He nodded and mounted the rope, pulling himself up.
Amanda then followed. The climb was strenuous, but fear drove their party quickly upward, away from the terror below. Amanda had never been happier to see daylight. She scrambled up after the other two, then rolled into open air.
The winds buffeted her as she stood.
Jenny helped steady her. “The blizzard is breaking up,” she said, her eyes on the skies.
Amanda frowned at the blowing snow, blind to the surroundings beyond a few yards. The cold already bit into her exposed cheeks. If this storm was breaking up, how bad had it been before?
Craig bent to the hole, clearly calling to those below, then straightened and faced them. “We’ll have to hurry. If the storm is letting up, we’ll have less cover.”
They waited for the next party—the biology group. It didn’t take too long. Soon three more figures rolled out of the ventilation shaft. Craig bent again to the shaft.
Amanda felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck quiver. Deaf to the storm and the chatter around her, she sensed it first. She swung around in a full circle.
Sonar…
“Stop!” she yelled. “Grendels…!”
Everyone tensed, facing outward.
Craig was still at the hole. He scrambled in his parka for one of the Molotovs. She saw his lips moving. “…screaming down the shaft. The creatures are attacking below, too.”
Henry Ogden struggled to light his own Molotov, but the wind kept snuffing his lighter. “…a coordinated attack. They’re using sonar to communicate with one another.”
Amanda stared into the whiteout. It was an ambush.
From out of the deep snow, shadowy figures crept toward them, slipping like hulking phantoms from the heart of the storm.
Henry finally got his oily rag burning and tossed his bottle outside, toward the group. It sailed through the snow, landed in a snowbank, and sizzled out. The beasts continued toward them.
Amanda caught movement from around another ice peak to the far right. Another grendel…and another.
They were closing in from all sides.
Craig stepped forward, a flaming Molotov in his raised hand.
“Avoid the snow,” Amanda warned. “It’s fresh, wet.”
Craig nodded and threw the fiery charge. It arced through the blowing snow and struck the knifed edge of a pressure ridge. Flame exploded across the path of the largest group.
The beasts flinched, stopping.
Run away, she willed at them.
As answer, Amanda felt the sonar intensify, a grendel roar of frustration. Out in the open, they were less intimidated by the fiery display.
Craig turned to her, to the others. He pointed an arm. “Back down the ventilation shaft!”
Amanda swung around in time to see Bane leap out of the same shaft, snarling and barking, as wild as a full wolf. But Jenny caught her dog, trying to keep him from running at the grendels.
Around them, there was much shouting. Amanda heard none of it. People were too panicked for her to catch what was being said. Why was no one diving into the shaft?
Then she had her answer.
Kowalski scrambled out of the hole, shouting, red-faced. “Get back!” She was able to read his lips as he yelled. “They’re right on our tail!”
Tom appeared next, the left arm of his parka singed and smoldering. He rolled out, shoving his arm into the snow. Smoke billowed from the shaft. “The shaft caved in with that last Molotov. It’s blocked.”
Kowalski stared toward the flames out in the storm, his face sinking. “Shit…”
Amanda turned. The fires from Craig’s Molotov were foundering in the snowmelt. The beasts, obeying some sonar signal, began to march toward the group again, splashing and stamping through the remaining flames.
As Amanda backed, the party pulled tighter together.
There was no escape.
5:03 P.M.
Standing only a yard away with his AK-47, the Russian fired at Matt’s head. Muzzle flash flared from the rifle barrel. Still deafened from the grenade blast, Matt didn’t hear the shot—or the one that took out the shooter.
Matt fell back, his left ear aflame. He watched, confused, as the right side of the guard’s head exploded out in a shower of bone and brain. It was all done in dead silence. Matt struck the ground, landing on his shoulder. Blood trailed down his neck. The shot had nicked his ear. He saw Bratt, Greer, and Washburn running at him. Bratt’s rifle still smoked.
In the hallway, the second guard tried to react, swinging his weapon, but Greer and Washburn both fired. A bullet struck the Russian’s shoulder, spinning him like a top. Another blasted through the man’s neck, spraying blood over the wall.
Sound began to return to Matt. Mostly the louder noises. Yells, more shots. The double doors to the galley suddenly exploded outward, tearing from hinges and blowing across the room; fire and smoke followed. Another booby trap.
Amid the chaos, Matt struggled to stand as the group reached him. Bratt grabbed him by the hood and hauled him up, yelling in his good ear. “Next time I duct-tape that damn grenade to you!”
As a group, they sprinted toward the Sno-Cat.
“More soldiers…!” Matt gasped, waving ahead, trying to warn.
Shots fired at them—from beyond the Sno-Cat. They dove down, using the wreckage as a shield. Rifle shots rattled the trashed vehicle.
Matt crouched, his back to the Sno-Cat. He stared back into the main room, cloudy with smoke. They were still exposed. They had to move.
Smoke swirled, and movement near the room’s center caught Matt’s eye. A man seemed to be floating up the shaft from below, lit by a couple flashlights. He was tall, white-haired, wearing an open greatcoat. In his arms, he carried a boy wrapped in a blanket. The boy was crying, covering his ears.
It made no sense.
“Get down!” Bratt yelled to Matt, pushing his head lower.
Greer tossed a grenade over the top of the vehicle toward the hidden snipers. Washburn rolled another back toward the main room.
“No!” Matt cried.
The twin explosions snuffed out Matt’s hearing again. The Sno-Cat jolted a foot toward them from the blast. Chunks of ice rained down; steamy smoke filled the hall.
Bratt motioned, pointing an arm. They had no choice but to make a run for it. They leaped as a group, having to trust that the grenade took out all the hostiles ahead of them.
The commander took the lead, followed by Washburn and Matt. Greer ran behind them, firing blindly back toward the main room. The shots sounded far away, more like a toy cap gun.
Then Greer shouldered into Matt, trying to get him to hurry, but succeeded in almost knocking him down. He glanced back angrily as he caught his balance.