“I’ll reload,” Pitt said, regaining some color in his pale face. Gritting his teeth, he looked Giordino in the eye with a determined plea.

“Go finish them off.”

82

Zak had remained hidden behind the rail when his two gunmen rose and fired. Using their barrage as a cover, he then stood and rolled over the rail, scurrying across the deck to the ice-encased foremast. He looked aft, but there was no way he could make a clean shot on the ladder well, as a mound of ice amidships created a high barrier between the two positions.

It was an absurd situation, he thought, being held up by men armed with weapons over a century and a half old. He had to admire their cunning, which seemed noticeably absent from his own security team. He looked for another vantage point from which to fire, but, finding none, he searched for a way belowdecks. He spotted the forward hatch, but it was buried under two feet of ice, and there was no forward ladderway on the ship. Then he looked up, noticing that the foremast was tilted at an awkward angle. A cross-spar had ground onto the ridge and jammed the mast to starboard. The heavy mast had cracked the deck around its base, opening a two-foot gash that led below.

Had Zak looked back at the exchange of gunfire, he might have witnessed the death of his second gunman and reconsidered his next move. But he was already thinking three steps ahead as he tucked the Glock into his pocket, then lowered himself through the gap in the deck and dropped into the black interior below.

Giordino climbed cautiously to the head of the ladderway and quickly peered over the ledge. The deck was silent, and he caught no sight of any movement. Then he heard a cry, close by but not from aboard the ship. With the shotgun cocked and at the ready, he crept out of the ladderway and tentatively stepped to the side rail.

Aside the exterior hull, he observed two bodies lying faceup on the ice. The mercenary White, the first casualty, lay with his eyes still open, a pool of red around his torso. Beside him was a second gunman, who had a large hole through his forehead from Pitt’s last pistol shot. Giordino spotted a third man down on the beach, who was shouting for help. He clutched his leg and moved with a limp, trailing a thin stain of red.

Giordino heard a noise behind him and turned to see Pitt climb uneasily out of the ladderway, a pistol in his good hand and a musket over his shoulder.

“Did we manage to scare them off?” he asked.

“Thanks to your eagle-eyed marksmanship,” Giordino replied, motioning over the rail at the two dead gunmen. “I’d say you won the turkey shoot today.”

Pitt eyed the bodies with little remorse. Though he felt no comfort in killing another man, he had no pity for hired murderers, especially those that had had a hand in sinking the Narwhal.

“Sounds like they have some companions on the beach,” he said. “They’ll be back in force shortly.”

“My thoughts as well,” Giordino replied. Looking at Pitt’s bloodied sleeve, he gave his friend a concerned look. “No offense, but I don’t relish making this old tub my personal Alamo.”

“Better odds up the ravine?”

Giordino nodded. “I think it’s time to vacate the premises. They could wait until dark and overrun us, or, worse, set fire to this matchbox. There’s only so long we can hold out with these popguns. They’ll come back slow and cautious, which will give us some time to get up the hill. We can carry plenty of shot and powder to discourage them from following too close. Hopefully, they’ll just give up the chase and let us freeze to death on our own,” he added wryly.

“There’s one other thing that we’ll be needing,” Pitt remarked.

“I can’t believe you haven’t already absconded with it,” Giordino replied with a grin. “The key to the whole shebang. The ship’s log.”

Pitt simply nodded, hoping the log could be found and that its contents would prove worthy of the sacrifices already incurred.

“Take a rest, I’ll go find it,” Giordino said, stepping toward the ladderway.

“No, I’ll go,” Pitt replied, rubbing his wounded arm. “With this maimed wing, I’ll have trouble aiming the long gun if company arrives.” He slipped the musket off his shoulder and passed it to Giordino, along with the pistol. “Go ahead and shoot well before you see the whites of their eyes.”

Pitt climbed down the ladderway, feeling somewhat dizzy from the loss of blood. Moving aft, he made his way down the passageway toward the officers’ quarters under the dim light of the bulkhead candles he had lit earlier. The passageway eventually turned black as he reached an unexplored portion of the ship. He cursed himself for forgetting to grab the whale oil lamp and was about to turn back when he noticed a faint glow ahead in the darkness. Taking a few steps forward, he saw that there was a flickering light at the end of the passage. It was a light that neither he nor Giordino had left behind.

Stepping lightly, he approached the end of the passageway, which opened into the Great Cabin. A candle light flickered within, casting long black shadows on the bulkheads. Pitt crept to the doorway and peered in.

With his teeth glimmering under the amber light, Clay Zak looked up from a large table at the center of the room with a malicious smile.

“Come on in, Mr. Pitt,” he said coldly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

83

A dozen yards from the edge of the sea ice, a bearded seal frolicked in the dark green water, searching for a stray Arctic cod. The gray-coated mammal caught sight of a black protrusion rising out of the water and swam over to investigate. Pressing a whiskered snout against the cold metal object, it detected no sign of potential nourishment, so turned and swam away.

Sixty feet beneath the surface, Commander Barry Campbell chuckled at the close-up image of the seal. Refocusing the viewing lens of the Type 18 search periscope at the red-hulled icebreaker a quarter mile away, he carefully examined the ship. Stepping away from the periscope, he waved over Bill Stenseth, who stood nearby in the USS Santa Fe’s cramped control room.

Stenseth had taken an immediate liking to the submarine’s energetic captain. With sandy hair and beard, sparkling eyes, and a ready laugh, Campbell reminded Stenseth of a youthful Santa Claus, pre belly and white hair. A twenty-year Navy man, the jovial Campbell operated with a sense of purpose. There was no hesitation when Stenseth urged him to conduct an electronic search for Pitt and Giordino and the missing submersible. Campbell immediately piloted the attack sub to the south, with its full complement of sonar at play. When the icebreaker was detected lingering in the area, Campbell had ordered the sub to dive in order to maintain its stealth.

Stenseth stepped over to the periscope and peered through its dual eyepiece. A crystalline image of the red icebreaker burst through the magnified lens. Stenseth studied the flattened bow of the vessel, surprised that the damage wasn’t greater from its high-speed collision with the Narwhal.

“Yes, sir, that’s the vessel that rammed us,” he said matter-of-factly. Keeping his face pressed against the eyepiece, he focused on a man in black approaching the ship on foot. Tracing his path, he observed several additional men congregated on the beach.

“There are several men on the shoreline,” he said to Campbell. “They appear armed.”

“Yes, I saw them, too,” Campbell replied. “Swing the periscope to your right about ninety degrees,” he requested.

Stenseth obliged, rotating the periscope until a bright yellow object blurred past. Moving back, he refocused the lens while a lump grew in his throat. The Bloodhound appeared through the lens wedged against the sea ice, its top hatch thrown open.