“Damn,” he whispered to the night. “Damn.”
Chapter 13
Sometime in his mid-twenties, Kurt had been caught in a blizzard while cross-country skiing in the backwoods of Colorado. A storm that was supposed to whip by, dropping a couple inches of snow, stalled over the area, becoming a three-day storm that dropped several feet of powder onto the Rockies.
Walking, even in the ski boots, became impossible. Cross-country skis were useless because of the depth of the powder. Facing the choice between a superhuman hike back to civilization that was all but impossible and staying put, Kurt decided to settle down and wait for the spring thaw. He trudged to a flatter section of the pass, where an avalanche was less likely to crush him in his sleep, and built a cave in the snow.
His memories of time in that cave were mostly boredom, listening to the wind, listening to the shortwave, rationing his food. The one thing that stood out was the surprising level of heat. After several hours in the igloo-like cavern, he had to start shedding layers. Despite the snowstorm outside and temperatures in the single digits it was simply too warm in the cave for all his winter clothing.
Now, out on the polar ice pack, north of the Arctic Circle, Kurt had found a similar hiding place. After driving the Otter up onto theice, he managed to get out, close the cockpit, and run across the frozen surface. He made his way to the nearest ridge, found a section of ice that had been thrust upward and toppled over, and ducked underneath it. The large slab acted as a natural lean-to of sorts, propping itself up against a neighbor. Kurt had found and wedged smaller chunks into the gaps on either side, scraping snow together and using it to seal the gaps to the best extent possible.
It wasn’t exactly the Ritz, and it didn’t even live up to the performance of the snow cave in Colorado, but it kept some of the chill off and hid him from view. From the outside, his hiding spot looked no different than a thousand other jumbled spots formed by the pressure ridges. The Chinese would have to walk right up to it and kick the smaller ice chunks out of the way to see that it was hollow.
There, Kurt waited. Watching through a tiny gap in the opening and wishing he’d taken Joe’s advice and brought the heavy parka with him.
He saw the darkness fall; watched the oncoming lights as the Chinese crewmen walked the ice looking for him; heard their excited shouts when they discovered the Otter. He saw the Otter towed away and endured a growing tension as the men spread out across the ice to search for him once again.
Only after they passed him by, their voices growing more distant and the dim glow of their lights fading, did Kurt relax. Human nature would soon take over. While he was sheltered and somewhat insulated from the cold, they were out in it and had been for hours. Where he had no choice but to stay put, they had a warm ship and a comfortable mess hall waiting for them. Soon enough, even the leaders would suggest there was no point in searching any further.
The bitter night dragged on. Kurt glanced at his watch. The time ticked by. Eventually it was one hour till midnight, when the goblin sharks surfaced.
Chapter 14
Gushan stepped into his private compartment in the accommodations block of the icebreaker. The cramped compartment was spartan and squared away. After closing the door behind him, he tossed his heavy coat onto a chair and threw his gloves aside in frustration.
He was angry at their inability to find the American, irritated by Li’s odd combination of nervousness and arrogance, and incensed that the high command insisted that they remain on station when it was clear to everyone that the American plane wasn’t coming. But most of all he was pained to learn that the submersible they’d attempted to destroy had come from the American organization NUMA.
He went to a small metal sink tucked into a corner of the compartment and ran cold water over his numb hands, rubbing them together until they began coming back to life. Grabbing a towel, he dried them, and then looked in the mirror.
Today he looked old and worn-out. The lines on his face were deeper, the scar beneath his eye appearing stark white against the flushing color in his warming cheeks.
He threw the towel aside and looked elsewhere, settling his gazeon a decorative bottle of baijiu on the shelf beside the mirror. The twenty-year-old bottle—purchased from one of the more ancient makers of the spirit—was meant to be opened upon celebrating their success. Preferably on the way home to China with the primary parts of the American laser system secured on board.
He opened the bottle. Baijiu wasn’t meant to be consumed alone or during moments of anger, but at this point he knew there would be nothing to celebrate, only more trouble and pain.
He poured himself a shot, studied the liquid through the glass, and then knocked it down. His swirling thoughts took a short vacation as the alcohol singed his throat and the nutmeg and licorice flavors emerged on his palate.
Calmer now, and warming rapidly, he put the glass down and pulled off his other layers. He got down to a T-shirt saturated with sweat. Strange, he thought, how the body could be so cold and hot at the same time.
He pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it with the other clothes. As he reached for a clean shirt, he caught sight of a second scar, this one was jagged and angry. It had been inflicted on him by a smuggler named Ahab, who’d captured him, tortured him, and then stabbed him and left him for dead.
If it hadn’t been for the bravery of two men from NUMA, Gushan would have died there, impaled on a burning ship. And now he was being asked to hunt and kill someone from that very same agency.
He poured another shot and, after cursing the fates, slugged the second drink down as quickly as the first.
A knock at the door interrupted his rage. It was a bold knock, an insistent one. It didn’t come from some middling crewman sent to give him a message.
As he turned, the door swung open prior to any permission being given.
Li barged in as Gushan pulled on the fresh T-shirt.
“I expected you to come to the bridge and give a report.”
“I needed a change of clothes,” Gushan said.
“And more than that, I’d say.” The admiral’s gaze had settled on the bottle of liquor.
“Tell the captain I need more men,” Gushan said, ignoring the barb. “My men are frozen stiff. They need to eat and warm their bones. Have him detail a search party. I will lead them out myself.”
