ICE GENESIS: Book 2 in the ICE Trilogy

by Kevin Tinto

  Kelleher replied with a mix of arrogance and irritation. “This is an expensive and critical piece of military hardware—and the pilots are not expendable. I’ve got almost fifteen-hundred hours in the Globemaster, and there’s no way I’m letting this aircraft depart without taking personal responsibility for both.”

  Leah noted that, in addition to a co-pilot, three additional pilots were crammed into the cockpit. One man and two women. “Colonel, looks like you invited the entire pilot staff at Holloman. Why?”

  “This is a long and dangerous flight,” he snapped. “I’m not current on air-to-air refueling, so Major Jane West and her crew will handle the refueling. The two other pilots are the primary crew on the second Globemaster. I want to have plenty of relief backing us up in case this gets hairy.”

  Major West, sitting in the co-pilot seat, smiled, and Leah nodded in return. “I don’t know exactly what President Wheeler told you regarding my status and our mission. Care to give me a quick briefing?”

  Kelleher softened a bit. “He said the aircraft was at your disposal, not to ask any questions, and do exactly as Dr. Andrews asked.” He turned around in the command seat. “We have set up navigation to take us direct to McMurdo. Is there a secondary?”

  “McMurdo, unless you hear from me otherwise.” She glanced at the pilots. “I know about the geo-magnetic disturbance that is blacking out Antarctica. I told Wheeler I was going to Murdo with divining rods if necessary. I’m not particularly interested in killing everyone onboard, but I am going to Antarctica. What are the chances we can land on the Ross Ice Shelf without crashing?”

  Kelleher nodded in the direction of the pilot sitting in the co-pilot seat. “Major West flew into McMurdo not long ago, part of the big airlift operation to evacuate McMurdo personnel after the detonation in Antarctica. She knows more about the approach than I do.”

  Major Jane West held up a chart that featured the Antarctic continent. A number of concentric circles had been printed over the chart. “The geo-magnetic disturbance gets stronger the closer you get to the original ground zero coordinates. If you said you were flying to Amundsen-Scott in a bird with skis, like a C-130 for instance, I would have taken my wings off and tossed them on the Colonel’s desk. There’s no way I’m flying that route. There have been a number of aircraft who have tried to penetrate deep into Antarctica, that have simply disappeared for unknown reasons. One theory is this disturbance is disrupting the computer-controlled flight control systems, beyond just the loss of GPS signals needed for navigation, causing them to crash.”

  West pointed to the Ross Ice Shelf on the chart. “You can see that we are on the outer circle here. We won’t have GPS or any satellite communications the last two-hundred nautical. That means we’re flying VFR, Visual Flight Rules, into the ice runway at Murdo.” She shook her head. “If the weather goes bad, we can’t do it, without killing everyone onboard and losing the aircraft.”

  Leah nodded. “Thank you, Major. We’ll worry about that problem when we cross it.” She thought about her prepared speech. It didn’t seem necessary, given how much pressure Wheeler had put on Kelleher to ‘get her to Antarctica,’ but how often had she been lied to and double-crossed?

  “I want to issue a warning to you, Colonel, and to your crew.”

  Kelleher couldn’t help himself and rolled his eyes.

  Arrogant bastard, about to get a schooling.

  “Captain Hutchinson. Do you consider me a person that you should test on any level?”

  “No, ma’am,” Hutchinson said crisply.

  “What happened to the last guy who messed with me?”

  “Ah—you had the big fella toss him out the back of the Hook.”

  “Was the Chinook on the ground, Captain?”

  “No, ma’am—at least three-thousand AGL.”

  The change was instantaneous. Kelleher went from arrogant bird-colonel to white-faced and sweating.

  Leah continue to press. “Captain Hutchinson. Do you have any doubt, if Colonel Kelleher or his crew were to cross me, I would hesitate to drop the ramp and throw the Colonel out?”

  “None whatsoever, ma’am.”

  “What advice would you have for anyone on this flight who decided they wanted to test me?”

  The young captain hesitated, then said, “Ah—don’t fly any higher than you’re willing to fall?”

  She patted him on the shoulder. “Excellent. I couldn’t have selected a better hostage.”

