ICE GENESIS: Book 2 in the ICE Trilogy

by Kevin Tinto

  Grigoriy called out to the rest of the men, “We move on the target. Harness and line on each man. We stop the Taigas a thousand meters from ground zero. On foot at that point.”

  ***

  Grigoriy stood outside the debris field and ice heaves surrounding the crater at what had been ground zero of the mysterious nuclear blast. A debris field of ice and rock rising to a height of thirty-meters or more prevented them from gaining a direct view of the blast crater.

  “Find me a safe route to the summit of the debris.”

  “Da, ser,” Vasily responded instantly. He turned to the platoon and issued crisply ordered: “Skoby. Verevka. Ledorub.”

  Crampons. Rope. Ice axe.

  Grigoriy nodded his approval. Breaking their necks while climbing the debris was a stupid way to endanger the mission.

  The Spetsnaz platoon bustled into action and, within minutes, each soldier wore crampons over boots, had climbing lines attached to harness, and had ice-climbing axes strapped to their wrists.

  “Vasily. Naydite mne marshrut starika!”

  Find me a route that even an old man can climb.

  Grigoriy’s order solicited good-natured snickers throughout the platoon.

  Twenty minutes later, he stood at the top of the crater’s debris wall, gaping at the shimmering blue of the blast crater. The surface appeared perfectly smooth. The ice-skating rink in Gorky Park would be proud to contain such perfect ice.

  Frozen within the blue crystal were a series of bizarrely shaped, metallic sculptures. Burned and twisted, they stood out from the ice in various shapes and sizes, rising to three or perhaps four meters in height, like a series of blackened and evil apparitions rising from a lake, bedtime stories told to terrorize Russian children from time immemorial. Clearly there had been a large, metallic structure underneath the ice, that despite having been blown with a nuclear warhead, had left these twisted and torn metallic spires. From the size of the blast crater, it was obvious this was a small, single-kiloton detonation. Similar to the Cold War nuclear “suitcase” weapons. Between one and three kilotons, at most.

  “Chto takoye ad?”

  Grigoriy lowered his binoculars. “Those, tovarisch, are the remains of what started the next Great Patriotic War.”

  Chapter 24

  I already talked to Mac,” Paulson said over the satellite connection from Washington. “We can get you into Turkey cleaner than the CIA could ever hope.”

  Jack was sipping a cocktail in the clubhouse lounge, next to the rock fireplace. He’d just tossed two more pieces of wood on the fire, and it was roaring. He said, “Using one of your private charter jets?”

  “Yes and no—we rent a jet from a charter that caters to Hollywood studios, transporting actors and film crews around the world. If we can get a bird that has a history of flying film crews into and out of the Middle East, even better.”

  Jack said, “Given our situation, there’s no way I can go through customs—even if you have the NSA or CIA whip up a fake passport. Between facial-recognition software and the bag of cash I need to pay the Kurds, it’s not workable.”

  “We use my air crew to get you in-country, bypassing customs. I’ll have the boys in the NSA work up a fake passport you might need while in-country. We’ll make you an independent film producer.”

  “Wait,” said Jack. “Bypass customs—how would you manage that?”

  “That’s normally a trade secret…getting my warbird recovery crews into less-than-friendly countries.”

  “You mean most of your mechanics, with the exception of Ridley, are former felons and labeled undesirables in every civilized country on the planet.”

  “You can’t even get into Canada with a simple DUI on your record. How am I supposed to conduct business with such unreasonable border-entry rules in place?”

  Jack sighed. “How exactly does this work?”

  “We fly you into Atatürk Airport. I’ve got resources in Istanbul. We used to have a good network in Ankara, a lot closer to Ararat, but that’s gone cold.”

  “You mean the Turkish gangster you employed got killed.”

  “Isn’t that what I just said? Anyway, I can get you into Istanbul.” Paulson hesitated. “You’ll be carrying a large quantity of cash—that’s in addition to the cash for your Kurd protection. Hand over the first bundle without comment.”

  “Got it,” Jack said.

  “How much will it cost for guidance and protection from your Kurdish warlord?”

