ICE GENESIS

by Kevin Tinto

  Beckam had restricted their speed to no more than fifteen kilometers per hour. The ice was far from smooth, and he didn’t want Danny Frantino bumped around anymore than necessary. Beckam pulled his goggles back into place. “How’s your fuel consumption, boys?”

  “Good here, Boss,” said Liam. “The gauge has hardly moved off full.”

  “Same here,” Lenny added.

  They’d raided the Russians for extra fuel before blowing up the balance of the gear with the Russians’ own satchel explosives, leaving a string of burning pallets and heavy smoke behind them.

  If his estimates were correct, they should cross the South Pole Transverse at 250 kilometers. Then it would be another 250 to Amundsen-Scott.

  Beckam had decided to drop one of the Taiga snow machines at 250 klicks, regardless. It would leave them with more fuel in case locating the South Pole turned out to be more elusive than expected. Whether they’d find Amundsen-Scott in one piece, or a smoldering wreck, he couldn’t predict.

  Chapter 35

  Grigoriy scanned the horizon with the binoculars, holding his breath to keep the image steady. The Taiga tracks told the story well enough. American survivors, also apparently out of contact with their command, had waited long enough and finally decided to find their own way off the ice. There was no confusion regarding which way they had gone. The tracks were fresh and crisp.

  Grigoriy had already taken photos and video of ground zero, including detailed video of the fractured and twisted metallic pieces that remained of whatever had been discovered beneath the ice. A thousand meters or more from ground zero, they had also found some assorted, small debris. Grigoriy had ordered his men to pack up to twenty kilos of it for examination in case they made it back to mother Russia.

  The American survivors were headed toward the magnetic South Pole.

  There’s no other reasonable explanation, Grigoriy assured himself.

  Without communications and navigation, the Americans’ decision made sense.

  Grigoriy was sure they planned to bisect the ice highway that connected the American base on the Ross Ice Shelf MacMurdo with Amundsen-Scott, make a turn south, and follow the highway direct to the South Pole base. During the Antarctic summer months, it was a small city. Finding that mote of civilization would be their chief and perhaps only chance for survival.

  Grigoriy had three options: Return to where they had been airdropped and hope that somehow Russian forces located them. Follow the Americans to Amundsen-Scott. Or continue past the ice highway and try to navigate their way to the Vostok Russian Station. Even with GPS navigation, Vostok was more than 1,500 kilometers distant, over barren ice. No possible way to make Vostok. Similarly, the odds of Russian troops arriving at their drop location, loaded with vodka, was laughable. Waiting around was guaranteed death. The best chance at survival appeared to be Amundsen-Scott.

  Grigoriy made a silent command decision. Follow the Americans, avoiding contact until they were within a hundred kilometers of the South Pole station. Then, engage before the Americans reached Amundsen-Scott. At most, five Americans had survived, and they’d suffered combat and/or blast-related injuries. Grigoriy, on the other hand, had six Spetsnaz commandos, fresh and combat-ready, with plenty of weaponry for almost any scenario.

  Eliminate the Americans, gather additional intelligence, and then occupy Amundsen-Scott. Resupply and hope that GLONASS satellite navigation and communications came back online. It they didn’t, then with a large enough resupply his men and he could make for Vostok.

  “Your thoughts?” asked Vasily.

  Grigoriy smiled. “I was once a student in Moscow. Skating at Gorky Park with a girl I had been smitten with at Winter Festival. The lights, the music, the feel of this girl’s hand in mine.” Grigory flashed a weary grin. “I think that was the best day of my life.”

  “What made you think of that?”

  “That tranquility of the blue ice filling in ground zero. Such peacefulness after a detonation…. It’s…unimaginable.” He shrugged and looked at his second-in-command. “I don’t know why it reminded me of ice skating at Gorky and the girl. It was such an uncomplicated time. And death?” He shrugged. “Death was only to be found in history books about the Great Patriotic War. We were immortal and invincible.”

  “Perhaps you will return to Gorky, during Winter Festival, and that same girl, having not aged a day, will see you and come skating into your arms.”

  Grigoriy nodded but his gaze remained distant. “I think my days at Gorky are behind me. Your thoughts?”

