“Maria, feel like taking a break?” asked Mitchell, letting go of the sled. When she didn’t respond, he looked over and saw her staring down intently at her laptop. “Find something?”
“Yes!” screamed out Maria, jumping up into the air. Full of excitement, she ran over beside Mitchell and showed him the image on the computer screen.
“What is it?” asked Mitchell.
“It’s the heat shield,” said Maria with a smile a mile wide.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” replied Maria. “It’s too near the surface of the ice to have come from the other wreck, and it conforms to the size and shape of the probe’s heat shield. My God, it’s really here.”
Mitchell looked at the image on the screen. It looked like a thick tire trapped in the ice. If Maria said that it was the heat shield, who was he to argue with her?
“How far under the ice is the heat shield?” asked Mitchell.
“Just over a meter, not half as bad as I had first envisioned,” said Maria, still smiling.
Mitchell turned to his colleagues and told them to head back to the camp, fix lunch, and return with it. They were going to work through the afternoon. Two hours later, they found several of the probe’s antennae that had been ripped off when it was dragged across the glacier by its parachutes. Jackson and McMasters stopped marking the ice behind them with flags; instead, they hovered near Maria like a pair of curious kids, peering over her shoulder, watching as each new discovery was made. Another hour passed, when suddenly Maria told them to stop what they were doing and look down at the screen on the GPR.
“My God,” said Mitchell when he saw the twisted and bent debris of the missing seaplane resting at a steep angle under the ice.
“There must have been a deep crevice here at one time,” surmised Maria. “The plane must have slid along the ice until it came to a halt inside the fissure.”
“What is that odd shape beside the plane?” asked Mitchell, pointing to a gray area on the screen.
“The GPR is reading a void in the ice. A cave or gap, perhaps,” said Maria.
“Poor bastards probably died on impact,” said Jackson, shaking his head as he looked at the image on the screen.
“Maria, what’s that?” asked McMasters, pointing at an object on the screen.
Maria let out a low whistle. “That, gentlemen, is the remainder of the return vehicle. You can see the distinct cylindrical shape where the soil sample would be stored and the smudge on the screen beside it has to be its parachutes trapped with it under the ice.”
“How deep would you say it is?” asked Mitchell.
“It’s a little deeper than the heat shield. There must have been a depression in the ice when it finally came to rest. I’d say that it’s sitting at just under two meters under the ice.”
“Child’s play,” said Jackson sarcastically.
“Quit whining. We have plenty of power tools,” said Mitchell. “Shouldn’t take us more than a few hours to dig it out, and then we can all go home.”
Maria smiled at the thought of going home. “No offense to you fine gentlemen, but you could all use a good shower.”
“I don’t stink that bad,” complained Jackson, pretending to take a quick smell under his fleece top.
“Yeah, trust me, she’s right. You do,” said Mitchell to his friend.
“Ryan, I think it’s too late in the day to start digging,” said McMasters, looking over at the gray horizon.
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” replied Mitchell. “I’ll make a few calls after supper. We’ll have an early night and get up at dawn tomorrow morning. We can get right to work and with a little bit of luck, we’ll be back on board the Southern Star tomorrow evening and on our way home.”
“Amen to that,” added Maria.
As they all walked back to their camp, no one noticed McMasters reach into a jacket pocket and press a button on a small, but powerful transmitter that he had hidden there. Within minutes, a ship that had been waiting silently two hundred kilometers away turned north and began to sail at full speed for Bouvet Island.
The next morning, the sun crept up on the horizon, bathing the sky in a deep-pink hue. With a cup of steaming-hot coffee in his hand, Mitchell walked over and looked down at the spot in the ice where the recovery vehicle was entombed. For a few minutes, he pondered their next move. For tools, they had a metal tripod with a heavy-duty winch for lifting the device out of the ice, a couple of chainsaws, several axes, and a gas-powered drill. Although Jackson was keen on it, explosives were out of the question. They couldn’t risk damaging the probe.
