Ice War Read Free

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    The winter ice in the turbulent Bering Strait has a life and a geography all of its own, due to the constant buffeting of the currents that run through the narrow passage between Russia and Alaska, bringing with them the outflow of sea ice from the Arctic Ocean. Great floes collide with each other, erupting into ridges and hummocks, piggybacking on top of each other to create rafted floes. All of this constantly scoured by the wind-born ice.
    For years the great Bering Strait currents had prevented the strait from freezing, but a relatively recent, and inexplicable, change in the local climate had led to the accumulation of more and more sea ice, “drift ice” latching onto land-fixed “fast ice” and gradually spreading until a bridge of ice connected the two continents, with the Diomede Islands, Big and Little, at its centre.
    The submarine had located numerous leads in the ice canopy above, but most were too small, unstable, or in the wrong location.
    Once this lead had been found, the submarine had surfaced at speed, using the top of its fin as a battering ram to smash its way through three or four centimetres of ice.
    The submarine was gone now and Price sensed, rather than saw, its grey bulk slip away beneath the ice. On the surface of the water, delicate petals of frost flowers were already starting to form. Pretty, fractal shapes, like miniature white ferns, spreading and branching off, again and again.
    Within minutes, the water would wear a white coat of frost, and within the hour it would be strong enough to walk on.
    “Oscar Mike in five mikes,” Price said. “Check your battery levels.”
    Batteries could behave strangely in these temperatures, and a dead or low battery meant no thermals, and that meant death in this bitter and frigid world. They each carried a spare battery for that reason, and there were more on the equipment sled.
    “Rope up,” Monster said.
    The ropes were lightweight nylon cords, thin but immensely strong. They had to be.
    “We’re sheltered here,” Price said, clipping hers on and checking that it was secured properly. “You’d better prepare yourselves for what we’re going to hit once we get out of this lead.”
    “I can hardly wait,” The Tsar said. He smiled his confident, charming smile. Another good addition to the team. He had proved that on Operation Magnum. He was still a bit cocky and full of himself, but that had diminished as he had got to know them better.
    PFC Emile Attaya was the next in line, standing in front of Price, who double-checked the karabiner clips at his end. Emile was a good-looking Lebanese kid who smiled constantly and seemed to burn energy the way other people breathed air. Having Emile around was like having a new puppy in the house and although it went against protocol, nobody, not even the commanders back at Fort Carson, called him by his surname. He was always just “Emile”. Like Monster, English was not his first language. But unlike Monster, he spoke it well, with merely a trace of an accent.
    “We should have brought parasails,” Emile said. “We could have used the wind and sailed there.”
    “If it was blowing in the right direction,” Wall said. “Which it’s not.”
    Specialist Hayden Wall. The other new Angel. He talked constantly and was usually moaning about something. He did it with the broad “A” and missing “R” of the native New Englander. His dour moping was a complete contrast from Emile’s infectious enthusiasm and quick smile.
    “Or bobsleds,” Emile said. “We could have had dogs to pull us along.”
    “Somebody find his off button,” Barnard said, but she smiled as she said it. Even cynical, sarcastic Barnard was not immune to Emile’s puppy dog charm.
    Price took an ice-axe from the equipment sled and slipped the loop over her wrist. The others followed suit.
    She watched each of them, thinking about the faith they were putting in her as leader of the mission. She hoped it wasn’t