Atlantis Found dp-15

by Clive Cussler

  They wore hoods under gray Gentex flight helmets to gain additional protection from the harsh subzero temperatures. Adidas Galeforce yellow-lens goggles for fog and overcast were attached to the helmets, resting up and leaving the men's eyes clearly visible to Cleary and the oxygen technician so they could check for any signs of hypoxia. The heating units in their thermal suits were activated, and each man checked his buddy to make certain that all equipment was properly organized and in place. Bungee cords and web straps were strategically laced around each man's clothing and equipment to prevent them from being torn away by the great burst of air expected upon their exit from the ramp.

  After they checked their radios to confirm that each was transmitting and receiving, Cleary stood up and moved near the closed ramp. Facing his assault force again, he saw that all the men were giving him their undivided attention. Once again, he motioned to the man nearest his left with a thumbs-up signal.

  In the cockpit, carefully studying his computerized course and the programmed target, Captain Stafford was concentrating his mind and soul on dropping the men waiting aft over the precise spot that would give them every chance of surviving. His primary concern was not to send them out ten seconds too early or five seconds too late and scatter them all over the frozen landscape. He disengaged the automatic pilot and turned the controls over to Brannon so his perspective and timing would not be diverted. Stafford switched to the cockpit intercom and spoke through his oxygen mask to Brannon. "Deviate one degree and it will cost them."

  "I'll put them over the target," Brannon said self-assuredly. "But you have to put them on it."

  "No confidence in your aircraft commander's navigational abilities? Shame on you."

  "A thousand pardons, my captain."

  "That's better," Stafford said expansively. He switched to the cargo bay intercom. "Major Cleary, are you ready?"

  "Roger," Cleary answered briefly.

  "Crew, are you ready?"

  The crewmen, wearing harnesses attached to cargo tie-down rings and portable oxygen systems, were standing a few feet forward of the ramp on opposite sides.

  "Sergeant Hendricks ready, Captain."

  "Corporal Joquin ready, sir."

  "Twenty-minute warning, Major," Stafford announced. "Depressurizing cabin at this time."

  Hendricks and Joquin moved cautiously close to the ramp, carefully guiding their harness anchor lines, following checklists and preparing for what was about to become one of the most unusual duties of their military careers.

  As the cabin decompressed, the men could feel the temperature drop, even within the protective confines of their electrically heated thermal jumpsuits. The air hissed from the cargo bay as it slowly equalized with the outside atmosphere.

  Time passed quickly. And then Stafford's voice came over the intercom.

  "Major, ten-minute warning."

  "Roger." There was a pause, then Cleary asked sarcastically, "Can you give us any more heat back here?"

  "Didn't I tell you?" Stafford replied. "We need ice for cocktails after you leave."

  For the next two minutes, Cleary went over the infiltration plan of the mining facility in his mind. They were combining the elements of a high-altitude, low-canopy opening jump with a high-altitude, high-canopy opening jump to keep detection to a minimum. The plan was for the team to free-fall to 25,000 feet, open their canopies, assemble in the air, and fly to the target landing zone.

  Sharpsburg's Delta Force would exit first, closely followed by Jacobs and his SEALS, and then by Garnet and his Marine Recon Team. Cleary would be the last man to jump, in order to have an overview of his men and be in the most advantageous position to give course corrections. Sharpsburg would be the Mother Hen, the term tagged to the lead j camper. All of the Ducks in Line would then follow. Where Sharpsburg went, so would they.

  "Six minutes to jump," came Stafford's voice, interrupting Cleary's thoughts.

  Stafford's eyes were on the computer monitor, linked to a newly installed photo system that revealed the ground in astonishing detail through the clouds. Brannon handled the big aircraft as tenderly as if it were a child, his course rock-steady on the line that traveled across the monitor, with a small circle depicting the jump target.

  "Damn the orders!" Stafford suddenly snorted. "Brannon!"

  "Sir?"

  "At the one-minute warning, cut our airspeed to 135 knots indicated. I'm going to give those guys every chance at surviving I can. When Sergeant Hendricks reports that the last man has jumped, ease the throttles to two hundred knots."

