Arctic Kill

by Don Pendleton

  Kraft caught him easily by the throat and propelled him backward, toward the bulkhead. “Not worth it? Those are not the words of a hero, Mervin. Those are not the words of a man whose companions have perished on a mighty quest.” He slammed the smaller man against the bulkhead and tapped the keypad set into the frame. Inside the bulkhead was a thick hatch, resembling a submarine portal. “I assume the correct code would unlock the hatch, yes? Too bad we failed to get Ackroyd.” He leaned close to Mervin. “Best laid plans, eh?” He released the little man and turned to the others. “Explosives—now.”

  “Wait, we should think about this—consider the variables,” Mervin began. Kraft held a finger to his lips, silencing him.

  “He who dares, wins.”

  They had salvaged most, though not all, of their explosives. As his men set them up, Kraft went through the other satchels. They had the biohazard suits as well as the containment units. As far as tools went, those were the most important.

  It took Heinrich and Adams only a few minutes to set the explosives, which consisted of C-4 in shaped charges. The explosion was to be contained as much as possible. Mervin had foreseen that the structure would be too dilapidated to withstand a major explosion, even if he hadn’t correctly gauged the extent of said decay.

  Kraft clasped his hands behind his back and nodded as Adams looked at him. “Blow it,” he said.

  The explosion, when it came, wasn’t loud. The hatch was blown off its hinges and fell with a thunderous crash, shaking the gantry. An echoing moan emanated from the surrounding structure, and rocks fell from above, splashing down perilously close to their rafts.

  Above, a strut gave way and fell, brushing hard against the gantry and nearly tossing Kraft from his feet. He maintained his balance and waved smoke and dust out of his face. Behind the blasted hatch, a corridor bathed in dim emergency lighting was revealed. The sterile, slightly damp stink of quarantine greeted his nostrils and he gagged. Mervin, wide-eyed, was looking around like a mouse watching for eagles.

  Kraft grabbed him. “Let’s go.”

  “The bags,” Mervin said hollowly.

  “What?” Kraft turned and cursed. The satchels containing the hazard suits were gone, knocked from the gantry by the falling strut. Kraft closed his eyes and rubbed his chin. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “There will be containers within.”

  “And if not?” Mervin asked, glaring at him. “What then, huh? What do we do then, Kraft? Since my plans are so faulty, where is yours, eh? Where is your stratagem for this?”

  “We adapt, Mervin. We persevere.” Kraft matched the other man’s glare with one of his own and said, “Even if that means I must carry that damned disease back to civilization myself, even if I must be the tip of the spear, to plunge death into the heart of the world, I will do so.”

  Mervin jerked back as if stung. The others nodded in agreement as the gantry trembled beneath their feet. The weight of destiny pressed hard upon the facility. It pressed hard upon them, as well. He looked at Picher. “You know what to do?”

  The man nodded. “Vril-YA,” he said loudly.

  “Vril-YA,” Kraft replied, and the others said it with him, even Mervin.

  He was so close he could taste it. Kraft could feel the brittle scrape of the wolf-wind on his soul. Everything he was, everything he had done, had led to this moment, this stretch of tainted metal and the dark sickness nestled within. “Come, my friends,” he said. “We can’t keep the end of the world waiting.”

  Chapter 20

  As he stared up at HYPERBOREA, Bolan had to admit that Ackroyd’s description hadn’t been far off. The base had obviously been constructed around the skeleton of an oil rig, likely airlifted from the Arctic Ocean. He spotted the rafts easily. They’d been tied up at the bottom of the structure amongst the latticework of support struts, beneath a rust-riddled ladder.

  Bolan guided his raft toward the others, his every muscle tense with anticipation. The pounding of the waterfall was loud, echoing around him and filling the air with spray. As he slid into the nest of struts, he caught the clang of metal on metal. An assault rifle roared a moment later, but Bolan was already diving over the side into the icy water. He had expected an ambush, and his enemies had not disappointed him.

  He dove deep, his lungs burning. The water was cold and it cut through him like a knife. It was hard to see because the water was filthy with rust and oil and other less identifiable things. Nonetheless, he swam for the ladder, which extended well below the waterline. He grabbed the closest rung and began to climb. Bolan raised his head above the water and scanned his surroundings. The raft he’d just abandoned was sinking, perforated by the ambush.

