by Paul Byers
ARCTIC FIRE
Paul Byers
Published by Fortress Publications at Smashwords
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Greed Sample
Praise for ARCTIC FIRE
“A new twist on a classic battlefield ploy finds an iceberg controlled by a megalomaniac on a collision course with NYC. A provocative blend of fact and fiction that explores issues surrounding a critical natural resource, fresh water, Arctic Fire is bound to leave readers thirsty for more.”
— Rick Chesler, author of kiDNApped and WIRED KINGDOM
“Audacious and ambitious, Arctic Fire burns with action, and chills with the possibilities of what the future may hold. A thriller not to be missed!”
— Sean Ellis, author of INTO the BLACK
“A madman's insatiable quest for power could level a major American city and kill thousands, ushering in a New World Order. Arctic Fire is a thrill-ride that will leave you breathless.”
— Jeremy Robinson, bestselling author of INSTINCT and THRESHOLD
© 2011 Paul Byers. All rights reserved. Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information email all inquiries to: [email protected]
Visit Paul Byers on the World Wide Web at:
www.paulbyersonline.com
Cover illustration by Andy Wenner, www.auroraartcompany.com
Cover and interior layout by Stanley J. Tremblay,
www.findtheaxis.com
Author picture taken by Star Morris, www.ratstarcreative.com
To my Mom and Dad…
Gertie and George Byers
Thank you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are many people I need to thank who helped me bring Arctic Fire to life. First, I would like to thank a man who is a dying breed in his skill and knowledge of the written word. He has taught me that words are precious. He is also a private man, who lives a quiet life and wishes no public recognition, so I offer this anonymous thanks to you sir.
To Karen Beasley, for her editing and insightful thoughts on the plot and characters. Colonel John Frisby and Captain Carmine R. Bassano, both retired officers of the United States Air Force, who helped me with the technical jargon for the Red Flag chapter and to Steve Hinton of the Planes of Fame Air Museum (www.planesoffame.org ) for his invaluable help with my research for the F-86 Sabre.
Technical thanks to Stan Tremblay for his help in formatting and interior design of the book and in helping me spread the word. It’s always good to have an expert in your corner.
I want and need to thank my wife Cheri and my children Alyssa and Adam (you too Luke) for allowing me the time and space I needed to complete Arctic Fire. Without your love and support, it never would have happened. Also to my brother Mark for his continued belief in me and pushing me to always do better.
A special thanks goes to Andy Wenner for his fantastic design of the book cover. I only hope my story reads as good as his cover looks.
And finally, I would like to thank you, the reader. Thank you for taking your precious time and money and investing it in this book. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
Chapter One
April 14th, 1912
“Up scope,” the Kapitan called out. As he waited patiently for it to rise, he began humming Alexander’s Rag Time Band quietly to himself. It was a catchy tune he’d first heard last year when he was in America, assigned as a navel attaché in Washington D.C. Though it was frowned upon in some circles back home in Germany, he was becoming a fan of this new style of American music. When the scope reached chest height, he turned his cap around, flipped down the handles and peered into the eyepiece. Still humming, he slowly turned the periscope, sweeping the ocean, searching for his prey.
It was a moonless night and the sea was a glassy calm, a beautiful, yet somehow disturbing sight. The sea was supposed to be alive, always moving, pulsating, teaming with life, but tonight the waters were flat and stiff, as if she had lain down and died and rigor mortis had set in. In his nearly twenty years before the mast, he could remember only one other time when the sea was this stagnate.
In the old days of tall ships and sailing with the wind at your back, some would have called this a becalmed sea, an omen of bad things to come. But these were modern times; man no longer needed the wind to move across the sea, or in this case, under it. Men of the twentieth century no longer believed in such things as becalmed seas, monsters that rose from the depths to devour whole ships or the likes of the Flying Dutchman. But in spite of modern technology and his belief in logic and sound reasoning, he had seen things at sea that would set a prudent man’s mind wondering.
Then he saw her, and at that moment, all thoughts of superstitions evaporated in an instant. Even with the moon refusing to show her face, and even peering through the tiny lens of the periscope, it would have been hard for a blind man not to see the magnificence of the ship as she sliced through the plate glass sea.
Festive lights shone through nearly every porthole on the floating city, piercing the darkness and reflecting off the mirror sea, making it look like two ships traveling side by side. He estimated that she was still several kilometers off, giving them plenty of time to maneuver and get into position. These were ideal condition to evaluate the new system.
“Status, Mr. Kappel?” the Kapitan said, unable to take his eyes off their prize.
