Hellfire

by Richard Turner

  “Sir, what does this have to do with your coming here today?” politely asked O’Reilly, wishing that Houston would get to the point.

  “General, to be blunt, that probe has everything to do with why I am here today,” said Houston. “Folks, the Luna 15 probe didn’t crash into the Moon. It landed as planned and a sample was drilled out of a nearby rock. The sample, weighing a mere one hundred grams, was placed in the probe’s return vehicle and launched back towards the Earth.”

  “Then why was it reported as a failure?” asked Jackson.

  “Because just like in sports, there’s no glory in coming in second place,” said Houston. “When the boys in Moscow crunched the numbers, they saw that their probe was going to arrive a few hours after Apollo 11 made it home. So they decided to scrub the mission and say that they crashed it rather than admit that they got licked.”

  “What happened to the return vehicle and its sample?” asked Mitchell.

  “It was reprogrammed to burn up in the atmosphere,” explained Houston. “However, I recently obtained information that proves that it didn’t burn up as planned. Instead, it landed somewhere in the South Atlantic.”

  “The South Atlantic is a mighty big place, sir,” said Mitchell. “Besides, unless it soft-landed somewhere safe it’s going to be sitting on the bottom of the ocean under several kilometers of water.”

  Houston smiled. “I know precisely where it landed, and boys, it’s sitting out there just waiting for someone to go and pick it up.”

  “Where did it land?” asked O’Reilly.

  “On Bouvet Island,” said Houston, slapping the table.

  Jackson shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Donaldson said, “It’s an ice-covered island that is now a Norwegian dependency and is the remotest island in the world.”

  “I guess that’s why you’re in the intelligence section, Mike,” said Jackson. “You’ve memorized a ton of UFI.”

  “Sir, why is this probe so important to you?” asked O’Reilly. If his people were going to go looking for a missing piece of Russian hardware, he wanted to know why, or he wasn’t going to sign off on the mission.

  “General, when I first learned the truth behind the Luna 15 probe from a contact in Russia, I grew intrigued. So I bought a copy of the original flight log which contained all of the technical data that the probe sent back to earth,” explained Houston. “The Soviets thought that they had destroyed every shred of evidence proving that Luna 15 had successfully landed on the Moon. However, one of the mission’s technicians secretly kept copies of everything. What the Soviets didn’t realize, or perhaps more likely didn’t care about at the time, was that the sample they dug out of the rock was almost pure platinum.”

  Donaldson thought about it for a moment. “Platinum is one of the rarest elements found on earth. Annually, only a few hundred metric tons are dug up. Eighty percent of the world’s supply is in South Africa, and we all know that country is none too stable these days.”

  “According to my scientist, after studying the data sent back by Luna 15, they concluded that there could be tons of it sitting just below the surface of the Moon waiting to be mined,” said Houston enthusiastically. “Now what I’d like to do is hire you gents to go down to Bouvet Island and find that probe for me. It’s essential that before I spend several hundred million dollars designing and launching a probe to the Moon to mine for platinum I want to be one hundred percent certain that what the Russkies found up there truly was platinum. The data says it is, but until I have the sample examined here on earth by an American, and not some goddamned Russkie scientist, there’ll always be an element of doubt in my mind.”

  O’Reilly was intrigued. “Sir, before we agree to this assignment there a couple of things that need to be clarified.”

  “Sure, what’s bothering you, General?”

  “First off—why us? Looking for missing space probes is not what we do on a daily basis.”

  “Fred Ward, my senior vice-president of operations, suggested you to me. He said he knew you from his time in the army.”

  O’Reilly grinned. Fred Ward had commanded a special operations aviation regiment when O’Reilly was the commanding officer of Delta Force. “How is Fred these days?”

  “He’s put on a few pounds and lost most of his hair. He looks like a monk if you ask me.”

  “I doubt he’s changed that much.”

  “No, he’s still full of piss and vinegar. That’s why I hired him. With him running operations, we’ve been able to double our space launch capabilities for the coming year.”

