The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,23

my revenge.

6

June 21, 12:15 P.M. WGST

Tasiilaq, Greenland

Elena still lived . . .

Maria tried to take comfort from this bit of hope, but the rest of the local policeman’s report was dire.

She sat with her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee in the Red Hotel’s cozy dining space. The room consisted of a handful of tables and chairs, a small library space, and a high shelf lined with a rainbow of snow boots, both new and antique. With its bright red clapboard exterior and large windows that looked out on an expansive view of King Oscar’s Harbour, she might have been charmed by the place, but not under these circumstances.

The dining room was crammed with a score of locals. It seemed the torpedo’s blast had been heard by everyone, and the entire village wanted information.

All eyes were on the only witness.

“The tunnel is gone,” Officer Hans Jørgen reported from across the table. The man wore an open fur-lined Sherpa jacket, over his uniform’s khakis. His Danish ancestry could be heard in his accent and evident in his short-cropped blond hair. “The torpedo took out the entire face of the glacier. Collapsed a huge section.”

“Can you describe anything else about the submarine?” Commander Pullman asked. After landing in Greenland, word had reached the military jet about a submarine being spotted in the area. The commander had insisted on joining Maria and Joe aboard the helicopter that ferried them to the village. The rest of his crew had remained behind to secure the aircraft as gale-force winds pounded down from the mountains. “Did you spot any insignias on the conning tower? See any letters or numbers painted on it?”

Jørgen shook his head. “Like I said, I only reached the glacier’s fjord in time to see the explosion. My patrol boat was still three kilometers off. I was lucky to pick out the sub through my binoculars before it submerged.”

Maria squeezed her mug. “And you’re sure you saw Dr. Cargill being taken aboard.”

He nodded. “She was easy to pick out in her bright blue parka. The rest of the sub’s crew wore black neoprene.”

She turned to Pullman. “Is there any way to track that sub’s path?”

He cast an accusing glance toward Joe, who sat with a cigar smoldering between his teeth. “Not much I can do from the ground. Still, we’re monitoring the sonobuoys we dropped. Luckily, our Poseidon was outfitted with the newest Multistatic Active Coherent buoys. They can generate sonar pulses for days and have a long-range capability. The buoys alone may offer some guidance. But if we could get airborne . . .”

He shrugged at the obvious.

That’s not happening anytime soon.

The short helicopter ride here had been like flying inside a paint shaker. The winds had picked up steadily, growing wilder by the minute. During the flight, the pilot had gripped his controls with white knuckles, his lips moving in a silent prayer. By the time they landed, his hair was plastered to his scalp with sweat.

We’re not going anywhere.

Someone called out from the gallery of locals. “And what about the others?” he shouted. “The three who went with that woman?”

“Aap!” someone joined in, pressing the same inquiry in Inuit.

Jørgen turned to the crowd. “Utoqqatserpunga,” he said apologetically. “I don’t know. I only saw Dr. Cargill.”

Joe puffed out a cloud of smoke. “Either they’re dead,” he said bluntly, “or the blast trapped them inside that hunk of ice.”

Pullman leaned closer to the table and lowered his voice. “If they’re alive, they might know what happened and tell us who took Dr. Cargill.”

“That’s a big if,” Kowalski said.

Jørgen nodded. “Alive or not, there’s no way anyone can reach them.”

“I can,” someone said from the crowd. A skinny figure dressed in a hide jacket and boots pushed forward. He looked to be no more than fourteen. His thick black hair was cut in a firm line over a smooth forehead.

Jørgen swung around. “Nuka, the channel is collapsed. There’s no way to get back inside.”

“Yes, there is,” the young kid insisted with a defiant confidence.

Jørgen looked ready to object, but Joe cut him off. “How?”

“I’ll show you.” He thumbed toward the exit, where the winds howled and rattled the door in its frame.

“Forget it,” Jørgen warned. “No one is going out into the teeth of this piteraq.”

“Naa. I’m going.” Nuka turned toward the door. “It’s my grandfather out there.”

Maria now understood the teenager’s obstinance, reading the fear and determination in the young man’s face. His grandfather was the Inuit elder—John Okalik—who guided