“Ideas?” said Mitchell, looking over at his companions.
“As I see it, we can cut out a large square using the chainsaws and then hack our way down from there,” said Jackson.
“It’ll have to be big enough for a couple of men to stand in while they work,” added McMasters. “We can take turns chipping away the ice.”
Mitchell looked over at Maria, who was covered from head to toe in warm clothing in the cold morning air.
She pulled down her scarf so she could be heard. “I’ve never done anything like this before. The key thing to remember is not to damage the outer casing of the recovery vehicle. We’ll have to leave it covered with several inches of ice when we pack it away. Houston’s people will undoubtedly be better suited than we are to complete the retrieval process back home in the States.”
“Makes sense,” said Mitchell. “Once we have it up on the surface, I’ll call Captain Serrano. He can have a container flown over to us. We can put the probe in there and keep it on ice until we reach port in Argentina.”
“Okay then, watch out!” said Jackson, firing up one of the chainsaws. With a loud roar from the powerful cutting tool’s engine, Jackson effortlessly cut into the ice. Chips of ice flew skyward as Jackson began to carve out an area for them to stand on while they dug for the probe.
After several hours of backbreaking work, they had dug down more than a meter; the recovery vehicle could be seen resting in the ice, as could the cracked-open tail section of the doomed flying boat. All three men stood silent and stared down into the back of the plane clearly visible through the ice. A chill ran up Mitchell’s spine as he thought of the doomed pilots probably still trapped in their seats.
Maria walked over and dug out her camera from her parka pocket. “Could you gentlemen please climb out of the hole? I need to take some pictures of the plane’s tail section for the British and Norwegian authorities.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Mitchell, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I could use a drink.”
“Me too,” added Jackson. “Are you buying?”
“Only if you like water.”
“Cheapskate,” replied Jackson as he climbed out of the hole and pulled Mitchell up onto the glacier surface.
Mitchell was pleased to see that there wasn’t a cloud in sight. If the weather had turned on them, it would be doubtful if the Southern Star’s helicopter would be able to fly over to pick them up later in the day.
McMasters handed Mitchell a cup of water.
Mitchell thanked him, quickly gulped down the drink, and asked for a refill. For a brief second, Mitchell thought he heard a noise in the distance. He slowly turned his head and looked out over the glacier. A couple of seconds later, he heard it again; it was the unmistakable sound of a helicopter’s rotor blades cutting through the air.
Mitchell looked over at McMasters and asked, “Did Serrano call and say that he was sending the helicopter over early?”
McMasters shook his head. “The phone hasn’t rung the whole time I’ve been up here.”
“Odd, the sound seems to be coming from the south,” said Jackson. “Our ship is anchored to the north of the island.”
“Perhaps the pilot is taking the scenic route,” said McMasters.
A moment later, an all-gray Huey helicopter popped up on the horizon. Flying barely meters above the glacier, the helicopter, like a massive bird of p
rey, flew straight towards them.
“That’s not ours,” said Jackson.
“Argentine Navy?” asked McMasters.
“They don’t use Hueys,” said Mitchell. “Only their army does and we’re way too far away from the mainland for one to fly here. This is really odd.”
Within seconds, the helicopter was over the dig site, hovering in the air for a moment while the pilot selected a flat spot to put down.
Mitchell’s gut told him that something was about to happen. He quietly cursed the Norwegians and their no-weapons rule. A second later, he turned his head to block the bitterly cold wind whipped up by the helicopter’s rotor blades as it descended.
The moment the landing struts touched the ice the helicopter switched off its engine and the side doors were flung open. Four armed men wearing chemical warfare suits jumped down onto the glacier and ran straight at Mitchell’s team.
Jackson went for an axe.
A shot rang out.
Ice flew up into the air, mere millimeters from Jackson’s hand.
Slowly standing back up, Jackson raised his hands.
“Don’t move,” warned one of the men as he pointed his weapon at Mitchell’s stomach. The rest of the armed men quickly took up positions covering Jackson and McMasters.
