Ice Hunt

The fate of the third was lost to history—but apparently not to the Russians. “Saturday, the first of October, in the year of Our Lord, 1881.” Jenny and Craig translated a bit of a diary entry included in the journal. “We are blessed. Our prayers have been answered. After a night of storms, huddled under a tarp, bilging our boat hourly, the day broke calm and bright. Across the seas, an island appeared. Not land. God is not that kind to sailors. It was a berg, pocked with caves, enough to get out of the storms and seas for a spell. We took what refuge we could and discovered the carcasses of some strange sea beasts, preserved in the ice. Starving as we were, any meat was good meat, and this was especially tasty. Sweet on the tongue. God be praised.”

Jenny glanced around the room. Everyone in the barracks room knew what “beasts” had been discovered on that lone iceberg. Grendels. Even the meat being notably sweet was consistent with Dr. Ogden’s comparison of the grendel’s physiology to that of the Arctic wood frog. Like the frogs, it was a glucose, or sugar, that acted as the cryoprotectant. But Amanda kept quiet about this as Jenny and Craig continued.

“October second…we are only three now. I don’t know what sins we cast upon these seas, but they have returned a hundredfold. In the night, the dead awoke and attacked our sleeping party. Creatures that had been are meals became the diners that night. Only we three were able to make it to the lifeboat and away. And still we were hunted. Only a fortuitous harpoon stab saved us. We dragged the carcass behind our boat until we were confident it was deceased, then took its head as our trophy. Proof of God’s wrath to show the world.”

This last decision proved not a wise choice. After three more days at sea, the survivors made landfall at a coastal village of Siberia, bearing their prize and story. But such villagers were a superstitious lot. They feared that bringing the head of the monster into their village would draw more beasts to them. The three sailors were slain, and the head of the monster was blessed by the village priest and buried under the church to sanctify it.

It wasn’t until three decades later that the story reached a historian and naturalist. He traced the tale to its source, exhumed the skull of the monster, and returned to St. Petersburg with it. It was added to the world’s most extensive library of Arctic research: the Arctic and Antarctic Research Institute. From there, a search began to discover the whereabouts of this infamous ice island. But even using the maps of the slain sailors, it would take another two decades to rediscover the berg—now frozen and incorporated into the ice pack. But it was worth the search.

The sailors’ story proved true. The grendels were found again.

At that part of the story, Craig, growing impatient, had Jenny stop reading the history text and jump ahead to the last two journals, the research notes of Vladimir Petkov, the father of the admiral who had attacked Omega and the ice station.

“That’s what we really need to know about,” Craig said.

As the new translations began, the Delta Force team leader—who gave his name only as Delta One—entered the barracks room, pushing through the double doors, flanked by two of his men.

He strode over and reported to Craig. Amanda read his lips. “The bird’s ready to fly on your word. All we need is the go-ahead to proceed to Ice Station Grendel.”

Craig held him off with a raised hand. “Not yet. Not until I know for sure that we have all we need.”

As time was critical, they did a quick scan through the next sections, looking to make sure they had the final notes on the research here. But what quickly became apparent was that Dr. Vladimir Petkov was no fool. Even in the coded text, the researcher had been wary of revealing all.

His scientists had isolated a substance from the deep glands of the grendel’s skin, a hormone that controlled the ability to send the beasts into suspended animation. It seemed these glands responded to ice forming on the skin and released a rush of hormones that triggered the cryopreservation.

But all attempts to inoculate test subjects with this hormone had met with disastrous failure. There were no successful resurrections after freezing.

Craig recited, troubling over some of the words: “ ‘Then I made an intuitive leap. A…a cofactor that activated the hormone. This led to my first successful resuscitation. It is the breakthrough I had been hoping for.’ ”

The victim had been a sixteen-year-old Inuit girl, but she did not live long, dying in convulsions minutes later. But it was progress for Dr. Petkov.

Jenny paled with the telling of this last section. Amanda understood why. These were the woman’s own people, used so cruelly and callously.

According to the dates of the journal, Dr. Petkov spent another three years refining his technique, going through test subjects. Craig had Jenny skimmed these sections, much of it ancillary research into sedatives and soporifics. Sleep formulas that had no bearing on the main line of research.

But near the very end, Craig found what he had been looking for. Vladimir finally hit upon the right combination, as he stated, “an impossible concoction that would be maddening to reconfigure, more chance than science.” But he had succeeded. He synthesized one batch of this final serum.

Then the journal abruptly ended. What had become of those samples and the fateful end of the station remained a mystery.

Jenny closed the last book. “That’s all there is.”

“There must be more,” Craig said, taking the book.

Amanda answered, speaking from experience with scientists. “It looks like Dr. Petkov became more and more paranoid as his successes grew. He split his discovery into notes and samples.”

Craig frowned.

Delta One stood straighter. “Sir, what are your orders?”

“We’ll have to go back,” Craig mumbled. “We only have half the puzzle here. I have the notes, but the Russians control the samples. We must get to them before they’re destroyed by Admiral Petkov.”

“On your word, we’re ready to head out,” Delta One said gruffly.

“Let’s get it done,” Craig said. “We can’t give the Russians time to find the sample.”

Delta One barked orders to his two flanking men, heading away.

“I’ll join the team in a moment,” Craig called to him. “Ready the bird.” He continued to study the books, then turned to Jenny, wearing a pained expression. “I can’t leave the journals here. They must be protected. But I also need them reviewed in more detail. In case we’re missing any obvious clues.”