Chapter Twenty-Six

 

"Russian frigate," J.B. said. "Probably the Krivak-class type II. The Ills had helicopter additions. And the US came out with the four-inch blasters aft that you see covered over by the tarp."

 

Ryan scanned the big ship from stem to stern with his field glasses. He noted some movement on her decks. Evidently Captain Vitkin had gotten disturbed about his search-and-capture team's failure to reappear and had put out extra guards.

 

Ice climbed more than halfway up the sides of the big ship. There were also places that looked like they had been cleared of ice that threatened to climb up on the decks. As Ryan shifted his field glasses to the frigate's prow, he saw a four-man crew working on roped scaffolding with axs and sledges to break the ice free there. Rust had settled into the ship like rad cancer, starting to eat holes through the plate steel. In places, cut metal had been riveted over what Ryan had to assume were holes that went all the way through.

 

"Been cannibalizing their own ship to hold the outer hull together," J.B. said. "You take a close look at the plates that have been placed, you can see where a welding torch has cut through them."

 

Ryan nodded. He had noticed the same thing.

 

As had the dead Russians they had left behind at the firefight, the sailors aboard the ship wore uniforms. They also carried blasters.

 

Tarps covered the big blasters on the deck, drawing Ryan's attention.

 

"Got cannon and heavy machine blasters on the decks," he said.

 

The Armorer nodded. "Saw them. With those tarps over them, you have to think they're taking care of them for a reason."

 

"Harlan," Ryan called.

 

"Yeah," the Inuit chief responded.

 

"The deck blasters work?"

 

"Blasters?"

 

"Guns."

 

"They did twelve years ago or thereabouts," Harlan answered. "That was the last time anybody tried to take the ship by force. Those heavy-cal machine guns chewed up every warrior caught out in the open."

 

"They attack by day or night?"

 

"By night. Are you kidding?"

 

"And the Russians turned them back?" J.B. asked.

 

"They got goggles that let them see at night," Harlan replied.

 

"And you hoped to pull off a night time attack against them?" Ryan said.

 

"Yeah. Seven years ago, the Russians got a virus that killed off a lot of them. I know about it because some of the tribes they traded with were offered guns in exchange for cures."

 

"Did they give them a cure?" Ryan asked. "No. Everybody hoped the Russians would die down to a handful. It would be easier to take the ship. But they brought up every evil-tasting concoction that the Inuit tribes could think up for nearly five months. Nobody ever passes up a chance to get guns from those people."

 

"Why didn't the Russians leave the ship?" Krysty asked.

 

"The first few years, according to the legends I've been handed down and told to keep track of," Harlan said, "they tried to chop their way out of the ice. Even tried blasting their way out with the big deck guns. Nothing doing. Had more ice freeze up overnight than they could blast if they fired all day long. So they stayed put, protecting secrets or some such nonsense. The fact was, none of them were going to be able to survive the nuclear winter at the time, nor really know which direction to go. Compasses were screwed up for a long time. Then they had an explosion in the engine room. Blew out part of the keel. They tried to fix it but couldn't. Only thing keeping them afloat is that ice out there. If this iceberg breaks up, even if it cracks somehow around that frigate, that ship's going to sink."

 

"Do they know the iceberg's going down?" Mildred asked.

 

"Did you stop to ask any of those guys back there?" Harlan asked.

 

Mildred made a face but shook her head.

 

"Neither did I. But they shot up our boats like they didn't have a worry in the world. Maybe they're just too stupid to know, and maybe they're going to make use of some of those lifeboats they got on board."

 

"Hot pipe, Dad!" Dean said. "If they've got lifeboats, we might be able to get one and not have to worry about fixing the"

 

Ryan froze his son's last few words with a stony stare. "That's right, Dean. A lifeboat's what we're going to aim for."

 

But he knew Harlan hadn't missed the exchange.

 

Ryan turned his attention to Harlan. "I want you to keep your people back out of sight. Two of us are going to go forward for a look, get the probable Russian numbers and get ready to go in at night."

 

Harlan nodded.

