ICE GENESIS

by Kevin Tinto

  It was a heroin-like high. A monumental, emotional escape, from current events. A Groundhog Day-like déjà vu, back to the early days of their marriage.

  Jack could not have been happier at that moment. He knew it wouldn’t last, but rediscovering a sensation that he’d thought long gone was pleasurable beyond belief, regardless of the perils of Ararat.

  ✽✽✽

  Jack had made another call, earlier in the day. This one to Jacob Badger’s home phone in Wallace, Idaho. He’d tasked one of the DARPA staff to find a phone number, if one existed. Less than five minutes the later, the staffer came back.

  “Got it,” he said.

  “That fast? Gotta love a billion dollars’ worth of high-tech spook gear.”

  "Didn’t need it, sir,” said the twenty-something staffer. “I Googled the white pages in Wallace. Came right up.”

  When Jack called the number, Badger picked right up. Not only that—he also already knew perfectly well who Jack Hobson was. A bit of a surprise, although mountaineering was a small and tight clique. Plus, Jack had become well-known for being involved in the mission to Antarctica.

  He leveled with Badger up-front, telling him that he was representing the federal governmental on a mission to Ararat, the existence of which was highly classified and critical to national Security. Any mention of their phone call or subsequent face-to-face meeting must remain secret or, Jack told Badger plainly, the ex-preacher would be detained immediately. For this reason, he needed Badger to make a firm decision over the phone. Either he’d agree to Jack’s terms or Jack would terminate the call with no further contact.

  To Jack’s delight, and relief, Badger had agreed right off the bat. He said he was too curious not to help Jack in any way he could. Jack signed off, saying he’d be flying by military jet into Wallace, Idaho, as soon as possible the next day.

  Chapter 20

  Jack’s security escort had him standing on the tarmac at Andrews Air Force base at six a.m. sharp. His pilot, an Air Force captain dressed in standard commercial airline pilot’s uniform, told Jack the weather was expected to moderate, which meant that they were good to go: direct flight from D.C. to Wallace, Idaho.

  Jack flew in an unmarked C-21A along with his security team of four. They dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts, their large, down-filled parkas covering an array of weapons and communications gear.

  The C-21A was the military’s designation for a Learjet 35. This particular aircraft had been tasked for intelligence operations. It was registered by a bogus meat-packing company incorporated in Delaware. Since nearly every grocery chain on the planet dealt with meat providers, it could travel just about anywhere without raising an eyebrow.

  Even to Wallace, Idaho.

  Upon arrival at the Shoshone County Airport, Jack looked out the window of the C-21. The temperature was a brisk twenty-five degrees, zero breeze. A light snow floated down slowly, almost appearing frozen in place.

  Wet, sticky snow. If it got a bit heavier or the wind picked up, they wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Storms and bold pilots were a lethal mix. Jack had learned that lesson several times and survived to tell the tale. He had no interest in testing fate once again.”

  As the jet taxied, he scanned the margins of the small airfield, looking for Jacob Badger. No sign of him yet, but Jack was hopeful.

  It’s good to be the boss, he thought, as his security guys scowled while he explained that Badger would be picking him up. His guards would follow along in a standard-issue, government-black, four-wheel drive Suburban that had been dispatched to the small town for their use. In his short time working for the government, Jack had decided that there must be parking lots full of the big vehicles everywhere he traveled. The federal government must have been keeping the GMC Suburban alive, simply through the sheer numbers that they bought each year.

  Jack stepped off the plane and headed for the small parking lot alongside the strip. Three of his security team stayed at his side, while the fourth went to secure the Suburban.

  Jack spotted Jacob Badger before he caught sight of the man’s beat-up Chevy blazer at the side of the road. Badger looked like any Idaho woodsman, dressed in jeans, a camouflage hunting jacket, high-end but well-worn Sorrel boots, and a black cowboy hat. It had been a few years since he’d seen a photo of the man, and Jack was shocked to find Badger looking so fragile. He appeared a lot older than his actual age.