  "Won't the Wolfs' ground radar pick up our reduction in speed?"

  "Radio McMurdo Station on an open frequency. Then say we're experiencing engine trouble, will have to reduce speed and arrive late."

  "Not a bad cover," Brannon conceded. "If they're monitoring us on the ground, they'd have no reason not to buy the story."

  Brannon went on his radio and announced the deception to anyone who was listening. Then he gestured at the numerals flashing on the computer monitor indicating the approaching jump mark. "Two minutes coming up."

  Stafford nodded. "Begin reducing speed, very gradually. At one minute to drop, just after I ring the bell, cut the airspeed to 135."

  Brannon flexed his fingers like a piano player and smiled. "I shall orchestrate the throttles like a concerto."

  Stafford switched to the cargo bay intercom. "Two minutes, Major. Sergeant Hendricks, begin opening the ramp."

  "Ramp opening," came back Hendricks's steady voice.

  Stafford turned to Brannon. "I'll take the controls. You handle the throttles so I can concentrate on timing the drop."

  After monitoring the transmission, Cleary stood up and moved to the port side of the ramp, keeping his back turned to one side of the fuselage so he had a clear view of his men, the jump/caution lights, and the ramp. He raised and extended his right arm in an arc, palm facing from his side to a perpendicular position. This was the command to stand up.

  The men rose from their seats and stood, checking their rip cords and equipment again, adjusting the heavy rucksacks they wore to the rear below their main parachute container. The huge ramp began to creep open, allowing a great rush of frigid air to sweep through the cargo bay.

  The next seconds passed with cruel sluggishness.

  In grim determination, they gripped the steel anchor line cables with gloved hands for support against the immense whirlwind they expected when the ramp fully opened, and as guides as they moved to the edge of the ramp to execute their exit. Although they exchanged self-assured glances, it was as if they didn't see their buddies around them. No words were needed to describe what they would experience once the ramp opened, and they dove into air so cold it was unimaginable.

  In the cockpit, Stafford turned to Brannon. "I'll take the controls now, so I can concentrate on timing. The throttles are yours."

  Brannon raised both his hands. "She's all yours, Cap."

  "Cap? Cap?" Stafford repeated as if in pain. "Can't you show me at least a smidgen of respect?" Then he switched the intercom aft. "One minute warning, Major."

  Cleary did not acknowledge. He didn't have to. The alarm bell rang once. He gave the next signal, right arm straight out to his side at shoulder level, palm up, then bent it at the elbow until his hand touched his Gentex helmet, giving the command to move to the rear, the men in front coming to a stop three feet from the ramp hinges. He lowered his goggles into place and silently began counting off the seconds until exit. Suddenly, he sensed something out of place. The aircraft was noticeably slowing.

  "Ramp opened and locked, Captain," Hendricks informed Stafford.

  The sergeant's voice took Cleary by surprise. He immediately realized that he had forgotten to disconnect his communications cord from the intercom jack.

  Cleary gave the men the hand and arm signal indicating fifteen seconds from exit. His eyes were fixed on the red caution light. The sixty-five-man team was massed into a tightly compressed group, with
Sharpsburg now perched inches from the edge of the ramp.

  Simultaneously, as the crimson caution light blinked off and the jump light flashed a vivid green, Cleary pointed to the open ramp.

  As if jolted by a shock of electricity, Lieutenant Sharpsburg dove from the aircraft, soaring off into cloud-shrouded nothingness. With his arms and legs spread, he was swept out of sight as swiftly as if he'd been jerked by a giant spring. His team was no more than a few feet behind as they were also swallowed up in the clouds, followed swiftly by Jacobs and his SEAL team. Then came Garnet and his Marines. As the last Marine stepped off the ramp edge, Cleary leaped and was gone.

  For a long moment, Hendricks and Joquin stood and stared into the white oblivion, unable to believe what they had just witnessed. Almost as if mesmerized, Hendricks spoke into the intercom on his oxygen mask. "Captain, they're gone."

