Ice Hunt by James Rollins

From the Publisher

Carved into a moving island of ice twice the size of the United States, Ice Station Grendel has been abandoned for more than seventy years. The twisted brainchild of the finest minds of the former Soviet Union, it was designed to be inaccessible and virtually invisible. But an American undersea research vessel has inadvertently pulled too close—and something has been sighted moving inside the allegedly deserted facility, something whose survival defies every natural law. And now, as scientists, soldiers, intelligence operatives, and unsuspecting civilians are drawn into Grendel's lethal vortex, the most extreme measures possible will be undertaken to protect its dark mysteries—because the terrible truths locked behind submerged walls of ice and steel could end human life on Earth.

Publishers Weekly

While Clive Cussler maintains the gold standard in action lit, Rollins has a firm grasp on the silver. Some astonishing threat or daring feat explodes into print on nearly every page, but that's the author's weakness as well as his strength, because in Rollins's books character and even plot take a backseat to sheer action. Rollins set his last novel, Amazonia, in steaming jungles; here he does a 180 and tells a tale of brutal cold, above and beneath the North Pole ice cap. An experimental American sub comes across an abandoned Soviet polar station encased in an iceberg. Meanwhile, a Russian admiral, the son of the man who once ran the station, is preparing to alter world history by exploding a nuclear weapon at the polar cap, melting it and flooding the globe. And Fish and Game warden Matt Pike, a former Green Beret, comes across a downed aircraft in the Alaskan mountains and rescues the sole survivor, who says he's a journalist on his way to the American polar station; immediately, Matt and the survivor are relentlessly pursued by black-clad Russian special forces. Eventually all parties, including Matt's estranged wife, end up at the abandoned polar station or the nearby American station; Russians and Americans, including Delta Force, battle fiercely over the privilege of exposing or forever hiding the secret of the Russian station, and in turn they must combat the prehistoric predators who roam the Russian station in search of warm meat. The plot is preposterous from the get-go, and Rollins's characters, though fully drawn, have about as much effect on the novel's course as riders on a roller-coaster-which is what this novel is, and a first class one at that if maximum mayhem is desired. (July 1) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Cover-to-cover Arctic action, around and inside Ice Station Grendel: chases and fights in the snow, on the ice, in the air; hungry bears; evil Russians; predatory sea mammals. Aboard the Polar Sentinel, Captain Gregory Perry and his crew of soldiers and scientists (including his beautiful lover, Dr. Amanda Reynolds) discover an abandoned Russian research station north of the Arctic Circle. The elaborate, six-level Ice Station Grendel has been out of use for more than fifty years, but high-tech cameras detect signs of life there. Meanwhile, in nearby Alaska, Fish and Game warden Matthew Pike rescues Seattle reporter Craig Teague from a small plane crash. Abruptly, they're being pursued by Russian thugs shooting to kill. Matt and Craig narrowly escape, abetted some by the aforementioned bears, and take refuge with Matt's bristly father-in-law John and ex-wife Jennifer, sheriff for the Nunamiut and Inupiat tribes. The surviving Russians remain in hot pursuit, reinforced by new soldiers. These are dispatched by Viktor Petkov, admiral and commander of the Russian Northern Fleet and son of the mastermind behind Ice Station Grendel, led away at gunpoint in 1948. Petkov plans both to retake the research facility, thus resuming his father's work on cryogenics, and to eliminate Matt and company, who threaten this operation's secrecy. At Ice Station Grendel, meanwhile, Greg and Amanda make a startling discovery: a school of ambulocetus natans (ancestor of the whale), many recently defrosted and highly predatory; hence the name of the station. The beasts' first victim is perky postgrad Lacy Devlin, stalked while speed-skating for her morning exercise. In short order, scientists and soldiers becomewhale food, hunted down and devoured all over the mazelike outpost. Story proceeds in quick time-lined cuts, from these perspectives and a couple more: American troops prepare to seize the station and a Russian force encroaches with the same aim. Rollins (Amazonia, 2002) writes with intelligence, clarity, and a refreshing sense of humor. He front-loads his best chills but stocks the last chunk of the book (his second hardcover) with surprise twists. Agents: Russ Galen/Scovil Chichak Galen, Danny Baror

Product Details

• ISBN: 0060521600
  
• ISBN-13: 9780060521608
• Format: Mass Market Paperback, 544pp
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
• Pub. Date: June 2004
• Edition Description: Reprint
• Sales Rank: 6,839

• Read a Sample Chapter

Read a Sample Chapter

Ice Hunt

Harper Collins Publishers

Chapter One

April 6, 2:56 P.M. Brooks Range, Alaska

Always respect Mother Nature ... especially when she weighs four hundred pounds and is guarding her baby.

