Arkangel, page 29
“You’ll have to bear with me.” Gray removed his digital tablet. “It’s a story going back centuries, if not millennia.”
He started at the beginning and laid out all they had learned. Both Anna and Jason added or confirmed many of the details. The captain and the navigator’s expressions went from incredulousness to wary curiosity, but never settled on complete acceptance.
Can’t blame them.
“And you believe some island is out there,” Kelly said. “One with strange magnetic properties. A place that could be the birthplace of the legends of Hyperborea.”
“And one that holds a dark secret,” Gray added. “A danger that required hiding a lost library and burying its location in an ancient map.”
Byron shook his head. “Such an island might not require some mysterious threat to be a problem. The marked search area is in troublesome waters. While it may be international, the zone sits between Russia and the United States. In fact, the basin of the East Siberian Sea is shared between those two countries.”
“That’s why we intend to find it first. Not to plant a U.S. flag, but to try to keep the site international, like the waters it sits in.”
“Plus, we need to identify the nature of the danger out there,” Jason added. “Before it falls into the wrong hands.”
Gray turned to Kelly and Byron. “I recognize the risk we’re asking you to take. Russia will not sit idly by during all of this. They’re already fortifying and arming their northern coast. This is what we could be facing if we’re not careful.”
Gray brought up a map onto his screen. Two dozen stars marked the locations of the new and refurbished Russian bases. They spread across the breadth of the country’s northern coast.
He studied Kelly as the man reviewed the map. Gray wanted the captain to get a better visualization of the stakes at hand before the man fully committed himself and his ship to the task ahead.
“I won’t direct you to go along with this,” Gray said. “If you wish to countermand the order from your CEO, I’ll support it.”
Kelly turned to the navigator, seeking his insight, the sign of a good captain. “What do you think?”
“That path leads into deep ice,” Byron warned. “Old ice. Centuries old. I looked into it. The last time those waters thawed was the middle of the 1700s.”
Gray shared a look with Anna.
That was the period of Catherine the Great’s reign, when it was said she sent out expeditions searching for Hyperborea, based on Lomonosov’s research in the Golden Library.
“What difference does it make if the ice is old?” Jason asked, drawing back Gray’s attention.
Kelly answered, “Newly formed ice is easier for our ship to cut through. Older ice is more stubborn, compacted, harder to crack. We risk getting trapped.”
Yet another danger . . .
“From my charts and satellite maps of ice thickness, the King should be able to make that transit,” Byron judged, rubbing at his mustache. “Just don’t suggest we hang around there long.”
Kelly continued to study both the map on the screen and the printout from his navigator. “The East Siberian Sea is one of the least explored regions of the Arctic. Also, one of the most treacherous. With its shallow waters, barely mapped sea ridges, and persistent fogs, sailors despise it, and ships wisely avoid its northernmost reaches.”
Byron added to the gloom. “Keep in mind, beyond a few rocky islands near the Russian coast, those seas are empty of any land.”
From these statements, Gray could guess where the scales on this decision would tilt.
A voice rose behind them, from the doorway. “That’s not necessarily true.”
Gazes swung to the short form of a leathery-faced man of swarthy complexion and flat black hair. His eyes were squinted by epicanthic folds, as if the man had been staring too long at the midnight sun of the polar north.
“Omryn Akkay,” Kelly introduced. “One of the ship’s engineers. He hails from this region, so I asked him to join us. We hired him last year for his knowledge of these waters.”
“I am of the Lygoravetlan people. Or Chukchi, as the Russians call us. Most of my people live inland and are nomadic reindeer herders, but my family has always lived along these coasts. We were the Ankalit, the Sea People.”
Gray gave a slight bow of his head in greeting. “And why do you disagree with your ship’s navigator about there being no islands to the north?”
“Our stories tell of a place, a warm and misty land where undying gods dwell—along with kelet, evil spirits that kill any trespassers who approach the gods without proper sacrifices.”
