Broken Ice (Immortal Operative Book 1)

by J. R. Rain

  “Ten minutes,” says a woman over a speaker in the ceiling.

  “Copy.”

  I run over a check of my gear, pulling my thoughts off tangent and back to the mission at hand. Andrew came through for me and got some electric heated gloves, as well as one of those huge parka coats, leggings, snow cleats, and an insulated facemask. As a vampire, I would normally walk into the site like I own the place, but the Dominion had been concerned about Russian technology blocking out their psychic influence. So, yeah, their concern is my concern.

  Might as well try the standard approach first—meaning, stealthily. I can always fall back on mind control for emergencies. On the off chance these guys somehow are shielded from my psychic influence, I need to play this the normal way as much as possible. I suit up, strap my supply pack on in front of my chest, then pull the parachute onto my back.

  We’re coming in on a high altitude approach that should allow the pilots to turn around and leave the area before any Russian interceptors come anywhere near us—if they even notice the B2. Getting back home is, unfortunately, up to me and a set of falsified Russian documents in my pack. Fortunately, mind control works on civilians. Even if fully effective mental shielding does exist here, there’s no way they’re handing it out to people working security at airports.

  Flying into a remote part of Siberia with no clear way to go home would probably freak most people—or vampires—out. I find it thrilling. Though, I do have a little nibble of guilt at being away from Chloe for so long. When this is over with, I’ll need to spend time with her before she forgets who I am, the CIA and their urgent missions be damned.

  “Five minutes,” says the same woman.

  “Copy.”

  The room has twenty small hatches in the floor, each big enough for one person to slip through and fall. An entire special operations team can drop out in three seconds, allowing the plane to return to full stealth configuration with minimal exposure. I take a position on the spot marked ‘1’ and grab the narrow steel pole for balance. This is the closest I’ve ever come to being an exotic dancer, and I’m totally overdressed for it. After securing my eye protection and breathing mask in place, I mash the ‘I’m ready’ button, and make sure my boots are on the two rectangular spaces outside the area of the drop door. Unexpected falling is bad. Soon, the whine of the engines loses intensity… they’re slowing down for me.

  The pilot—or maybe she’s the co-pilot, not sure—gives me a standard ten second countdown. At five seconds, the hatch beneath me opens. At two seconds, I shift my weight onto the pole, holding on in anticipation of go time. At one second, the door under me falls open. At zero seconds, I let go and drop.

  I feel like a meat torpedo fired out of a missile tube, and mentally scream in excitement at the adrenaline rush. Leaping out of a low flying, floundering Learjet had been tame compared to this. It had been below 2,000 feet when I threw myself out the door. This B2 is cruising at like 40,000 feet. So yeah… I’ve got a ways to fall. It’s exhilarating, mostly because I have a parachute this time. The higher the better, but that might just be me.

  The glacial islands below me glow in the moonlight, a highly obvious target against the blackness of the ocean. Hitting the water would totally ruin my night. Fortunately, there’s plenty of polar desert down there. The worst case scenario—other than the parachute failing—is me having a long, shitty walk in the cold. Actually, check that. The worst result would be getting blown off course and going into the ocean miles from shore.

  A tiny HUD in my visor shows altitude dropping. The parachute will set itself off when I reach 3,000 feet, a safety feature in case of unconsciousness. Yeah, I skipped the oxygen pre-breathing since vampires aren’t susceptible to the bends, but I’m still wearing the mask since I don’t feel like passing out on the way down. I might have fangs, but I still need air.

  I drop in eerie silence for a few minutes, the soft roar of the departing B2 barely noticeable. Already, the cold gets to me despite the heavy coat, leggings, and electric gloves. High altitude and rapid wind isn’t helping from a warmth standpoint. I attempt to steer as best I can, gliding generally toward a distant spot of artificial light on the ice field. It’s close enough to the coordinates in the fob that it has to be the Origin site, not some random fishermen camping for vodka time.