  As Leah was climbing back out of the cockpit, she heard Kelleher ask Hutchinson if she had really ordered a person tossed out of the Chinook. His response, totally uncoached, was precious. “Three traitors went off the ramp. Sir.”

  Leah continued into the cargo bay without comment.

  Chapter 64

  The Citation X flew over the Black Sea at an altitude of ten-thousand feet. Paulson informed the ATC, as planned, that he carried photographers and would be descending to five-hundred feet and flying visual flight rules for an undermined period of time.

  Once cleared, Paulson dropped the nose of the X and descended to an altitude of five-hundred and fifty feet over the surface of the Black Sea, flying the heading he’d charted to take them over the coast of Turkey and into Iran just after nightfall.

  At fifty miles out, Paulson shut off the navigation lights and pressed forward on the yoke, dropping the Citation to within two hundred feet of the water’s surface while pushing the throttles until the jet was speeding at more than four-hundred knots.

  “This is it, Mac. Any last words?”

  “Yeah. Don’t hit the ground—or anything else for that matter.”

  “I have the coast in sight,” Paulson said, minutes later.

  He glanced at Ridley, who was holding on for dear life. The nose of the X pitched up and then down as Paulson flew it down as low as fifty feet, leapfrogging obstacles at nearly five-hundred knots of indicated airspeed.

  “Like riding a bike,” Paulson said as beads of sweat ran down Ridley’s face. “Once a fighter pilot, always a fighter pilot.”

  “Remember, Al. I’m the one who had to fix up those jets every time you busted something—which was often.”

  “Iranian airspace in eight minutes,” Paulson called out.” I sure hope Jack got the runway clear of debris and hung up a windsock; otherwise we’re going to make a hell of a fireball.”

  ***

  Jack Hobson was hidden between the buildings of the rundown Iranian airfield. He should have been looking to the northwest, the direction Paulson would be coming in at low altitude, if he hadn’t already been killed in a crash. Instead, Jack was using a pair of binoculars to study the traffic on the dirt highway that crossed south of the airfield by a matter of a few kilometers. The traffic was about half civilian and half military this close to the border. So far, no one had turned north toward the airfield, but that would change the instant a jet came screaming overhead.

  He swung binoculars over to where the ragged windsock still flew over the airport. The wind was blowing out of the north. That meant Paulson would have to overfly the airport, make a one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn, land, avoid the bomb crater, turn around, get Jack aboard, taxi to the end of the runway, and takeoff.

  From touchdown, Jack estimated it would take five minutes to slow the jet, turn it around, pick him up, high-speed taxi, turn around again, and pour the coal to it.

  Hawar and his sons Kajir and Camir also hid behind the buildings, with weapons ready. Bazi held the horses at the nearby rock-outcropping they’d hidden within, waiting for Paulson’s approach.

  Jack had tried to convince the Kurds to leave. Even if he got off safe, they’d still be stuck on the ground. If Iranian solders showed up, they’d have to fight their way out. Hawar said he did not fear Iranian soldiers, only the wrath of God for leaving Jack at the airfield solo after guaranteeing his protection. That, he said,
was something to fear.

  “Who could argue with that?” Jack had said, thankful for the armed company.

  He was swinging the binoculars back toward the road once again, when he heard the turbine whine of a medium-sized jet approaching from the north, already within a half mile of the runway. Either Al had guessed the wind direction or seen the windsock in the pre-dawn light. He was setting up for a right-hand pattern. He’d fly past the runway, make a descending turn to base, then final, and set the jet down on the numbers. Without blowing the tires—Jack hoped.

  He swung the binoculars back toward the highway—nothing turning toward the runway at high speed. All that praying he’d been doing might have paid off—he’d have to tell Badger…if he made it out alive. The old preacher would be thrilled.

  The jet had made the turn and was on short final. Jack wasn’t sure if Paulson was going to make the runway, he was down so low over the sand on a flat final approach, nose high, rolling in more throttle, not pulling the throttles back to idle, as Jack expected.

