Authors: Armen Gharabegian
Where the fuck did he go? He thought, panic rising in his throat. What—
A shadow appeared out of the dense blackness.
Simon saw a Vector5 assault suit. He saw the flat black helmet. He started to raise his weapon, ready to fire—when the figure raised a gloved finger to his mouth.
Max, he realized. It’s Max. He was hiding the body where they wouldn’t find it. That’s all.
They stepped back into the shadows just as two more soldiers emerged from the darkness and scrambled past them, moving quickly toward the transport elevator. Their helmets moved left and right, right and left, searching for their missing comrade.
As they passed, Simon made a quick motion with his head. Let’s go farther down the tunnel, he indicated, in the direction the men had just come from.
Max nodded. As the two soldiers melted into the darkness, the two friends moved silently in the other direction in pursuit of the men moving deeper in the tunnel.
* * *
One mile left to the encampment.
Keep going, you can do it, Hayden told himself. One foot in front of the other. Almost there. Just. Keep…
It was too much. Hayden finally, without further strength to push forward, let himself stop. His feet had been dragging, his body swaying for the last half mile. He just couldn’t go any farther.
Thirty yards ahead of him, Samantha and Ryan trudged on, concentrating on the last two thousand yards, determined to make it back. Hayden watched them go, getting smaller and smaller in the distance, but he didn’t call out to them.
I just need to rest, he thought and tucked his injured hand even more deeply into his torn ice suit. I’ll catch up somehow…
Samantha and Ryan pushed on without noticing that their friend was unable to follow any longer.
Hayden looked around for a brief moment and found a little uneven undulation in the wall. He hobbled over and saw it was more like a small alcove. “Perfect,” he said and sat down heavily. He leaned back against the icy wall and tried to get a deep breath through the mask. The lights from his helmet drifted as his head nodded. Just close my eyes for a second, he thought.
Chilled tears leaked from beneath his lids. You bastard, he thought, remembering the cheerful face of Andrew. He had met the boy just eight years ago, in the messy confines of his Oxford robotics lab. And now he was gone. Gone.
“You fucking bastard,” he said. He could feel his tears scalding him under the heated mask.
* * *
Back at the encampment, the scientists had worked for hours, packing rations, extra clothing, equipment and instruments—anything worth salvaging—into the storage bins of the MagCycles. That was done now. All they could do was sit, huddled together over a tiny makeshift heater assembled from back-up batteries and an ancient coil. As they watched, the sad little device sputtered, struggling to draw the last remaining ounce of energy from its source, and finally sent out a tiny spurt of gray smoke and died.
It was already cold—impossibly cold. Now it would get even colder.
There was a sudden call from the edge of the camp. “Hey!”
Ryan’s tired form pushed into the encampment, his head slouched. He didn’t say a word. Samantha’s figure was behind him. Her head was bowed as well, as if she could barely muster enough energy to make it inside the encampment. The scientists struggled to their feet at the sight of Ryan and Samantha and stumbled through the encampment toward them.
“We made it,” Sam said, breathless. “All three…”
It was only then that she realized it: Hayden wasn’t with them. Something was wrong.
Samantha looked around immediately. She blinked. Then she turned around and looked back the way she came.
Hayden was nowhere to be seen.
I didn’t notice, she told herself. I was so tired, I didn’t…
Panic ripped through her immediately. She caught a glimpse of Ryan, who was just as stunned as she was, but before he could say a word, she was scrambling to one of the encampments nearby tents and digging frantically through the debris.
There it is, she thought. She seized the small bag of rations and threw a life-support pack over her shoulder. There was a rack of rifles and ammunition in the corner. She took a weapon and stuffed her pockets with shells before she bolted out of the tent, fully loaded.
Thirty seconds later, without a word to anyone, she was back up the trail—going back to find Hayden.
* * *
The first of the eight drones dispatched to annihilate the scientists in the encampment had nearly reached its goal. It was using the most direct route its internal AI had located: an airshaft adjacent to Tunnel 3, exactly twenty-four inches in diameter. That was barely wide enough for a single human, and a small one at that, but it was more than enough for the compact little killing machine, even at an upward angle of thirty degrees.