  When Badger reached out and shook Jack’s hand, the grip was anything but frail. The thick white scar that cut across his face, from the deceased young man’s desperate knife slash, seemed more prominent than he remembered from the photos. Where the knife had cut across his right eye, Badger’s brow, lids, and cheek drooped.

  The old preacher spoke in a hoarse voice. “You look a little worse for wear than your photos in the news, young Jack.” He winked with his good eye. “Still a sight better than I look.”

  “Locked up in a commercial dryer on spin for a month doesn’t even come close to my current lifestyle,” Jack said.

  Badger chuckled. “I’m guessing brisk Idaho weather isn’t much of a burden for a man who’s stood on the summit of Mt. Everest countless times.”

  “The older I get, the less I enjoy cold weather.”

  “They say it’s God’s country ‘round’ here,” Badger said without expression. “Are you a Christian, Jack?”

  “Hardly. Although, I’m the first to admit, I’ve spent plenty of time praying on a mountain when things weren’t going as planned.”

  Badger nodded, then gestured at Jack’s three-man security detail. “So, what is it? Brass knuckles and batons if I don’t talk?”

  “I promise not,” Jack said, gesturing for the security team to relax. “They’re gonna follow us, that’s all. Just act like they’re not there.”

  Badger jumped out of the way as the Suburban slid to a stop, sending ice water flying in their direction. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Government Big Shot.”

  “Right,” Jack replied dryly. “Welcome to my world.”

  Badger led Jack out to the Blazer, opened the dented passenger door, and ushered Jack into the passenger seat. When the old preacher keyed the ignition, the truck’s V8 blew a cloud of blue smoke before settling into, more or less, an idle. “You say them boys’ll follow us?”

  “Trust me on that one,” Jack said.

  As if tempting fate, Badger stomped on the gas pedal, weaving out of the airport at a speed that had Jack pressing his hands against the dash while searching futilely for a seatbelt.

  “Probably been awhile since you rode in an old Blazer held together with baling wire and duct tape?”

  “Actually, I had similar experience not long ago. Off-road, down in New Mexico.”

  “I’ve never wrecked yet.” Badger’s eyes shone. “Not exactly saying you’re in God’s hands….”

  “Close is good enough for me.”

  “I’m taking you into town. The best buffalo burger you’ve ever tasted. Those boys wearing them wrap-around sunglasses in the middle of a snowstorm are welcome to come on in too.”

  Jack was liking Badger more every minute. The old man was a breath of fresh air compared the bureaucratic dipshits Jack dealt with daily.

  “If they have an out-of-the-way table, I’d appreciate it.”

  Badger just grinned.

  Chapter 21

  Badger was right. It was the best buffalo burger he’d ever had. It was also the second time since leaving Antarctica that Jack had felt anything approaching a semblance of normal life. The first had been during his long phone conversation with Leah, after she shooed him off to Ararat.

  Badger had selected a booth in a secluded part of the small diner, as requested. Nearby, Jack’s security team was also savoring the buffalo burgers, seeming to enjoy the brief escape from oppressive Washington as much as he.

  Badger leaned back after finishing the last of the fat-cut, home-style fries. “You want to tell me how my pilgrimage to Mt. Ararat ties in wi
th the world going to hell in a handbasket?”

  “Wish I could,” Jack said with sincerity.

  “Plenty of stories out there. Care to tell me which ones are false?”

  “The hole I’ve already dug is deep. It’s entirely possible I’ve placed your life in danger just by coming here,” Jack said. “I really can’t open up, as much as I’d like to, on anything classified that might or might not have happened in Antarctica.”

  Badger said, “I doubt very much you’re here on a spiritual quest.”

  “Not much gets past you.”

  “I’ve been in the people-game my whole life. If you’re gonna build a flock, you have to tie the strings together, way, way ahead of everyone else.”

  “Okay,” Jack sighed, leaning forward. “I cannot tell you exactly what was found in Antarctica. I can say the discovery resulted in the death of more friends and colleagues than I care to think about. I have no doubt the details will be leaked sooner than later. For now, it’s still highly classified.”

