Fast Ice

by Clive Cussler

Laskey glanced toward the encroaching iceberg. “Optical illusion.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The captain seemed unconcerned but motioned toward an old cathode-ray screen. “Check the radar.”

  Cora moved to the ship’s rudimentary radarscope. It was an ancient device, with lines burned into the screen that remained there even when the unit was switched off. She set it to tracking mode and waited for the information to appear. After a dozen sweeps, it confirmed what her eyes were telling her. “That berg is moving southeast at a speed of four knots.”

  “Wind?” Laskey asked.

  Cora checked the ship’s anemometer. It registered five knots, coming from due north. A quick check of the pennant on the bow confirmed this. “Perhaps the back side of the iceberg is oddly shaped. It might be catching the breeze and acting like a sail.”

  Now the captain grew concerned. He cut the throttle and the Grishka settled and slowed to a crawl. “Too dangerous to try rounding it,” he said. “God knows what’s hidden under the surface. We’ll stop here and wait for it to pass.”

  But the iceberg didn’t pass. Whatever combination of currents and wind were moving it, the floating monolith lost its eastward momentum and began to move due southward, directly toward the Grishka.

  Cora felt her chest tightening. “It’s coming toward us.”

  “Impossible,” Laskey said.

  “Look for yourself.”

  He didn’t bother. He cut the throttle to full stop and then placed it into the reverse position at quarter speed. The old ship responded slowly, shuddering and seeming to rest before it finally started to withdraw.

  “You’re taking us back into the pack ice?”

  “Better than getting too close to this one,” the captain said. “It could rupture our hull with the slightest impact. It could crush us if it tumbled.”

  The Grishka picked up momentum, putting some space between itself and the encroaching iceberg. But it wasn’t long before a grinding reverberated through the hull.

  Laskey stopped the engines. “Those would be the growlers,” he said. “Must have drawn them into our wake when we passed. I need eyes at the stern if we’re going to keep moving.”

  “I’ll go,” Cora said.

  Picking up a handheld radio, she left the bridge. She took a ladder down five levels to the main deck and then went aft. She passed no one, as it was early morning and most of the crew were asleep.

  Stopping near the aft hatchway, she grabbed a heavy parka from a storage locker. Slipping it over her shoulders and zipping it up, she pushed out into the elements.

  The bitter cold hit her instantly, the wind stinging her face and hands. She pulled the fur-fringed hood up around her face and slipped her free hand into a pocket.

  With the radio in the other hand, she crossed the helicopter pad, where the expedition’s EC130 was tied down. The helicopter’s windows were frosted over but its rotors were covered by specially heated sleeves.

  Passing the landing pad, she reached the stern, where a pair of large winch housings stood. Moving between them, she glanced over the aft rail.

  To her surprise, they were already moving backward and picking up speed. Deep baritone reverberations told her they were ramming small chunks of ice with the stern’s blunt end.

  The nearest sections of ice were not too threatening, but larger growlers lay directly in their path.

  She brought the radio to her mouth and pressed transmit. “White ice directly astern, Captain. At least three separate chunks. I wouldn’t take them straight on. The last thing we need is a damaged prop or rudder.”

  The propellers continued churning, the ship vibrating as it picked up momentum.

  Cora pressed the talk button again. “Captain, did you hear me?”

  The ship’s horn blared, sounding three times, to announce a collision warning. The captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Brace for impact. All hands, brace for impact.”

  With the hood surrounding her face, Cora had zero peripheral vision. She spun around, shocked to discover a shadow looming over the ship as a wall of ice approached from just off the starboard bow. It was closing rapidly despite the Grishka’s momentum. It hit the ship with a glancing, angled impact.

  The Grishka rolled with the blow, heeling over fifteen degrees. The iceberg slid along the side of the hull, dumping thousands of pounds of dirty snow onto the deck.

  Cora was knocked off her feet, hitting the deck beside the nearest winch housing. She dropped the radio and grasped her ribs, which had taken the brunt of the blow.

  The grinding sound of ice on steel peaked and then subsided as the Grishka and the iceberg became locked together and moved as one until their momentum faded. The engines cut out. The ship rolled back to level and more snow and ice tumbled onto the deck.

  The moment struck Cora as surreal. Instead of the ship hitting the iceberg, the iceberg had struck the ship. Then an even stranger sight followed.

  All at once, a half-dozen ropes were thrown over the tip of the iceberg. They unfurled in midair, dropping and hitting the deck of the Grishka with dull thuds.

  Before the ropes even landed, men in winter camouflage began rappelling down them. Cora saw assault rifles strapped to their backs, knives in sheaths strapped to their legs. They wore white hoods and goggles. They hit the deck in rapid succession, fanning out, while reinforcements dropped in behind them.

  Cora knew instantly what was happening. She snatched the radio from the deck and tried to warn the captain, but gunfire broke out before she could make the call.

  Ducking behind the winch housing in horror, she called out. “Captain, we’re being boarded,” she warned. “Men with guns are on the aft deck. They came from the—”

  More gunfire drowned out her words. The captain’s voice came next. “They’re on the bow as well,” he replied over the radio. “Take cover, I’m calling for—”

  The staccato sound of machine gun fire came through the radio and the transmission cut out.