The airshaft was one of many abandoned tunnels that had been closed after initial excavation. Some of these larger ones actually led directly down to Central Command itself, more than three thousand feet below.
The end-point of the shaft was sealed with a plug of ice thirty inches thick. It actually caused a small shelf and depression where it emerged—a nice little bench cut into the ice wall.
It was exactly the spot where Hayden’s half-conscious, painful body sat and dozed, the last of his heat draining away.
Samantha ran toward him as if her life depended on it. The ration pack on her back was as heavy as lead. The rifle was digging into her shoulder like a steel band.
“Please, Hayden,” she panted, breathless and exhausted. “I hope you’re all right.”
And the droid finally reached the small cap of ice at the end of the tunnel.
* * *
Almost two hundred feet below Hayden and one mile farther down the tunnel; the Spector burned and pulverized the ice around its white-hot hull. Any second now, Lucas reminded himself, but Rolfe was clearly sweating from fear and anticipation. He secretly wondered if he had miscalculated the shaft below. Even the tiniest change in energy output, angle of descent, ice density…as if to convince himself, he decided to share. “We’re almost there,” he said.
“Just tell me when,” Lucas said, his hand hovering over the virtual control panel, gripping the small controller, ready to thrust the Spector forward upon Rolfe’s command. At least he thought he was ready. He had been able to learn almost nothing before the original crew had betrayed him and driven him away. They were set to break through the ceiling of their escape tunnel at exactly 243 feet. And the various instruments told him the depth was right. They had only a few more feet to go. Twenty feet…ten feet…
The AI was the first to notice. “Recalculating route. Destination arrival requires forward thrust of 225hpps at thirty-five degrees below the horizon,” it said calmly.
“What?” Lucas said, his head snapping up. “What?”
“We’re off-target,” Rolfe said simply. “We’re just a few feet from our target depth of 243 feet below the tunnel, but the tunnel’s not there. It’s down and in front of us.” Rolfe’s fingers blurred as he recalculated. If his calculations were correct, Lucas would need to engage the threads and burn through the ice diagonally to hit the escape tunnel…and he had to start burning that direction in less than three vertical feet. This was their one chance—one chance—to rendezvous with an adjacent tunnel that could take them out of Antarctica forever.
“Can you steer this thing?” he asked Lucas. “You need to apply thrust, move us forward as well as down, or we’re going to miss the tunnel!”
Lucas stared at him for a moment, appalled and terrified. Then he nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I can. When? Now?”
Rolfe’s body was visibly shaking. In less than three minutes—theoretically—they could be out of the ice and into the tunnel.
“NOW!” he screamed.
Lucas responded immediately, moving his fingers across a small icon that represented forward motion. The entire group heard the screech of the burning treads below them as the Spector inched forward as it fell, cutting a diagonal patch through the ice, swimming in its own melted water and crawling at the same time.
Moving ahead, toward Tunnel 5 and freedom.
* * *
Simon and Max pushed forward in pursuit of the men less than 150 yards ahead of them. They both noticed a glow developing at the far end of the tunnel as the space around them started to widen. A few moments later, they entered a larger chamber than any they had seen at this level-one that was better constructed and better lit. Max paused in the grayness at the edge of the larger room and pointed silently at the ceiling. Simon understood immediately the lights were going to pose a problem. He saw Max pat the air with his gloved hands. Take it easy. Move nice and slow.
The room seemed to be some kind of a makeshift emergency headquarters. Twelve Vector5 operatives in standard cold-weather gear—not the sleek and sinister black uniforms of the Black Ops team—were arranged around the room, working busily at half a dozen projects of their own. They scarcely noticed the arrival of two more soldiers—at least not at first.
Where did our boys go? Simon wondered. His attention was drawn to a large opening in the far wall—one that seemed to lead to an even larger room, farther ahead. What he could glimpse of the room beyond made it look like a military installation of some kind.
