by Paul Kenyon
Penelope turned her head to watch it dwindle into the white waste. The sound of the engines grew fainter and faded away.
A few minutes later she heard another sound. It seemed to be coming from the opposite direction, a mile or two beyond a ridge. It was a low wail that ran up the scale as she listened to it, and was joined by other howls.
Wolves.
* * *
Skytop raised his head at the sound of the explosion. It almost cost him his life.
"Duck!" Wharton yelled.
The stream of slugs hosed past him, sending down a shower of ice chips from the vertical face at his back. He buried his cheek in the snow and waited until the machine gunner got tired.
"That explosion came from the Russian lab!" Skytop said.
Wharton, lying beside him in the snow, nodded. "Sounded like about forty pounds of pentolite, detonated just below ground level as a demolition charge. Somebody blew up a bunker."
"The Baroness?"
Before Wharton could answer, there was another explosion, bigger than the first.
"No," Wharton said. "She wasn't carrying anything like that."
A snowmobile charged out of the gloom at them. Wharton fired a burst from his Galil assault rifle to discourage it. The snowmobile veered and hid behind the crest of a low hill.
"Maybe she swiped the explosive, set it off as a diversion. Dan, she needs help getting out of there!"
"If she wanted a diversion, she would have set off a hell of a lot more than forty pounds. Besides, the second explosion sounded as if it was coming from the far side of the lab. There are at least two groups working. They're trying to get inside, not out."
There was a chatter of machine gun fire from the hill. Skytop and Wharton ignored it. It was just some trigger-happy bozo trying to rattle them.
"Same bunch as the ones shooting at us?"
"They have to be. I thought at first they were some kind of security patrol from the Russian lab. But it sounds like they're using American guns. M-16s."
"Jesus!" Skytop said. "Who are they?"
Wharton shrugged. "Maybe Washington got desperate. I don't think so."
Another burst of machine gun fire streaked over them, too high and too far to the left.
"Whoever they are, they've got us pinned down."
"They must think we're a Russian patrol."
Inga came wriggling through the snow, leaving a furrow behind her. "Eric and Tommy are circling around," she said. "They'll be able to dump mortar shells down on those bandits from that hill there."
Skytop shook his head. "That'll take a couple of hours, at least. And in the meantime we can't move."
Another one of the mysterious snowmobiles came swooping from cover, the man in the rear saddle pumping bullets in their direction. They drove it back with rifle fire.
"We'll just have to wait it out," Wharton said, frowning. "From the sound of things back there, the Russians are too busy to worry about gunfire out here."
"We can wait it out, Dan. The Baroness can't."
"Look, Chief, I know how you feel…" Pain wrenched Wharton's rugged face. Skytop pitied him for his hopeless fixation on the Baroness.
"She should have signaled us hours ago. Unless something happened."
Inga gripped Skytop's thick arm. "If she's still in there, there's nothing we can do. But if she made it outside, she'll be caught in the middle of this war. With nothing but a little boudoir gun."
"I'm going," Skytop rumbled. "Cover me, children."
Wharton grabbed him by the sleeve. "You can't find her in all those hundreds of square miles. Not without the sniffer. And the Baroness has that."
Skytop grinned. "We've got sniffers, too. Two of them. The organic kind."
Wharton got the idea immediately. "It might work. If you're lucky enough to cut across her trail." He let go of Skytop's sleeve. "You stay here, Chief, and help Inga keep our friends busy. Inga, where are the borzois?"
"In my tent, tied down. The gunfire's driving them crazy."
Wharton made a move to head toward Inga's tent, out of sight below surface level, as all of their equipment was.
"Hold it, Dan," Skytop said.
"Hands off, injun."
"Don't be dumb, Dan. The Baroness needs help, not heroics. You're the big military mind in this outfit. You can keep those snowmobilers busy better than I can. And I can track better than you…" A mocking expression came over his face. "…white man," he added.
A struggle showed on Wharton's features. Finally he gave a sober nod. "All right, Chief. Be careful."