 

"Vitkin's probably going to expect something, but if we can get a small team on board quietly, we can cut the numbers down some. Mebbe whittle the odds in our favor. First time things go ballistic on board, the team there will dig in and try to hold the fort while the rest of you come running."

 

"That's pretty much how I figured it," Harlan said. "When we take the ship, you're welcome to any boats or weapons you can carry."

 

Ryan gave the man a hard glare. "No, friend, you're welcome. Because I don't think you people would have a snowball's chance in hell against those Russians without us." And it was important to make that statement, because he didn't want Harlan or any of the other Inuit to get the idea they would be better off going it alone.

 

"Sure," Harlan replied. "No reason to be so hard-assed about it."

 

"I've got every reason," Ryan said. "So do you. I'm just laying the ace on the line so everybody can see it. Won't stop at just sending Russians on the last train for the coast if it's got to be done. You need to know that."

 

 

 

RYAN SHIVERED as he crawled toward the frigate. It was bad enough the sun had gone down nearly an hour earlier and the full chill of the Arctic night had settled in over the iceberg. The wind whipped away even more warmth.

 

But the thing that hurt most of all was the snow he had packed around his body. Doc had come up with the idea, dipping somewhere into his tangle trove of memories. Using spare furs and blankets, sinew and bone needles, they had stitched up bulky suits to wear over their outer clothes. Then they had filled the gap in between the extra furs and their clothes with snow and ice chips.

 

If the Russians were using thermal imaging as J.B. figured, the snow and ice packing would reduce the escaping heat signature of their bodies. And if they were using night-vision goggles, the white polar-bear fur they wore would make them harder to be seen against the terrain.

 

He paused for a moment, trying to make little distances so a guard wouldn't be as likely to notice the change. Glancing over to his left, he barely spotted Jak and J.B., clambering along in the thick suits, as well.

 

Fifty yards passed in virtual silence. The ship grew bigger against the terrain. A hundred yards farther on, the ship became the skyline in front of Ryan. The moon sat in the sky behind it, only a quarter full.

 

When he reached the ship's shadow straddling the frozen ground less than forty yards from his goal, Ryan felt like he was crawling inside the coldest spot he had ever entered.

 

Voices reached him, speaking in Russian.

 

He lay still on the ground, trying not to shiver too much. The voices drifted over his head, then finally drifted away. When he looked up again, he saw Jak crawling up the icy incline to reach the starboard side of the ship.

 

Ryan crept along, as well. With the cold wind whipping, the Russian guards weren't as enamored of doing the sentry duty as they might have been at some other time.

 

He pushed himself up silently, then grabbed the railing in a gloved hand. He eased up and took a look, spotting a guard poking his head around the corner. Going still again, he waited, feeling his body rebel against the seeping cold that ate in from the big fur suit.

 

When the guard looked away, he hauled himself aboard. Before he could take more than a couple steps, another quake rocked the iceberg. Earsplitting cracks sounded off in the distance, then the iceberg twisted sickeningly again.

 

Ryan held on to the railing, his feet sliding across the fresh ice that had frozen on the decks. He hung on to the fur-wrapped Steyr grimly, working to keep it from banging against the railing. He didn't really think it would be heard above the grinding that sounded deep within the ice around the frigate, but didn't want to take the chance all the same.

 

Metal screamed below from the abuse it was taking as the ice shifted. One of the lifeboats in its moorings beside Ryan squealed as the chains shifted.

 

Then the quake was over, although the vibrations continued running the four-hundred-foot length of the frigate.

 

After stripping out of the bulky fur suit packed with snow and ice, Ryan moved toward the guard he had spotted, staying in close to the superstructure. He slid the panga free and shouldered the Steyr.

 

The man coughed in front of him, and Ryan saw the puffs of gray breath slip around the corner. The one-eyed warrior slid forward, staying behind the corner.

 

The man had his back to Ryan, sipping from a cup held in both his hands. Ryan slipped an arm around the man's face, jamming it tight up against the man's mouth so he couldn't scream. Then he yanked the panga's cruel blade across the Russian's throat. The cup dropped to the deck, spilling its contents across the ice and causing gray steam to rise.