  “How easily it could have been our platoon instead. Ordered to engage the Americans and secure the target. Vaporized on a mission so secret that our families would never learn the truth.”

  Grigoriy nodded again. “Our surveillance mission is complete. I’ve formulated a plan.”

  “We hunt Americans,” Vasily said plainly.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “We are Spetsnaz—that’s what we do.”

  Grigoriy patted his friend on the shoulder. “Yes, indeed, we are Spetsnaz—but we don’t hunt Americans today.”

  Chapter 36

  Beckam focused the binoculars behind them, scanning in the direction of their tracks for any sign that they had a tail. The sun didn’t set during December, the height of the Antarctic summer. While the constant daylight didn’t provide any cover, it did protect them from the near -100 degree Fahrenheit temperatures that would descend down over the ice when the Antarctic winter enveloped the continent. There was no threat of that today, or tomorrow. It was highly unlikely they’d ever see an Antarctic winter, or a summer in Virginia Beach again. Even with twenty-four-hour daylight, it wasn’t like a clear summer day in Miami Beach.

  The temperatures ranged from zero to minus twenty, the sun bright but filtered. A momentary flash glinted suddenly on the horizon.

  Reflection off an ice dam—or another set of binoculars?

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  Tactically and strategically, enemy forces, Russian or otherwise, would like nothing more than snatch-and-grab, the SEALs, pump them full of drugs, add a variety of physical tortures to extract any intelligence possible about what exactly had been discovered at the alien site. This meant that Beckam had to consider all potential contacts as hostile until they were determined to be non-hostile. Capture was unacceptable, given what they knew.

  “Might have company, Frogs,” said Beckam.

  “Russians collecting rental fees?” Lenny shaded his eyes and scanned the horizon.

  “Doubt it’s a food truck delivering a hot lunch.”

  “We sure are popular. Wanted dead or alive by just about everyone with a rifle,” Lenny said.

  Beckam shook his head, holding back a chuckle. The twins could be less than disciplined at times, but if the clock on his life were about to run out, he could ask for no better crew than Danny, Lenny, and Liam. They’d open the gates of hell on an enemy before taking the express elevator down to be greeted by Satan himself.

  Chapter 37

  Grigoriy stood on the seat of the Taiga, using the extra meter to acquire more range out of the Swarovski binoculars. No visible sign of the Americans. The Taiga tracks were still crisp and clean—perhaps too much so.

  Grigoriy had ordered his men to slow in order to maintain distance. He could not afford to make contact with the SEAL platoon. They had hundreds of kilometers until they reached Amundsen-Scott. American SEALS, like a Siberian badger, would charge even if cornered. It was pointless to engage them earlier than necessary, unless discovered and risk having to care for wounded and dying so far from their objective.

  Given an almost flat ice terrain, and thin, high-altitude and smog-free atmosphere, he could identify objects at approximately fifteen kilometers. Nothing but blowing snow, ice, and then more ice.

  Keeping a good tactical distance meant calling a halt every fifteen minutes, scanning the horizon ahead, then continuing at a conservative pace.

  He tur
ned to his men. “Keep the ‘Karakatitsa’ within arm’s length. If necessary, I want everyone and everything camouflaged at once.”

  Grigoriy turned his binoculars to the sky and swept three-hundred and sixty degrees. All clear for many miles. Not one aircraft had overflown them since they’d landed on the ice. He had no reason to think that would change.

  Grigoriy thought about his lovely Sasha back in Moscow. Perhaps the unthinkable had already happened? M.A.D. Mutually assured destruction via intercontinental ballistic weapons on Moscow, Washington, and the balance of all other major cities.… Grigoriy cleared his mind and dropped the binoculars against his chest.

  “All clear.” With a sweep of his hand, he ordered his reconnaissance platoon to advance.

  Chapter 38

  Lenny raised his eyebrows in anticipation. “Ambush?”

  Liam studied the terrain. “We won’t be much of a surprise out here in the open, Boss.”

  “Not here,” said Beckam. “We need to confiscate a crevasse from Mother Nature.” He lifted the binoculars, scanning the bearing toward the Magnetic South Pole, their direction of travel. A slight ridge to the left signaled a possible crevasse.