Skytop rolled sidewise like a log, while Wharton and Inga sent up a maniacal fusillade of fire from their assault rifles. He hit a small declivity that gave him cover as he crawled backward from the shallow ridge that had sheltered the three of them. A snowmobile engine buzzed, as one of the machines made a sudden foray. But it was directed against the position he'd just left. He turned his head in time to see Wharton's arm flash upward. A black dot hurtled in the direction of the snowmobile — falling far too short, naturally, but still traveling an incredible distance for an object thrown from a prone position. Wharton's throwing arm was fantastic. The grenade burst with an ugly crack, and the snowmobile fled back to its hiding place.
Skytop squeezed his way into the tent. It was steamy with the breath of the two dogs. Stasya and Igor whined, wagging their tails. Their ears were flat back.
"Okay, fellas," Skytop said. "We're going for a little walk."
Stasya sobbed, sounding incredibly human, when Skytop untied the chains that were fastened to the big steel staple. They lunged and tried to get out of the tent, but Skytop held on relentlessly. Their more than two hundred pounds of combined frenzy were almost too much, even for him, but he got a grip on their wide collars and wrestled them outside, forcing their heads down low. He crawled a couple of hundred yards with them, down a small slope, before he judged that it was safe to stand up.
He set off toward the Russian laboratory, fifteen long miles toward the southeast, festooned with grenades, the automatic rifle slung across his back and a spare machine gun in his right hand. The dogs' leads were wrapped around his wrist, pulling him along on his snowshoes.
With luck, he thought, he might reach the vicinity of the Russian laboratory in five or six hours.
He had no inkling whatever that he was heading in exactly the wrong direction.
Chapter 14
They were sitting in a circle around her, looking like a jury out of hell. They were gaunt, battle-scarred creatures with torn ears and patches of mange on their fur. They watched her with intelligent eyes, ears pricked forward and lips drawn back over white fangs in the horrible semblance of a smile.
The Baroness concentrated on her right wrist, working it back and forth, trying to loosen the iron spike in the frozen ground. She could feel the spike moving minutely, but she knew that the wolves would overcome their natural caution long before she worked herself loose.
So far they'd kept their distance, but the circle kept growing smaller and smaller. They were near enough for her to smell the dank fur, the rotten-meat stench of their breaths. A couple of them paced back and forth on the fringes of the circle, whining impatiently.
She remembered something she'd heard: an adult wolf can eat thirty pounds of meat at a sitting. There wasn't going to be very much of her to go around.
She was freezing cold. The polar sun shone down on her naked body through the clear still air, starkly lighting the blue gooseflesh on her limbs, the puckered, shriveled knots of her nipples. It would be almost pleasant to freeze to death, compared to what was in store for her. But Penkin had been right; the wolves wouldn't wait that long.
She tugged again at the wire snaring her right wrist. The movement sent her breasts rippling, her legs straining. The wolves stirred. It was obvious that she was helpless. One great silvery beast got to his feet and shook himself. He yawned. He sniffed the air and whimpered. Penelope could see him drooling. Looking like a big
, intelligent, friendly dog, the wolf trotted toward her.
Skytop slogged across the empty white plain, wrestling with the borzois, his snowshoes rising and falling automatically. The dogs were being unruly. They kept pulling to one side, trying to go at a tangent to his route.
"This way, goddammit!" he yelled, tugging them toward the distant glitter of the germ warfare installation. There had been more explosions. Smoke was rising in a dark greasy column, and now he could hear the faint rattle of automatic weapons fire.
The dogs lunged, almost pulling him off his feet, to sniff at the tracks of some large treaded vehicle. Cursing, Skytop hauled them onward toward his goal.
His keen ears heard the mosquito whine of the snowmobile engines in plenty of time. But there was no way he could have prevented what happened next. He was the only object on a vast flat field of white. There was no place to hide.
Far ahead, a line of tiny dots sped toward him. The line split into a vee when they caught sight of him, spreading out to ensnare him from either side.
