Still, the Cat was a difficult target in the snowstorm, and the Norwegian did his best to keep moving, to slalom one way then the other.
As they climbed the slope, a new noise intruded: the angry whine of snowmobiles. The advance team had swung back around and was headed to the aid of the others.
While the Sno-Cat might be a shark circling the Hagglund, the smaller snow machines were leaner, swifter predators.
Their position was about to be overrun.
1:41 P.M.
Through his goggles, Painter watched the swarm of ten snowmobiles dive toward the Hagglund. The small vehicles’ heat signatures were bright spots against the cold snow. He and his team had no choice but to take the fight to the others.
The Sno-Cat sped upslope to meet the charge head-on.
As they neared the blasted behemoth, the enemy began to fire more furiously at them. With the approach of the snowmobiles and the promise of additional firepower, the soldiers on the ground grew more confident and secured their positions.
A fiery trail burned across Painter’s shoulders.
He didn’t flinch, nor did he stop firing.
Neither did anyone else.
As the Cat climbed to face the challenge, rifles fired in a continual blaze from the trundling vehicle. They had to break the back of this assault. Painter had hoped taking out the Hagglund would send the others running, but these were seasoned fighters. They didn’t scare that easily.
It would have to become a fiery brawl, pitting speed, wit, and skill.
Or so he thought.
A strange new noise intruded.
A shrill whistling pierced the chatter of gunfire.
Monk slapped the roof of the Cat three times. The driver slammed to a stop. Unprepared, Painter went flying forward off the roof. His body slammed into the windshield, but the tether kept him from tumbling away.
Monk had kept his perch. He reached with a knife and cut Painter’s tether, then did the same to his own.
“Get inside!” Monk yelled and pointed below.
Painter trusted the firmness in Monk’s voice. As he hopped down, both doors popped open. Monk dove for the passenger side. The driver leaned out, grabbed Painter’s sleeve, and dragged him in. The small Cat was only a two-man vehicle, but there was a storage compartment in back. Still, it was a tight fit.
Gunfire continued, flaring brightly through the snow. A few stray shots clipped their vehicle. But with all return fire stopped and the engine throttled down, their exact position grew more obscured in the storm.
“What’s happening?” Painter asked.
Monk continued to stare intently forward. “I told you Creed went to fetch help. The Norwegian army isn’t the only force defending that vault.”
“What’re you—?”
Then Painter saw them. Massive heat signatures bloomed out of the snow. Easily a dozen. They bounded at incredible speeds, growing larger as Painter watched. Now he understood.
Polar bears.
The sharp whistling continued, echoing down from the higher valley.
Bear whistles.
The piercing noise must be driving them on down.
“The driver’s buddy grew up here,” Monk said in a rush. “Knew the haunts of the bears. Over three thousand are on the island alone. He was confident he could flush out a pack, get them angry and get them moving. Sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. Thought he was insane.”
Painter agreed. It was insane—but it had also worked.
Polar bears hunted seals. They could sprint at thirty miles per hour, with bursts of speed even faster. And this angry pack was going downhill.
Through the goggles, Painter watched the bears overtake the snowmobiles. Massive shapes swamped the slower vehicles, unleashing their savage fury against any moving targets in their rampaging path. Painter watched one snow machine go down, then another, toppling and crashing to the side, buried under a mountain of angry muscle.
Screams broke through the slowing gunfire—accompanied by fierce roars that stood Painter’s hair on end.
The remaining snowmobiles reached the Hagglund, but they didn’t slow. They raced straight past, the riders hunched low. The bears followed, sweeping through the entrenched soldiers on the ground. Some fired at the beasts, but the bears were mere shadows in the snowstorm.
The shots only succeeded in drawing their fury.
Screams and roars rose in volume.
One soldier fled on foot toward the Cat, as if their vehicle might offer him some refuge. He never made it. Out of the storm, a thick paw snagged a leg. The bear continued to run. The limb was ripped from the soldier’s body. He flipped high in the air, spraying blood.
Another bear bowled past the Cat, knocking its shoulder into the side as if warning them, an act of intimidation.
It worked.
Painter didn’t breathe.
The pack stormed through the valley, scattering men, leaving bloody bodies behind. Then, as quickly as they came, the pack vanished back into the storm like ghosts.
Painter stared. Nothing moved out there now.
Anyone who could flee had done so, striking off in a hundred different directions. Painter had hoped to break the back of the assault force by taking out the Hagglund. It hadn’t worked. But even the most seasoned veteran had to be shaken to the core when faced by such a raw display of nature’s brutal force.
A new whining grew in volume, coming from upslope.
A pair of snowmobiles blipped into existence in his goggles.
Moments later, they appeared out of the storm. Creed lifted an arm in greeting. The Norwegian driver patted Painter on the shoulder, his gesture clear.
It was over.
2:12 P.M.
Krista climbed through the snow.
She clutched her hood closed against the freezing wind. One sleeve of her parka was burned to a crisp. From the excruciating tug on that side, she knew a few patches had seared down to her skin, fusing cloth and flesh.
She had barely escaped the Hagglund. She had been halfway out a window when the second grenade slammed through the windshield. The blast tossed her end over end and slammed her into a snowbank. Her flaming arm was immediately extinguished.
Knowing they were under attack by an unknown and unexpected force, Krista had crawled, half in shock, over to the Hagglund and hid under it. There she rode out the firefight and the slaughter that followed.
She still trembled at the memory.
She remained hidden when her attackers gathered nearby. She gasped when she spotted her nemesis again. The dark-haired Sigma operative, the one named Painter Crowe. With his face now windburned, she even recognized the hint of his Native American heritage.
How many damned lives does this Indian have?
Staying hidden, she waited for them to leave. One snowmobile headed down toward Longyearbyen, going for help. The others headed back up to the seed vault, to maintain a defensive perimeter against any stray soldiers who might attempt to complete the failed mission.