  Swiftly, he pulled himself out of the water and began to climb. The ladder rattled and shuddered beneath his weight. Speed was his only ally until he reached the walkways above. The unseen AR-15 opened up again, growling out a deadly song. Bullets struck the ladder and struts around Bolan, causing him to jerk and twist in an attempt to avoid being struck. Bolan cursed as he heard the pop of age and environment-weakened bolts from somewhere above him. The ladder began to bend and sway as he continued to climb.

  Bolan knew in an instant that he wasn’t going to make it. Metal squealed and screeched and popped with gunshot rhythm and then he was falling backward, still holding tight to the ladder. His gut lurched and the world spun about him as he was forced back and down. The ruptured end of the ladder struck a strut and became lodged in place and Bolan found himself dangling above the water. His shoulders blazed with pain from the force of the sudden stop, but he held grimly to the rust-weakened rungs.

  Boots clanged on metal. The Executioner craned his neck and looked up. His assailant approached carefully, climbing across the top of the collapsed ladder. “Lucky, lucky man,” he grunted. “You did for the others, but it looks like your luck has run out.”

  Bolan twisted in place. Pain ran the length of his arm as he lost his grip on one of the rungs and was forced to dangle one-handed. He glared up at the gunman as the man inched closer and took aim with his weapon. “They’ll reward me for this,” he said.

  “Don’t count on it yet,” Bolan snarled. Before his enemy could react, Bolan’s hand flashed down and he snatched his KA-BAR combat knife from its sheath and stabbed it through the man’s boot and the ankle beneath. The gunman screamed as Bolan jerked the blade free and he fell heavily onto the ladder, losing his weapon to the waters below. Bolan grabbed one of his thrashing arms and yanked on it, hard, hearing the distinct “pop” of the man’s arm dislocating. The ladder whined as it began to come loose from its temporary mooring. Bolan hauled himself up and onto the shaking ladder. He had to move quickly. Ignoring the agonized thrashing of his would-be assassin, Bolan clambered over him, knife in hand. He had just managed to reach the closest strut as a flailing hand fastened onto his foot. Bolan turned and drove his other foot into the man’s face. Bone crunched. The force of the blow shook the ladder loose and it tumbled down, taking its wounded burden with it. The man’s scream spiraled up as he hit the water and then ceased abruptly.

  Breathing heavily, Bolan pushed himself to his feet. He waited a moment to see if the man would surface. When he didn’t, Bolan moved around the gantry toward the entrance to the facility. It was wide open, and he could see the black marks of a small explosion.

  “Plan B,” he said. Carefully, Bolan ducked through the open hatch and stepped into HYPERBOREA. The first thing he noticed was the smell. It stank of damp and rust, and the air had a greasy solidity to it. He moved through the dimly lit corridor. Emergency lighting had come on the minute the door was opened, and it flickered and pulsed weakly. That the system was still functioning despite decades of neglect was impressive. They had built things to last back then. I wonder for how much longer, though, Bolan thought. He drew the Desert Eagle and checked it carefully. The holster was waterproof, and it had
n’t been submerged for long, but there was no telling whether or not he could rely on it. Holding it close, he continued on, alert for any indication of another ambush—he knew that besides Kraft and Mervin, there were only two men left, which still put the odds at 4-1. Better than 5-1, he thought.

  Bolan had no trouble traversing the maze of corridors, having memorized the blueprints for the base on the flight out from Seattle. HYPERBOREA was a compact labyrinth, with the outer corridors leading to the galley and the sleeping quarters and the inner area housing workstations. The central rig area, where a pipeline would have been before the base was repurposed, was now a shaft shot directly into the guts of the mountain. That was where they’d found it, Ackroyd had said.

  As he traversed the base, Bolan wondered how they’d come across Ymir in the first place. Had some adventurous outdoorsman stumbled across a sign of what would become an archaeological site and made a report? And why had the Feds become involved in the first place? No answers had been forthcoming in the files he’d been given. He suspected that Ackroyd himself hadn’t really known.

