Hunter Killer - Alex King Series 12 (2021)

bear’s vision would be in the darkness. He imagined they would have excellent night vision if they lived for three months of the year in complete darkness. He removed the goggles and wiped them out with his gloved fingers. The ice was already thick, and stubborn to remove. He got off the machine and stretched his legs, still cautious. And then he saw movement to his right. A lumbering mass of white. He only saw it because it had broken one of the rules of the six S’s in camouflage and concealment. Shine, shadow, silhouette, sound, shape, and smell. This bear had broken the rule of silhouette, but King guessed it didn’t know the rules and hadn’t trained with the SAS, and that when an animal was hungry it needed to break cover at some point. It had the advantage of darkness and that would likely be enough of an advantage for it over a seal or a reindeer at night.
King wasted little time getting back on the snowmobile and checked the heading before easing off, mindful not to do anything rash that would spell disaster if he tipped the machine over. He checked over his shoulder, the polar bear now just fifty metres from him as he thumbed the throttle and lurched forward into the night. He risked another glance, surprised he had not put a great distance between them. He took the machine up to eighty-kilometres-per-hour and settled into his seat. Another glance and the bear was still scarily close. Trepidation setting in, King accelerated harder and it was an effort to keep his grip on the handlebars as the machine shot forwards like a bullet. He turned and looked again, but the tremendous beast had slowed to a lumber and broken off to King’s right. The speed and agility of the animal had shocked him, and he wouldn’t have to remind himself again of the danger they presented. He checked behind him regularly as he rode, and he kept well clear of ridges of ice the size of upturned vehicles, shaped by the savage and relentless north wind.
It was easy to lose track of time this deep inside in the Arctic Circle. The reflection of the snow and ice, even from just starlight and a sliver of moon, created a hue of white that was never truly extinguished by the darkness. An ambient glow. It hadn’t changed since dusk at around three-thirty pm. After an hour of riding at half to three-quarters of throttle and keeping his distance from the large jutting forms of wind-blown ice on his right, and the icebergs peppering the shore to his left, he saw more polar bears ahead of him. King checked behind him, and sure enough a large bear was lumbering after him. A steep range of mountains rose a short distance inland and he got the sense he was entering a bottleneck where he would be forced to run the gauntlet against the bears. Another glance behind him revealed another bear entering the chase, and the former bear slowing and turning back towards the shore. King checked the coordinates. He wasn’t far away now, and the timing would be spot on, but he hadn’t allowed for the bears. Even when he reached his destination, he would need time to get organised, and he wondered whether the animals would turn to cannibalisation if he was to put down one of the beasts with the rifle. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to take the risk of adding an angry wounded bear into the mix. Perhaps a single gunshot nearby would simply scare them away. King increased the revs and veered inland, heading away from the shoreline. The bears ahead of him looked on, resolutely guarding the beach. Behind him, the pursuing bear had given up much like its predecessor and was heading for the icy grey sheet of ocean. Seals were more likely an easier prey than a man on a snowmobile.
King had just crested a hill, but the landing was hard and the scene ahead of him was difficult to take in. Dark and textured, the terrain giving way to shale, black sand, rock, and grass. The ice and snow had abruptly ended, and the snowmobile dug in hard, its steering next to useless and the skids catching. He tried in vain to regain control and the machine pitched and he was thrown clear, landing heavily on pebbles and sand. He rolled onto his back, winded from the fall and aware that he was wet and freezing cold. He had landed in a stream with ice on each bank and fast flowing water soaking into his clothes. Puzzled that it shouldn’t be frozen, he assumed it was too fast flowing and had likely started to thaw in the daytime sunshine. He tried to sit up, but the layers of clothing restricted his movements. The snowmobile had spun and tumbled end over end and was resting the wrong side up, its engine stalled. King supposed there was an automatic safety cut-out, much like on a modern motorcycle. He had no idea where to start looking for the reset, but then again, he had more to worry about. A huge twelve-hundred-pound male polar bear was paused on top of the same hill, its head turning from side to side sniffing the air. King could hear a throaty gargling sound and rapid snorts. He hastily took the rifle off his shoulder, checked the muzzle to see if any debris had gotten into the end of the barrel. Firing it with a barrel blockage would be catastrophic and the entire barrel could split, and the breech could explode. He took out the magazine and worked the bolt to empty the chamber, then upended the weapon and blew down the barrel. The metal was cold and stuck to his lips, but his breath travelled freely down the barrel, steaming out of the breech. King looked back at the ridge where the