  “Twenty-five thousand. In euros.”

  “He won’t take dollars?”

  Jack repeated, “Euros.”

  “Guess he hasn’t watched euro plummeting against the dollar.”

  “Maybe he gets a better price buying weapons with euros,” Jack said, only half-joking. “Better make it thirty-thousand euros. I can tip Hawar and his sons another five-thousand. Add another ten-thousand for emergency get-me-out-of-trouble money. If Mac’s coordinating the air, I need to meet with him and work through all the details. My climbing gear was either vaporized in Antarctica or is at home in Lake Tahoe. I’ve got a list I can provide. Someone can pick it up for me. I’ll need a bogus passport to use in-country, like you said. Two secure satellite phones and three handheld GPS units.”

  “No problem,” Paulson said. “The less Wheeler knows about the details of how I’m getting you past immigration, the better. There’s an excellent chance I can get you into Cappadocia via car. How would you get to Ararat from there?”

  I’ve already arranged for Hawar to pick me up in Cappadocia. East from there, it gets a whole lot more dangerous, so I’m under his protection from Capp to the base of Ararat. Hawar has a family compound near Doğubeyazıt, known to the Kurds as Bazîd. From the compound, it’s less than ten kilometers to the base of Ararat. Last time on the mountain, we used horses partway up, then humped gear from there. Ararat, Turkey and Kurdistan are a whole lot less friendly than ten years ago. I don’t know his exact plans for getting me up to the Western Plateau. Based on the GPS coordinates, Jacob’s Well should be on the eastern flank, near the summit. Likely we’ll climb the west flank of the mountain. That route will take us past the Parrott Glacier and on to the Western Plateau.”

  “Damn—sounds exciting.”

  “You’re welcome to come along.”

  “I’d have to pass on Ararat, Jack. We spent a lot of time together in tents on Everest. I think you told me just about every way you could get killed in Eastern Turkey, including: torn apart by wild dogs, shot in the back at long range by anyone wanting a few lira and a free lunch, bird flu and bear-sized Kangal shepherd dogs that’d take off your head if you even side-glanced their herd. If you survive all that, there’s not even a decent summit to bag at only sixteen-thousand feet.”

  Jack chuckled. “I knew my big mouth would get me into trouble.”

  Chapter 25

  Jack didn’t wait until noon. His DARPA helicopter transport delivered him to the Camp David helipad precisely at ten a.m. Jack’s first impression of the presidential retreat was how much it reminded him of a very comfortable and somewhat modest country estate. Behind the helipad, a first-class skeet range spread out in a fan. He instantly understood how the place would appeal to many presidents, stuck in the White House fishbowl, unable to so much as stretch their legs without incurring a security risk.

  A young army captain in his mid-twenties with flight wings pinned on his uniform waited with a golf cart to transport Jack into the camp itself.

  The officer saluted; Jack simply nodded and hopped in.

  “Where have you got these hooligans locked up?” Jack asked.

  “They pretty much have occupied, and held, the Aspen Lodge since they got here.”

  “Wait. That’s the President’s house.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So they dug in—and no amount of force c
an get them out of the residence?”

  “Yes, sir. They have definitely laid down a claim.”

  “Well, there goes the neighborhood.”

  The captain returned Jack’s smile. “Actually, they’re a pretty good crew. Not like a lot of the VIPs we get here, who think we’re just a gloried butler service. Their stories are something else, especially after they get a few drinks in ’em. You know, pulling vintage warbirds out of the most inhospitable places on the planet. They can spin quite the yarns.”

  “They tell you any stories about Antarctica?” Jack asked, eyebrows raised.

  The caption’s eyes lit. “Yes, sir. How they flew the B-29 off the ice, three engines on fire, after pouring six cases of Russian vodka into the wing tanks to boost the octane of the lousy Russian fuel.”

  “You actually believe any of those stories?”

  “Not one of them, sir.” Both the captain and Jack burst out laughing.

  “Well—when the truth come out, it will make the stories they’re spinning now seem dull in comparison.”