“The boat is handling like a lumbering whale full of blubber Kapitan. Even with the calm seas, five knots is the best we can manage with all the added weight of the scaffolding and ice, and you can forget about trying to turn. So, if you just want to
go straight, and go slower than my dead grandmother, then everything is shipshape…sir.”
First Officer Barrett Kappel snapped to attention and mockingly saluted the Kapitan after his report. He then rolled the cigar butt from the left side of his mouth to the right, as if that were the proper military way to do things. Though smoking was never allowed on a submarine, the first officer was never found without a cigar sticking out of his mouth.
Kapitan Claus Haufmann peered around the periscope with amusement in his eyes and a smile on his lips as he looked at his first officer. “Now Barrett, I know you don’t much care for this assignment but you know it is necessary. Discontent and unrest are sweeping across Europe like a rising breeze, a breeze that I fear will soon turn into a hurricane, and we must be ready. This observation mission will be critical to tracking the movement of enemy shipping, both military and civilian, and doing it without being seen.”
Haufmann paused and stretched as he spoke. He was tall by any standards, but at six-foot-two, he was a giant for a submariner and was constantly bending and stooping as he contorted his lanky frame inside the confining bowels of their steel whale.
“Camouflage,” Haufmann continued, as he rubbed the last kink out of his neck, “…is the art of seeing without being seen, and what better place to hide than in plain sight? Yes, the scaffolding surrounding the boat and refrigerating unit installed to generate and maintain our facade of being an iceberg certainly weighs us down, but I believe the benefits of blending in with our surroundings outweighs our ability to be able to move faster than your dead grandmother.
“Come Barrett, see for yourself. Helm, port two degrees, let’s get a little closer.”
“Port two degrees,” echoed the helmsman.
Kappel stepped up to the periscope to look while the Kapitan continued. “Remember, Barrett, this is just a prototype, a training mission to see if it is feasible. But just stop and think about it. How valuable would it be to be able to monitor the enemy’s ship movements, to know exactly where their ships are at all times and to be able to strike at will from seemingly nowhere?”
“My God that thing is big!” Kappel said in awe. He stepped away from the periscope. “I understand Kapitan, it’s just that I’d hate to have our shark turned into a wallowing flounder.”
“So do I my friend, but sometimes sneaking in the back door is better than trying to bash down the front door.” Kapitan Haufmann peered once again through the periscope. “She’s making good speed. Send up the lookouts. We’ll maintain course, get to within two hundred meters, then let her slip past us.”
“Aye sir.” Kappel looked toward the back of the boat and barked. “Lookouts one and two, topside now!”
From the stern, two young sailors spilled into the control room like puppies trying to run across a linoleum floor. One was wearing a white, fur-lined parka with white binoculars hanging from his neck; the other was wearing a dark blue parka.
Kappel stared at the two; there was no mistaking that they were brothers. He’d seen it a hundred times before. Country peasant boys tired of the farm, looking for adventure and glory by serving in the Kaiserliche Marine. Some of these boys were so wet behind the ears that he feared if he had a crew full of these peasant farmers, they would surly sink to the bottom. Both boys, Thayer and Damien Lehmann, were desperately trying to grow mustaches to make themselves look older, and failing miserably. He couldn’t fault them though; he himself had escaped grueling factory work for the freedom of the sea and it had served him well, but these two had a long way to go.
“Where is your white parka crewman Lehmann? We are supposed to be an iceberg. I have not seen too many dark blue icebergs,” Kappel said, shifting his cigar for emphasis, “Have you?”
The young crewman snapped to attention. “No sir, I tried but I couldn’t find my white parka sir, sorry sir. I can take it off and go up in my uniform sir!” Thayer replied.
“What, and have you freeze to death within the hour? I don’t think so. This is just a training mission so go on up, but if this had been a combat situation, then I would let you freeze. Do I make myself clear crewman?”
“Yes sir!”
“Good. Now go. If they spot you perhaps they will just think you are a giant Dodo bird who has stopped to rest on the ice.” Both men scrambled up the ladder and disappeared through the hatch into the conning tower. Everyone felt a wave of cold air invading the control room when the hatched was opened.
Once through the hatch, they closed it and Damien, in the white parka, reached over and slapped his brother on the top of the head. “Nice going Thayer. You’re such a dummkopf, but you know what? I do like what First Officer Kappel called you. I think that will be your new nickname: Dodo.”
“Shut up Damien, it’s not my fault. I know you hid my jacket somewhere.”
Damien had a look of mock hurt on his face. “Now why would I do such a thing as that? Mother said I should take care of you.”
