ICE GENESIS

by Kevin Tinto

  Appanoose gave one sharp nod; Leah stepped forward as if she’d been urged on with a freshly-charged cattle prod. Easy, now, she thought, reminding herself not to instantly respond to his orders. Charlie ‘Appanoose’ Mason was all his nickname suggested, and more.

  Garrett joined her and they sat across from the shaman, precisely where the Ancients’ butts had been warming the skins on the logs not two minutes before. She badly wanted to start the conversation, asking questions about the lodge ritual. The longer she’d been awake, the more she felt the experience had been real—not some hypnotic suggestion.

  You’re doing it again, she warned herself. Do not knuckle under to the shaman.

  With a snap nod, Appanoose signaled that he was ready to begin. Leah spoke first, using a pretty strong line of semi-fluent Navajo, surprising even herself. “I want the satellite phone back,” she said, using English for “satellite phone.”

  To her shock, Appanoose gave her a single snap nod, then pointed to one of the warriors standing nearby. He spoke curtly to the warrior, who spun and sprinted for the mesa overhang. He returned less than thirty seconds later with the satellite phone in his hand. Appanoose nodded in Leah’s direction, and the warrior handed her the phone without a word.

  Garrett said, “I wish it had been that easy for me. Guess he didn’t want any interference while you were still unconscious.”

  Leah shrugged. “If he thinks I believe everything I saw, then there’d be no reason for me to use the satellite phone, except to do his bidding.”

  “He miscalculated there,” Garrett said. “That’s a first.…”

  She said, “Maybe,” while maintaining her stoic expression.

  Appanoose reached out for the satellite phone, and Leah handed it over without comment, already breaking her rule not to jump at his every command.

  Although he spoke in Navajo, Leah now understood every word he uttered. One side-effect of her lodge ritual was an unexplainable improvement in her language skills. While she might have to pick words out of a phrase before, the words were now as clear as if they’d been spoken in English.

  Appanoose held up the sat phone. “Chidí naatʼaʼí!”

  “Did you hear that, Garrett? He told me to call and get an aircraft.”

  Instead of expressing shock, Garrett simply and quietly asked Appanoose, matter-of-factly, in Navajo, “Where do you want to go?”

  “Shádiʼááhjí Honeezkʼazii.” Appanoose pointed toward the south and repeated in English. “Ant-Arc-Tikke.”

  “Chidí naatʼaʼí?” Leah asked, the frustration evident in her tone.

  “Naaki ééʼneishoodii bikin,” Appanoose replied.

  “Oh, shit,” she said, shoulders slumping. The shock of his reply had knocked the wind right out of her, emotionally.

  “Connected domes…. I guess those could be translated as ‘churches,’” Garret said. “Sounds like what you saw during the ritual.”

  “Right,” Leah said without further comment.

  “You want to tell me what you really think?” asked Garrett.

  “My gut says that Appanoose isn’t like the rest of the Ancients. I’ve even wondered if he’s really even human. If he is human, then he’s different. Was his DNA altered—beyond what we’ve already seen? Was he imprinted with information designed to be parceled out to the Ancients, as necessary for survival?”

  Seeing Garrett’s eyes go flat, she pleaded her case. “It fits the Native American culture. The shaman is the religious leader. He’s expected to know everything—even be connected with the supernatural. If the Ancients are colonists, then maybe it’s a way to acclimate them to their destiny, provide the skills necessary for survival, without, as Marko says in his Star Trek vernacular: ‘ripping the Prime Directive a new asshole.’”

  Garrett said, “Perhaps avoiding as much non-terrestrial contamination as possible. The Ancients go to the shaman for guidance, spiritual and otherwise—he has all the answers.”

  “Exactly,” Leah said. “He educates through his sermons at the Basilica, or when he needs more of a supernatural approach, he uses the lodge. I can tell you firsthand, when you’ve been through that experience, you have no doubt he’s a deity.”

  Garrett sat quiet for a moment. “Well, I suppose that leads to the next question for Noose.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You said it. Let’s ask him if he’s human.”