  Brannon lost no time in easing the throttles forward until the airspeed instruments read two hundred knots, half the C-17's cruising speed. The cargo door was closed and the oxygen system in the cargo bay replenished. Stafford's next act of business was to switch to a secure frequency and radio the U.S. South Atlantic Command Headquarters to report that the jump went as scheduled. Then he turned to Brannon.

  "I hope they make it," he said quietly.

  "If they do, it will be because you sent them out into a blast of air a good two hundred and fifty miles an hour less in strength than our normal cruising speed."

  "I hope to God I didn't give them away," said Stafford, without remorse. "But it seemed certain death to subject them to such an explosive gust."

  "You won't get an argument from me," Brannon said somberly.

  Stafford sighed heavily as he reengaged the automatic pilot. "Not our responsibility any longer. We dropped them right on a dime." Then he paused, staring into the ominous white clouds that whipped past the windshield and obscured all view. "I pray they all get down safely."

  Brannon looked at him askance. "I didn't know you were a praying man."

  "Only during traumatic times."

  "They'll make it down," said Brannon, with a sense of optimism. "It's after they hit the ground that hell could break loose."

  Stafford shook his head. "I wouldn't want to go up against those guys that just jumped. I'll bet their attack will be a walk in the park."

  Stafford had no idea how dead wrong he was.

  The radar operator in the security building headquarters next to the control center picked up a phone as he studied the line sweep around his radar screen. "Mr. Wolf. Do you have a moment?"

  A few minutes later, Hugo Wolf walked briskly into the small darkened room filled with electronic units. "Yes, what is it?"

  "Sir, the American supply aircraft suddenly reduced its speed."

  "Yes, I'm aware of that. Our radio intercepted a message from them saying they were having engine trouble."

  "Do you think it might be a ruse?"

  "Has it strayed from its normal flight path?" asked Hugo.

  The radar operator shook his head. "No, sir. The plane is ten miles out."

  "You see nothing else on the screen?"

  "Only the usual interference during and immediately after an ice storm."

  Hugo put a hand on the operator's shoulder. "Follow her course to make sure she doesn't double back, and keep a sharp eye for a hostile intrusion from the sea or air."

  "And behind us, sir?"

  "Now, who do you think would have the powers to cross the mountains or trek over the ice shelf in the middle of an ice storm?"

  The operator shrugged. "No one. Certainly no one who is human."

  Hugo grinned. "Exactly."

  Air Force General Jeffry Coburn laid the phone back in its receiver and looked across the long table in the war room deep beneath the Pentagon. "Mr. President, Major Cleary and his unified command have exited the aircraft."

  The Joint Chiefs and their aides were seated in a theaterlike section of a long room whose massive walls were covered with huge monitors and screens showing scenes of Army bases, Navy ships, and Air Force fields around the globe. The current status of ships at sea and military aircraft in the air were constantly monitored, especially the big transports carrying the hastily assembled Special Forces from the United States.

  One huge screen that lay against the far wall held a montage of telephoto images taken of the Destiny Enterprises mining facility at Okuma Bay. The photos in the montage were not from an overhead view, but appeared to be pieced together and conceptualized after being shot from an aircraft several miles off to one side of the facility. There were no overhead images because the military had no spy reconnaissance satellites orbiting over the South Pole. The only direct radio contact with Cleary's assault force came from a civilian communications satellite used by United States ice research stations on the Ross Ice Shelf that was linked to the Pentagon.

  Another screen revealed President Dean Cooper Wallace, six members of his cabinet, and a team of his close advisers, who were seated around a table in the secure room deep beneath the White House. The directors of the CIA and FBI, and Ron Little and Ken Helm, were also present on a direct link with the war room, along with Congresswoman Loren Smith, who had been invited because of her intimate knowledge of Destiny Enterprises. While they acted as advisers to the President on what had been given the code name Apocalypse Project, Admiral Sandecker sat with the joint Chiefs at the Pentagon and acted as consultant on their end.

  "What is the countdown, General?" asked the President.

  "One hour and forty-two minutes, sir," General Amos South, head of the joint Chiefs, answered. "That is the time our scientists tell us when tidal currents are at their height to separate the ice shelf and carry it out to sea."