Anna spoke up. “That sounds very much like the Greek description of Hyperborea.”
“And the warnings written about the place,” Jason added.
“Have you ever been there?” Gray asked the engineer.
“It is forbidden . . . even to look. But my grandfather, in his youth, was hunting walruses, spent an entire season on the pack ice. He says one morning the low fogs lifted, and far in the distance, he spotted black cliffs rising out of the frozen sea. It so frightened him that he fled home, where he sacrificed many deer to the sea gods to ask forgiveness for his trespass.”
Gray remembered the stories of Peary and others spotting distant Arctic lands.
Is this just a similarly wild claim?
To the side, Anna whispered a name to Jason, one inscribed in Latin on Mercator’s map, marking a magnetic mountain. “Rupus Nigra et Altissima.”
Or in English . . . “Very High Black Cliff.”
Like Omryn’s father had described.
Maybe it’s not so wild a claim after all.
Gray turned to Kelly.
The captain ignored Gray’s inquiring look and faced his navigator. “How long would it take to forge a path to the location marked on the map?”
“To its edge?” Byron shrugged. “With a full head of steam, five or six hours. But as I warned, there’s a lot of frozen sea to search after that.”
“Understood.” Kelly faced Gray. He was silent for a long stretch, then came to a decision. “We’ll give it a go. But we’ll stay no longer than a day.”
Gray didn’t object to the time limit. He feared they might not even have a day before the Russians intervened. He stared out the windows, at the swirling Borealis, whipped by a gale of solar winds.
He sensed the truth of this moment.
That’s not the only storm that lies ahead of us.
33
May 13, 6:22 P.M. MSK
Severodvinsk, Arkhangelsk Oblast
Elle dozed on her bed, lingering in the shadowlands between slumber and wakefulness. Nightmares haunted any deeper sleep.
A loud boom jerked her up onto an elbow.
“What was that?” she asked blearily.
Tucker stood at the back of their cell, on the tips of his toes, peering out the thin barred window. The view opened into a window well, a space excavated to let a little light flow down here, but it offered only a narrow peek at the sky.
“Thunder,” he said. “I think.”
She shook free of her thin blanket, patted Marco, her stalwart bedmate, and joined Tucker. Snow, mixed with sleet, fell heavily into the window well. The storm had finally struck. Lightning flashed across the strip of sky—followed by another cracking bang.
“Thundersnow,” she corrected. “We see it often in the spring in Saint Petersburg. As if Mother Nature can’t make up her mind about the season.”
Tucker nodded and drifted back to his cot. Elle stared at the storm for a couple more breaths, then did the same. Before either of them could sit, sharp voices echoed down the hallway, accompanied by a hurried tramp of boots.
Elle backed away, fearing they were coming to drag them out.
Tucker stepped in front of her. Marco, his ears tall and tail stiff, jumped off the bed and joined his partner.
A rush of men swept past the door’s small window. She spotted the bowed bulk of Yerik Raz. He was followed by Sychkin, who had shed his robes for street clothes. Others crowded with them, easily a dozen.
A stolid-faced stranger strode at the rear. He wore a furred greatcoat over a crisp navy blue uniform. A matching hat crowned his ashy white hair.
He called forward, half order, half exasperation. “This is unacceptable, Sychkin. I’ve tolerated it once, and I’ll not—”
Sychkin answered without turning or slowing, “Captain Turov, time is urgent. We have only this one moment. And I have the blessing of our patriarch, along with those who listen to him.”
The group continued past, packed together by the urgency expressed.
They vanished out of view, but a loud door slammed shut. Quieter voices continued to reach them from out in the hall, likely guards left by that door.
Tucker turned to her. “What was that all about?”
She told him what she had overheard, knowing he wasn’t fluent in Russian. “It seems like the base’s commander is being hauled into this mess—and he’s not happy.”
Tucker looked back at the door. “Join the club.”