  “Liam?”

  “That’s me.”

  “See that pressure ridge couple of klicks away?”

  “Got it.”

  I want you to run a straight set of tracks with the Taiga, right toward the pressure ridge. Right up to it. I’m hoping there’s a crevasse running parallel to it. If so, we can bridge over it using the aluminum connectors we ripped off from the Russians. I want it to appear we found nothing but a pressure ridge and ran the Taigas right over the top of it. Don’t make a bunch of tracks that we have to cover up. If we are being tracked, they’ll think we just kept going…until they’re within range and we can identify friend or foe. I’m so irritable, I’m inclined to just open up on them, regardless.”

  “Yeah, baby.” Liam did a little ice dance.

  Lenny nodded, his gaze turning deadly. “Challenge SEALs, pay the price.”

  Beckam added, “Slow learners awarded lead crowns with complimentary 5.56-millimeter thorns.”

  “Ouch,” said Lenny said. “Glad you’re on our side, Boss.”

  “Yeah, well, something about being dropped into a meat grinder and hung out to dry has soured my normally sweet disposition.”

  ✽✽✽

  “We’re in business,” Beckam said.

  Lenny had given a wave and a double thumbs-up signal after checking out the pressure ridge and crevasse.

  “Let’s get after it, Frogs,” Beckam said, simultaneously checking on Frantino who was lying comfortably inside the toboggan.

  Liam climbed aboard the Taiga and waited for Beckam to lead. Once Beckam had pulled forward, Liam realigned his Taiga so his tracks lined up exactly with Beckam’s.

  Several minutes later, Beckam idled up to within ten meters of Lenny’s position at the edge of the crevasse. He shut down the Taiga and walked over to where Lenny Clay stood. The crevasse measured a little less than two meters wide and more than ten meters deep. Even better than Beckam had hoped.

  “Watch out, Boss. That first step is a killer,” Lenny said.

  Beckam nodded. “Excellent choice, Mr. Clay.”

  “We can use the crevasse to set up an effective ambush.”

  “You won’t get that lucky, Len. But you’re right. Lethal bad guy set up. I wouldn’t want to be on the incoming side. You two unload the aluminum bridging.”

  Minutes later, a rainbow-shaped aluminum bridge nearly three meters long and a meter and half wide joined the two sides of the crevasse. The Clays secured the bridge with ice screws, courtesy of the Russians.

  “Let’s get one Taiga across,” Beckam said.

  Lenny wore a harness and climbing line attached to an ice screw with the line threaded and anchored. Should the Taiga decide to take a dive to the bottom of the crevasse, Lenny and the aluminum bridge would be saved to fight again another day.

  Once on the other side, Lenny shielded his eyes, and studied the barren ice leading out toward the Trans-Antarctic-Highway. “How are we going to camo the snow machines? There’s no way they won’t spot these miles away.”

  “No need, Len.” Beckam pointed in the direction of travel. “You’re taking my rig with Danny. We’ll load the Taiga and toboggan to the gunnels with fuel, food, and meds. You’ll navigate to the Transverse, solo, make a left turn and get Danny to Amundsen-Scott as fast as you can, keeping him comfortable. We’re gonna dump the remaining two Taigas in the crevasse. Even with camo, the snow machines would be spotted by a trained eye using binoculars in a hot minute.”

  Lenny hesitated, and then said, “Boss, I can’t do that…”

  Beckam held up a hand. “That’s an order, Lenny.”

  Lenny nodded, the look on his face grim. “This operation just keeps getting better. I can’t wait to see what’s coming next.”

  Liam grinned. “Tell me about it, bro. I’m the one who has to stay here.”

  “Yeah. But at least you have a chance to kill some commies.”

  Beckam said, “If we are being tracked by the Russians, and we do this right, there’s a good chance we take out the entire patrol, leaving us with fresh Taigas. If friendlies; we high-five, tell war stories, and ride to Amundsen-Scott like Patton into Messina. If it turns into a cluster, you know where we are. Get Danny medical, then haul ass back with the cavalry, if you find any and rescue our asses.”