  "Just how accurate is this intelligence?"

  "You might say it comes from the horse's mouth," Loren replied. "The timetable was revealed by Karl Wolf himself and was confirmed by the nation's top glaciologists and experts on nanotechnology."

  "Since Admiral Sandecker's people penetrated Wolf's organization," explained Ron Little, "we have accumulated considerably more intelligence on what the Wolfs call the Valhalla Project. It all adds up to them doing exactly what they threaten, cutting off the Ross Ice Shelf and upsetting Earth's rotational balance in order to cause a polar shift."

  "Triggering a cataclysm of unimaginable destruction," added Loren.

  "We've come to the same conclusion at the FBI," said Helm, backing up Little. "We've asked experts in the field of nanotechnology to study the facts, and all agree. The Wolfs have the scientific and engineering capability to execute such an unthinkable act."

  The President stared into the monitor at General South. "I still say, send in a missile and stop this insanity before it can get off the ground."

  "Only as a last resort, Mr. President. The Joint Chiefs and I strongly agree that it is too risky."

  Admiral Morton Eldridge, Chief of the Navy, entered the discussion. "One of our aircraft equipped with radar intercept systems has arrived on site. They've already reported that the Wolf mining facility has superior radar equipment that could detect an incoming missile from an aircraft or nearby submarine with a warning time of three minutes. That's more than enough time to alert and panic them into throwing the doomsday switch early, a situation that may or may not break off the ice shelf. Again, a risk that is a poor gamble at best."

  "If, as you say," said Wallace, "their radar equipment is rated as superior, haven't they already been alerted by your aircraft and the signals it sends out?"

  Admiral Eldridge and General Coburn exchanged bemused glances before Eldridge replied. "Because it is highly classified, it is known only by a select few that our new radar warning systems are virtually undetectable. Our radar interception aircraft is below the horizon. We can bend our signals to read theirs, but they cannot find or read ours."

  "Should our ground force be unable to penetrate the Wolf security defenses," said South, "then, of course, as a last resort, we'l
l send in a missile from our nuclear attack sub Tucson."

  "She's already on station in the Antarctic?" asked Wallace incredulously.

  "Yes, sir," answered Eldridge. "A fortunate coincidence. She was on an ice data-gathering patrol when she successfully destroyed the Wolfs' U-boat that was firing on the NUMA research ship Polar Storm. Admiral Sandecker alerted me in time to send her to Okuma Bay before the final countdown."

  "What about aircraft?"

  "Two Stealth bombers are in the air and will begin a holding pattern ninety miles from the facility in another hour and ten minutes," answered Coburn.

  "So we're covered from air and sea," said Wallace.

  "That is correct," General South acknowledged.

  "How soon before Major Cleary and his force begin their assault?"

  South glanced up at a huge digital clock on one wall. "Depending on wind and overcast conditions, they should be gliding toward their target and landing in a few minutes."

  "Will we receive a blow-by-blow account of the assault?"

  "We have a direct link to Major Cleary's ground communications through the satellite that's servicing our ice stations at the Pole and McMurdo Sound. But since he and his men will be extremely busy for the next hour, and possibly coming under hostile fire, we do not think it wise to interfere or interrupt their field communications."

  "Then we have nothing to do but wait and listen." Wallace spoke mechanically.

  Silence greeted his words. No one in either war room offered him a reply.

  After a long moment, he murmured, "God, how did we ever get in this mess?"

  40

  Hurtling more than 120 miles an hour through the thickly layered cloud mist from 35,000 feet, Cleary spread his arms apart and faced what he could only assume was the ground, since the cloud cover hid all evidence of a horizon. His mind boycotted the frigid blast of air that engulfed him, and he concentrated on maintaining a stable body position. He mentally reminded himself to personally thank Stafford someday for slowing the aircraft. It was a gesture that had provided the assault team with near-perfect conditions for exiting in a tightly knit group and enabled them to achieve a stable attitude without tumbling uncontrollably for several thousand feet. That situation would have scattered the teams over several miles, making the infiltration of a cohesive, intact fighting element nearly impossible.