  She turned toward Appanoose and blurted it straight out in Navajo. “Asdzáníísh bílaʼashdlaʼii?” Simply translated: “Are you a human?”

  Instead of a reaction, Appanoose simply sat motionless, his stoic expression unchanging while Leah waited on pins and needles for his reply. He turned and looked out toward the forest, then back to Leah and Garrett. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead, suddenly stood. He wasn’t the only one who had turned their attention to the east. The entire Settlement had gotten up from the fires and were talking among themselves, walking and pointing toward the east.

  Appanoose said, “Chidí naatʼaʼí. Ahoniiʼyóí Chidí naatʼaʼí.”

  Leah stood; Garrett had done the same. “Aircraft—many aircraft,” she translated. “That can only mean on thing. Gordo ratted us out. We’ve got military helicopters inbound.”

  Chapter 49

  Grigoriy called the platoon to a halt. He lifted his binoculars while his best sniper Alexi swept the horizon using the scope on his Arctic Warfare Magnum.

  “Ochistit,” Alexi said.

  Grigoriy continued scanning without comment. Up until now, the Taiga tracks had continued in a straight line, following the magnetic azimuth toward the Magnetic South Pole—the exact compass bearing that intersected the Trans-Antarctic-Highway. But their bearing had changed slightly.

  Grigoriy consulted his map. If the Americans wanted to shorten the distance by a few kilometers to Amundsen-Scott, it might explain why they’d suddenly turned a few degrees. Although their shift was slight, it was enough to set off alarms. From what Grigoriy could tell, a pressure ridge of ice cut across the direction they’d chosen, while they easily could have continued straight on the azimuth without such an obstacle.

  Suspicious.

  “Contact?” Vasily asked, raising another pair of Swarovskis to his face.

  “No contact,” Grigory responded. “The Americans have altered their heading.” He pulled his handheld compass out of his parka. He held it out straight ahead and allowed it to settle until he had an accurate reading. It confirmed his visual observation. The Americans had turned.

  What could explain it? Contact with an aircraft, or a correction to reach coordinates for a rendezvous? Could it simply be poor navigation? A heading change due to sloppiness?

  Grigoriy slung the Swarovski binoculars around his neck.

  “Vasily. Send one man forward one-thousand meters.”

  ✽✽✽

  In addition to the SEALs’ own MP-5s and several hundred rounds of ammunition, the Russians had gratefully supplied Beckam with two Kalashnikov AK-12 assault rifles and a KBP A-91 Bullpup assault rifle. Beckam and Liam Clay sorted the weapons and set them up on a line rack they’d built down inside the crevasse. They’d anchored the aluminum bridge pieces’ side by side, a meter and half below the edge of the crevasse. Once anchored, the bridge had provided a solid fighting position.

  “Feel like you’re in France, let’s say, 1918?” Beckam asked.

  Liam Clay chuckled. “Who said World War I trench warfare ever went out of style? We’re snug as a bug in a lethal-ass rug.”

  Beckam and Liam crouched so that just the white helmets and Beckam’s binoculars stood above the crevasse rim. They’d been careful to anchor themselves to the surrounding ice. When the shit hit the fan, Beckam didn’t want either one of them tumbling off the bridge and getting wedged in the bottom of the crevasse.

  Still on Beckam’s wish list were the remote-detonated claymores. Enemy facing anti-personnel mines that shot out thousands of metal shards in a fan shape, killing or inj
uring everything within the blast fan.

  Except they didn’t have any….

  Chapter 50

  Jack rested a pair of Hawar’s worn binoculars against the rock to steady the view and did his best to focus on the airfield. It was located in a relatively barren and desolate section of Iran, about twenty kilometers across the border from Turkey.

  Built during the Iran-Iraq War, along with scores more in the desert, it had little of itself remaining, from what Jack saw. A rusted water tower and a twisted clump of steel that might have been the base for a control tower, possibly the target of an Iraq bomber. The fact that there was damage to the control tower was disheartening. It probably meant that the runway had been bombed as well, rendering it unusable—then and today.

