Chen grabbed the heavy communications relay pack and slung it over one shoulder, then snatched two backup power cells from the equipment locker. Marcus gave an approving nod—he was thinking the same thing. No matter what had happened here, they needed to be able to call for help.
"Move!" the pilot shouted.
Chen's boots hit the ice, and the cold slammed into them like a physical force. Even through the Arctic gear, it was brutal—the temperature had to be at least negative thirty, and the wind cut like razors. The team dropped down beside Chen, and the helicopter lifted off immediately, snow whipping into their faces.
The silence that followed was absolute.
No engine noise. No human voices. Just the wind howling across the ice shelf and the distant creak of the station's metal frame contracting in the cold.
"Blood," Marcus said quietly, kneeling beside one of the torn supply crates. His gloved finger touched a dark frozen streak on the ice. "Trail leads to the main entrance. Multiple sources, I'd say. At least two, maybe three people."
"How old?" Chen asked, moving closer.
"Hard to say in this cold. Could be three weeks, could be three days." Marcus stood, scanning the perimeter with professional efficiency. "But someone was injured badly enough to leave this much."
Sergei walked to the station entrance—a heavy airlock door that should be sealed. It hung slightly open, ice crusted around the seals. "Pressure door not closed properly," he said, his Russian accent thickening. "Emergency protocol is to seal all airlocks. They taught them this. They knew this." He looked back at Chen, his scarred face grim. "Why is it open?"
Nora had moved to the closest supply crate, the one that had been torn open from the inside. She was staring at the shredded plastic sheeting, her fingers tracing the ragged edges. "Dr. Chen," she said slowly. "These tears... they're not from tools. Something clawed through this."
"Or someone," Marcus corrected, though he didn't sound convinced.
The station's emergency lights flickered in a pattern—three short, three long, three short. SOS. But it was automated, Chen realized. A distress beacon running on a loop, set weeks ago and never turned off.
Chen's radio crackled with static, making everyone jump. Chen adjusted the frequency, but there was nothing—just electromagnetic noise. The communications relay weighed heavy on their back. They'd need to set it up, probably from the communications room inside, to boost the signal enough to reach Longyearbyen.
Inside that station.
Where something had clawed through reinforced plastic.
Where someone had left a blood trail and never sealed the emergency door.
Marcus chambered a round in his rifle. "Your call, Doc. We stick together or split up? I can secure the entrance while you three set up communications. Or we all go in as one unit—slower, but safer."
Chen looked at the dark entrance, then at the team. Marcus stood ready, rifle in hand, every inch the professional soldier. Nora gripped her sample case, scientific curiosity warring with obvious fear. Sergei's jaw was set, his toolkit secure on his shoulder.
The wind howled across the ice. The emergency lights continued their automated distress call. And somewhere inside that silent station, answers waited.