 

Blood spurted as carotoid and windpipe were severed. Holding on to the man to keep him from running, Ryan felt the life leave the man.

 

He waited, making sure no one saw him, then threw the body over the side onto the ice. The sound of it hitting was muffled by the bulky clothes the corpse wore.

 

Ryan went on, the panga bare in his hands. The second man saw him and had enough time to attempt to raise his pistol, then the one-eyed man was on him. Ryan drove the man back with his weight, clapping a gloved hand over the sailor's mouth. He stabbed the panga deep into the man's throat, then angled it up so it went into the Russian's brain.

 

Dragging the body, Ryan stashed it under one of the tarps covering the deck-mounted machine guns.

 

A shadow drifted in front of him, coming from the other side of the ship. Moonlight splintered off of J.B.'s glasses as the Armorer turned to face Ryan.

 

J.B. held up three fingers, then closed them, signaling that he'd met three Russians along the way and none of them were part of the problem anymore.

 

Ryan showed him two fingers, then turned a hand up, letting the Armorer know that he hadn't completely recced the stern section of the frigate yet.

 

The stern section of the frigate had two levels. The back dropped down eight feet or more, Ryan couldn't tell exactly because of the shadows, and companionways on either side that led down. A second set of blasters was below the first, also covered by a tarp.

 

Footsteps came toward Ryan, sending him into hiding behind the steps after waving a warning to J.B. He remained still, hoping the shadows beneath the companionway would be enough to hide him.

 

The Russian sailor's eyes had to have been bad, or he was one of the really inbred ones. He looked short and skinny, almost like a mutie because his face was a set of mismatched angles. He started up the companionway without a second thought.

 

Ryan fell in behind him, wrapping a big hand around his throat to squeeze off any chance of the sailor crying out. Then slipped the panga between the man's third and fourth ribs, driving the long blade into the heart beneath.

 

The man gave a series of convulsive jerks, flailing back at Ryan with both hands. It took him less than a minute to fight through what remained of his life.

 

Ryan wiped off the blade, then left the corpse lying out of sight beneath the steps. He continued on, matching his stride with J.B.'s. He found a final man at the very back of the stern, pressed up against the railing and looking out against the stark whiteness of the iceberg that was carrying them all to their doom.

 

He ate slowly and methodically from a small cup of what smelled to Ryan like soup broth with a fish-and-potato base. He leaned against the storage wall of the abovedecks room, taking shelter from the wind.

 

Ryan moved in behind him.

 

The sailor had to have sensed something, because Ryan knew there was nothing for the man to have heard. The guy turned dropping one hand to the blaster holstered on his hip.

 

Ryan buttstroked him with the Steyr, the stock making a dull crunch against the Russian's head. He moaned weakly as he fell, letting Ryan know he wasn't dead.

 

The one-eyed man knelt, slipping the blaster away from the man and pressing the panga against his naked throat. "Talk quietly or you die."

 

The man remained still. The moonlight played over his waxy features, showing the knots of bone swelling up from his forehead, and the unevenness of his face, one cheek higher than the other. His nose had an extra hole in it, just to the side of the right that made a whistling noise as he breathed hard.

 

"Do you understand English?" Ryan demanded in a harsh whisper.

 

" Da ," the man replied. "Do you know what an electronics lab is?" " Da," the man said. "Where is it?" Ryan asked. The mismatched hazel eyes blinked in perplexion. " Da ?"

 

" The electronics lab," Ryan repeated.

 

 

"I found it," J.B. said from beside Ryan. "Guy I questioned on the other side said it was amidships. Door on the port side will take you into it."

 

"Get there," Ryan ordered. "See if you can repair that circuit board." The Armorer nodded and slipped away.

 

 

" Da ?" the Russian said. Only a low level of intelligence flickered in his gaze. His voice rose in a wail at the end before Ryan slashed his throat.

 

A harsh question ripped from a man farther up on the superstructure.

 

Ryan took shelter against the wall beside him an instant before a bullet ricocheted off the deck in a haze of yellow sparks. He unfurled the Steyr from the fur covering and brought it to his shoulder in one smooth movement. Autofire raked the deck, searching for him, coming closer.