Simon followed five steps behind Max, his heart beating in absolute fear. He knew Max was better at situations like this; he’d spent a lifetime putting himself in danger. And it wasn’t that Simon was afraid of dying; he was past that. His only real fear was not rescuing his father, and if he were killed he would fail. He did not want to fail—he couldn’t.
As they moved toward the larger room, a group of five Vector5 soldiers noticed their arrival. Max immediately understood why they were aware of them at all: the Black Ops gear that they were wearing made them stand out.
The entire cavernous room seemed to grow tense as they traversed the long span of the opening. Then to Simon’s utter shock, Max suddenly turned a sharp right and stalked directly toward the five soldiers who were standing close together, muttering and staring at them. Max moved with an easy arrogance, as if he absolutely belonged there.
Simon followed closely behind and tried to contain the pure adrenaline that filled his body. Can they feel my anxiety? he wondered. He noticed how they had stiffened a bit as Max grew near.
Max was counting the steps to the confrontation. Ten. Five. Three. You can do this, Max, he told himself. He had been sent on many missions in the past, some just as bizarre as this. And he knew how to act like Black Ops—the best of the best, the elite who were always treated well. He would take advantage of that now…
He spoke imperiously, impatiently, even before they came to a stop in front of the five men.
“We’re here for Fitzpatrick,” he snapped. “Direct orders from Central.” He said it without a single stutter or hesitation, as if the entire matter bored him.
The ranking soldier—the one with two chevrons on his tunic—responded with a cold and quiet tone of his own. “You must be with Blackburn’s team,” he said.
Max nodded.
The soldier gestured toward the far wall and the large opening they had spotted earlier.
“Got it,” Max said and turned toward the direction of the opening. Simon turned with him, bringing up the rear, but he had barely taken four steps before the soldier in command called out.
“Hold on a second!” he said.
Fuck, Simon thought. This is it.
Max tightened his grip on the rifle as he carefully turned to address the soldier. “Did you say something?” he said coolly, slightly offended at being disturbed.
The man blinked and paled at Max’s tone. “What…ah, what’s your clearance?” he said.
Zero time, Simon thought.
“We are not at liberty to divulge that,” Max responded, dismissing the man with a casual gesture. He started to turn away again, but the man wouldn’t give up.
“That’s fine,” he said. “But…”
Max stopped and turned. He took three long strides until he was almost nose-to-nose with the commanding officer. “But what?” he said, barely above a whisper.
“…but I’ve been given orders for strict clearance down here,” he said. He lifted his hand to engage the audio device embedded in the shoulder of his tunic. “Just—”
Max was on him, moving as swift as a striking snake. His gloved hand shot out and grabbed the soldier’s hand—held it. Stopped it.
“No one knows about this operation,” Max hissed. “No one is supposed to know. And believe me, soldier, you do not want to be the one that breaks radio silence.” His voice was an evil hiss, filtered through the mask’s audio system.
The soldier glared at him for a long moment, then snatched his hand away from Max’s offensive grip. His eyes slid to the side for an instant, and Simon knew what he was thinking. He was angry and humiliated for being challenged in front of his men.
But he didn’t touch his communications patch again.
Without another word, Max turned toward the opening in the far wall and stalked away. Simon followed with a single backward glance, his hand still gripping his rifle as if his life depended on it.
He could feel the men staring as they reached the entrance. He could see inside more clearly now that the next room seemed to be a sophisticated series of bays designed to house large vehicles. As they both moved farther inside, Simon saw that they were all empty—except for one. The largest platform had a vehicle the size of a bus—a strangely beautiful machine that looked like an insect carved out of steel, ready to attack its prey. It sat on two large ski-like protrusions, each one approximately fourteen feet long. The main cockpit was elevated by a complex set of hydraulic legs. In the dim light, the extreme vehicle looked like a downhill racer, squatting and ready to fly.
Simon couldn’t help but stare in utter fascination. He noticed the writing on the back of the vehicle: Ice Raptor.
They looked at the Raptor from every angle as they passed. Beyond it was a series of smaller tunnels; only one of them was fully lit.