Elle returned to her cot, to wait out whatever was happening. Tucker did the same across from her. Marco hopped next to Elle. With her heart pounding, she doubted she could even manage a light slumber.
Outside, the storm grew worse. Winds howled over the mouth of the window well. Snow pattered, sticking to the glass through the bars, quickly obliterating the view. It made her feel even more trapped.
She pulled the blanket over her shoulders and leaned against the wall. She stared unblinking at the thickening snow.
Then a scream burst from the hallway, sharp enough to be heard through the distant door. Another followed. Muffled angry voices filled in the silences. Then another cry, full of blood and anguish.
Elle could take it no longer. She burst from her cot, crossed to Tucker, and dropped beside him. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Marco came, too.
Huddled together, all they could do was listen to a chorus of agony.
She leaned her face into Tucker, silently pleading.
Make it stop . . .
6:32 P.M.
Parked at the rear gate of the naval base, Kowalski tried to shrink his frame in the passenger seat of the Berkut’s cab. He kept his head down and the woolen balaclava pulled over his face.
Yuri stood at the open door, leaning half out toward a stationed guard.
Snow pelted at them. Winds whipped, threatening to tear the door off the cab. Yuri yelled to be heard. One of the guards inspected his papers, then shone his flashlight into Yuri’s eyes.
Yuri cursed at him and swatted at the light. He waved at the double snowmobile, which idled behind their vehicle, then chopped an arm toward the gate, clearly pressing their need to get out of the storm.
Kowalski leaned a cheek to his shoulder. A radio earpiece, translating in real time, allowed him to roughly follow the argument.
The second guard strode around the Berkut, bowing against the wind. He circled to Kowalski’s side of the cab.
Uh-oh . . .
The guard lifted his rifle. “Papers! Credentials!” he yelled in Russian.
Kowalski took a deep breath, hoping he looked Russian enough because he couldn’t speak the language if push came to shove.
Then again, pushing and shoving might be the only way past this gate.
Kowalski held up a palm and reached for the handle. He had to put his weight into it to fight the wind. As the door popped open, Kowalski lowered his other arm and secretly forked a set of devil fingers toward their third teammate in the cab, then pointed those same horns toward the guard, who leaned in with an arm outstretched for Kowalski’s papers.
As ordered, Kane lunged past Kowalski’s chest with a deep growl, snapping at the guard’s fingers, then barking savagely. Kowalski pretended to try to restrain the muscular dog and make it look like he was losing.
Startled, the guard fell back, tripped, and crashed onto his ass in the snow.
Yuri hollered, motioning to Kowalski’s side of the cab. “See, comrade! We all want out of this damned storm.”
The guard on the ground certainly showed no further interest in inspecting Kowalski’s papers.
The other man finally scowled, crossed to his open gatehouse, and struck a button inside. The fence, topped by razor wire, ratcheted open on its tracks.
Yuri hopped back in the cab, slammed his door, and glanced to Kowalski with a roll of his eyes. They set off through the gate, followed by the double snowmobile carrying Sid and Monk. Seated behind the Berkut’s cab, Vin gave an exaggerated salute good-bye toward the guards, while keeping one hand on the mounted machine gun.
The two vehicles trundled across the snow-swept streets, which were deserted and wind-whipped. They traveled out of sight of the gate and continued a quarter mile farther, then stopped.
Yuri turned to him. “I got you in here. It’s up to you to find the others.”
Kowalski stared over at Kane. “It’s not me that’s gotta do that.”
Kane keeps his head down, his nose close to the ice and snow. The order burns bright behind his eyes. SCENT MARCO. SCENT TUCKER. He needs no command to follow this instruction. The same desire fires his blood.
His pack is broken, and he intends to close that circle.
Behind him, heavy footfalls follow. Beyond the tall man, two vehicles track them, nearly lost in the storm. His eyes can barely see them, but his ears stay tuned to their rumble, the crunch of snow under treads.
For now, this is his new pack.
