She turned back to Sewell. “Tell me what happened.”
He eyed her. “The Russians. They commandeered the base.”
“I sort of figured that on my own. Why?”
He shook his head. “It has something to do with that Russian ice station we found. Something hidden over there. They’ve been systematically interviewing key personnel to see what we know. It was why you were rescued from the ice. They thought you might be escaping with something or someone, so they had you hauled back. I informed them of your noncom status.”
“What are they searching for?”
“I don’t know. Whatever is over at that other base is being kept under wraps. NTK only.”
“NTK?”
“Need-to-know.” His voice hardened. “And apparently I’m not one of those who needs to know.”
“So what now?”
“There’s not much we can do. We only had a small security force.” He waved an arm around the room. “The bastards killed five of my men. We were quickly subdued and corralled in here. So were the civilian personnel. They’re keeping us all under guard. We were told as long as we didn’t make any trouble that we’d be freed in forty-eight hours.”
Her father spoke from his wrap of blankets. “What about the other Sno-Cat? The one with Matt and Craig?”
Jenny found herself tensing, fearing the worst.
“As far as I know, they’re okay. I was able to contact them before being caught. I told them when they reached the ice station to raise the alarm.”
Jenny sipped from her coffee. Her hands trembled worse. For some reason, she had to fight back tears. “Everyone else is here?”
“Everyone still living.”
She glanced around the room, searching for a specific face. She didn’t find him. “Where’s Ensign Pomautuk?”
Sewell shook his head. “Not here. He’s among the missing, along with a handful of civilians. But I can’t say for sure. The Russians took some of the critically injured to the hospital wing. Maybe he’s over there. Details are still sketchy.”
Jenny stared over to her father. The tip of his nose was ashen, frost-nipped. His eyes read her fear. One hand slipped from his wrap and sought her own. She took his fingers. They were rough with old calluses, but still strong. He had faced so many hardships in his life and survived. Absorbing his strength, she faced Sewell again. “This forty-eight-hour deadline? Do you believe they’ll let us go?”
“I don’t know.”
Jenny sighed. “In other words, no.”
He shrugged. “At the moment, it doesn’t matter whether we believe them or not. The occupying force outnumbers us two to one. And they’ve got all the guns.”
“What about your captain and your submarine?”
“The Polar Sentinel might be out there somewhere, but they have no armaments. Hopefully they’re hauling ass out of here, heading for help. That is, if they’re still alive.”
“What now? Do we simply wait? Trust the Russians’ word about our safety?”
By now, Kowalski had joined them, wrapped head to toe in towels. He plopped down heavily into a chair. “Fuck no,” he answered her question.
Silence followed his assertion. No one argued.
“Then we need a plan,” Jenny said finally.
Hadn’t they gone this way already?
Lieutenant Commander Roberto Bratt was lost, which didn’t help his temper. He always blamed his short fuse on his heritage: his mother was Mexican, his father Cuban. Both had been loud and volatile, always fighting. But these damn tunnels would have confounded even Gandhi’s patience. Everything looked the same: ice and more ice.
Ahead, his junior lieutenant hurried down another tunnel. He followed, his boots grinding on the sand-covered floors. “Washburn!” he called out. “Do you know where the hell you’re going?”
Lieutenant Serina Washburn slowed her steady trot and pointed her flashlight back to a purple blaze spray-painted on the wall. “Sir, this marks the only place we haven’t searched yet. After this, we’ll need a paint can to trail our way into the unmarked areas.”
He waved her on. Great…just great…
During the chaos of the evacuation, Bratt’s team had used bullhorns to sound the alarm through the tunnels. Word had spread quickly. People had poured out of the ice tunnels. But with the Russians breathing down their necks, they didn’t have time to do a complete sweep of the Crawl Space on foot.
As such, when the dust settled, people turned up missing — including the head of Omega, Dr. Amanda Reynolds.
With folks unaccounted for, Bratt had felt compelled to stay behind, but he had been surprised when Lieutenant Washburn had insisted on joining him. The station had been under her guardianship. She wasn’t about to abandon it until every damn one of her charges was cleared out of here.
As they continued deeper, Bratt appraised his partner. Washburn was actually a couple of inches taller than him, tall for a woman, but lean and muscular. She looked like a track runner. Her hair was worn in a crew cut, giving her a stark look that somehow didn’t lessen her femininity. Her skin was smooth coffee, her eyes large and deep. But for the moment, she was all business.
And so was he. He switched his focus to the ice tunnels. He had a mission: find any civilian strays and keep them safe.
Lifting the bullhorn to his lips, he squeezed the trigger. His words blasted from the horn, echoing down the tunnels. “This is Lieutenant Commander Bratt! If anyone can hear this, please sound off!”
He lowered the bullhorn. His ears rang. It took a moment for him to be able to listen for any response. He expected no answer. They had been searching and shouting for a half hour without even a whisper of a response. So when someone finally did call out, he wasn’t sure if it was real or not.
Washburn glanced back to him, one eyebrow cocked.
Then the shout repeated, faint, but ringing clear through the ice tunnels: “Over here!”
It came from ahead of them.
Together, they hurried forward. Bratt shrugged his rifle higher on his shoulder. His field jacket and parka were heavy with ammunition, gleaned from his own men as they evacuated back to the sub. Washburn was similarly loaded down, but she sped ahead of him.
The tunnel emptied into a large ice cavern, full of idling generators, lamp poles, and equipment. The air here was noticeably warmer, humid. The back half of the cavern was a wall of pocked volcanic rock.
“Christ,” he swore under his breath.
A short, bald man, bundled in an unzippered parka, came slipping across the ice lake that floored the room. It was one of the base scientists. He was flanked by two younger men.
“Dr. Ogden?” Washburn said, identifying the lead man. “What are you still doing here? Didn’t you hear the call to evacuate?”
“Yes, yes,” he said as he reached them, out of breath, “but my work has nothing to do with politics. This is science. I don’t care who controls the station as long as my specimens are protected. Danger or not, I could not leave them. Especially at this critical juncture. The thawing is near completion.”
“Specimens?” Bratt asked. “Thawing? What the hell are you talking about?”
“They must be protected,” the scientist insisted. “You have to understand. I could not risk the data’s corruption.”
Bratt noted the shifting feet and wringing hands of the man’s younger associates — postgrads by the look of them. They were not so convinced.
“You have to see!” Dr. Ogden said. “We’re picking up EEG activity!” He hurried back the way he had come, back to the volcanic cliff face.
Washburn followed. “Is Dr. Reynolds here, too?”