  “Whatever it is, young Jack, I won’t be around to see it. I’ve got stage-four cancer. Esophageal. My doctor says most likely due to all those church dinners.” He grimaced. “When you’re the pastor, you’re obliged to eat everything. If you don’t, it causes all kinds of problems in the congregation. ‘Psst! Old lady Willis, her chili was so bad Pastor Badger couldn’t eat it. She’s goin’ to Hell, for sure.’”

  Badger managed a grin. “I suffered the worst heartburn for years. Didn’t know I was setting myself up for cancer. I did pray, more than once, that the Almighty would trigger a power outage so I’d have an excuse to leave. But damned if He didn’t make me suffer through every one of those dinners.”

  Jack shook his head and held the older man’s gaze. “I’m so sorry, Jacob.”

  Badger dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “So, let’s get down to business, young Jack. You want to know how to locate what they like to call Jacob’s Well. Why?”

  “I can say, honestly, I’m not in search of the Ark.”

  The wrinkles on Badger’s tired face took on the 3D appearance of a raised map. “You know the last time I was there; I was responsible for the death of the nicest young man you’d ever meet. What makes that worse? Every Sunday, while I preached God’s love, that young man’s mom and daddy and his two sisters sat in the front pew, nodding and smiling like I knew what the hell I was talking about. After a year of that, those reassuring words sounded pretty damned empty. Turned out, maybe my faith wasn’t up to the task. I retired. Never went back for Sunday worship after that.”

  Jack glanced down. “I know exactly how that feels.”

  “Took years before I forgave God, but I did,” Badger continued. “That doesn’t mean I don’t believe he can be a nasty bastard at times—cause he sure as hell can.”

  “The articles I read said you found the Ark, and the death of David Samuelson was punishment for hunting and uncovering evidence of God’s work on this earth.”

  Badger nodded. “You know, in a situation like that, you try to make sense of it all. And I believed that, for his family and friends, finding the Ark gave his death some meaning.”

  The hair stood on Jack’s neck. “So, you didn’t find the Ark?”

  “Nope,” Badger said.

  Jack’s mouth dropped open. Up till now, Badger had seemed as honest a man and preacher he’d ever met. If this were a hoax, he’d just wasted a whole lot of time. He felt the anger bubbling up from deep inside but didn’t respond.

  “What young David said, with his eyes awash with blood, was—and these are his exact words: ‘Pastor Badger—I’ve found the firmament!’”

  Jack was more perplexed than angry. “Sorry. The firmament?”

  “From the book of Genesis. ‘And God said, “Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.” Thus God made the firmament, and divided the waters, which were under the firmament, from the waters that were above the firmament; and it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven.'”

  “David thought he’d found Heaven at the bottom of this spring?”

  “The ancient Hebrews believed there was a solid ‘dome’ or ‘vault’ to heaven.”

  Jack felt the table sliding away; all sense annoyance evaporated. Firmament, he thought. A solid ‘dome’ or ‘vault.’ A near-perfect description of an alien complex.

  “Looks like I struck a chord there, eh?”

  “Maybe. I wish I could tell you more. If anyone deserves to know the truth, it’s you… What did you see, if anything, from the surface?”

  “There was something down there—I can’t say for sure what I saw.”

  Jack nodded. “Well, any help you provide could save us time. I know it was poor weather and you were never actually sure of the exact location….”

  “Yep. That was my story.” Badger reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of yellow-pad paper, and handed it over.

  Jack unfolded the sheet. Written in blue ink were GPS coordinates. “You knew how to relocate Jacob’s Well all along?”

  “I swore the members of my team to silence, but we all knew.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. “You lied to keep it secret?”

  “Says who?” Badger replied in mock indignation. “I said the weather was awful: true. At the location, it was zero visibility, wind blowing like a hurricane. What I told the press and everyone else who asked was: ‘We’d never find it again without guidance from above.’”