  At any rate, it didn’t matter now. It existed, and it was a problem the Executioner would have to solve. The sound of voices came to him, and he froze.

  “Get it open, Mervin. Thylea calls to us,” Kraft said.

  “It will take a few minutes to break the code,” Mervin replied. “We can’t risk blowing it open. Patience is a virtue, as you have said to me many times.”

  Kraft grunted. “Go check on Picher. See what those gunshots were about.”

  Bolan pressed himself flat against the wall as footsteps sounded farther up the corridor. He looked at the heavy pipes that lined the ceiling. The corridor wasn’t very wide and, reaching up, he planted a palm on one wall and then did the same against the other. His feet went next as he wedged himself upward in among the pipes. It was an uncomfortable fit, but he was only planning to hold it for a few moments. He couldn’t allow them to get into that lab.

  The footsteps got louder. Two men rounded the corner, weapons held loosely. One, who was more alert than the other, happened to glance up at the last moment. His mouth opened even as Bolan dropped onto them. The Executioner landed between them with a clang and his leg snapped out in a side kick, catching the inobservant one in the back of the knees and sending him sprawling. Bolan’s fist struck the other in the groin, bending him double with a shrill wheeze.

  In the tight confines of the corridor, Bolan twisted, reaching up to grab the bending gunman by his scalp and jaw as he hooked the throat of the other with his ankles. His shoulders tensed and heaved and the first man’s neck bone gave a sharp snap as it split in two. Bolan used his legs to haul the second man, who was thrashing desperately, back within reach. Then, with a ruthless efficiency, he repeated the maneuver and snapped the man’s neck with a single, powerful twist.

  “Oh, bravo, my friend,” Kraft said, clapping. “Bravo, indeed. But I am certain you do not need me to tell you how impressive you are.”

  Bolan rose slowly to his feet. He flexed his hands as he eyed Kraft, considering. Kraft smiled, as if he could guess what the Executioner was thinking. “I knew you were out here, somewhere. It was the only reason Picher would have fired.” He looked past Bolan at the dead men. His smile slipped slightly. “It will be a bitter victory, I think. You have delayed the inevitable and cost us many heroes, my unknown friend. Tell me your name so that I might know who I send to dine with the gods of the Aryan peoples....”

  “In the past I was called the Executioner,” Bolan said.

  Kraft laughed in obvious delight. “Oh, how wonderful,” he said. “Do you hear, Mervin?” He hesitated. “Mervin?” he said again. There was no answer. Kraft glanced back. Bolan slid forward like a striking snake, the Desert Eagle springing into his hand. Kraft spun around, and his forearm crashed against the barrel even as it fired. The roar of the pistol was loud in the confined space. Kraft’s palm struck Bolan’s wrist and the pistol was sent clattering away. The big man’s other fist snapped out and his knuckles slammed up against the bottom of Bolan’s chin, nearly taking his feet out from under him. Bolan stepped back and rubbed his aching jaw as Kraft glided after him.

  “Do you know what they called me, back in the service? Sturmvogel—‘the Storm Eagle.’ A very colorful name, and one I wore with pride. I was a great soldier, but now I serve a higher power. Who do you serve, Executioner?” Kraft said. His trench knife seemed to appear in his hand as if by magic and the blade hissed as it cut the air. Bolan backed away and drew his own knife.

  “I fight for justice,” he said.

  Kraft snickered. “What a coincidence—so do I!”

  They crept toward one another, blades bared, arms raised in mirrored stances. “The justice of a better world,” Kraft went on. “The justice of a fairer time, when strength and blood meant more—”

  “Shut up,” Bolan said. They clashed in a lightning-snap of blades and muscle, knife edges scraping against one another. Bolan bent to the side and his foot shot out, catching Kraft in the hip. Kraft’s hand slammed down and his fingers dug into Bolan’s calf painfully. They went over in a tangle of knees and elbows. Bolan felt his lip burst, and his vision sparked as a fist graced his temple. His forearm caught Kraft in the throat. The big man shot backward, gagging, and Bolan hit him with a shoulder in the belly. They crashed against the wall and Kraft caught him by the sides and bodily flung him away. Breathing heavily, they eyed one another.