  The rear gear touched down no more than five feet from the end of the tarmac, the nose gear swiftly followed, and dust flew when both brakes and reverses were applied. Jack didn’t see a whole lot of dust. He turned to hug Hawar, Kajir, and Camir, saying his goodbyes before sprinting for the slowing aircraft.

  The jet’s hatch dropped down even before the jet had stopped and Mac Ridley’s creased smile was the first thing that popped out of the open door. Jack ran to catch up, reached up, and Ridley reached out, grabbing Jack by the wrist and pulling him up as Jack touched maybe one of the stairs before throwing himself inside the Citation.

  Ridley operated the door closing mechanism and Paulson swung the aircraft around so fast it pinned Jack against the fuselage. Paulson taxied down the three-thousand feet he’d used on landing in less than a minute, jammed on the brakes, swung the jet one-hundred and eighty degrees once again, and firewalled the throttles, causing both Ridley and Jack to tumble back toward the rear of the aircraft.

  Once they were airborne, Ridley climbed up and plopped himself into the co-pilot’s while Jack worked his head and shoulders into the cockpit. He got a side glance at Paulson and was shocked to see how worn he looked. This was a man who normally needed two hours a sleep at night and happily worked the other twenty-two. Even on Everest, he’d never seen Paulson looking this beat.

  Paulson spun around for a moment and grinned. “You look like hell, Jack. When was the last time you slept?”

  “I was going to say the same,” Jack said. “Does that mean my suspicions were right? Wheeler’s gone nuts and all hell is breaking loose?”

  Paulson kept his eyes on the terrain as the X rolled over the four-hundred knot mark, and he held the altitude at less than two-hundred feet AGL, just about to cross the Turkish border, headed for the Black Sea again.

  “Mac. Fill Jack in. If I so much as sneeze, we’re going to make a large pile of scrap aluminum.”

  Ridley turned, grabbed a thermos of coffee and a bag of sweet rolls. “Yeah—what we have here is a class-a-number-one clusterfunk.”

  “Leah,” Jack said. “Where’s Leah?”

  “She’s still at the Settlement,” Ridley said. “Last time we checked, the trouble-maker hadn’t cut her throat.”

  “Mac!” Paulson said.

  Ridley shrugged and grinned. “C’mon, Al. Just keeping it real.” Then he added, “Don’t worry about Leah. From what Al thinks, this might some kind of governmental coup—Leah’s the least of their problems. Plus, she’s surrounded by the Indians. Al says they turned out to be a lot less like nervous squirrels and more like pissed off wolverines. I’d bet she’s sitting by the fire, listening to them tell stories, and having a hot cup of—well whatever those people drink. No worries.”

  Jack suddenly dug into his filthy backpack, and pulled out the two GoPro cameras. He removed them from the protective water and shock proof clear cases, and pulled the SD cards out of both. While the newer GoPro cameras had a playback feature, it was so small, it was hard to make out detail, especially in a low-light environment.

  “Anyone got a laptop?” Jack asked.

  Ridley pointed to a bag stuffed underneath a seat. Inside was a MacBook. Jack opened it—after he’d gotten the password from Ridley. It was one he wouldn’t want to have to repeat in mixed company.

  Jack pushed the disk into the slot and waited. When it opened on the home screen, he clicked on it and found several files. The first three had been testing the GoPro. The only thing on those files would be Jack’s own mug, while he examined the camera, making sure it was operating. The fourth file was the one that had the goods: any video taken down inside the hot spring. He pulled it up, and was immediately thrilled to find a clear, well-lit underwater image.

  He clicked on the file, and the camera, this one facing vertically down, began sinking, jerky at times, down into Jacob’s Well. He only had to view the video for a minute to determine that what David Samuelson had seen was neither the filament, nor another alien complex. It was simply, a dome-shaped rock, polished smooth over time, perhaps by a glacier that had once slid over the top of it.

  “Well?” Ridley was looking back at Jack. Paulson had no idea what he had been doing, he was still focused on getting them out to sea while avoiding both the ground, and anything resembling an air-to-air missile.

  Jack shook his head. “Nothing worth risking our lives over.”

  Ridley simply flashed him a told you so look. “I think it’s time we started looking out for ourselves. Each and every damn time we’ve stuck our neck out, we’ve been burned.”