  Cora stifled a scream and looked around. Shouting and screams erupted. The muted thumping of small-arms fire rose from inside the ship and the decks beneath.

  She considered any possible avenue of resistance. With no weapons of any consequence to fight back with, the best she could hope for was grabbing a fire ax and charging into the fray.

  Before she could move, a member of the Grishka’s science team stumbled out of the aft hatchway. He ran toward the helicopter but never reached it. A sniper perched on the edge of the iceberg shot him down with merciless accuracy.

  Another colleague came running out seconds later, fleeing whatever carnage was going on inside the ship. He ran for the stern, heading directly for the spot where Cora was hiding.

  “Get down,” Cora shouted.

  The crack of a rifle sounded and the man’s body jerked forward and tumbled to the deck ten feet from where Cora hid. He lay prone but looked up directly at her. He saw her preparing to help and shook his head.

  It was too late to hold back. Cora was acting on instinct now. She lunged forward, grabbed him by the arm and pulled with all her strength.

  She dragged him halfway before the sniper fired again.

  The bullet crossed the deck at three thousand feet per second. It flew on a nearly straight line, slightly affected by the wind and diverted microscopically by the rolling motion of the ship, which was still caught in the embrace of the iceberg.

  The combination was enough to push the bullet a half inch off target.

  It hit the back of Cora’s hood, blasting goose feathers, fabric, fur and blood into the air. Cora fell like a sack of flour, landing facedown on the body of her dying friend.

  She lay there not moving, her head covered with the remnants of the hood, its tattered white fabric soaked with a growing stain of crimson blood.

  * * *

/>   —

  Up on the precipice of the iceberg, the sniper studied the results of his efforts.

  A spotter beside him did the same. “Headshot,” he said. “That’s two kills.”

  The sniper nodded and scratched a pair of marks into the stock of the rifle. They joined a dozen other scratches, some old, some new.

  With the deck cleared and his kills marked, the sniper picked up a radio and sent a message to the commandos. “Aft deck clear,” he told them. “What’s the status inside?”

  “Bridge cleared,” a voice replied. “No resistance from crew. Looks like most of them were already put down. We’re down in the vault now. Be advised there’s a significant amount of material here. This is going to take a while.”

  The sniper nodded. He’d been told to expect as much. “Begin bringing it up. And be quick about it. We need to set the charges and send this ship to the bottom before anyone knows we’re here.”

  2

  Blinding pain filled Cora’s body to every extremity. No, not pain, she realized, but the utter lack of sensation.

  She opened her eyes and saw nothing but a dark, blurred image of the deck beneath her. She tried to move. It took great effort and felt tremendously clumsy, but eventually she twisted her body into a more natural position and managed to sit up.

  For a moment, that seemed like a drastic mistake. Her head throbbed like a drum, her eyes went blind and she felt as if she were about to throw up.

  Shutting her eyes and allowing the cold air to caress her face helped. She sat completely still as one by one her senses came back online.

  First, she heard the wind whistling through the ice-covered wires and then she felt the reverberation of the ship’s engines. She sensed the Grishka rolling gently as it moved through the swells. It dawned on her. We’re under way.

  She pulled the hood of the parka back and risked opening one eye. She saw pale skies and dark water. The day was waning. The iceberg was gone. The ship was alone.

  She went to push herself up and noticed her hands were covered with blood. She saw the body she had been lying next to and partially on top of. Only now did the memory of what happened come back. The iceberg, the men with guns, the shooting.

  She tried to stand, but that was too much. On her hands and knees, she crawled across the deck, reaching the aft hatchway. She pulled it open and squirmed inside.

  Out of the wind and the subzero temperatures, her skin began to thaw. It felt strangely painful. Her face tingled, but her hands and feet remained numb.

  Stretching her fingers, she noticed white, scaly patches and discolored lesions. The early signs of frostbite. Grimly estimating the damage, she figured she’d lose at least three digits on each hand. Better than her life, she thought.

  With her strength slowly returning, Cora pulled herself up with the help of a handhold. Up on her feet, she went forward, heading for the bridge. Reminders of the tragedy appeared in the hall—splatters of blood on the wall, dead crewmen left where they’d fallen, shell casings rolling around underfoot.

  She reached the bridge and pushed the door open. The captain and the ship’s bosun lay still on the floor. Both of their bodies had been riddled with bullets.

  She dropped beside Captain Laskey, hoping against reason that she might find a pulse, but he was cold and stiff. “What have I done?” she said, sobbing. “What have I done?”

  Tears streamed down her face, while waves of guilt surged through her body. She was the cause of this brutal attack. Her discovery had made them all a target. And now, somehow, only she remained alive.

  The sobbing subsided quickly. Her body was too tired to conjure more emotion. She looked up, her attention drawn to a strange beeping sound.

  Standing once more, she moved to the helm. The ship was moving in a westerly direction, but there was no one to control it.

  She glanced out the bridge windows. Open ocean lay ahead of them, dotted here and there with whitecaps and a few chunks of free-floating ice.