  The captain nodded and stopped the golf cart in front of the Aspen Lodge. “This is it, sir.”

  Jack took in the elegant and lovely country home. “I’ll probably be an hour, maybe two.”

  “Anytime, sir. Give us thirty minutes if you can, so the crew can prep the helo.”

  Jack was escorted up to the front door, and let into the residence. He was met with the smell of fresh coffee and fresh-baked cinnamon buns instead of stale beer and empty tequila bottles. A cackling fire burned in the oversized fireplace that featured a huge rock mantel, complete with the presidential seal, front and center.

  Mac Ridley pushed out of a chair, and walked over, taking a pair of reading glasses off his nose. “Jack! Damn, it’s good to see a familiar face.”

  Jack glanced around the Aspen Lodge. “From what Al said, you guys are running wild up here.”

  “Oh, hell….” Ridley gave him a sly wink. “Where does he come up with those stories?”

  Ridley motioned for Jack to sit on one of the couches and picked up an iPad.

  “Al says he’s got this worked out with you. Getting me into, and out of Istanbul in one piece, side-stepping customs….”

  Ridley scrolled through the iPad. “Let’s just say smuggling mechanics and craftsman into and out countries is one of our better skillsets. Occasionally, we have to, you know, play fast and loose with the rules.” Ridley looked up at Jack. “So, Al says once you’re in-country you’ve got this armed-to-the-teeth warlord who says he won’t cut your throat after you put a large cash payment into his hands. Where’s he supposed to meet you?”

  “In Cappadocia. I’ll go covert from that point up to Ararat.”

  “This is about as dumb an idea as I’ve heard.” Ridley shook his head in disgust, or disbelief, then pulled out a satellite phone that matched the one Jack had in his jacket. He put on a pair of reading glasses, trying to focus on the iPad display. Mac fumbled with the phone’s keypad until he placed the call. Then he put the phone on ‘speaker’ and held it between the two of them.

  “Mac!” the voice said. “You have my guy there?”

  “Right here, Karen. Don’t tell me Paulson’s sucked you into this nightmare.”

  “Oh please,” said Al Paulson’s personal assistant and the single most powerful person at Paulson Global after the billionaire himself. “I could take Wheeler with one hand tied behind my back. That rug-wearing putz wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  Ridley winked at Jack. They both grinned.

  “So, what have you cooked up from the rent-an-untraceable-jet department?”

  “I immediately thought sexy, fast, and high-maintenance. Code-named Desiree.”

  Ridley sat back in the couch. “Desiree. That’s Paulson’s second ex-wife.”

  “True, but she’s smarter than all his other ex-wives combined.”

  Ridley lifted his eyebrows and nodded in approval. “Good choice. I like it.”

  Jack shrugged. “So what are we talking about here?”

  “The Cessna X—Citation 10. One of the fastest charters available,” Karen said over speaker. “This one’s logged hours overseas, and with a variety of film crews. Based in southern California. Top speed .965 Mach. So smooth, you can sip champagne out of five-inch pumps in the middle of a thunder-bumper without spilling a drop.”

  Ridley and Jack had to stifle their laughter.

  “Sounds perfect,” said Jack.

  “I have your swift-princess inbound Westchester County, from Riverside, dead-head, crew only. We’ll take possession of the charter, Mac’ll get his crew lined up, and you’ll be good to go as soon as your heart desires.”

  Chapter 26

  Marko was ready to snap. The relentless monotony of babysitting Freddy Krueger in the endless cold, eating sawdust-flavored military MREs, and struggling to recharge the battery system operating the PlayStation were mere appetizers in a buffet of discontent.

  Jack had included a backup heater that ran on camp-style propane bottles, but it burned gas like a fraternity went through beer kegs during rush. He needed the propane bottles to run the stove, so he used the electric space heaters, and they sucked battery like crazy. It certainly wasn’t summer—in fact, it was getting colder. The more he used the heaters, the more time he spent playing videogames, and the faster he depleted the lithium battery pack. Recharging from the mouth of the cavern using the solar panel and wind generator wasn’t creating nearly enough electricity to suit him.