  Jack nodded on agreement. “What’s your plan, Mac?”

  Ridley pointed a finger. “I tell you what my damn plan is—if they’re trying to kill me, I’ll give them a shot at it, while I’m coming at them with a Desert Eagle aimed right between their eyes.”

  Jack grinned. “Now that’s a plan I can get behind.”

  Chapter 65

  Alexi had the sniper scope up to his eye before Grigoriy could pull his Swarovski glasses from the gear bag.

  “Contact?”

  Grigoriy seated the Swarovskis against his face. “Negative,” he answered.

  The sudden change of direction was wrong, Grigoriy thought. Unnecessary. SEALS didn’t make arbitrary changes in direction unless something else was in play. “Distance to the pressure ridge?” he asked.

  “Estimating three-thousand,” Alexi responded without hesitation.

  Grigoriy spun, focusing the binocs on their flank. Clear. He then scanned three-hundred and sixty degrees, his combat-honed alarm system still activated. “Forward 300 meters. Keep the Taigas in single file.”

  ***

  “Contact,” Beckam said.

  “Hell, yeah,” Liam breathed, his eye pinned to his scope.

  It was too far out to make out any details other than several points on the horizon that were non-natural, having just appeared minutes ago.

  “I’m not making out any movement,” Beckam said.

  “Same here, Boss.”

  “Probably saw the change in direction on the Taigas.”

  “Maybe they’re spooked. Probably tucking tail right around and head for Vladivostok.”

  Beckam chuckled. “Or it’s SEALS, following Russian Taiga tracks, thinking those sneaky bastards are setting up an ambush.”

  “Too slow for SEALs,” Liam said.

  Beckam nodded. “Elements of the Spetsnaz. Reconnaissance, probably. They don’t want to make contact.”

  “Bitches already made their first mistake,” Liam said.

  ***

  Grigoriy studied the pressure ridge from two-thousand meters out. He pulled the glasses away from his face and said in Russian: “Truten.”

  Vasily dug into a gear bag and lifted out a metallic case about the size of a carry-on piece of travel lu
ggage. He opened the case: inside was a device resembling a high-tech version of a radio-control toy. It was made of aluminum and featured four propellers run by electric motors. Mounted on the bottom of the aluminum frame was a high-resolution camera on a pivot system that allowed the operator to move the camera nearly three-hundred and sixty degrees.

  Alexi handed Grigoriy a pair of virtual-reality goggles and a twin toggle controller with a wide variety of switches and buttons aligned around the aluminum-encased remote. The last item he pulled out was a lithium battery the size of a brick. He was confident the drone also would work to a range of two kilometers. They’d tested handheld radios to that distance, without apparent negative effect by the atmospheric disturbance. The radio control drone could operate well beyond two kilometers, out of sight even, and on its own, with a highly sophisticated onboard computer system. He didn’t intent to test it past two kilometers.

  “Transmitter is on,” Grigoriy said after flipping a switch. A red light lit on the transmitter panel. Vasily waited until the blinking red light on the transmitter had gone solid, then slid the battery into a compartment on the drone.

  He made sure the electrical contacts were connected, then shut and locked the battery door. He switched the drone on, and a series of lights blinked to life. Three beeps later, the computer brain in the drone had initialized, and the light on transmitter had turned from solid red to green. The Truten was prepped and ready to fly.

  Vasily held the drone over his head, and Grigoriy pushed the right lever up a notch. All four props spun up, and the drone took off, rising vertically to fifteen meters above the ice. Grigoriy hit a switch that placed the drone in an autopilot hover, then fitted the VR glasses over his eyes. He felt the switch that initiated the camera link and within a second, the panorama of Antarctica spread out before him. He tested the controls, overriding the hover autopilot. He’d hand fly the drone, but if he ever took his hands away from the controls it would spontaneously begin a hover and stay there until instructed otherwise or until the battery ran out of power. When operated in conjunction with GLONASS, he could send the drone out and it would automatically return when instructed and land, no additional control necessary. With both GLONASS and GPS systems offline, Grigoriy would be hand-flying the miniature craft.