  She looked to the radio shack and found it had been shot to pieces. The chirping alarm was coming from somewhere else. She scanned the damaged control console and spied a flashing indicator on its panel.

  Water was coming in and the bottom deck was flooding. The bilge pumps were operating, but the watertight doors were stuck in the open position.

  The Grishka was riding low. She could feel it wallowing in the swells. They were taking on more water than the pumps could handle.

  She gave up on calling for help. If she didn’t stop the water from rising, the Grishka would be long gone before anyone arrived to rescue her.

  She stumbled from the bridge, moving as fast as her injured feet would allow. Reaching the center stairwell, she was able to drop down quickly, arriving on the lower deck near a small laboratory where she’d spent much of her time.

  The place had been ransacked. Everything turned over and taken. “Of course,” she muttered to herself. “That’s what they came for.”

  It was irrelevant now, nothing mattered but saving the ship. She passed through the laboratory and reached the cold-storage vault, where her team had preserved the hundreds of ice cores taken from the glaciers over the last month.

  The frigid compartment was also empty, the ice cores had been removed.

  At the far end of the compartment, she came to a circular hatch. A ladder dropped through it straight down into the bilge. The sailors called it a scuttle.

  She looked through the scuttle to see water swirling on the deck below. It bubbled and churned, flowing in from a hidden puncture.

  She climbed down through the scuttle and stepped into it calf-high. The flooding was coming from the next compartment, spilling over the sill under the door. The door was closed but hadn’t sealed properly.

  That was no surprise. Not on a forty-year-old ship that had survived storms, groundings and at least two collisions. Time and work had done hidden damage to the bones of the vessel. As a result, the bulkheads were slightly warped and none of the hatches were truly watertight. If she was going to survive, Cora needed to make this one secure.

  Knee-deep in the frigid water, Cora struggled to think.

  She knew enough about damage control to give her a fighting chance. She grabbed a towel and a section of pipe from a workbench. Rolling the towel up, she wedged it into the curved gap, forcing it into place with the pipe. Smashing a chair to get bits of wood, she jammed those into place as well, using them like shims.

  Standing up straight, she felt suddenly dizzy. She stumbled backward and nearly lost her balance. She dropped the pipe and grabbed the ladder to keep from falling.

  When the vertigo passed, she looked over at her work. She’d cut the flow of water in half, yet it was still coming in. Even at this rate, it would slowly flood the ship, filling the lower deck and rising through gaps and scuttles that were no longer sealed properly.

  The sinking appeared inevitable.

  Physically exhausted, Cora sagged with the weight of the moment. Though her body was spent, her mind was still churning.

  She wouldn’t give up. Not now, not after finding what she’d been after for years and having it taken from her. Not after seeing friends and colleagues murdered for it.

  She thought of her training, of her time with NUMA. There had to be a way to stop the ship from sinking. There had to be.

  She looked around in all directions and then upward through the scuttle and into the storage vault. An idea came to her. An idea so brilliant, she couldn’t help but smile.

  With all the energy she had left, Cora climbed back up the ladder and found all she needed to save the dying ship.

  3

  POTOMAC RIVER

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Cold air whipped past Kurt Austin’s face as he leaned backward, his right hand hauling on a rope, his left gripping the tiller beside him.


  A triangular sail stretched taut ahead of him, filled to capacity by the brisk north wind. The strain on the sail bent a carbon fiber mast forward, pulling Kurt’s small craft at breakneck speed.

  Though his vessel was powered by the wind and racing along the Potomac River, it was no sailboat or schooner. Kurt was at the helm of an ice yacht, a tripod-shaped craft with a long, thin body and runners attached to the bottom of the hull. One blade was set forward, in the nose, with two others connected to a pair of outriggers stretching away from him on either side.

  The stainless steel runners were shaped like samurai swords, their sharpened edges cutting into the frozen surface of the Potomac and allowing the yacht to corner hard in the turns and run fast on the straightaways.

  Gazing ahead, Kurt focused on a brightly colored pylon. He was approaching it rapidly. Too rapidly.

  He loosened his grip on the rope, spilling some of the wind from the sail. At the same moment, he swung his body around, switching sides from the right to the left. Seated again, he leaned back and started the turn.

  The ice yacht rounded the pylon, cutting hard. Its forward runner chattered as it scraped across the ice. The far runner took the strain and held.

  Despite Kurt’s effort, the runner beneath him came up in the air and the entire craft threatened to heel, riding only on the other blade. Kurt leaned farther, stretching his body and straining his muscles, to keep the yacht from tipping.

  As he guided the yacht onto the straightaway, the tipping force vanished and the runner beneath Kurt dropped back on the ice. With all three blades digging into the frozen surface, the machine shot forward.

  A voice on the headset Kurt wore expressed relief. “That was close, Kurt. For a second, I thought I was going to have to call the paramedics.”

  “Walk in the park,” Kurt replied. “But, um, keep the number handy. I can’t promise we won’t wreck.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was that of Joe Zavala, Kurt’s closest friend. Joe had helped build the ice yacht, working on the sail and the fiberglass body.