He grabbed her hand holding the ice pick, and then her throat with his other hand, slamming her against the hut. Christine tried to twist the ice pick to the side, ripping a gash in the man’s neck, but with her body pinned against the hut and his hand firmly around hers, she could barely move the ice pick. Blood was spurting from the puncture wound, but he seemed unaffected. His gloved hand around her neck tightened like a vise, cutting off her air. He tried calling for help, but the only sound that came out was a sick, wet gurgle. His eyes narrowed and his hand around her neck clamped down even harder.
Christine tried to pry his hand from her throat with her left hand, but he was too strong. She thought about releasing the ice pick, giving her two hands to break his grip, but decided it was a bad idea. Once she released the ice pick, he’d extract it, and it’d come her way a second later. It was a standoff. Blood spurted from the puncture wound with every heartbeat, and it was only a matter of time before he lost too much blood. But time was counting down for her as well; she could live without oxygen for only so long.
She thought about Klokov’s pistol. Unfortunately, the pistol was in her right pocket, and her right hand was stuck holding the ice pick. Her eyes moved to the pistol strapped to the man’s waist. It was just out of reach. If he reached for the gun, however, she was ready. The instant he released her, she’d twist her body and rip the ice pick through his neck. It seemed the man understood his peril, because he kept her immobile, pinned against the hut, cutting off her air.
Christine started to feel light-headed. She redoubled her effort to pry his hand from her neck, even for just a second — long enough to gasp for air — but he was too strong. Her vision started to narrow, blackness creeping in from the periphery, when the man’s grip weakened. She pried his fingers loose and sucked in a breath of cold air. His grip went flaccid a moment later and he dropped to his knees. His eyes closed and his hands fell limp to his sides.
She laid his body on the snow and extracted the ice pick. She looked around, and seeing no one, tossed the ice pick into the hut, then dragged the man inside. She searched his pockets and located the wire snips he used to cut her plastic ties, then retrieved his pistol. After exiting the hut and closing the door, she covered the red stain on the ground with a layer of fresh snow. Stepping back, she assessed the scene. There was no indication there were two dead Spetsnaz inside.
With the guard’s pistol in her hand, she ran to the berthing hut where Brackman and Tarbottom were held, and slipped inside.
“It’s me,” Christine whispered.
Brackman replied, “What did they want you for? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Where are the Spetsnaz?”
“They have no idea I’m here. I killed the Spetsnaz commander and another one.”
“How did you do that?”
“Ice pick.”
Christine was relieved when Brackman didn’t ask her to elaborate. Pulling the wire snips from her pocket, she knelt down and cut the two men free. “We need to contact someone so they can send help,” she said. “Any ideas?”
Tarbottom answered, “There should be an Iridium phone in the command hut. We can contact the Arctic Lab in Svalbard, and if we’re lucky, help will arrive tomorrow.”
“We don’t have until tomorrow,” Christine replied. “The Spetsnaz plan to kill everyone at the ice camp before sunrise to cover their tracks, and I think they’re going to kill everyone aboard North Dakota, too. We need help tonight.”
“We can contact Michigan and have them send SEALs,” Brackman said. “They should be monitoring underwater comms. If we can get to the command hut, we can use the RATS.”
“What about North Dakota?” Christine asked. “If Michigan can hear us, will the Spetsnaz on North Dakota hear us too?”
“It’s possible,” Brackman replied. “But if the Spetsnaz have taken over the submarine, I doubt anyone is monitoring underwater comms.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“We need to get to the command hut without being seen,” Brackman said. “Do you know how many Spetsnaz are at the camp and where they are?”
Brackman had directed his question at Christine, but Tarbottom answered. “I saw one platoon board their helicopters and head to the Russian camp. I think there are eight left here at Nautilus, not counting Klokov. There’s one in the PRM control van and another at the LARS operating station. I don’t know where the other six are.”
“I know where five of them are,” Christine replied. “Four are in the berthing hut beside Verbeck’s, and a fifth is dead inside Verbeck’s hut, along with Klokov. That leaves one.”
She pulled Klokov’s pistol from her jacket and handed it to Brackman. He took the gun, then moved to the door, cracked it open, and peered outside. “I don’t see anyone,” he said, then opened the door and led Christine and Tarbottom into the cold night air.
66
“Captain to Control.”
Wilson’s first indication something was amiss was the 1-MC announcement, requesting his presence in the Control Room. He was touring the submarine’s spaces and had just returned to the Operations Compartment. He ascended the nearest ladder, reaching the Control Room seconds later.
Lieutenant Barbara Lake was on the Conn, holding the WQC microphone, wearing a worried look. “We’ve been contacted by Ice Station Nautilus,” she began. “The station has been taken over by Russian Spetsnaz, who have also taken control of North Dakota.”
“What?” Wilson said as he reached Lake. “Give me the mike.”
Wilson brought it to his mouth. “Ice Station Nautilus. This is Michigan actual. Say again, over.”
A response over the WQC followed. “Michigan, this is Captain Steve Brackman, the president’s senior military aide. The ice station has been assaulted by Russian Spetsnaz, and they have also taken control of North Dakota. Request immediate assistance, over.”
Wilson connected the dots. The Russians wanted the tactical hardware and software aboard a Block III Virginia class, and were willing to resort to nefarious means.
He activated the WQC. “Ice Station Nautilus, this is Michigan. Understand all. Wait, over.” He turned to the Chief of the Watch, “On the 1-MC, request Commander McNeil’s presence in Control.”
The Chief of the Watch passed the word and a moment later, the head of Michigan’s SEAL detachment arrived. Wilson brought McNeil up to speed.
“How many Spetsnaz are we talking about?” McNeil asked.
Wilson relayed the question over the WQC, which was followed by the response, “There are seven Spetsnaz at Ice Station Nautilus, sixteen aboard North Dakota, and twenty-four at the Russian ice camp. Over.”
“May I?” McNeil gestured toward the microphone, and Wilson handed it to him. The SEAL asked his next question. “Ice Station Nautilus, Michigan. Do you know where the Spetsnaz at Nautilus are deployed?”
McNeil listened intently as Brackman informed him there were two Spetsnaz at the submarine rescue equipment control stations, four in a berthing hut, and one on patrol.
“Understand all. Will send assistance,” McNeil replied. Brackman explained they would wait at the edge of the PRM ice hole, then McNeil handed the WQC microphone back to Wilson. “Request you pass on the 1-MC, SEAL platoon OICs report to Control.”
A moment later, Lieutenants Jake Harrison and Lorie Allen arrived. McNeil explained the situation, then instructed Harrison, “Take a squad in the two SDVs and head to the surface ASAP. The rest of us will follow via mass lockout.”