  Eventually, I can make out the shapes of military trucks and tents, though it’s all quite tiny from here. Beeping from the altimeter warns me that I’m approaching the parachute altitude. I swing my legs forward a few seconds before the rapidly scrolling numbers hit the 3,000 mark and the parachute goes off with a muted pop.

  Rapid deceleration digs the harness straps into my groin and chest, but it’s better than going splat. Now that I can steer with the chute handles, I aim for a dome-shaped swell in the ice, and set down with a barrier between me and the camp. There’s nothing out here but whiteness, which creates the risk that someone in the camp saw me come in. My chute, coat, leggings, and boots are all white, and it’s about nineteen degrees at the moment according to the suite of electronics strapped to my forearm in a panel about the size of a smartphone. With any luck, the soldiers watching over that station aren’t going to be terribly motivated to stand outside and stare into the barren nothingness around them.

  After gathering up my parachute and concealing it as best I can in the snow, I shift the supply pack onto my back and wait behind the little ice dome I chose for cover, allowing about ten minutes to listen for signs of alarm. No one loses their minds, and no footsteps or motors approach, so I climb the mound enough to see over the top.

  Aside from only needing standard binoculars (as opposed to night vision), another advantage of mine is being able to see in full color, not that monochromatic green mess. The camp is arranged around a central tent that doesn’t look at all like anything the military would use. It’s bright blue and has a bunch of product brands all over it. That most likely belonged to the scientific expedition that had originally stumbled across whatever is under the ice, a consortium of universities, environmental trusts, and as much corporate sponsorship as they could get.

  My guess is that tent contains the access point to the Origin facility—be it structure or ship—beneath the glacier. Three huge military cargo trucks are parked in a line end-to-end along one side of the camp, probably in an effort to create something of a windbreak. A handful of militarized snowcat type vehicles with boxy cabins, flatbeds, and wide tank treads stand here and there by the various tents. They look like militarized versions of ski patrol trucks. Two are loaded with boxes, likely supplies, one’s empty. All have the word ‘Arcticfox’ on them in Cyrillic lettering.

  A nine-foot collapsible antenna has been staked into the ice beside a square tent at the right edge of the camp. A cable as thick as my wrist connects from the base to a white trailer with a roof full of various small dishes and more antennas. That’s probably their command center.

  I spot about five or six men walking around inside the camp area. Two carry rifles and walk in a pair, obviously a patrol. The other three dash between large tents at the northeast corner, closest to where I am. That has to be the barracks. Portable heaters the size of compact cars connected to each of the two barracks tents gives them an inflated appearance from warm air being pumped in. I’m a bit far away to tell for sure, but I don’t think anyone here is a vampire.

  Confident I made it to the ground without being noticed, I slip back down the ice dome until my cleats hit the ground, push myself up to stand, and maneuver around to the right, away from the barracks tents. Local time is a little past one in the morning. Despite how easily I can see, I know it’s pitch black out here to humans. Worse since they have pole lights set up that make everything outside the camp even darker. I suppose they could have night vision surveillance cameras, so I stay low while circling toward the command trailer.

  It takes about seventeen minutes for me to reach the edge of the light from where I landed. The command trailer’s twenty
yards away, but shadowed from the artificial lights by the tent next to the big antenna. Since no one’s in sight, I break cover and hustle toward the trailer, slowing over the last few yards for the sake of quiet. I doubt any human is going to hear my cleats on the ice above the noise of the massive heater units sprinkled everywhere. They emit a constant mechanical roar like a high idle from a dump truck. Ugh. It would drive me insane being around that for more than a few hours, but my ears are more sensitive. Bet these guys don’t even notice it anymore.

  After another short wait to listen for anyone who might’ve noticed me run to the trailer, I reach up and pull on the door handle. It opens without protest. Hooray for the lax security of being out in the middle of nowhere. Seriously, who wants to deal with keypads—or keys—in teen-degree weather while wearing thick gloves?