  Mitchell leaned forward and said, “Mister Houston, I have to agree with the general. This isn’t in our job description.”

  “I was told that this was an organization that could get things done and could be counted on to do it discreetly, with a minimum of fuss,” said Houston.

  “That is all true,” agreed O’Reilly.

  “Also, folks, I don’t want anybody jumping my claim. Industrial espionage is huge in my line of business. I have no doubt that my competitors will come sniffing around once they figure out what is going on.”

  O’Reilly said, “Surely the return vehicle is still the property of the Russian government. There’d be hell to pay if they found out that someone had taken possession of some of their property. Also, any expedition on Norwegian territory would have to be cleared by their government.”

  Houston smiled. “General, you and your people needn’t worry about a thing. I own Luna 15, lock, stock, and barrel. I bought it from the Russian government last year. Therefore, any part of the probe is mine to do with as I please. As far as the current Russian government is concerned, they think that I must be some kind of lunatic to buy the crashed remains of an old probe still sitting up there on the Moon. As for the Norwegians, I have already obtained the necessary permits to retrieve my property from Bouvet Island. As long as we remove only what belongs to me, the Norwegians are okay with you poking about on their island.”

  Jackson said, “No disrespect, sir, but I doubt that it’s just lying out there waiting for us to come along and pick it up.”

  “It could be under meters of ice,” added Donaldson. “Some glaciers gain up to thirty centimeters of new ice per year.”

  “You’re both right,” said Houston. “When I learned where it had come down, I had one of my satellites pass over the island. Normally, it looks for oil. However, a simple reprogramming of its mission parameters and, wouldn’t you know it, my satellite found three possible spots not too deep under the ice where the return vehicle could be located.”

  Mitchell looked over at O’Reilly. He could see in O’Reilly’s eyes that he was beginning to warm up to the idea of sending his team to look for the probe. “Sir, the assignment appears pretty straightforward. Logistics will the biggest problem that I can foresee.”

  Houston jumped in. “Gents, I’ve taken the liberty of hiring an Argentinean ship which is currently being outfitted in Buenos Aires and should be ready to sail in the next seventy-two hours. I’ve been told that her captain has sailed the waters around Bouvet Island many times and is an old hand in the South Atlantic.”

  Mitchell glanced at Jackson, who noncommittally shrugged his shoulders. If Mitchell decided that a trip inside a raging volcano was part of the mission, Jackson would have followed him.

  Mitchell looked over at his boss. “Sir, Sam and Gordon are back home at her parents’ place. They’re helping Sam’s mother clean up her late grandmother’s old home. I don’t expect them back for another week.”

  “Gents, if manpower is an issue, I can hire a few men to help out,” said Houston.

  “Perhaps,” said O’Reilly. He would never say it around a client, but he preferred to use his own people. It was safer that way. The element of uncertainty was removed when he used his own trusted and highly trained personnel. “Ryan can take a look through our personnel files. I’m sure he can find a couple of suitable replacements.”

&nb
sp; “Excellent, so you’ll take the assignment?” said Houston, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Let’s take a quick break and then continue this discussion in my office,” said O’Reilly to Houston.

  Mitchell, Jackson, and Donaldson knew what was coming next and respectfully stood while O’Reilly escorted Houston out of the room.

  The instant the door closed Mitchell chuckled. “Say, Mike, how come you don’t talk like that?”

  “I’ve worked hard to lose my Texas twang,” said Donaldson. “Air Force Academy was hell enough without sounding like you had just walked off the farm.”

  “Damned Russkies,” said Mitchell, doing an impersonation of Houston.

  “Good thing Yuri wasn’t here,” said Jackson. “Speaking of him, do you think he can meet us in Buenos Aires before the ship leaves? That’s if the General takes the mission.”