“Yeah, she didn’t mean it like that.” He glared at Damien for a moment then sighed; he could never stay mad at his older brother, no matter what he did. “Let’s just take our stations.”
Thayer stood on deck for a moment and breathed in deeply, tasting the fresh, crisp salt air. Even though they had only been at sea for a few weeks, the air in the submarine had already turned into a flat, stale taste that lingered in your mouth. Diesel fuel, cooking odors, battery acid and the sweat of thirty-five men crammed together in a tight space made the air so thick at times you could almost take a knife and spread it on your biscuit.
Thayer inhaled another breath then adjusted the hood on his jacket. Even though the air tasted sweet, the wind was still a bitter cold.
“Are we going to take our stations or just stand here and look at the ocean and skip stones…Dodo?” Damien mocked.
Thayer reached over and slugged Damien hard on his shoulder. He looked at him for a moment, then both men burst out laughing. Thayer just shook his head, then grabbed a pair of headphones and climbed into his position on the right side of the mast.
Before him was a strange sight that he still hadn’t gotten used to yet: instead of seeing the sleek, dark gray bow knifing through the water, there was a huge, bulky mass of white. A series of scaffoldings and supporting cooling pipes were attached to the hull, making the submarine look like a giant swimming porcupine. White canvas covered the scaffoldings, supporting several inches or more of ice, all kept frozen by the cooling pipes.
When running, the sub would blow its ballast tanks and the whole “iceberg” would raise about two feet out of the water, allowing the submarine to move. With the added topside weight, the sub would sway back and forth in the water, so giant outriggers were attached to the hull and ran to the outer edges of the berg. When they were stationary, the sub would take on water and would “sit” the berg down on the ocean surface.
Damien grabbed the other set of headphones and took up his look-out position on the opposite side of the mast from Thayer. Thayer tapped his brother on the shoulder and pointed behind them to the left. With binoculars raised, both men paid little attention to anything else as they stared in an almost trance-like state, totally mesmerized by the moving city that was quickly overtaking them.
“Damien, I can see people up on the boat deck, see there, just behind the first funnel.” Thayer said excitedly, “and listen, I can hear the band playing.” For a moment, both men were silent as they just watched the great ship.
“Look, on the main deck, just below the third lifeboat, I see a couple kissing.” Damien replied. “Oh isn’t that sweet, they look just like you and Gretchen smooching when we left home—kissy, kissy.”
“Shut up!” Thayer glared at his brother, then focused back on the ship. “I wonder where they are all going, what their stories are?”
“I know that we’ll be going to the brig and that our story will be a court-martial if we don’t report in.” Damien turned on the small switch on his headset. “Lookout to Con, the ship is about thre
e kilometers. Port aft.”
“Con to Lookout, aye.”
The electric motor whined as the periscope slowly began to descend back into the bowels of the submarine. A moment later they heard the hatch open. The Lehmann brothers looked down to see the Kapitan and the First Officer coming onto the conning tower. Both officers were wearing white parkas. When Damien saw them, he pointed at them, then to Thayer and mouthed the words Dooo-dooo. Thayer gritted his teeth and threw daggers out of his eyes, as that was all he could do at the moment with the Kapitan there.
With both officers concentrating on the ship, Damien turned his attention to the surrounding area. After a moment he stopped and stared in front of them.
“Mr. Kappel,” he said. “Why is there a hole in the sky?”
Kappel looked at the Kapitan and shook his head. “And to think that I was worried about Thayer there. What are you talking about Damien?”
“Over there sir.” Damien pointed, just off our port bow.”
Kappel raised his binoculars; it did indeed look like a hole in the sky. It was as if someone had taken a knife and carved out a section of the night sky at the horizon, removing the stars and leaving a blank, empty hole. Almost immediately, Kappel started screaming.
“You idiot! Were you both staring at the ship this whole time instead of doing your jobs and looking around?”
“What is it?” Damien asked, panic rising in his voice.
“It’s an iceberg, you idiot!”
Kapitan Haufmann spun around and raised his binoculars and looked at the iceberg, horror filling his eyes. “Hard right rudder. Now!” he barked, down through the open hatchway to the control room below.
Startled by the intensity of the shouted order, the young helmsmen spun the wheel hard and fast, and despite its bulk, the submarine responded quickly and lurched to one side. So sudden and quick was the maneuver, the outrigger on the left slammed hard into the water. The force of the impact was so abrupt and great; it sent shock waves reverberating throughout the submarine and through the scaffolding, which acted like giant tuning forks. A large block section of ice hanging over the stern broke off and swirled underneath the submarine and hit the rudder, bending it back to port and lodging itself at the hinge point, jamming the rudder.
