Free Terminal Freeze by Lincoln Child

precise than a jeweler’s file.”
    Everyone watched as the laser cut slowly along the outline in the murky brown ice. One of the roustabouts snapped on a portable compressor mounted on the side of the flatbed. Holding a snorkel attachment to the lengthening hole, he siphoned the meltwater through a heavy rubber tube and channeled it down into the recesses of the ice cave. Looking on, Marshall was reminded of some kind of monstrous dental work. While the scientist in him rebelled at the very idea of such an undertaking-cutting a unique specimen out of its matrix with such brusque abandon-he was nevertheless relieved at the evident care being taken.
    Within twenty minutes it was done. The oblong Sully had scratched into the ice was now a deep channel, one inch wide along two of the sides and almost six inches wide on the others. There was a brief wait while Chen stepped forward and used the remote imaging sensor to confirm the cut was sufficiently deep. Then the laser was retracted and another bizarre-looking arm telescoped out from the machine. Something that to Marshall resembled a robotic hand, thin but quite wide, was attached to its end. It came alive with an insectlike whine.
    “What’s that?” he asked Creel.
    “Lateral drill,” the foreman growled over the noise. “Tipped with diamond-silicone carbide.”
    Slowly, the device was lowered into one of the wider ice channels. The whine increased in urgency as, nine feet below, the drill bit into the ancient ice. The snorkel was lowered into the trench and meltwater once again began gushing down the cave floor. Yet another mechanical arm hovered nearby, ready to slip supports into position beneath the ice block.
    The lateral cut took less time, and within ten minutes the drill was retracted. At a nod from Creel, the roustabouts swung two grappling hooks forward, lowered them into the trench, and fixed them to the ends of the ice block. These were further secured with lashings of thick canvas straps.
    Conti looked again at Fortnum and Toussaint. “I want a clean take. We’ll only get one chance at this.”
    Fortnum adjusted his lens, checked his radio pack, nodded.
    Everything ground to a halt while Conti insisted on getting down on his hands and knees to examine the block, nose inches from the ice. Fortnum filmed the director’s every move. “Let’s go,” Conti said at last, rising, the lens around his neck swinging portentously.
    Creel signaled his team. With a fresh roar of machinery, a winch atop the flatbed was engaged. There was a series of clanks as heavy chains fixed to the grappling hooks pulled taut. For a moment, everyone watched as the engine whined and the hooks strained against the reluctant ice. Then-with a low grating that seemed to shake the mountain itself-the huge block began to rise.
    “Easy,” said Creel.
    Conti looked at Fortnum. “Train your camera on the equipment. Your shot should be like a caress.
This
is what’s lifting our treasure from its frozen prison.”
    Slowly, very slowly, the frozen cat rose from the bed it had lain in for thousands of years. The scientists pressed forward, making visual observations and taking hurried notes. Marshall drew in with the rest, staring intently. The block of ice was maddeningly opaque, a storm of mud and debris frozen in time, the color of dense smoke under the pitiless glare of the searchlights. The surface was ribbed in tiny, regular channels where the laser had cut it free.
Christ,
Marshall thought, caught up in the moment despite himself.
That block’s got to weigh four tons, minimum.
    It rose, higher and higher, until the head of the crane bumped against the ceiling of the cave. Then at last the block swung free, tilting sharply and scraping along the snowy floor, narrowly missing Faraday, who’d been busy examining it with a sonar spectrometer. People scattered, tripping over one another to get out of the way.
    “Stabilize!” Creel shouted.
    The winch squealed in protest as the