Matthew Pike faced the grizzly from fifty yards away. The massive she-bear eyed him back, chuffing into the breeze. Her yearling cub nosed a blackberry briar, but it was too early in the season for berries. The cub was just playing in the brambles, oblivious to the six-foot-two Fish and Game officer standing, sweating, in the afternoon sun. But the youngster had little to fear when watched over by his mother. Her muscled bulk, yellowed teeth, and four-inch claws were protection enough.

Matt's moist palm rested on his holstered canister of pepper spray. His other hand slowly shifted to the rifle slung on his shoulder. Don't charge, sweetheart ... don't make this day any worse than it already is. He'd had enough trouble with his own dogs earlier and had left them tethered back at his campsite.

As he watched, her ears slowly flattened to her skull. Her back legs bunched as she bounced a bit on her front legs. It was clear posturing, a stance meant to chase off any threat.

Matt held back a groan. How he wanted to run, but he knew to do so would only provoke the she-bear tochase him down. He risked taking a single slow step backward, careful to avoid the snap of a twig. He wore an old pair of moosehide boots, hand-sewn by his ex-wife, a skill learned from her Inuit father. Though they were three years divorced, Matt appreciated her skill now. The soft soles allowed him to tread quietly.

He continued his slow retreat.

Normally, when one encountered a bear in the wild, the best defense was loud noises: shouts, catcalls, whistles, anything to warn the normally reclusive predators away. But to stumble upon this sow and cub when topping a rise, running face-to-face into Ursus arctos horribilis, any sudden movement or noise could trigger the maternal beast to charge. Bear attacks numbered in the thousands each year in Alaska, including hundreds of fatalities. Just two months ago, he and a fellow warden had run a tributary of the Yukon River in kayaks, searching for two rafters reported late in returning home, only to discover their half-eaten remains.

So Matt knew bears. He knew to watch for fresh bear signs whenever hiking: unsettled dung, torn-up sod, clawed trunks of trees. He carried a bear whistle around his neck and pepper spray at his belt. And no one with any wits entered the Alaskan backcountry without a rifle. But as Matt had learned during his ten-year stint among the parks and lands of Alaska, out here the unexpected was commonplace. In a state bigger than Texas, with most of its lands accessible only by floatplane, the wildernesses of Alaska made the wild places of the lower states seem like nothing more than Disney theme parks: domesticated, crowded, commercialized. But here nature ruled in all its stark and brutal majesty.

Of course, right now, Matt was hoping for a break on the brutal part. He continued his cautious retreat. The she-bear kept her post. Then the small male cub - if you could call a a hundred-and-fifty-pound ball of fur and muscle small - finally noticed the stranger nearby. It rose on its hind legs, looking at him. It shimmied and tossed its head about, male aggression made almost comical. Then it did the one thing Matt prayed it wouldn't do. It dropped on all fours and loped toward him, more in play and curiosity than with any aggressive intent. But it was a deadly move nonetheless.

While Matt did not fear the yearling cub - a blast of pepper spray would surely stop it in its tracks - its mother's response was a different matter. The pepper spray would be no more than a tenderizing seasoning when her pile-driver strength pounded down on him. And forget about a head shot, even with his Marlin sport rifle. The bear's thick skull would only deflect the bullet. Not even a shot square through the heart was a safe bet. It would take ten minutes for such a shot to kill a bear, and the shooter would be bear scat by then. The only real way to kill a grizzly was to aim for the legs, bring her bulk down, then keep on shooting.

And despite the personal danger, Matt was loath to do this. The grizzlies were his personal totem. They were the symbol of this country. With their numbers dwindling to less than twenty-five thousand, he could not bring himself to kill even one of them. In fact, he had come to Brooks Range on his own personal time to help in the cataloging and DNA mapping of the parkland's population of awakening grizzlies, fresh out of winter's blanket. He had been up here collecting samples from hair traps stationed throughout the remote areas of the park and freshening their foul-smelling scent lures when he found himself in this predicament.

But now Matt was faced with the choice of kill or be killed. The cub bounded merrily in his direction. His mother growled in warning - but Matt was not sure if she was talking to him or her cub. Either way, his retreat sped up, one foot fumbling behind the other. He shrugged his rifle into one hand and unholstered his pepper spray.

As he struggled with the spray's flip top, a fierce growl rose behind him. Matt glanced over his shoulder. On the trail behind him, a dark shape raced at him, tail flagging in the air.

Matt's eyes grew wide with recognition. “Bane! No!" The black dog pounded up the slope, hackles raised, a continual growl flowing from his throat ...

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Ice Hunt by James Rollins
Copyright © 2003 by James Rollins
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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