  Bolan raised his blade. A thin line of Kraft’s blood crawled across the knife. Kraft touched his side and grimaced. “I knew you were good,” he wheezed. He showed his own blade. It was smeared with red. “But then, so am I.”

  The Executioner winced. He touched his side and his fingertips came away wet. It hurt when he breathed. His fingers curled into a fist and he moved forward. His blow hissed over Kraft’s shoulder, and his knife sliced up, cutting through coat and flesh. Kraft grunted and snapped his head forward. Bolan saw stars and staggered back. Kraft was good.

  Kraft came in at a charge, his heavy tread echoing in the corridor. A moment before he reached Bolan, the latter realized the noise he’d heard wasn’t an echo. The corridor seemed to bulge and shimmy and both men nearly lost their balance. Kraft braced himself against the wall and looked around, eyes narrowed. “Shit,” he said.

  Bolan found his feet and lunged, throwing himself into the other man shoulder first even as HYPERBOREA gave another, louder groan. They hit the floor as the sound of tearing metal filled the air. Bolan had to get past him. There was no telling where Mervin was. He could have already gotten to Ymir while Bolan had been busy with Kraft. Bolan grabbed Kraft’s head and bounced it off the floor. Kraft twitched and went limp. The Executioner scooped up his pistol and hurried down the corridor, wasting no more time on the big man.

  The base was beginning to shift around him. Pipes rattled and several burst, hosing the corridor with rusty, ice-cold water. Bolan pressed on, one arm held up to shield his face. The persistent whine of an alarm gave a strangled squawk and went silent. The floor trembled beneath his feet, as if the base were coming apart at the seams. The explosion they’d used to breach the base had obviously set off a long-delayed structural collapse. That meant Bolan no longer had to figure out how to destroy the base, but he still had to make sure the base’s secrets died with it.

  He rounded a corner and saw the markings that indicated the research laboratory. The hatch was open, and Bolan’s heart went cold. He moved closer, Desert Eagle held low.

  Bolan paused in front of the open hatch. He smelled cigarette smoke. A moment later the Executioner heard the click of a pistol being cocked.

  Chapter 21

  “Don’t move! I will kill you if you move,” Mervin said. “Hand me your weapon slowly, if you please.”

  He took the Desert Eagle from Bolan’s hand and stuffed it into his coat. The litt
le man gestured. “Inside, please,” he said. Bolan hesitated. “It’s quite safe, I assure you. By my calculations, this contagion requires constant fuel to propagate itself. That’s why it kills so quickly. It was easy enough to extrapolate its limitations from what little information I was able to find. It took eight days from the point of discovery for the first case of infection to occur, and then, only after the corpus was autopsied. Ackroyd himself is likely not sure, after all this time, how it happened. I theorize that the initial infection required contamination—a bit like a vampire reinvigorated by a taste of warm, fresh blood. But when the blood ran out, well, Ymir went back to sleep. And it will sleep still, until I choose to awaken it. Inside, please.”

  “And then what?” Bolan said, stepping through the hatch. “You’ll kill a couple million innocent people?”

  Mervin laughed. “Hardly. Let Thylea stay in the mythic past where it belongs. I have better plans.” He smiled. “I knew you’d beat Kraft. I knew you’d come after me. I knew the open hatch would hold your attention for the 6.7 seconds I needed to get a gun to your head.” He jerked his chin. “Look at it.”

  The body lay on an examination table, curled into a ball within its plastic shroud. He could just make out the brown, withered shape of its form. It really was a mummy. “The mummy’s curse,” Mervin said, and giggled. The chill in Bolan’s chest grew, and his skin prickled.

  He looked at Mervin and the little man’s chuckle died in his throat. “No,” Mervin said, as if Bolan had spoken, “No, it’s not funny, is it? It’s quite frightening, when considered from an emotional standpoint. But I’m not emotional. I’m a rational man, logical, and this is a treasure trove. Move back. Move back, please.” Mervin gesticulated with the pistol. Bolan, hands spread, did as the little man indicated. Even as he did so, his mind was awash with calculations of his own—Mervin was keeping himself well out of reach, but not so far away as to give Bolan enough distance to avoid a shot. “I don’t know who you are or why you’ve seen fit to interfere, but it’s done. You are done.”