Black Ice

by Brad Thor

  “Is that the correct time?”

  Emele checked it and then nodded. “Yes. I have to go to the other hut to gather some things and leave a note for my colleagues. I’ll be back in five minutes and we can get going. Does that work for you?”

  “It does. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome,” she replied. “And please stop thanking me. This is what we do in the Arctic. We help each other. If we didn’t, none of us would survive.”

  * * *

  Once she had left for the other structure, Harvath transferred the pistol from his jacket, hung the key back around his neck, and loaded up his pack.

  Wearing warm dry clothes and having consumed hot liquids, he thought he would be ready to greet the wet, icy cold outside. He was wrong. It felt even more bitter than it had before.

  As they walked into town, Emele asked if he had a cell phone. Because of all of the sensitive experiments carried out at the various research stations Ny-Ålesund was considered a radio silent area. No Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, or cell phone signals were allowed. Everything that transmitted or received had to be hardwired. That meant that computers had to be plugged into Ethernet cables and all cell phones had to remain in airplane mode.

  Harvath told her that wouldn’t be a problem, as his phone was in “ocean” mode and wouldn’t be receiving or transmitting any kind of signal ever again.

  When they arrived in town, she gave Harvath two options. He could make himself comfortable at the “Blue House,” as AWIPEV’s headquarters were known, or rest and get something to eat at the service building mess hall where meals, snacks, and coffee were available. They also had two computers with free internet access.

  He opted for the mess hall. And though she had told him not to, he thanked her once again.

  As the Frenchwoman went to make contact with a Norwegian colleague, he watched until she was out of sight and then changed his course. He needed to get to the Chinese research station as quickly as possible.

  He also was going to have to be very careful how he handled himself once he got there. Ny-Ålesund wasn’t completely devoid of security. They had a unit known as the “Watchmen,” whose priority it was to keep polar bears from wandering in but who could be called upon for other circumstances requiring trained men with guns. Harvath preferred not to have to deal with them if he could avoid it. With the Chinese and the Russians, his dance card was almost full up.

  In addition to giving him info on the town, Emele had also pointed out the buildings and which research organization each one belonged to. When she indicated the Yellow River Station, he paid particular attention.

  Now that he was alone, he wanted to give it an even closer look. Then he would decide upon his best course of action.

  Making his way over to the building, he noticed an uptick in traffic, both on foot and by vehicle. Dinner service at the mess hall was beginning and, despite the storm, people were starting to stream in.

  It was Friday, which meant the official beginning of the weekend and access to alcohol—which, during the week, was off-limits. The scientists had worked hard all week and now they could let their hair down.

  But as the dinner hour struck, he knew the chiming clock signified something else—high tide. And with that high tide would come the Russians.

  Harvath was running out of time.

  CHAPTER 61

  At Ny-Ålesund, China really did have its nose deep inside the Arctic tent. Their Yellow River Station was one of the biggest and most impressive facilities in town.

  Clad in red metal siding, the two-level building comprised over 5,500 square feet of space. Connecting its two floors was a pair of exterior metal staircases—one on the north side of the building and one on the south.

  On the roof was an observatory. On the ground floor, flanking the main entrance, were a pair of large ornamental lions carved from white marble.

  Inside the building were laboratories, offices, storerooms, and dormitories capable of housing up to twenty-five people.

  As far as the interior was concerned, Harvath was most interested in the storerooms. If the Black Ice equipment was on-site, he had a feeling that was where he would find it.

  But where would he find Wen Ying?

  Not that he needed to find the military operative. In fact, he would have been perfectly happy recovering the device and leaving town without the Chinese or the Russians knowing he had been there. However, he put the chances of that happening about even with surviving a charge by a polar bear.

  Watching the facility from behind a smaller structure nearby, he noticed a gray Toyota minivan pull up. The driver tapped his horn twice and a group of scientists in foul-weather gear exited the second floor, hurried down the stairs, and got into the van. As soon as the door was shut, the driver rolled toward the mess hall.

  It made the most sense that the living space would be upstairs and all of the research and official duties of the research station would be carried out on the ground level. Much more efficient that way. No lugging samples and equipment up and down the stairs.

  Except for some sort of 4x4 utility truck parked behind the structure, Harvath didn’t see any other vehicles. And once the van had left, he didn’t notice any further activity. It was time to get himself inside the facility.

  Grabbing what he needed from his pack, he tucked it where no one would find it, affixed the suppressor to his pistol, and, after secreting it inside his coveralls, headed toward the building.

  There was no way of telling who, if anyone, was inside. But just to be safe, he avoided the main entrance in the center of the station and opted for the door on the south side.

  When he got there, he held his ear near it and listened for any sign of life, but hearing anything above the sleet and wind was practically impossible.

  Because of the threat of polar bear attacks, all doors in town were mandated to remain unlocked—just in case someone needed to seek shelter. Reaching out with his gloved hand, he tried the handle. It was unlocked. He opened it and quietly stepped inside.

  The room he entered resembled an airlock, a space where scientists could slip into or out of their gear without letting the frigid polar wind blow all the way into the station.