  Jack snorted at the old man’s clever pun, causing his security team to go silent and turn around. “GPS from above, eh? Not divine intervention.”

  “God works in vague and infuriating ways, young Jack.” Badger paused. “One more thing. If you get close, you’ll know you’re there.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Sulfur. It was thick with the stench of sulfur—like Satan himself was hunkered under those waters.”

  Chapter 22

  Beckam sped over the ice toward the Antonov fuselage, deliberately keeping his speed down, despite his impatience. Damaging the snow machine or flipping and tearing up the empty toboggans was at the bottom of his to-do list. The aluminum toboggans were designed to tow weapons, gear, even injured soldiers, but only for short distances.

  The Antarctic sastrugi made for a rough ride, even at slow speeds. Come to think of it, he’d need to line the bottom of the toboggan with padding, both to insulate Danny from the cold and to soften his ride as much as possible.

  “Sorry, honey,” Beckam said, pushing his way into the cluttered fuselage. “They don’t have our reservation for tonight. Looks like we’re hitting the road.”

  “Not a minute too soon, Skipper. Kind of a shame my view will be straight up at the sky.”

  “You’re lucky. It’s Antarctica. Not a strip club within ten-thousand kilometers.” Beckam started plucking out the soft insulation that lined the old fuselage. “Remind me when we exit this continent-sized freezer, to permanently remove it from any future travel itinerary.”

  “Roger that,” said Frantino quietly.

  Beckam slid Frantino out of the fuselage on a ragged section of insulation that would serve as his bed for the foreseeable future.

  Almost immediately, Beckam had to stop and catch his breath. Towing the 185-pound SEAL by hand wouldn’t have been easy at the best of times. Weakened by the radiation poisoning, the altitude, and the pounding he’d endured during the detonation left him far from full strength.

  “How are you holding up?” Beckam asked after taking several deep breaths and readying himself for another pull.

  “Ten out of ten, Skipper,” Frantino said, a line of perspiration popping out on his forehead.

  “Remember…pain is just weakness leaving the body.”

  “Thanks, Skip,” Frantino answered through gritted teeth. “I’ll remember than when I enlist in the Marines.”

  Once Beckam had Frantino next to the aluminum toboggan, he gently slid Dan
ny onto the ice, then began packing the insulation into the sled like an ad-hoc mattress.

  “Ready for your ride?”

  Frantino nodded.

  Beckam pulled him onto the toboggan as gently as he could manage, then piled more insulation around Frantino’s sides and over his torso and legs, making him look like a mummy wrapped in an aluminum sarcophagus.

  “First-class accommodations, Danny. Way too good for a combat-hardened Frogman.”

  Frantino didn’t respond. Beckam figured the pain from the broken femur had been more than Danny had let on while being hauled to the toboggan.

  Driving the Taiga again, he towed Danny in the direction of the Russian gear drop, wincing each time his XO bounced over an imperfection in the ice. Given the distance, time, exposure, and the amalgamation of Frantino’s injuries, it seemed unlikely that Danny would survive the trip to Amundsen-Scott. Then again, Beckam couldn’t honestly rate his chances of making it all that much higher.

  ✽✽✽

  When Beckam reached the Clay twins, they had two Taigas side by side and ready to tow toboggans already loaded with critical gear.

  “You boys have been busy. What’s on the manifest?”

  Lenny unhooked a series of bungee tie-downs on the toboggan behind his snow machine. “We’re Gucci, Boss. I dug up ten, twenty-liter cans and Liam’s got another ten.”

  Beckam estimated that the Taigas got around twenty kilometers for each gallon of gas. For three snow machines running together, that meant a range of 650 kilometers. If they dropped one Taiga along the way, the fuel would stretch.

  “Find another ten cans of fuel if you can, Len. How much oil did you pack?”

  “Shit—oil—never thought about it.”

  “These things burn a ton of oil—at least a quart every two-hundred kilometers. The Russians will pack cases of it. Grab at least ten quarts. What else you got?”