  I step into a heated one-room command center roughly about the size of a metro bus with six cramped workstations. Only one desk is occupied, the man in it seated with his back to the door. He’s in the process of turning around to see who just walked in. The guy gives me a casual glance, mutters something about me being early, and turns back to his workstation. Wow. He didn’t notice the differences in my parka or eye protection. I guess when a guy’s been staring at everyone wearing white coats with huge furry hoods for weeks, they all start to look the same. And really, this place is so damn remote the odds of someone showing up out of the blue are pretty low.

  The desk all the way at the right end contains four stacked components: two satellite radio transmitters hooked up in parallel with a supplemental conventional radio unit, and shortwave transmitter. A tall bottle of vodka stands next to it in the corner, ‘hidden but not really hidden.’ Since the guy is presently disregarding me, I approach the stack and pull a micro detonator from a side pouch on my supply pack, then slip the two-inch disk in between the second and third components, right in the middle of the stack. The two-inch disk contains enough C4 to annihilate the radio system but won’t cause too much damage to the rest of the room. In the event I need to gag this installation, I only need to hit a button on my armband and… no more communications.

  That done, I walk back toward the guy and lift my visor up onto my forehead. I’m not sure if they actually do interfere with mental influence, but it’s a little hang-up of mine. Having anything over my eyes feels like it gets in the way.

  “Quiet night?” I ask.

  He spins, eyes wide.

  Since I don’t think in Russian, I put his brain on pause using a low level mental jab, the same sort of thing I do pre-feeding to leave someone staring into space for a few minutes. Once I’ve eliminated the need to stop this guy from freaking out and making noise, I formulate questions in Russian I can feed into his subconscious one by one.

  With Anatoly’s help, I locate and disable the motion sensing alarms they’ve set up around the dig site entrance. He’s a big help, and assists me in restarting the software interface in a diagnostic/training mode that makes it appear like everything is still active.

  “Any idea what’s down there?” I ask, pointing to the main tent on the screen.

  He nods, speaking in a half awake, dazed tone. “Yes and no. We haven’t been able to get the door open yet. They’ve been trying everything short of blowing it up. Colonel Kuznetsov won’t let them use charges because it’ll bring down the ice tunnel and we’d have to dig it out again.”

  “All right.” He’s clearly not immune to my mental abilities, so I ask, “Does anyone in this camp have technology or other means to make them resistant to psychic influence?”

  He nods. “The soldiers on perimeter guard and whoever’s on post at the tunnel entrance have special headsets. They’re supposed to block control from vampires, but we have no idea if they work.”

  I think about the panic text from the Dominion’s scout. Admittedly, he was a night walker. The US version of the anti-control device doesn’t really block Origin’s telepathy, merely zaps the wearer before it can take hold. Sometimes, I really wonder what kind of sadist designed that. If a vampire presses hard enough, a person might willingly take the damn thing off to make the pain stop. I suppose the brass hopes the commando being zapped manages to shoot the vampire in the head before it reaches that point.

  Under my compulsion, Anatoly returns to his workstation and resumes acting normal—however, he will ignore anything unusual that happens for the next few hours. His morning relief is expected to show up at five, but his partner Nikolai is almost always ten to fifteen minutes late.

  It’s 1:43 a.m., so I have some time. Hopefully it’ll be enough for me to make it down there, learn what I need to learn, and get out. And possibly use the two pound brick of C4 in my backpack, an item that did not appear on any mission manifest, thanks to Andrew. Sometimes acting in the service of the US Government also means protecting it from itself. Meaning, no good will come from a device of mass mind control. Though, technically, it’s more a weapon of mass derp. As in, it renders all humans within its radius stupefied. Basically turning them into plants. It couldn’t be used to make large numbers of people do anything specific, like form armies, hand over money, or even lie down where they stood. Luckily, humans can’t even activate it.