  His other big issue when Jack had set him up, the toilet situation, was also proving to be an ordeal. He’d set up a latrine deeper into the sandstone cavern, assuming he’d only need it for a few days, not weeks hiding out with the Hafnium bomb. The odor was beginning to make its way back toward the cavern entrance and his happy camp. If he had to spend even another week here, he’d have to move the latrine outdoors, regardless of Jack’s insistence that he not leave under any circumstance.

  Marko stared at the twelve-foot aluminum sliding ladder they’d used to access the opening of the cavern. In order for him to reach the ground, he needed the ladder. The entrance, at ceiling height above the forest floor, was too far to jump. While he could free-climb the eight or ten feet up to the entrance, it’d be a whole lot easier with the ladder in place. It wouldn’t be in sight but for a minute or so. He could drop the ladder and slide down it to the forest floor in a matter of seconds. Then he’d take down the ladder and hide it under pine boughs until he was ready to return to Camp Krueger.

  No better time than the present….

  Marko walked over to the cavern entrance and peered out. Even though it was late in the afternoon, he still had to squint against the glare. He’d gotten used to the darkness within the cavern.

  Turning into a regular vampire, he thought. Two more hours, gonna be pitch dark out there….

  ***

  Marko gave the sky a once-over and decided Jack had been paranoid. The cavern was located within a canyon with substantial tree-cover. The dark of night sealed the deal. He grabbed the ladder from deep inside the cavern and hoisted it, surprised that it felt a whole lot heavier than the last time he’d moved it around.

  No surprise. My muscles are already turning into mush in this shithole. Another week and I’ll be bedridden if I don’t get some fresh air and exercise.

  Marko hauled the ladder over to the opening, took one more cursory look, then dropped the bottom of the ladder over the side and allowed it to slide through his hands until it seated on the ground below. He was so stoked about getting a five-minute parole away from Freddy that he nearly forgot to take along the camp shovel and toiletries.

  Marko slid straight down the ladder, wasting no time on the rungs. The sound of his boots touching down on a pile of eroded sandstone pebbles, along with the aroma of pine, was exhilarating. Though fresh air fl
owed in and out of the cavern, there was something about being under the stars that made the outdoors feel like nirvana compared to the stale and dank cavern. For several moments, he was tempted to bolt; use the switchback trails leading up to the canyon rim, then skedaddle to the nearest highway. Flag down any car, truck, or motorcycle—anyone who’d give him a ride out of this nightmare—and disappear.

  Jack and Leah would be disappointed. Actually, Leah doesn’t do disappointment, he thought. She does revenge. Leah would kill him and then ransack his wallet for the cost of the bullet.

  Marko took care of his personal business while staying on high alert, using the shovel to bury any sign he’d been outside the cavern. He snatched his shovel and toilet gear, then climbed the ladder two rungs at a time, diving back into the cavern and pulling the ladder up and out of sight in under fifteen seconds.

  Back inside his lair, Marko did a dance and shouted, “Yeah, baby!” pumping his fists in the air. Then he remembered he’d left the ladder stacked up against the rock the entire time he was outside the cavern, when he should have stashed it out of site in the brush. Okay, so one minor screw-up….

  Maybe this gig wouldn’t be so bad after all. If he could sneak out under cover of darkness, take a leak, stretch, breath in some fresh air, hell, even do five minutes of star-gazing, he’d make it at least another week, maybe two.

  Chapter 27

  Leah crossed her arms, trying to conserve body heat, even though she stood near the roaring, communal fire. Leah often spent the evenings listening to the Ancients tell stories, tales that had been passed down for generations. She needed to bring a recording device and capture this living history that was being told by those who’d made that history.

  Leah had noticed that, while she stood near the fire, the Ancients did not discuss their current predicament, or what the future might hold. Only when she walked away from the fire, or tucked herself into a sleeping bag, would the Ancients huddle closer and whisper. Although Appanoose was present many nights when he wasn’t hosting a sweat lodge or sermonizing at his Basilica, he seemed neither to participate in nor discourage the others’ discussions.