  There were coat hooks, shelves, lockers, and benches, as well as a weapons cabinet stocked with scoped rifles, shotguns, flare pistols, and ammo.

  Harvath approached the next door, which had been fabricated out of thick steel. It had a small porthole, which he carefully peered through. He couldn’t see anyone on the other side. He took a moment to listen but still didn’t hear anything.

  He tried the handle, but, unlike the outer door, this one was locked. Now came the moment of truth.

  He removed the key from around his neck and inserted it into the oversized lock. A perfect fit.

  Turning the key, he felt all of the tumblers fall, then came the satisfying click of the lock releasing. The door swung open noiselessly on its chunky but well-oiled hinges and Harvath crossed into the station proper.

  There were rows of worktables covered with equipment. Counters, just as cluttered, ran along the perimeter of the room. Blackboards and whiteboards lined the walls. The air held the faint smell of chemicals. No scientists were visible.

  Harvath headed down a short hallway with a wide wooden door. The door was unlocked. He hung his key around his neck again.

  Flipping on the lights, he saw that he had discovered one of the storerooms. This one, however, was filled mostly with supplies. The equipment had to be in another room, perhaps closer to the other entrance. Turning out the lights, he continued moving.

  Passing through a cluster of offices, he entered a second lab with another hallway and a wide wooden door. This door was unlocked as well.

  Harvath opened the door, turned on the lights, then realized he had discovered the equipment storeroom. There were shelves crammed with all manner of scientific gear. Along the floor and stacked at the far end, were crates, soft-sided containers, and various hard-sided
containers. Harvath searched for one around the size of a footlocker.

  It took him a few minutes of moving things around, but then he found something. Crouching down, he flipped up the hasps, lifted the lid, and was about to peer inside, when a long shadow fell over him from behind.

  He moved to his right just as piece of pipe meant for his head came slicing through the air. There was no time to draw his weapon.

  Launching from his crouched position, he exploded like a rocket, landing a devastating punch against his attacker’s jaw.

  Wen Ying stumbled backward, dazed, but quickly regrouped and came at Harvath with the pipe.

  He was astoundingly fast, striking at him again and again and again. It was all Harvath could do to pull equipment off the shelves and parry the blows.

  He had no idea where the Chinese operative had come from or how he had found him. The only thing he knew for certain was that the man was relentless—that and the fact that he had beaten Harvath practically to the back corner of the storeroom.

  If Harvath didn’t do something to change the trajectory of this altercation, it wouldn’t take much for Ying to land a blow that would lay him out.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Harvath spotted an aluminum briefcase and lunged for it.

  The move exposed the left side of his back and his attacker landed an amazingly vicious blow. The pain felt like he had been hit by a bat wrapped with red-hot barbwire. This guy had officially pissed him off.

  Using his rage as fuel and the briefcase as a shield, Harvath spun and advanced on his attacker, blocking blow after blow, forcing the man backward. But then the man got lucky.

  He swung with an incredible amount of force, connecting with the case alongside Harvath’s left hand, smashing his index finger.

  The pain was like having his finger sliced off. Not since Harvath was a little boy and accidentally got his finger caught in his parents’ car door had he felt anything like it. But instead of dropping the case, he fought harder, with more fury and more intensity.

  When the man cocked his arm to let the pipe fly yet again, Harvath drove the briefcase forward into his attacker’s face—and didn’t stop there.

  Stepping into the assault and closing the distance, he went for a match-ending blow, kicking the operative as hard as he could in the nuts.

  As the man’s knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground, Harvath swung the briefcase and caught him once more under the jaw, this time knocking him unconscious.

  CHAPTER 62

  Harvath’s hand hurt like hell. Looking down at it, he saw that his index finger was bleeding, the nail was hanging off, and it was already turning black-and-blue.

  But, true to his training, he adhered to one of the most important rules in combat, which was that medical attention—even to oneself—couldn’t be rendered until the threat was neutralized.

  The metal shelving in the storeroom was bolted to the concrete floor, but Harvath gave them multiple very strong pulls to make sure. Convinced that they were reliable anchor points, he began yanking the cords out of all the electronic items within reach.

  Rolling Wen Ying onto his back, Harvath centered him in the middle of the floor and spread his limbs like a starfish. He tied off his wrists and ankles and made sure the knots were slip-proof and tight as hell. Then shredding a stuff sack, he gagged him and headed back to the supply room.

  In the office area, he pulled a first aid kit from the wall and treated his finger with alcohol wipes, antiseptic cream, and a bandage as he walked. Then, when he arrived at the supply storeroom, he grabbed a roll of duct tape and wrapped a length of Alabama chrome around his index finger.

  From that point forward, he knew exactly what he needed. Removing the items from the shelf, he helped himself to a gown, gloves, two masks, and safety goggles. He didn’t have time to work on the Chinese operative. His cooperation needed to be total and absolutely immediate.

  While Harvath had double-majored in political science and military history in college, in his general education requirements he had really enjoyed chemistry. His basic understanding of the subject had made him a standout in his explosives training as a SEAL.

