd and made her way to the aft deck. She pushed the hatch open and welcomed the icy chill of the outside air.

A deep breath helped ease the feeling that had come over her, but as her gaze fell upon a tarp lashed to the deck, the uncomfortable feeling returned. Under the tarp were three bodies they’d found and pulled from the sea. Crewmen from the Orion who’d drowned or died of hypothermia awaiting rescue. They now lay in bags on the deck. The ship had no cold storage, but the freezing air of the Antarctic waters was the next-best thing.

She turned away as Paul came out behind her.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. I can’t treat this like some regular investigation. That’s one of our ships down there. These people are our friends.”

“And we need to know why it went down,” Paul reminded her. “We need to see if there are explosive burns or melted plates. We need to know if they were buckled from a mine or a torpedo or a missile impact, or if the plates were bent outward from some kind of an internal explosion. If the damage came from the outside, then we can rule out Ms. Anderson’s sensor device and activate our own.”

“I know all that,” she said.

“But?”

She sighed. “What if we find Kurt or Joe in there? What if we put the ROV inside the hull and come face-to- face with one of them? Every time we plucked someone out of the sea, I was afraid it would be someone we knew.”

Paul took her hand. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll have one of the other techs guide the ROV.”

She knew he was going to say that. She didn’t want that result. She just needed a moment. “Do you suppose there’s any chance they’re alive?”

Paul hesitated for a moment, then he shook his head. “I don’t see how they could be.”

She appreciated his honesty. Somehow, admitting it was a probability took the edge off the fear. “All right,” she said, stepping back toward the door. “I guess if I was gone, I’d want them to figure out what happened.”

“I would too,” Paul said. He opened the door and held it for her. She stepped inside, steeling herself for whatever they might find.

* * *

Kurt, Joe, and Hayley were given a modicum of winter clothing for the assault: a skintight base layer of wicking material, followed by a heavier thermal layer, and then outer shells of waterproof material. The pants, jackets, and hoods were camouflaged in a pattern of white and light gray. They were given white boots, and white wraps to cover their rifles.

“How do I look?” Joe asked, fully garbed.

“Like the abominable snowman’s little brother,” Kurt said.

“Apparently, they don’t come in my size,” Hayley said, the sleeves of her jacket flopping around well past her hands.

“Best they could do,” Kurt said, standing and ready to go. He found the uniform stifling in the heat of the ship’s cabin. He hoped it would do the trick out on the ice of the glacier.

Sliding the Makarov pistol into the holster strapped to his thigh, he stepped toward the hatch, pushed it open, and walked out onto the deck. There, beyond the stacked containers, were two of the ugliest gray helicopters he had ever seen.

“We’re flying in those contraptions?” Hayley said, looking shocked.

Sleek was not a word used to describe the Russian-built Kamov Ka-32s, code-named Helix by NATO. They resembled old buses, with rounded corners and three tiny wheels underneath. A double tail looked as if it had been stuck on the back as an afterthought, as if the designers had forgotten to include it in the first place.

Making them appear even less airworthy was the Russian double-rotor system. Instead of a tail rotor for stability, the Russians had a penchant for using two rotors above the helicopter. They turned opposite each other, stabilizing the gyroscopic forces. The Russians had been using the system for decades, but on the ground, with the rotors drooping under their own weight, the Helix looked like a science project gone awry.

“I’ve always wondered how those rotors avoid getting tangled up,” Joe said. “This thing’s like a giant eggbeater. The blades really should chop each other off.”

Kurt shot Joe a look, but it was too late. Hayley was hanging on every word.

“Come on,” Kurt said, noticing that the wind had picked up and that snow flurries had begun to fall. “We