  Jack lowered the binoculars. “I can’t see if the runway’s intact. I’ll have to sneak over there and check it out. Make sure aircraft can land.”

  Hawar shook his head, looking like a disapproving school principal after you’ve been caught shooting spitwads across the room during band practice. “Where did you learn to take such risks? Certainly not from me.”

  He turned and motioned Kajir over and spoke with him in Kurd, pointing at the airfield, explaining what Jack had said. Kajir responded, then shouldered an AK-47, motioned at Camir, who did the same. Hawar handed them a handheld Garmin GPS unit that featured topography maps, not roads and cities. He switched it on, checked that it had signal, then gave it to Kajir, who stuffed it inside a gear bag he carried with extra AK magazines.

  Jack handed the binoculars to Hawar, and the Kurd expertly surveyed the region. He pulled the binoculars down and waved his sons forward with a sweep of his hand. The brothers jogged toward the airfield, weapons over their shoulders, while Hawar minded them with the binoculars.

  Hawar’s sons would get a GPS waypoint from the center of the runway—critically necessary for navigating into the abandoned airfield.

  He glanced at his watch; he was already an hour past the time he told Karen he’d call back, but they couldn’t risk more than minimal communication. He needed to have all the necessary information before calling her, at least if he had any hope of suggesting a viable way for him to get out of the Middle East—alive.

  “If the runway is good,” Hawar said, smiling, “God willing, you soon will be on the way home to your wife.”

  ✽✽✽

  It had only taken Hawar’s sons a matter of minutes to cover the ground between the rock outcropping and the airfield, where they disappeared beyond the wreckage of the control tower.

  They’d been gone for more than an hour and Jack was concerned. He wanted them to do a thorough check of the runway, but more than 60 minutes seemed excessive. Hawar on the other hand, seemed at ease. He continued scanning the airfield and vicinity. Dust rooster tails plumed in the distance, kicked up by cars and trucks running on a dirt highway perhaps six kilometers away—a constant reminder they were far from out of danger.

  “See, Mr. Jack,” said Hawar, his voice rich with pride. “They are fine—and they will have your information.”

  Kajir and Camir sprinted back across the open desert toward the rocks.

  “I never doubted for second,” Jack said, releasing a long-held inner breath for the boys.

  The young men jumped over the rocks and back under the cover of the outcropping. Neither seemed winded by the sprint from the airfield, Jack noted with envy.

  They spoke with their father in rapid-fire Kurdish. Hawar nodded then pointed a finger back at the airfield, sweeping from left to right, and asked several more questions. Kajir pointed to the left and answered with a lengthy explanation.

  “Kajir says the runway is lengthy. At least three kilometers. The….” Hawar searched for the words, but instead made a horizontal motion with his hand in the meantime. “The black surface of the runway, it is in good condition. However, there are two difficulties.” He turned back to Kajir and seemed to be confirming in his own mind what his son had observed before explaining it to Jack.

  “The runway has a bomb crater—perhaps one kilometer from the end. Also, an armed vehicle was blown up near the center of the runway. Kajir and Camir, they were able to clear much of the metal—but there are several pieces, including two wheels, they could not move on their own.

  “If there were three of us, could we move the wheels and debris?”

  Hawar hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, with a strong man like yourself, Mr. Jack, it can be done.”

  Chapter 51

  After taking off from Luke’s airfield, Paulson flew northwest until he was over-flying the city of Grants, New Mexico. He decreased power and altitude, spiraling down to 10,000 feet. He programmed the auto-pilot to fly the T-38 in a lazy circle following a perimeter around the city, holding at 10,000 feet. He dug around in a gear bag and pulled out one of his ‘burner’ cell phones that he carried for just such an emergency. As he expected, at 10,000 feet he had five bars of service on the phone. By circling the city at 10,000 feet, he’d hold signal with the same towers, preventing the calls from dropping.

  He used speed dial, preprogrammed with several numbers, his assistant Karen’s, being on the top of the list. Once the call connected, he switched to speaker phone and thumbed the volume to maximum.

