Júlíus, who was travelling in one of the tracked vehicles, told his team to stay put while he talked to the soldiers. He stepped out of his vehicle and walked towards the waiting men, noticing as he did that one of them dismounted from his snowmobile and came forward to meet him. The other soldiers rapidly followed suit. They met halfway, standing not quite toe-to-toe. The officer pulled the scarf down to uncover his mouth but even so Júlíus found it hard to make out his face behind the goggles. He looked young, though, much younger than Júlíus himself.
‘You have entered a US military prohibited zone,’ the officer announced in American-accented English. ‘I have orders to prevent you from proceeding any further.’
‘What do you mean a US military prohibited zone?’ Júlíus responded. ‘We’ve heard nothing about any prohibited zone.’
‘I am not at liberty to reveal any further details. The zone won’t be in force for long but whilst it is we insist that it is respected. It would be simplest for everyone if you cooperated with these instructions.’
Anger welled up inside Júlíus. He had seen the broken bodies of his team members lying at the bottom of a crevasse, one dead, the other unlikely to live, and was convinced that the men in white camouflage were behind the apparent accident. And now, to cap it all, these foreign soldiers were trying to deny him free movement in his own country.
‘Cooperate! You’re a fine one to talk about being cooperative. What are you up to here? Why did you have to kill one of my men? What’s this about a plane on the glacier? What’s all this fucking secrecy?’
‘I need to ask you to hand over all your communications equipment, mobile phones, walkie-talkies, and any emergency flares,’ the officer ordered, ignoring Júlíus’s question.
‘Our communications equipment? Are you insane? We’re responding to a distress signal from your so-called prohibited zone. There are Icelanders in danger . . .’
‘You are mistaken. There are no Icelanders in this area apart from yourselves,’ the officer interrupted. He remained calm and impassive, though his tone betrayed a hint of impatient arrogance. Júlíus took exception to his conceited manner; under any other circumstances, this was a man he would be only too happy to punch. He was not afraid of the other soldiers and their guns; the entire situation seemed farcical and unreal more than dangerous.
‘And what if we refuse? Will the American army shoot us?’
‘We have orders.’
‘Well you can shove your orders up your arse. You have no right to stop us. There is no prohibited zone on the glacier. All we’ve heard about is a volcanic eruption alert but I bet that’s a fabrication as well. You have no right to throw your weight about in Icelandic sovereign territory. And you certainly aren’t having any of our equipment.’
They stood eye to eye. A biting northerly wind was blowing over the glacier, sending loose ice crystals rippling across the surface like smoke. The rescue volunteers stood in a silent pack behind Júlíus, showing no sign of fear in the face of armed soldiers. Like their leader, they had no intention of being pushed around by a foreign military power.
‘We’re carrying on,’ Júlíus announced.
He turned and walked back towards his team, so failed to notice the officer signalling to the man nearest him. The soldier removed his rifle from his back and knelt to assume a firing position. Júlíus had almost reached the first tracked vehicle when a volley of shots rang out. Instantly, the grille and bonnet of the vehicle in front of him were riddled with holes, the silence split by a deafening series of cracks as the bullets punctured the steel. Júlíus flung himself down on the ice. Fire blazed up from the engine and a small detonation blew the bonnet sky-high, to land with a crash on the roof of the vehicle. The members of the rescue team who were sitting inside it kicked open the doors, hurled themselves out on to the ice and crawled to safety. Soon the entire vehicle went up in flames, illuminating the winter darkness.
The shooting stopped as quickly as it had started. His breathing coming in gasps, heart hammering in his chest, Júlíus rose up from the ice, stunned at what had just happened. Calmly, the young officer walked right up to him again. The soldiers had all unslung their weapons and now had the rescue team comprehensively covered.
‘Your mobile phones, radios and emergency flares,’ the officer repeated in the same flat, toneless voice. Júlíus stared at the flaming wreckage. He had never experienced anything like this before, never encountered military force, or seen weapons used in combat, and for a moment his anger gave way to trepidation about what might await him and his team. He tried to penetrate the soldier’s goggles, taking in the grey forest of weaponry behind him. None of the men’s faces were visible. His gaze turned to his own people, some of whom had fled the burning vehicle while the others were standing at a loss by their snowmobiles. It was fifteen degrees below zero on the glacier and he could feel the warmth from the blaze.
Kristín spotted them first. She and Steve had approached the glacier at a point where the edge was not particularly high or steep, so they barely noticed the change in terrain from snow-covered rocks to ice and were already some way on to the surface of the ice cap when she saw lights ahead in the darkness. Four snowmobiles. She had stopped to wait for Steve who had been lagging behind again. By the time he caught up the snowmobiles had reached her.
Both had the same thought as their eyes met. They had assumed that the glacier would be kept under close surveillance, so it came as no surprise that a reception committee had been sent to meet them, but the speed at which they had been intercepted was shocking. There was no hope of outrunning the snowmobiles, but then they had no intention of trying. As the familiar sensation of fear bloomed again in Kristín, she reminded herself that those who needed to know had been informed of what was happening. That was her life insurance. Whether it would work or not was another matter. She and Steve stood still and waited. Strangely, given the circumstances, it was her feet that preoccupied her at that moment. From painfully cold they were beginning to turn numb, despite the extra pair of woollen socks that Jón had lent her.