But only for now.
As he continues across the grounds, he recognizes familiar scents from camps like this in the past:
—the bitter bite of burnt oil.
—the reek of smoke and ash.
—the ripe melt of decaying trash.
He strips each away, one after the other.
He even dismisses the fear-sweat that mists through the clothes of the man at the end of his leash.
Only one set of scents matters. It is branded into him, meaning home, brotherhood, a warm bed, and a full belly.
He heads into the wind, drawing deep sniffs, carrying each note to the back of his muzzle, under his eyes, over his tongue.
Then he catches the faintest whiff . . . a trail through the air that even snow can’t crush. He lifts his nose to it, whines against it, and moves along it. His paws pound faster. His claws dig deeper into the frozen hardpack.
He tugs harder on the lead, refusing to slow.
The other shouts behind him. It is not an order, so it’s ignored.
Kane is drawn to the source. The scent rises from a steel grate that steams into the air. He rushes to it and sniffs the wet warmth rising from below, then speeds on—toward home, toward blood shared.
The spoor he follows is tainted. He smells the acid of stress, the looseness of bowel. Still, he picks out the musky note that underlies it all. He has sniffed under that tail often enough.
Marco . . .
He races on—to the next steaming grate, where the scent grows stronger. He barely pauses and hurries on.
To another patch of steel and melting snow.
Then another.
Until he reaches a grate that is so ripe that it fills his senses. He paws at the snow, exposing a frozen dark stain, droplets of that stress. He draws the scent off the steel, too.
He finally stands, stiff-legged with confidence. He stares over at the other, who hulks beside him. He growls, lifting his nose higher.
The other commends him.
Good dog.
It brings no flash of gratitude or contentment.
This other is not Kane’s home.
Kowalski radioed Yuri, who trailed in the Berkut, followed by the snowmobile, “Kane’s picked up their scent.”
Yuri responded. It sounded like a confirmation, but it was hard to tell through the dropouts and static. The heavy snow wasn’t the only storm they had to contend with. Higher up, the solar flare continued to pound the magnetosphere.
Still, Kowalski’s message was understood.
Yuri pulled up next to him. Vin hopped off the gunner’s seat, dropping an assault rifle from his shoulder to his hand. Monk and Sid slid out of the heated seat of their snowmobile. With the two dressed in the Arctic combat gear and of similar builds, it was hard to tell them apart.
Yuri exited the Berkut and joined them. He nodded toward a stone church with a tall steeple. “You think they’re in there?”
Monk eyed the place, too. “If they were brought here by Sychkin, it seems likely.”
Vin broke out a cigarette and managed to light it despite the wind. He passed it around, pretending they were taking a smoke break. Or maybe the guy simply needed a nicotine fix.
“What’s the plan?” Kowalski asked. “Try to find a back door? Sneak in?”
The answer came from none of them.
A scream cut through a lull in the wind, muffled but clear enough.
It rose from the church.
Monk glanced at Kowalski and lifted his rifle, making his point clear.
Kowalski shrugged and did the same.
Looks like we’re storming the castle.
7:08 P.M.
At the first blast of gunfire, Captain Turov spun to Sychkin and yanked the man behind him. In his other hand, he drew his sidearm. He barked orders to the two soldiers in the room with them.
A small part of him was relieved for the interruption.
He had little stomach for the agonizing work of Yerik Raz.
Three amputated fingers sat in pools of blood.
An eye hung by a cord from the ruins of a face.
Still, Turov waved to his chief of staff. “Oleg! Get Yerik moving.”
One of the soldiers tugged the door open, exposing a firefight in the hallway. He stepped out to join the other men, but a spray of bullets struck him, drove him back into the room. He stumbled and fell, dead before he hit the floor.
The other guardsman knelt to the side and lay down suppressive fire. Shadows down the hall dropped into cells to either side. The only surviving soldier from the hallway used that moment to retreat into the room, taking up a position at the door’s other side.