  “Al Paulson. Don’t tell me you’re in trouble too.”

  Paulson’s eyes opened wide. “I don’t like the sound of too? What the hell’s happening?”

  “Eight hours ago, I got a call from Jack.”

  Paulson read her hesitation right away. “That’s why I’m calling you on the burner phone. We might all have trouble. What’s going on with Jack?”

  “Where are you calling me from? There’s all kinds of background noise?”

  “I’m in Grants, New Mexico. Actually 10,000 feet above the town, in a holding pattern, so I have cell service.”

  “Well,” she said, “I’ve left at least four messages on your satellite phone and tried Mac Ridley as well.

  “I’ve got news,” he said. “That’s why I’m calling. If Jack’s in trouble, I want to hear that first.”

  “Jack is in trouble. His Ararat adventure has gone sideways. He said to tell you: ‘American soldiers had already been there’, and quote, ‘explored it from top to bottom.' Both of his satellite phones are inoperative. Like his satellite service was intentionally disabled. He’s concerned that Wheeler may be involved, as bizarre as that sounds, given everything else on that idiot’s plate. Oh—and, the Turkish military got involved. You might know more about that than me. He can’t get out of Turkey via Istanbul. He said he was nearly across the border out of Turkey, when I spoke with him.”

  “What border?”

  “With Iran. He said to tell you not to freak out, because he’s got the Kurd warlord guide and his sons for company. He assured me he was safe with the Kurds.

  “True enough,” Paulson said. “Nobody messes with those Kurdish rebels. Does he have a plan to get out?”

  “He’s hoping that his suspicions about Wheeler setting him up are paranoia, and you can arrange some kind of military extraction—perhaps near the Iraq border. Otherwise, he says there is an abandoned military airfield about twenty kilometers east of the border. Jack was headed in the direction of that airfield when we spoke.” Karen took a breath. “Little reminder here, Al. Whatever disaster Jack is embroiled in—you’re the one who convinced him to go. Not to mention, he’s risked his life numerous times to save yours…. I’d suggest you find out if Wheeler just signed his own death warrant, because I will personally cut his throat if he’s behind this….”

  “Although my news is a mystery, it likely concerns Wheeler, so we might all be on the same page.” Paulson explained what he’d found at the abandoned airfield.

  Karen fell silent for a long moment. “I always told you not to run rough-shod over Wheeler. I told you he had screws loose. But still…it’s senseless to torture and kill Stan Fischer.”

  “You’re probably right,” Paulson said. “I
didn’t cut him too much slack—still, I did everything I could to make this work. Didn’t matter. Wheeler couldn’t process it. His ego couldn’t take the slap down. Now, Fischer? He was the consummate boot-licker. I can’t see Wheeler ordering someone to torture him and take video just for after dinner entertainment. There’s something here that doesn’t add up. Big time.”

  Paulson drew a breath. “First order of business—don’t leave the executive suite of Paulson Global for any reason. Call a meeting with security. Tell them you might be getting visitors, although I doubt Federal Agents would show up at the door. Have security disable all the elevators leading to the executive floor. Move the staff on down to where they can access working elevators. Make security taste any food they bring in for you first.”

  “Al!”

  “Just kidding…. Here’s what I really need, okay?”

  He heard her signature notepad paper rustle. “Ready.”

  “I’m going to give you a list of ranking senators and congressman. You contact them with one simple code word. That word is ‘Titanic.’ But…do not call them unless you hear from me, or, you don’t hear from me. And do not say any more. If you have to do it, they’ll understand that Wheeler’s gone rogue. That right there is enough to send Wheeler down the river. Is the Citation 10 back in Westchester?”

  “Yep. All gassed up, ready for the turn-around to pick up Jack. But there’s no way you can go get him in Iran….”

  “You said it. I got Jack into this—it’s my job to get him out. You said Jack should be calling you soon. I’ll need the GPS coordinates for this Iranian airfield. Jack’ll have checked out every inch of the field and runway. Make sure you write down every detail he tells you.”

  “Is that it?”