  “I don’t know. It’s really short notice and I haven’t heard from him in weeks,” replied Mitchell. Ever since meeting a young and beautiful police officer in Sierra Leone, Yuri had been extremely hard to reach. “Regardless, if I were you, Nate, I’d go shopping for some long underwear tonight. You just know the General and Mister Houston are busy working out the business details as we speak.”

  Jackson shivered from his head to his toes.

  “Well then, gents, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best head below and have Fahimah dig up everything she can on the Luna 15 probe and Bouvet Island for you two fine Northern gentlemen,” said Donaldson, playing up his Texan accent.

  Fahimah Nazaria, a young Iraqi-American with multiple degrees in Middle-Eastern studies, was a favorite of Mitchell’s team and had worked closely with them, sometimes even coming out into the field.

  Mitchell grabbed Jackson by the arm. “Come on, let’s see Tammy and get a printout of all the available personnel in Polaris who has experience with this sort of mission.”

  “You know, I really don’t like the cold,” griped Jackson.

  “Quit whining. Seriously, what could possibly go wrong on the remotest island in the world?”

  “Do you want me to make a list?” said Jackson as he reached for a pad of paper.

  8

  Maliy Lyakhovsky Island

  Northern Siberia, Russia

  Police Senior Lieutenant Anton Petrenko ignored the blustery, cold wind whipping through the darkened and eerily deserted camp. He was wearing a thick, blue police parka, with a ubiquitous brown fur cap jammed firmly on his head. His world-weary, bloodshot, slate-gray eyes moved from side to side as he studied every detail. He opened the door to the camp’s makeshift office, stepped inside and turned on his flashlight. He swore when he found a couple of his newer men standing inside trying to avoid the frigid wind. “If you don’t get outside right now, you’re all going to spend the next month working double shifts!” yelled Petrenko. As one, they scrambled back outside to look for clues.

  A thirty-year veteran of the Russian Police, Petrenko had seen his country change from a Communist superpower to a European power that was governed by crooked former KGB men. The more things change, the more they stay the same, mused Petrenko. His deputy, Police Senior Sergeant Vladimir Vladov, had only hours ago woken him from a deep, vodka-induced sleep. Petrenko had to get his deputy to repeat the news a couple of times before it took hold in his fog-filled mind. Vladov reported that a police helicopter pilot had just flown over Maliy Lyakhovsky Island and found it abandoned. There were no signs of the almost fifty Russian and American students and their local support staff to be found anywhere. Petrenko roused himself out of his warm bed. Within an hour, Petrenko, his deputy Vladov, and a handful of junior policemen had commandeered the pilot and his helicopter and immediately flown back to Maliy Lyakhovsky.

  They landed in a blowing snowstorm. Petrenko ordered his men to spread out and keep a watchful eye for any of the missing people. He doubted that he would find any of them alive, but if they were lucky, they just might stumble upon their frozen corpses.

  The camp’s generator had run out of gas and ceased working several days ago, plunging the camp into complete darkness.

  So far, they had found nothing. All of the tents were empty. The people’s sleeping bags, their clothes, and personal possessions still lay about inside the vacant tents. It was as if they had all just decided to go for a walk in the sub-zero temperatures.

  None of what he saw made any sense.

  He shone his flashlight around and began to dig through the paperwork lying about on the desks inside the main office. Petrenko didn’t see anything that would make him believe that anything other than a routine dig under the ice had been going on. He shook his head at the growing mystery and made his way back outside. Petrenko could see the light from his men’s flashlights, like so many lighthouses, reaching out into the dark.

  The helicopter pilot walked over to Petrenko. He looked as white as a ghost. His hands were shaking. “Sir, no one had heard a word from the site in over a week. That was why I had decided to fly over the camp to check on the people working there. What I found was as welcoming as a graveyard.”

  Petrenko nodded his head. The pilot was right. The camp was dead.

  “Sir! Sir, over here,” called out a voice in the dark.

  Petrenko turned his head. He could just make out through the swirling snowstorm his deputy standing beside a flimsy-looking wooden shack.

