The Arctic Incident

Cudgeon didn’t hesitate. He put two bursts into the chair, but the thick cushion protected its pilot. Opal Koboi flew straight at Cudgeon’s head.

When the elf raised his arms to protect himself, Artemis slid to the floor. Briar Cudgeon was not so lucky. He was borne aloft by the wildcat pixie, desperately pumping the Redboy’s trigger. Opal was past caring about the laser beam that grazed her ribs. Her sole aim in life was to destroy her treacherous partner.

They whirled around the chamber, ricocheting off several walls before crashing straight through the open plasma panel.

Unfortunately for Cudgeon, the plasma was now active. He had activated it himself. But this irony did not occur to him as he was fried by a million radioactive tendrils. Koboi was lucky. She was pitched from the hoverchair and lay moaning on the rubber tiles.

Butler was on the move before Cudgeon landed. He flipped Artemis over, checking his frame for wounds. A couple of scratches. Superficial. Nothing a shot of blue sparks wouldn’t take care of.

Holly checked Opal Koboi’s status.

“She conscious?” asked the commander.

Koboi’s eyes flickered open. Holly shut them with a swift rabbit punch to the forehead.

“Nope,” she said innocently. “Out cold.”

Root took one look at Cudgeon, and realized there was no point checking for vitals. Maybe he was better off. The alternative would have been a couple of centuries in Howler’s Peak.

Artemis noticed movement by the door. It was Mulch. He was grinning and waving. Waving good-bye, just in case Julius forgot about his two-day head start. The dwarf pointed to a blue canister mounted on a wall bracket, and he was gone.

“Butler,” rasped Artemis, with the absolute last ounce of his strength. “Could someone spray me down? And then could we please go to Murmansk?”

Butler was mystified. “Spray? What spray?”

Holly unhooked the antirad foam canister, flipping the safety catch.

“Allow me,” she grinned. “It would be my pleasure.”

She directed a jet of foul-smelling foam at Artemis. In seconds he resembled a half-melted snowman. Holly laughed. Who said there were no perks in law enforcement?





Police Plaza, Operations Booth


Once the cannon plasma had short-circuited Cudgeon’s remote control, power came rushing back to the Operations Booth. Foaly lost no time in activating the subcutaneous sleepers planted below goblin offenders’ skin. That put half of the B’wa Kell out of action right away. Then he reprogrammed Police Plaza’s own DNA cannons for nonlethal bursts. It was all over in seconds.

Captain Kelp’s first thought was for his subordinates.

“Sound off!” he shouted, his voice slicing through the chaos. “Did we lose anyone?”

The squadron leaders answered in sequence, confirming that there had been no fatalities.

“We were lucky,” remarked a warlock medic. “There’s not a drop of magic left in the building. Not even a medi-pac. The next officer to go down would have stayed down.”

Trouble turned his attention to the Ops Booth. He did not look amused.

Foaly depolarized the quartz window, and opened a channel. “Hey, guys. I wasn’t behind this. It was Cudgeon. I just saved everyone. I sent a sound recording to a cell phone; that wasn’t easy. You should be giving me a medal.”

Trouble clenched his fist. “Yeah, Foaly, come on out here and let me give you your medal.”

Foaly may not have had many social skills, but he knew thinly veiled threats when he heard them.

“Oh, no. Not me. I’m staying right here until Commander Root gets here. He can explain everything.”

The centaur blacked out the window and busied himself running a bug sweep. He would isolate every last trace of Opal Koboi and flush it out of the system. Paranoid, was he? Who was the paranoid one now, Holly? Who was the paranoid one now?





CHAPTER 14





FATHER’S DAY


Murmansk, Arctic Circle


The Arctic seascape between Murmansk and Severmorsk had become a submarine graveyard for Russia’s once mighty fleet. Easily a hundred nuclear submarines lay rusting among the coastline’s various inlets and fjords, with only the odd danger sign or roving patrol to warn off curious passersby. At night, you didn’t have to look too hard to see the glow, or listen too hard to hear the hum.

One such submarine was the Nikodim. A twenty-year-old Typhoon class with rusty pipes and a leaky reactor. Not a healthy combination. And it was here that the Mafiya kingpin, Britva, had instructed his lackeys to make the exchange for Artemis Fowl Senior.

Mikhael Vassikin and Kamar were none too happy with the situation. They had been bunked in the captain’s quarters for two days already, and were convinced their lives were growing shorter by the minute.

Vassikin coughed. “You hear that? My guts aren’t right. It’s the radiation, I’m telling you.”

“This whole thing is ridiculous,” snarled Kamar. “The Fowl boy is thirteen. Thirteen! He’s a baby. How can a child raise five million dollars? It’s crazy.”