Matt kicked into the light, momentum carrying him out under the lake. Brightness bathed down upon him.
He would live.
With the last of his air dying in his chest, he crawled upward, toward light, toward salvation. A trembling frozen hand reached toward the surface—and touched clear ice.
The surface of the open lake had frozen over during the storm.
Matt’s buoyancy carried him upward. His head struck a roof of ice. He pawed around and over him, then pounded a fist against the ice. It was thick, at least six inches. Too solid to punch through from below.
He stared upward toward the light, to the salvation denied him by a mere six inches.
Like father…like son…
Despair set into him. His gaze drifted down, following the light into the icy depths below.
Deep down, movement drew his eye. Shapes glided into view. First one, then another…and another. Large, graceful despite their bulk, perfectly suited to this hellish landscape. The white bodies spiraled upward toward their trapped prey, climbing toward the light.
Grendels.
Matt’s back pressed against the ice roof overhead as he stared downward.
At least he wouldn’t die like Tyler.
5:23 P.M.
Amanda raked her sails forward, struggling to skate her boat past the rain of blasted ice. A blue boulder, the size of a cow, landed a yard in front of the prow, bounced, then rolled ahead of the boat.
She leaned into the keel with her hip, fighting to angle off to the side. They flanked past the rolling boulder as it lost momentum and slowed.
Twisting around, Amanda watched more ice rain silently down from the skies. Behind them, a deep divot had been blasted out of the cap. The two hover-cycles circled to either side, continuing the chase.
Amanda worked the boat’s foot pedals, sweeping them back and forth at erratic intervals. It slowed the boat’s forward progress, but they couldn’t count on pure speed to escape the minirockets or the cycles. The best course was a crooked, jagged path, to make them as hard a target as possible.
Amanda concentrated on the landscape ahead of them. Jenny and Craig had rolled to their bellies and watched behind her. They kept their faces turned so she could read their lips when needed.
Jenny mouthed to her, “Damn fancy sailing.”
She allowed a grim smile to form, but they weren’t safe yet.
Craig wiggled around and extracted his hidden radio earpiece. He pushed it in place, then pulled up the collar of his parka. His lips were covered as he spoke.
Amanda could not read what he said, but she could imagine he was frantically calling in help from the Delta Force unit. Craig was free of the station. The “football” he carried was safely away from the Russians’ clutches for the moment. Craig dared not risk a fumble and interception so late in the game. Not when he was so close to the goal.
Jenny waved to her, pointing back. Trouble.
Amanda swiveled in her seat. The hovercraft to the right was angling closer, swinging in, blazing across the flat snowscape.
She turned back around and straightened the boat, speeding faster now, taking advantage of a fiercer gusting of wind. She tried to put more distance between the boat and the cycle.
Jenny’s lips moved. “They’re lining up to fire again.”
Amanda peeked back over a shoulder. The rider on their tail was bent over his bike, as was his passenger. They had to be pushing the limits of their cycles.
She would have to do the same.
Amanda glanced to her boat’s laser speedometer. She was clocking up toward sixty. The fastest she had ever sailed this craft.
She tried to ignore the danger and focused on the boat under her: fingers on ropes, toes on foot pedals, palm on the keel bar. She felt the winds tugging at the sails, at the boat. She attuned her entire form to match the racer. She extended her senses outward, listening with the boat in a way only someone deaf could. Through her connection, she heard the whistle of the runners, the scream of winds. Her handicap became her skill.
She eked out more speed, watching the speedometer climb past sixty…sixty-five…
“They’re firing!” Jenny shouted soundlessly at her.
…seventy…seventy-five…
A flash of fire struck to the right; ice shattered skyward. Amanda shifted the boat, turning the sails to catch the blast’s force.
…eighty…
They struck a lip of ice. The boat jumped high in the air, like a Wind-surfer catching the perfect wave. Fire exploded under them, taking out the ridge.
But the boat flew clear and away. Amanda lifted in her seat, but still trimmed her sail to carry them level. They hit the ice again, skating at impossible speeds.
…ninety…ninety-five…
Ice again rained down around them, but they were beyond the worst of the blast area. The boat flew across the ice, one with the storm, one with its pilot.
Craig pointed an arm. “Christ, they’re turning back. You did it!”
Amanda didn’t even bother to glance around. She knew she had succeeded. The racer skated, barely touching the ice now. She let the craft glide, blown by the storm. Only as their speed began to edge downward on its own did she touch the brake.
From the flaccid response of the handle, she immediately recognized the danger. The last jump had shattered the ice brake.
She continued to pump the handle. No response. She tried to reef the sail a bit, but the winds had too tight a grip. The ropes were taut bands of iron, jammed in their racks. The boat was not built for these speeds.
The others saw her struggle, eyes widening.
The winds gusted up. The needle on the speedometer crept up again. …ninety-five…one hundred…
That was as high as the speedometer could read.
They rocketed over the frozen plain. They were at the mercy of the storm winds, flying headlong out into the ice, at speeds at which a single mistake could kill.
There was only one course left to them.
Something Amanda loathed to do.
She yelled to the others. “We need an ax!”
5:26 P.M.
Near to blacking out, Matt faced the rising pod of grendels. They circled up from below, slow, patient. They were in no hurry. Like Matt, they knew he could not escape. He was trapped between the ice above and the teeth below.
He remembered Amanda’s trick of luring the monsters away with her helmet and heating mask. If he could only find a way to bait them away…something hot…something bright…
Then a thought struck him. Something forgotten.
He pawed into the pocket of his parka, praying it hadn’t fallen loose, an object he had nabbed from the severed hand of a Russian soldier while fleeing the ice station. It was still there.