  Yeah, this thing has one purpose—rendering a population of humans docile and controllable. No matter how much any government thinks they can make it work for them, which is doubtful, unless Origin vampires are involved, it needs to go boom.

  I put my visor back on and zip the parka—it did get a bit warm in here—and grab Anatoly’s rifle. Since he didn’t react right away to me not belonging here, I might be able to fake my way into the dig tunnel tent. He didn’t suspect me to be an intruder until I opened my mouth, as I am probably the only female here. The parka and leggings are kinda fluffy and my face is covered… suppose I shouldn’t take his assuming me a guy as an insult.

  Before heading out, I snag the vodka and tuck it under my arm. The patrolling soldiers I watched from afar carried their weapons over their shoulders, so I do the same… and walk like I belong here in a gradually curving path toward the middle of camp. My coat does have a few subtle differences from theirs, chiefly the lack of unit patches on the shoulders or a name plate on the chest, so I avoid walking too close to the pair of patrollers. I also try not to look like I’m on patrol, so they don’t question why I don’t have a ‘battle buddy.’

  An argument between two men in the big tent near the collapsible antenna makes me pause to eavesdrop. I scoot around to the side away from the pole-mounted lights so I’m mostly in the shadows. A thick-voiced guy rants in Russian about something being stupid and making no sense. His tone of voice tells me he’s venting at someone of equal station, as he’s not barking down at someone or couching his protests in softening words or phrases suggesting he’s complaining to a superior.

  “They should just have one of them come in and look at the damn thing. I’m tired of standing around here freezing my balls off.”

  The other guy laughs. “They’ve already frozen off or you wouldn’t be complaining about the cold, Borya.”

  “Well, why don’t they? We’re wasting time.”

  “Kuznetsov wants to, but his bosses don’t trust them. What if as soon as they get inside, they turn that damn thing on and just take us all over?”

  “Maksim, think… Isn’t taking minds over the entire point of that thing?”

  “Aye. But the generals want them to use it for us, not on us.”

  Borya grumbles and starts debating the trustworthiness of vampires who claim to be working for the Russian Federation. Maksim appears to agree with the commanders that they—we—shouldn’t be trusted. I’m mildly offended, but the existence of the Dominion does kinda prove him right. A more than small number of us still regard humans as inferior.

  This argument feels like it’s going to run in circles with no useful information, so I keep going toward the big blue tent in the middle. One of the Arcticfox tracked vehicles sits in a perfect spot to serve
as a hiding spot for me to wait out a slow-moving passing patrol pair. Once they go by, I slip around the snow rover and bee-line for the scientists’ stolen tent.

  Within the next minute, I’m either going to talk my way past a pair of guys who may well be immune to my psychic abilities... or shoot my way in.

  Only one way to find out what’s going to happen…

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Ice Stairs

  I pull the thin nylon flap aside and step into a big square tent.

  The inside is littered with folding tables, coolers, supply boxes of scientific equipment, digging tools, and so on. Two men in white parkas sit on folding chairs to the left of a rectangular hole in the ground that almost glows with blue glacial light. Several electrical wires run off the edge into the below.

  The men look up from their game of cards and face me. Before they can get too long a look at my lack of military insignia, I hold up the vodka bottle and adopt a posture like a slightly-inebriated soldier who wants drinking buddies.

  While swaying toward them, I poke the near one in the brain and… holy crap. He does feel like an android… or mannequin since there’s no such thing as androids. I don’t feel any sentient mind there at all.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here,” says the near man. “What are you doing?”

  “Vadim, Vadim…” The other man waves dismissively at his friend, and beckons me closer. “Relax. Have a drink.”

  I hurry over to the table and hand the bottle to the friendlier guy.

  Vadim looks at the other guard. “Don’t you go changing cards while I’m not looking at you.”

  The other guy raises the bottle at me in toast. “He thinks I am a cheater.”