The four men surrounded them on their snowmobiles. One, whom Kristín took to be the officer in charge, switched off his engine and dismounted. He was clad in goggles and Arctic survival gear like the other three, with thick gloves on his hands. He drew the scarf down from his mouth.
‘I must ask you to turn around and leave the glacier,’ he said. ‘You have entered a US military prohibited zone.’
‘Prohibited zone?’ Kristín repeated contemptuously. She knew instinctively that these were the soldiers her brother had seen, perhaps precisely those who had intercepted him on the glacier. Perhaps the very men who had thrown him into the crevasse.
‘Correct. A US military prohibited zone,’ the soldier repeated. ‘We have permission to carry out exercises here. The area is closed to all unauthorised personnel. Please turn back.’
Krístín stared at him and had difficulty hiding her feelings. Rage boiled up inside her. After all the trials she had gone through since the two men burst into her flat, at last she was standing face to face with the truth. These soldiers were proof that the US army was involved in activities on the glacier that would not tolerate the light of day. They were proof that her brother had not had an accident but had seen something he was not supposed to see. And now this man was standing in front of her, giving her orders; an American soldier throwing his weight around in her country as if he ruled the place.
‘Turn back yourself,’ she snarled, snatching at his goggles and looking him in the eye. He jerked his head away and the goggles snapped back on to his nose. The cold intensified the pain and, momentarily losing control of himself, he struck Kristín in the face with the butt of his rifle, knocking her on to the ice. Steve tried to jump him, seizing him around the shoulders, but the soldier drove the butt into his stomach with all his strength and Steve bent double and fell to his knees, winded. As she tried to pull herself up, Kristín was bleeding from mouth and nose b
ut the officer shoved her down with his foot, knocking her flat on her back again.
‘Turn back,’ he ordered.
‘Tell Ratoff I want to meet him,’ Kristín choked.
‘What do you know about Ratoff?’ the officer asked, unable to conceal his surprise and realising belatedly that he had said too much.
Kristín smiled despite the cut on her lip.
‘I know that he’s a murderer,’ she replied.
The soldier stared at her impassively and then at Steve, as if wondering what action to take. After weighing up the options, he fished a mobile phone from his breast pocket, punched in a number that was answered instantly, and stepped aside, making it hard for Kristín to hear what he was saying.
‘A male and a female, affirmative, sir,’ he said in a low voice. ‘She knows your name. Just a minute, sir.’ Turning, he walked back to where Kristín lay, propped up on her elbows in the snow.
‘Are you Kristín?’ he asked.
She met his gaze without answering.
‘Do you have a brother who was up here on the glacier yesterday?’ the officer asked.
‘I don’t know. You tell me,’ Kristín hissed from between clenched teeth.
‘That’s right, sir,’ the officer said into the phone. ‘Understood,’ he added, then ending the call, turned to his men.
‘We’re taking them with us,’ he announced.
VATNAJÖKULL GLACIER,
SUNDAY 31 JANUARY, 0000 GMT
He lost control – Kreutz, that is. He looks like he must be the youngest, in spite of his rank. At first he was talking calmly to his companion, but he grew more and more agitated until he was screaming at him. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. I don’t know what it was but something made him go completely crazy. He jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth, hammering the cabin door, shouting and thumping on the fuselage. In his madness he knocked over one of the kerosene lamps and we haven’t been able to relight it since. The other German tackled him and eventually overcame him after a hell of a fight in the cramped space. I kept out of it in the cockpit. There isn’t really enough light left for writing as we only have one lamp that works now. The kerosene is running low. Soon we’ll be in total darkness.
Maybe they were arguing over whether it had been a mistake to sit tight, instead of following Count von Mantauffel. The storm and cold were so severe when we landed that you couldn’t stand up outside, though von Mantauffel didn’t let that hinder him. Our attempts to force the door off its hinges are in vain. The plane will be our tomb and I suppose that fact has started to come home to us all. We’re slowly dying inside a coffin made of metal and ice.
We’ve lost track of time. It could be two or three days since we landed. Maybe longer. Hunger is becoming an increasing problem. There’s nothing to eat and the air in the cabin is very stale; I suppose the oxygen’s not being replaced quickly enough. The Germans are dozing. They haven’t taken any notice of me since the crash. At the time they were mad at me, yelling until von Mantauffel ordered them to shut up. I wish I understood more German. I would have liked to know what this mission is about. I know it’s important, otherwise you wouldn’t have sent me, but what’s it all about? Why are we collaborating with the Germans? Aren’t they our enemies any more?
Ratoff’s reading was interrupted.
‘Phone call from Carr, sir,’ a soldier called into his tent. Ratoff trod the same short walk back to the communications tent and took the receiver.