  He was no chemistry expert—not by a long shot. But he knew enough to be dangerous. And in Wen Ying’s case, his knowledge could very well prove deadly.

  Arriving back at the equipment storeroom, he closed the door behind him. Normally, that would be a really bad idea, but that’s why he had brought the masks—both for himself.

  Harvath moved quickly and put on all the protective gear. Once he was ready, he poured a tiny bit of ammonia on a rag he had found on a worktable and held it under his attacker’s nose. Instantly, the man’s eyes snapped open. Wide.

  “Welcome back,” said Harvath. “Beijing wouldn’t have sent you here if you didn’t speak English, so don’t pretend you can’t understand me. Is that clear?”

  The man struggled against his bonds, trying to free a hand or a leg.

  “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Harvath continued, “so I want to show you something.”

  Ying stopped struggling and looked at what he was being shown.

  “Do you know what hydrofluoric acid is?”

  The operative shook his head.

  “It’s one of the most dangerous and corrosive chemicals you can find in a lab. I’m not really sure what your scientists use it for, but I was thrilled to find it in the supply room. Now let’s skip to the good part.

  “Here’s why you’re not going to be as thrilled as I am that I found it. Exposure to hydrofluoric acid causes horrific tissue burns, and if you’re splashed with enough of it—just two and a half percent of your skin—you can look forward to a very painful and very rapid death.

  “So, like I said, I’m in a hurry. Therefore, I’ll give you one chance to answer my question. If you don’t, I’m going to soak your hand in the acid. It’ll be terrible, I promise you. But the upside is that I’ll ask the question again. If you tell me the truth, everything will be over. If you don’t, I’ll douse your forearm. And just so you know, this is where the chances of cardiac arrest start going through the roof. Of course, I’ll do everything to keep you alive so we can keep going, but I have to be honest: In the keeping people alive arena, I have a very bad track record. What do you think?”

  The Chinese operative glared at him.

  “I’m going to take that as a good sign,” said Harvath, loosening the man’s gag. “Let’s start. You’re responsible for transferring the Black Ice technology to the Russians. Where is it?”

  “You’re too late.”

  Behind his mask, Harvath smiled as he unscrewed the bottle of acid and carefully picked it up. “Right hand or left hand? Any preference?”

  “The Russians will make landfall within the hour and the equipment will be gone.”

  “Tell you what,” said Harvath, “Relax your left hand and I’ll limit the damage to just a couple of fingers.”

  “Fuck you,” the operative said.

  “Funny, I just heard that from one of your colleagues. It must be the first thing they teach you guys in spy school.”

  Tipping the bottle slightly forward, he splashed the acid onto the man’s hand, and Ying screamed in pain.

  The smell from the operative’s burning flesh was so terrible that Harvath wished that he had been wearing three masks.

  Setting the bottle of acid down, he replaced the man’s gag and waited until he had stopped screaming before loosening it again.

  “I gave your contact, Nemstov, a choice about his feet,” Harvath said. “Crutches or a wheelchair—one foot or two. He foolishly chose the wheelchair. And do you know what happened?”

  Ying shook his head, his chest heaving and his eyes watering in pain.

  “Before he could even pick out a wheelchair, a polar bear ate him. Isn’t that terrible?”

  The operative didn’t respond.

  “You can still wipe your ass with your other hand,” Harvath said. “But if you don’t cooperate wi
th me, that’s the part of the garden I’m going to water next. It’s up to you. Where’s the Black Ice equipment?”

  As the man formulated his response, Harvath picked up the bottle of acid and made ready to splash Ying’s other hand.

  “Out past the runway Ny-Ålesund uses for supply planes,” Ying moaned, his blackened hand burned like fire. “Near the old Kongsfjord Telemetry Station. The glacier comes down underground, ending in an ice cave by the beach. The equipment is there.”

  Harvath, still threatening the man with the acid, compelled the operative to explain exactly how to find it and what the equipment looked like.

  While he couldn’t verify that what Ying was telling him about the location was true, the description of the box matched up with what Nemstov had relayed.

  “Okay,” said Harvath.

  “Okay what?” Ying replied, consumed with pain.

  “Now we’re going to find out if you’re telling the truth,” Harvath answered, pulling his weapon.

  CHAPTER 63

  The two-man Russian naval Spetsnaz team landed their swimmer delivery vehicle in a rocky inlet, just beneath the telemetry station, and crept up the beach.

  The entrance to the ice cave was difficult to find. It was a hole in the ground about the size of a village well. The only way down was via a long aluminum extension ladder. A piece of climbing rope, presumably for moving supplies up and down, was secured to a boulder nearby.

  According to the briefing they had been given, the Chinese were conducting ongoing research in the cave as a cover. The equipment that the operatives were there to retrieve—a laptop and a hard-sided case—had been placed about thirty feet from the base of the ladder. It was stacked with other scientific gear so as not to attract any undue attention should anyone stumble upon the cave.

  The men had been provided with photographs indicating exactly which items to remove. All they had to do was pinpoint them, extract them, and transport them back to the submarine that was waiting for them just out to sea.