Skytop let go of the dogs' leads and dropped to one knee, bringing up the muzzle of the automatic rifle, knowing in advance that it was hopeless. The dogs ran off immediately. Someone in one of the snowmobiles took a pot shot at them. There was the sharp crack of a long-range rifle, and one of the dogs yelped. The two borzois disappeared into the distance, their white fur almost invisible against the snow.
There were six snowmobiles, each carrying a driver and a man riding shotgun. They buzzed around him in a wide circle, out of effective range of his automatic rifle. He didn't bother to shoot. After a while, the anonymous marksman grew tired of his stupidity. There was another sharp crack, and a bullet whistled over Skytop's head. It wasn't intended to kill him. He thought it prudent not to try their patience any longer.
With a sigh, he threw the automatic rifle as far away from him as he could. He unslung the spare weapon from his back and threw that away too. Instantly the snowmobiles converged on him, sending up sprays of white crystals.
He was startled when he saw them up close. All the faces were Chinese, and they wore the red star insignia of People's Army regulars. So that's what all the shooting and explosions had been about!
The Chinese patrol leader dismounted and approached him warily, a pistol in his hand. He was a huge moonfaced man, his expression masked by goggles. He gestured with the pistol.
"Vy menyah paneemahyete?" he said in an abominable attempt at Russian.
Skytop shook his head.
The man studied Skytop through his goggles, evidently puzzled at his Cherokee features.
"English, then? Do you speak English?"
Skytop kept his mouth shut.
"You speak English," the man said with a show of confidence. "You come along now."
Skytop let himself be taken. The Chinese hadn't shot him out of hand because he represented a puzzle. They were a long way from home; they couldn't afford to make any mistakes. They wanted to question him first.
He submitted passively while they bound his hands behind his back and seated him on one of the snowmobiles. He was jammed between the driver and the heavy bulk of the rifleman, unable to move. The driver kicked his machine into life, and they started off with a jerk. They headed toward the battle at the laboratory, eager to dump him off for later interrogation and join the fighting. He was a nuisance right now, a helpless bundle that was slowing them down. Skytop grinned. He almost felt sorry for the poor bastards.
* * *
The Baroness felt the wolfs muzzle, warm and insistent, against her ribs. It poked hard, hard enough to leave a bruise. If she hadn't been tied down, it would have flipped her over.
Instantly the wolf backed off and studied her. She could see the rough fur on its face, bristly as a scrub-brush, and the knowing brown eyes. The long red tongue hung down over yellow teeth. Drool dripped down into the snow.
Satisfied at her helplessness, the huge silver beast gathered its courage to leap in and snap at her — a first bite that would tear some five pounds of flesh from her living body. Where would it be? Her thigh, her breast, her soft belly with the tempting entrails il contained? Hyenas usually went for the face.
The wolf wagged its tail, for all the world like a dog that has just had its supper bowl set down in front of it, and lunged.
And was knocked off its feet by a white streak that came out of nowhere and hit it in the side like a javelin.
Igor! The big borzoi must have been traveling at sixty miles an hour when he hit the wolf with his rapier nose. The impact had knocked him flat, too.
And there was Stasya, circling around, keeping between Penelope and the rest of the wolves.
Igor scrambled to his feet before the silver wolf did and lunged at his opponent's throat. The wolf jerked its head around, snapping, and suddenly Stasya was at its throat from the other side, tearing out a great mouthful of flesh. Blood spurted on the snow, and the two wolfhounds bounded away, light as feathers, and faced the rest of the pack.
There were about thirty of them, all trying to make up their minds about this new intrusion. A young wolf, bolder than the rest, darted at Stasya, contemptuous of the queer narrow dog that looked too light-bodied for its size.
Stasya's long face lifted in a blur too fast for the eye to follow, and the wolf slammed into the ground with its momentum, its throat torn out. The other wolves waited, evaluating the situation.
Penelope renewed her attempt to work the steel spike loose. She had an idea.