‘The Icelandic government are coming under increasing pressure over the military exercises on the glacier,’ Carr began, without preamble. He was speaking from the base in Keflavík where, twenty minutes earlier, his plane had landed and taken off again immediately after refuelling. Carr himself planned to personally accompany the Junkers back across the Atlantic in the C-17. He had had a brief meeting with the admiral who had told him of the Icelanders’ mounting anger at the presence of the army on Vatnajökull. The lie about the volcanic eruption alert would not work for long. Time was running out and the situation was deteriorating with every passing minute. He was afraid of being stranded here with the German plane and the bodies and the secret connected to them. The Icelandic government was growing ever more impatient and a diplomatic catastrophe loomed which would send shockwaves around the world.
‘We’ll be gone from here in no time, sir,’ Ratoff reassured him. ‘We’re just waiting for the choppers.’
‘We don’t want any more bodies,’ Carr said. ‘We don’t want any more disappearances. Get yourselves off that glacier and vanish into thin air. Is any of that unclear?’
‘None, sir,’ Ratoff replied. He avoided any mention of the rescue team or Kristín.
‘Good.’
Ratoff handed the phone to the communications officer and stepped outside. In the distance he heard the massive rotors of the Pave Hawk helicopters beating as they came powering in from the west, two pricks of light growing larger in the darkness. His men had prepared a landing site on the ice with two rings of torches, and launched four powerful flares that hung in the air like lanterns and blazed for several minutes, throwing a bright orange-yellow light over the entire scene. The Pave Hawks flew into the glow cast by the flares and hovered for a moment above the tents before settling with infinite care on the ice like gigantic steel insects, the noise deafening, clouds of snow whipping up all round. The men on the ground took cover until the engines had died and the blades finally stopped turning, their whine fading in the cold air. When the doors opened and the crews clambered out, they were directed straight to Ratoff’s tent. Soon all was quiet again.
The pilots looked around in astonishment at the floodlit scene: the city of tents pitched in a semicircle around the plane, evidence of its excavation from the ice, the swastika instantly identifiable below the cockpit, the camouflage paint flaking off to reveal the gunmetal grey beneath, the special forces personnel swarming all round and over the wreckage. The fuselage had been cut in half but they were unable to see inside because plastic sheeting had been fitted over the yawning mouth of the exposed cabin. They glanced at one another and back at the wreckage. They had been given no reason for their summons in the middle of the night to Vatnajökull; their orders were simply to airlift some heavy equipment off the ice cap and ask no questions, their destination the C-17 transport that had been on standby at Keflavík Airport for three nights.
Ratoff greeted the helicopter crew members. There were four men, two per machine, aged between twenty-five and fifty and clad in the grey-green uniform of the US Air Force. They had already removed the thickly lined leather jackets and helmets they wore on top when they entered Ratoff’s tent. They did not recognise the operation director and plainly had no idea what was happening on the glacier. They looked from Ratoff to one another, exchanging puzzled glances.
Ratoff studied the pilots. He could tell from their expressions that they had had minimal briefing on the purpose of the mission. They seemed unsure of themselves, shifting from foot to foot and looking about uncomfortably, but he had no intention of putting them at their ease.
‘We’re going to airlift the wreckage of an old plane from the glacier to Keflavík Airport,’ he announced.
‘What plane is that, sir?’ one of the pilots asked.
‘A souvenir,’ Ratoff replied. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ve cut it in two, so the helicopters can take one half each. We’re grateful for your assistance but the operation should be straightforward. I recommend you stay put in the tent as it would be best for everyone if you avoided compromising your plausible deniability. Is that understood?’
‘Compromising our what?’ one of the pilots queried, looking at the others to see if he was alone in being baffled by these instructions. ‘May I ask what’s going on here?’
‘That’s precisely what I mean,’ Ratoff said. ‘The less you know, the better. Thank you, gentlemen,’ he concluded, indicating that the conversation was over. But the pilot was not satisfied.
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br /> ‘Is it the German plane, sir?’ he asked hesitantly.
Ratoff stared at him, amazed that this man sought to question him. Had he not been adequately clear?
‘What do you mean, “the German plane”?’ he asked.
‘The German plane on Vatnajökull,’ the pilot answered. He was young, fresh-faced, and his lack of guile made him hard for Ratoff to read. ‘I’ve heard about it before. I saw the swastika.’
‘And just what have you heard about this German plane?’ Ratoff asked, moving closer.
‘In connection with the astronauts, sir.’
‘What astronauts?’
‘Armstrong, sir. Neil Armstrong. He went looking for it in the sixties. Or so the story goes. It’s supposed to have a bomb on board – a hydrogen bomb. If that’s the case, if I’m going to be flying with it strapped to me, I’d like to know about it. From an operational point of view, of course, sir.’
‘Is that the rumour on the base?’ Ratoff mused. ‘Nazis, Armstrong and a hydrogen bomb?’
‘So is there a bomb? Can we see inside the plane? Regulations mean I need to verify what we’re going to be transporting, sir.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust me, Flight Lieutenant, when I tell you that there is no bomb in the plane. The aircraft is German, obviously, and dates from World War II, but it’s completely safe. This is the first I’ve heard of Armstrong looking for it and certainly the first I’ve heard of any Nazi bomb. We haven’t found anything of the sort. Satisfied?’
Operation Napoleon Page 20