 

Then he had the Russian sailor in his sights. His finger curled over the trigger and pulled. The Steyr bounced against his shoulder. The heavy 7.62 mm bullet struck its target, driving the man back and off the superstructure by the radar dish and sent a corpse crashing to the deck.

 

Ryan ran forward, climbing up the companionway at a dead run. His foot nearly slipped out from under him on an ice patch as he pushed himself to the upper deck. He passed the first ladder built into the superstructure, then took the ladder attached to the wall to the right at the side of the lifeboat he'd spotted earlier. He scrambled up the ladder as Russian sailors bolted from inside the ship.

 

He climbed up another ladder to his left, heading for a higher deck near one of the radar dishes. It wasn't the forward vantage point on the main section of the superstructure where the antennae were clustered, but it gave him a view over much of the stern decks. Jak would have to control as much of the forward decks as he could.

 

The cold didn't touch him anymore as he lifted the Steyr. He focused on the telescopic sights, finding the first of his targets. His finger caressed the trigger, blowing the Russian's head apart.

 

 

 

J.B. HESITATED only a second when the blasterfire erupted before twisting the handle on the door to the electronics room. The Armorer knew Jak and Ryan were going to be hard up against it, but none of them had a chance if the circuit boards weren't repaired.

 

He went through the door with the Uzi held at waist level.

 

A question erupted in Russian from one of the two men standing beside a metal lathe. The room was filled with the sound of grinding. Harlan had stated that the solar-powered batteries that powered much of the frigate remained intact, and that most of the electronics and propulsion systems were also intact.

 

J.B. had pretty much figured that after seeing the remains of the makeshift airwag back where Ryan and Jak had hooked up with the Inuit. The airway had been cobbled together from motors on different pieces of the frigate's equipment, and shaped in a machinist's shop.

 

He brought up the Uzi and loosed a snarling burst that caught both Russians as they went for their blasters. The room was lit by electric lights, though there were only about one-third the normal number. J.B. figured they were trying to conserve on the number of bulbs they had.

 

Unfortunately the bullets also ripped into a control panel, starting an electrical fire.

 

Spotting the red fire extinguisher on the wall, J.B. crossed the room and grabbed it. He pulled the pin and shook it up, then squeezed the trigger. Instead of a blast of chem-suppressor hosing the fire, a little fart of powder jumped at the fire. It did nothing to slow the blaze down. Smoke pooled against the top of the room.

 

J.B. tossed aside the fire extinguisher and scanned the room, listening to the crash of blasterfire outside the door pick up the pace. He moved at a jog, going deeper into the room.

 

The comp-assisted solder system was next to a diagnostics tester.

 

The Armorer switched on the machine. While he waited for the soldering points to warm to the prescribed temperature, he took the mat-trans circuit boards from inside his shirt where he had kept them over his heart. He had figured that his heart would be the last place he would get hit by a bullet and live to regret losing the circuit boards.

 

He placed the circuit boards on the soldering surface, locking them down with wing nuts specially designed to hold delicate electronics. The soldering iron already glowed red, and wisps of smoke eddied up from the tip as impurities burned off.

 

The smoke it made, though, was nothing like the smoke coming from the fire starting to ravage the electronics workshop.

 

Resolutely J.B. leaned in over the comp and used the joystick to start laying in the lines of solder to repair the circuit boards. The comp setup and program were similar to ones he had worked with when the Trader had needed serious work done on communications or munitions systems.

 

He watched the thin beads of silver solder fit neatly into place.

 

Then a quiver shook the ship, even stronger than the one that had hit it before. Instinctively he lifted the soldering point from the circuit board's surface to wait until the quiver was over.

 

But it lasted longer than the previous one.

 

And this time J.B. felt himself go weightless for a moment as the frigate slipped in the embrace of the iceberg. Ice crushed against the walls outside, and the skidding sounds let him know they were rising.

 

The Armorer looked through one of the windows near the workstation, not surprised at all to see the broken edge of the ice that had been chopped away from the ship suddenly rise three feet above the railing.

 

Whatever ice remained below the ship, it was no longer strong enough to support the frigate's weight.

 

The ship was sinking.