  Beckam pointed at the aluminum bridge. “You wondered how we were gonna make this work. We unfasten the bridge and force it down into the crevasse, anchor it with some line and screws. Voila. We’ve got a fighting position.”

  Liam shouldered his weapon. “That’s why you’re the boss.”

  “Inventory the weapons; ours and whatever we poached from the Russian drop. I want to see exactly what kind of toys and ammunition we’re bringing to the party.”

  Beckam worked with Lenny Clay, loading all the fuel, extra food, blankets, and water strapped behind Lenny on the passenger pillion and around Danny in the toboggan. When done, Beckam knelt at the head of the toboggan where Danny lay semi-conscious.

  “I’m sending you ahead with Lenny to recon and then take—with extreme violence, if necessary—Amundsen.”

  Danny Frantino reached a shaky hand out from underneath the blankets. He replied in a weak voice. “You got it, Boss. We’ll show those civilians how it’s done.”

  Beckam nodded, his eyes bright, steely. “Make sure Lenny doesn’t drink up all the booze. We’re showing up right behind you.”

  “I can’t promise we won’t be drunk as skunks, draped with adoring and lonely glasses-wearing, uptight, female scientists with a SEAL crush—other than that, you bring it, Boss. We’ll be waiting.”

  Beckam leaned down and kissed Danny Frantino on the forehead, then he stood and said, “Put the spurs to it, Frog.”

  Lenny gave his brother a bear hug, then Beckam. “Kill everything in front of you, Boss,” he said. “Then bring it home.”

  Chapter 39

  It was dark when Hawar gave the order to move out from the compound. Even at the altitude of five thousand feet, it was ice-cold, and windy. Jack wore down-lined climbing pants and parka. Hawar had given him traditional clothing to wear over the top of his climbing gear. Even in the dark, they would pass villagers on the move to and from Doğubeyazıt.

  Having a westerner tagging along would raise questions and be hazardous not just for Jack, but for Hawar and his sons, should someone decided the western infidel would make a profitable target. The idea was to get up and down Ararat quietly. If the Kurds had to pull out automatic weapons and engage in a firefight, likely killing bandits, jihadists, profiteers or other, it would create more than a few problems.

  Hawar and his sons Kajir, Camir, and Bazi led two horses loaded down with food and weapons. From what Jack saw, there was way more, of both, than would be required for this fast turn-around. Hawar must have a weapons
and food stash somewhere on the shoulders of Ararat. Hawar’s compound was less than eight kilometers from the base of Ararat. It seemed they’d just started when they started climbing up a steep grade, following a series of paths and trails.

  There was no moon, but the skies were crystal clear, and the stars, brighter than you’d ever see near a city, or at lower altitude provided enough light to navigate the well-worn paths leading up and down the mountain. Jack wondered for just how many thousands of years, had this footpath been used by people? Even the stone was worn into steps in places from where people had been wearing at them since the beginning of civilization.

  At just after four in the morning, Hawar told Jack the dawn was nearing and that it was time to stop. Hawar shouted at Kajir, who was walking the lead horse up the steep trail. Kajir acknowledged with a wave, and turned off the trail, cutting across the rock, until he linked up with another trail a hundred meters to the right.

  Hawar shouted again, pointing more toward the right. Kajir led the horse up a twisting switchback, while Jack did his best to keep sight of the young Kurd in the darkness.

  Suddenly, Kajir and his horse disappeared. Jack stopped, then turned toward Hawar. The Kurd urged him on with a hand wave. The switchback trail disappeared into the mouth of a massive rock overhang. The overhang led into a shallow cavern that appeared to cut fifty meters into the mountainside.

  Hawar lit an ancient gas lantern and the cavern lit up in a soft glow. Protected and out of the howling winds that were driving the wind-chill well below zero, the grotto seemed warm and secure. Several wooden tables lined the walls, along with chairs, blankets and a tubful of cookware. Stacked along the rock walls, wooden boxes overflowed with weapons and ammunition of nearly every kind, Jack imagined. He’d been right guessing that Hawar was using Jack’s climb as a dual purpose expedition.