"Here, Igor," she cooed. "That's a good boy." The big wolfhound trotted over to her, swaying on his long legs. He whined and licked her face, upset at her Failure to pat him. Finally he nuzzled her right hand, demanding affection.
She caught hold of his collar. "At 'em, boy!" she commanded.
He needed no urging. Another wolf was edging too close. Igor surged with his hundred-plus pounds of strength. The Baroness added her own efforts. She thought she felt the spike give a little.
"Go, boy, go!" she said.
Igor tried once again to leap. His collar was torn out of Penelope's grasp. He stood there, tail wagging.
But the spike was loose now. She moved it back and forth a few times, and pulled it out of the ground.
The rest was easy. She worked at the spike holding her left wrist, two-handed, and when that came free she unfastened her legs.
The borzois were in the midst of the wolf pack now, slashing, snapping, darting in and out, faster than the heavier wolves could react. They worked in a deadly silence, playing out the ancient role that had been bred into their genes by generations of wolf-hunting Russian noblemen.
The Baroness got to her feet, shivering with cold, a spike in her hand. She managed to coax one of the borzois over to her for a moment and slip the heavy chain he was still dragging. She stood there, spike held ready and a double length of chain dangling from her left hand. It was a pretty good approximation of the dagger and staff combination that the Lapps used for wolf killing.
A shaggy big-headed beast broke through the borzois' defense and leaped at her throat. She sidestepped and swung the chain. It cracked him across the face, stunning him, and she drove the point of the spike into his throat He snapped at her futilely when she pulled the spike out, then collapsed to the ground, arterial blood pumping out of his neck. The Baroness whirled and rapped the chain across the face of a wolf that had been trying to sneak up behind her. She got the point of her spike into his belly and ripped. He staggered sideways, his entrails dragging on the snow.
The snow was littered with dead wolves now, at least a dozen of them. The Baroness waded into the fight, taking her position beside Igor and Stasya. They accepted her help as naturally as if she had been another wolfhound, instinctively positioning themselves to form a circle that faced the wolves on three sides, here where there was nothing they could get their backs against.
The wolves could only dart in one or two at a time. The naked, wild-haired woman and the two tall white dogs wor
ked in concert, with fangs and snapping jaws, swinging chain and glittering stake. The Baroness' right hand was sticky with wolf blood, past the wrist. Once a wolf caught the iron spike in its teeth, but one of the borzois slashed at its throat. Once a big gray animal sunk its teeth into Stasya's shoulder, and Penelope was able to kill it before Igor could go to his teammate's aid.
When it was over, she stood there, panting. There were fewer than a dozen wolves left alive, and they slunk off, breaking into a run when the two borzois began harrying them.
"Igor, Stasya!" the Baroness called sharply. The two dogs came reluctantly back to her. Ordinarily they'd never have come back while there was a chance of prey, but their blood-lust was partially slaked by the mass slaughter they'd just committed, and Stasya was hurt, and they were a little intimidated by the vast empty space that contained the comfort of just one human presence.
The Baroness surveyed the damage. Stasya's shoulder — just torn muscle. He wouldn't bleed to death. Multiple minor wounds that made red patches on Igor's white fur. And aside from one long slash down her forearm, where a dying wolf's fang had caught in her flesh, only surface scratches on her own body.
She wasn't cold for the moment. The heavy exertion had sent the blood pumping through her veins, overheating her body. She was covered all over with a thin sheen of sweat.
It began to freeze on her body as she stood there. The pain of the cold was worse than she'd imagined. There was no shelter, no clothing, no help for miles. She was naked in the Arctic.
She shivered violently. Little shards of ice fell from her quivering skin. Already, her bare feet could feel nothing.
If she had a knife, she could skin one of the dead wolves, the way Vana had. But she had no knife — nothing but the steel spikes. And they didn't have an edge.
She stared hopelessly at the carcasses of the dead wolves all around her. Without a knife, they were no good to her. No good at all.
Her body was growing numb rapidly. The pain diminished.