There had to be extras hoses and plugs somewhere. Or maybe he could jury-rig something. Paul worked fast as he went from machine to machine. He found a needed hose in the back of one, and there were extra plugs in the storage room. Taking a toolkit from a cat, he began working on the least damaged engine.
Maybe five minutes later, he heard a groan. Pulling his head from out under the hood, Paul cursed softly. He grabbed the rifle and heard the groan a second time. It came from the storage area.
Walking in the murk, with dim light from a derrick shining through a small window, Paul approached a closet. Was a White Tiger Commando waiting in there for him? Should he fire a few rounds through the closed door just to make sure?
Not wanting to call out and alert whoever was hiding, Paul stood indecisive for a moment. Finally, he put his hand on the latch and threw open the door.
Something shiny rose in back. There was a click like a cocking hammer. Paul whirled away, slamming his back against the wall as a boom went off. Despite his ringing ears and tripping heart, Paul heard muttered words. They were spoken in English, and he knew that voice.
“Murphy! It’s me—Paul Kavanagh! Quit shooting!”
He heard another muffled curse and something heavily metallic clattered on the cement floor. A second later, a body thumped onto the cement.
Paul clicked on his flashlight and peered in. Murphy lay face down on the floor, with blood oozing from his parka.
“Kavanagh!” shouted Red Cloud from outside.
“It’s Murphy!” shouted Paul. “He must have thought I was Chinese. Now he’s out. Come in here. I need your help.”
“The Chinese are coming,” Red Cloud said, as he entered the garage.
“What?” asked Paul. Did these guys have long-distance helicopters?
“There’s a platoon of them,” Red Cloud said. “We don’t have much time.”
“Are you sure?”
“I saw their submarines surface.”
Submarines. Right. That makes sense.
“I saw two submarines,” Red Cloud said. “First lasers stabbed out of the ice. Then the submarines broke through. After the subs settled, soldiers boiled out of the towers, climbing down. We have ten minutes before they arrive.”
Now we know how they got here. “We have to load up with supplies,” Paul said.
“We must leave now or we die.”
“Drag Murphy into the cat over there,” Paul said. “I fixed it. Then drive to the mess. Make sure you keep the cat’s lights off.”
Without waiting for an answer, Paul raced for the garage exit. The Algonquin had better not leave without him. “I’m going to scrounge us a bag of grub!” he shouted. “Okay?”
For an answer, Red Cloud disappeared into the closet where Murphy lay.
Panting, and with sweat dripping from his face, Paul heaved three canvas bags into the back of the snowcat. Then he banged the back shut and raced around to the side, piling in on the passenger side. Red Cloud started the vehicle moving as Paul slammed his door shut.
The snowcat’s tank-like treads lurched and the compact vehicle clanked south, leaving the gravel skirt of the oil rig. They left behind the dead and any of those who might be wounded and unconscious. That grated on Paul. Marines didn’t leave their own behind. The Corps had drilled the idea into him.
Murphy groaned from where he lay in back. Blood still seeped from his gunshot wound.
Rolling down his window, thrusting half his torso outside, Paul aimed the assault rifle north. He used the scope regularly, without infrared. Past the derricks and far out on the ice he saw two squat metal towers. They were the “sails” of two Chinese submarines. The submarines had punched through the ice, which should have taken some doing. Paul had read somewhere that a sub couldn’t break through ice more than three-and-a-half feet thick. He’d been doing the radar-testing of the ice-thickness on the perimeter earlier. The ice here was much thicker than three-and-a-half feet. It must have been the reason why the Chinese had used lasers first, either melting the ice or breaking it apart. Marching from the two submarines were roly-poly White Tiger Commandos, more than twenty and each using snowshoes. They were almost to the northern edge of the oil rig’s gravel skirt.
He spied pinpoints of lights from the rifles. The White Tigers had spotted them and they were firing.
“They know we’re escaping,” Paul said. “They see us.”
Red Cloud spoke in Algonquin. Paul hoped it was an Indian curse, one with power.
Paul glanced back again. “Crap!” he said.
“What is it?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Speak to me, Kavanagh.”
Paul saw a bright dot rise from one of the submarine’s sails. There was another fiery dot from the other submarine. Paul brought up the assault rifle. He caught the object in his scope. It was an armored White Tiger in a bulky battle-jetpack. Paul had read articles about them. After decades of effort, the Japanese had finally invented a rugged, fuel-efficient one. Paul had a swift view of the Commando using an armrest joystick-control and a bulky helmet with gizmos attached. The Commando moved swiftly through the air toward them. It had to be freezing up there.
“They’re sending two jetpack flyers after us!” Paul shouted.
He lowered the assault rifle. Something red winked from the first flyer. On a suspicion, Paul glanced at the side of their cat. There was a bright red dot on it.
“He’s using a laser!” Paul shouted. “He’s going to guide a missile into us.”
Red Cloud slammed on the brakes.
Paul jammed his back against the brace of the open window. “What are you doing?” he shouted as the snowcat came to a halt.
“There’s a Blowdart launcher in the back!” Red Cloud shouted.
Paul slid inside, thrust his assault rifle against the door and lunged over the back of his seat. He saw the single-shot Blowdart tube. It was like an old LAWS rocket. He grabbed the launcher, opened his door, and jumped outside. The engine roared as the left tread spun, rotating the cat in place. Then both treads tore up ice and snow as the cat clacked away at a right angle from its former position.
With one knee on the ice, Paul activated the Blowdart.
Then he saw an orange bloom from one of the submarine’s towers. That had to be someone firing an ATGM, an Anti-Tank Guided Missile. The flames behind the missile showed its increasing speed, and that it was coming straight at the snowcat.
Despite his shaking arms, Paul lifted the Blowdart tube and peered through the scope. He spied one of the flyers hanging up there, no doubt “painting” the cat with his guidance laser. Paul squeezed the trigger. The launching-tube shivered. It was like a recoilless rifle. Flames flickered out of the back of the tube as the missiles sped upward at the flyers.
It must have panicked them or caused the flyers to jink like crazy. Either way, it meant that neither kept their laser targeted on the snowcat. The Blowdart must have badly surprised the flyers.
Then Paul remembered the missile coming for them. He looked up and watched slack-jawed as the submarine-launched missile roared overhead. It was loud, a flash of metal, and it was so close he felt a momentary wash of heat. Several hundred yards behind him, the missile hit the ice and exploded.
Dropping the empty tube, Paul picked his assault rifle off the ice. He scanned the sky. There was only one flyer now.
Bringing up the assault rifle, Paul flicked on the infrared. The scope had a range-calculator. The flyer was over a thousand yards away. That was much too far to think he could hit the man. Still, he began firing three-bullet bursts. In seconds, Paul tore out the magazine and shoved in another.