14
As ice groaned and cracked beneath him, Gray gaped at the sight of the massive bulk of Halley Station passing overhead. Its giant skis scraped down the slanting surface of ice, beginning the slide toward a tumble into the frigid Weddell Sea.
On the far side of the station, that blasted fracture line still smoked and steamed from the fires of those buried munitions. The chunk of the ice holding the station continued to tilt away from the larger expanse of the Brunt Shelf.
Gray pushed to his feet and yanked the British pilot up. “Move it! Both of you!”
Kowalski gained his legs unsteadily, searching around. “Where?”
“Follow me!”
Gray took off, digging his boots into the snow-swept ice, climbing the ever-steepening slope as the station slid behind him. The surface was rough enough for adequate traction, but a few times, he slipped to a knee or a hand. Using the steel butt of his assault rifle as a crutch, he fought to move faster. They had only seconds to act. He shouldered his way into the fog of steam and smoke billowing down from the blast zone. Visibility dropped to an arm’s length.
He prayed his sense of direction held true.
Another few steps, he let out a breath of relief — but only a small one.
The shape of a Ski-Doo appeared ahead. The rumble of its engine grew louder as he stumbled toward it.
Thank God, Jason had the foresight to leave it warmed up.
Gray reached the three-man Ski-Doo and swung his leg over the seat — but before he could settle into place, Barstow waved him back.
“Who’s the expert here? I’ll drive. You and your buddy ride shotgun.”
Gray didn’t argue, trusting the arctic pilot had more experience than he did with these snow machines. As Kowalski climbed on behind him, Gray pointed over the nose of the Ski-Doo, toward the widening fracture ahead.
“We’ll have to—”
“Got it,” Barstow said and gunned the engine.
Snow and shredded ice shot from behind the rear treads, and the Ski-Doo leaped forward. Their only hope was to try to vault over that gorge and reach the solid ice on the far side. The odds were slim, especially with their vehicle overloaded, but to remain here was certain death.
Gray hunkered lower.
Kowalski swore loudly.
Then Barstow made an abrupt sharp turn, catching Gray by surprise, almost throwing him out of his seat. The back end of the Ski-Doo skidded into a fishtail until the nose was pointed away from the fracture zone. The engine roared louder, and Barstow sped the craft down the steep slope. They cleared the steamy fog and burst into the open. It now looked like they were chasing the slowly sliding station.
Gray yelled, “What’re you—?”
“Let a man drive!”
Barstow hunched over the handlebars, trying to eke out more speed. Gray had no choice but to follow his example.
But they weren’t alone out here.
The only warning was a flicker of navigation lights in the dark skies overhead. The enemy’s Twin Otter sped past — then the ice exploded ahead of them in a fiery blast of rocket fire.
“Bloody hell!” Barstow hollered. “Hold on to your arses, gents!”
The pilot swerved around the smoking crater and sped toward the only shelter. He made another fast turn, casting up a rooster tail of ice and snow — then skidded sideways under the sliding station, passing cleanly between two of the four giant hydraulic skis holding up that module.
Kowalski groaned. “Just tell me when it’s over!”
It wasn’t.
Barstow had lost momentum after his rash maneuver, but he now raced along the underside of Halley VI, expertly keeping them out of direct sight of the Twin Otter. With the station still careening down the slanted shelf, the Ski-Doo regained some of its speed.
By now Gray understood Barstow’s earlier maneuver, why he had done a 180, turning them about-face. There was no way the Ski-Doo — going uphill—could’ve gained enough speed to hurtle over that widening gorge, especially overloaded. But by going downhill, Barstow could gain momentum, transforming the Ski-Doo into a tread-driven rocket.
Only one problem with this plan…
They were running out of ice.
Ahead, the foremost module of this skidding centipede reached the cliff’s edge and fell, twisting free of the remainder of the station, and plunged toward the dark seas far below.
“Time to go, boys!”
Barstow angled away, flying between two of the towering skis and back out into the open. They fled slightly upslope now, racing away from the station as it fell — piece by piece — into the Weddell Sea.
Ahead, their small section of dislodged ice teetered at a steep angle away from the flat expanse of the larger Brunt Ice Shelf. Barstow raced up that tilting chunk of ice, aiming for where the piece broke away from the greater shelf, picking a spot where the gap was the smallest.
He opened full throttle.
But a certain stubborn hawk was not about to lose its prey. The Twin Otter burst out of the smoky steam ahead of them, swooping low, its propellers ripping through the fog. It turned and lifted up on one wingtip, exposing the cabin hatch on that side — along with an assailant holding an RPG launcher to his shoulder.
The enemy was taking no chances.
The next shot would be at nearly point-blank range.
Gray twisted in his seat, elbowing Kowalski back. He freed his rifle and brought it up one-handed, his arm outstretched. He pulled hard on the trigger, strafing in full automatic mode, dumping all thirty rounds in three seconds. He concentrated his first volley on that dark doorway. With a scream, the gunman tumbled out the open hatch. Gray unloaded the rest of his rifle into the lowermost prop as the plane swept past.
“Hold on!” Barstow yelled.
Kowalski knocked Gray low into the seat, piling on top of him.
The Ski-Doo reached the last of the ice — and went airborne.
It flew high off the upraised lip of fractured ice, corkscrewing in midflight. Gray had a clear view down into the gap for a harrowing breath. Then they plummeted and hit the far side crookedly, landing on the edge of one tread.
The snow machine jolted hard and rolled, throwing them all clear.
Gray tumbled across the ice, losing his weapon, hugging his limbs in tight. He finally came to a stop. The Ski-Doo took another few bounces, then came to a rest. The other two men rose from the ice.
Kowalski patted himself, as if confirming he was still alive. “Didn’t exactly stick that landing.”
Barstow joined them, cradling one arm, his face bloody. He glanced over to the broken bulk of the Ski-Doo. “As they say, any landing you can walk away from…”
“They were talking about airplanes,” Kowalski admonished, “not friggin’ snowmobiles.”
The pilot shrugged his good shoulder. “We were flying there for a bit. So it still counts.”
Gray ignored them and searched the skies. He watched a small cluster of lights fall out of the darkness, disappearing beyond the edge of the cliff as the broken-off corner of the Brunt Shelf slid into the sea. He wasn’t positive he’d damaged the Twin Otter enough to make it crash or if the plane was merely limping away. Either way, the enemy could have radioed for additional support.
Gray didn’t want to stick around to find out.
He turned to the Ski-Doo.
Barstow must have read his expression. “Sorry, mate, she’s tits up. Looks like we’ll be walking from here.”
Gray pulled up the hood of his parka, already cold.
Kowalski voiced the question foremost in his own mind. “Where the hell do we go from here?”