  Petrenko walked over. “What is it? Have you found something?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Vladov as he opened a flimsy wooden door and shone his flashlight down inside. “There’s a set of stairs cut into the ice. They lead down under the ground.”

  Petrenko stepped inside the shack. With his flashlight held out in front of him, Petrenko cautiously climbed down into the pitch-black, icy tunnel system dug underneath the camp. A shiver ran up his spine. His wasn’t a superstitious man; however, it felt as if he were treading in a sacred, long-abandoned tomb.

  Behind him climbed down Vladov. “Which way?” asked Vladov, shining his flashlight down a long tunnel running off the main passageway.

  “You take that one,” replied Petrenko, pointing down the tunnel off to the side, “and I’ll take this one.”

  Petrenko walked slowly, scanning the cold floor for clues. The farther he walked, the more he became convinced that someone had swept the entire area clean. There should have been signs on the ground that someone had been inside the tunnel. Unlike the surface, where the snow could cover a man’s tracks in minutes, the tunnel was protected from the elements; yet he did not find a single sign that anyone had ever been down there.

  When Petrenko reached the end of the tunnel, he knelt down and slowly shone his flashlight along the icy wall. With his hand, he traced the outline of a square dug into the ice. Petrenko looked about; there were no other carvings in the walls.

  Something had been carefully cut out of the ice. “What did you find down here?” muttered Petrenko to himself.

  9

  Alvear Palace Hotel

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  Built in 1932, in an upscale neighborhood of Buenos Aires, the Alvear Palace Hotel catered to visiting dignitaries, celebrities, and the very rich. Designed to resemble the classiest hotels in Paris, the Alvear Palace shone bright with its highly polished floors and dark-wood interior. At over six hundred dollars a night, Mitchell was surprised that Houston had insisted on putting them up there for a couple of days before they headed out to sea. Jen had jumped at the chance to visit Argentina on someone else’s dime. She eagerly volunteered to accompany Mitchell to Buenos Aires, so she could help bring the two newest members of his team up to speed with what was going on.

  As they stepped from the elevator and out into the lobby, Jen and Mitchell took in the old-world splendor of the hotel as they strolled towards the hotel’s five-star dining room for a late breakfast. Both were dressed casually. Met at the entrance by the maître d’, Jen and Mitchell were escorted to a quiet table on the far side of the restaurant.

/>   With a smile, Nate Jackson stood and waved them over. Mitchell had never met the people they had selected to join them on this assignment. He had flown ahead to check on the arrangements for their trip out into the cold, unforgiving South Atlantic Ocean while Jackson had been left behind to chaperone the remainder of the team to Argentina.

  With Jackson at the table were the two new people who would be coming to Bouvet Island. One was a short, Hispanic woman in her late forties with curly black hair and a pair of thick glasses perched on her nose. The other was a fit-looking man in his early thirties with wavy blond hair, deep-green eyes, good looks and a chiseled chin. Mitchell knew that he was an ex-SOF operator, a U.S. Navy SEAL.

  “Morning everyone,” said Mitchell as he quickly introduced Jen and himself to the new people.

  “Maria Vega,” said the Hispanic woman with a welcoming smile on her round face.

  “Eric McMasters.” The blond-haired man didn’t look up at Mitchell. Instead, he smiled over at Jen.

  Mitchell saw the look. Before he was ready, McMasters’ hand reached over and gripped his tightly. Grinning, Mitchell played the game and squeezed back, hard, for a couple of seconds before letting go.

  “You got quite a grip there, Ryan, for an Army Ranger,” said McMasters, shaking out his aching hand.

  “Good thing you didn’t try that with Nate,” replied Mitchell as he pulled out Jen’s seat for her.

  “I’m not that dumb. He probably would have broken my hand.”

  Jackson shrugged noncommittally before taking his seat.

  “Men,” said Jen, shaking her head.

  A white-jacketed waiter came over and filled up everyone’s coffee cups before taking their breakfast order. With a nod of his head, he left them in peace.