One of the men bent down and dragged Maria out of the hole in the ice. Terrified, she was roughly pushed over beside Jackson, who glared at the intruders as he stepped in front of Maria and protected her with his body.
Mitchell was stunned. The last thing he could have ever imagined were intruders in protective clothing descending up the island. He’d expected one of Houston’s competitors to find out what was going on and come snooping around, but not this. “What do you want?” Mitchell asked the man pointing a gun at him.
“The probe,” replied the man, his voice muffled under his gas mask “Do you have it?”
Mitchell knew there was no point in lying. “Not yet. It’ll take about an hour, maybe two to finish digging it out.”
“Then I suggest that you and Nate get back to work,” said McMasters as he pulled out a 9mm pistol from his jacket and pointed it at Mitchell’s head.
“You lousy son of a bitch,” swore Jackson.
“Maria, move over here by me,” ordered McMasters.
“You’re going to kill me,” said Maria, her voice full of fear.
“Hardly. I need you to positively identify the probe once it is out of the ice,” replied McMasters.
Maria hesitated.
“Maria, now!” yelled McMasters.
Shaking like a leaf, Maria stepped out from behind Jackson. Grabbed by one of the men, she was dragged over to McMasters.
“If you harm one hair on her head, I’ll tear your heart out with my bare hands,” growled Jackson.
“Please, Nate, you are in no position to threaten me or anyone else with your foolish heroics. Now get to work or I’ll shoot Mitchell in the gut. You can watch him writhe in agony until he dies,” said McMasters coldly as he turned the barrel of his pistol in Mitchell’s direction.
“Easy does it, McMasters, or whatever your name is, we’ll do as you say,” said Mitchell as calmly as he could.
The air was electric; all it would take was a spark for things to turn deadly in the blink of an eye. Mitchell slowly bent down and grabbed an ice pick. Looking over at Jackson, he said, “Nate, pick up your axe and get back in the hole.”
With a look that could kill in his eyes, Jackson nodded, picked up his axe and climbed back down into the hole, beginning to chip away at the ice. A couple of moments later, Mitchell joined him. Side by side, they hacked away, both knowing that the instant the probe was out of the ice, they would all be killed.
“Any ideas?” Jackson asked under his breath.
“None yet,” replied Mitchell. “Don’t dig too fast; I need time to work out a plan.” Looking down at his feet, Mitchell could see down into the damaged tail section of the lost plane. “Nate, move a bit away from the probe and see if you can’t make an opening right above the plane.”
“Captain, I like your creativity, but I don’t think it’ll fly.”
“You’re right, but if all else fails, it just became part of my escape plan,” said Mitchell with a rakish grin.
Jackson adjusted his position. With a loud grunt, he brought his axe down onto the ice, sending chips flying everywhere. If Mitchell had a plan, not matter how harebrained it was, Jackson would dig clear through the glacier if he had to.
Ninety minutes later, with a thick metal chain wrapped around the ice-shrouded probe, Mitchell and Jackson handed their axes up to the guards above them and climbed out of the hole. Their shirts were soaked in perspiration.
Mitchell was surprised to see that McMasters had changed into a chemical suit. However, he had left it undone around the neck. His gas mask hung down on his chest.
“Move over there,” ordered an armed guard, indicating to a spot a few meters away from the hole. With a shrug of his shoulders, Mitchell and Jackson did as they were told.
McMasters, still holding Maria by the arm, stepped back from the block of ice as two of his men hauled it up.
Mitchell saw the obvious fear McMasters and the others had for the ice-covered probe, and he wondered just what was hidden inside the device. It had been standard practice in the early days of the Apollo program to quarantine the astronauts when they returned from the Moon. However, it was dropped when it was shown that they weren’t carrying any extraterrestrial pathogens with them from the Moon’s surface.
McMasters said, “Maria, I want you to confirm that this is the probe we were looking for.” He let go of her arm and roughly pushed her towards the ice-encrusted return vehicle.
Maria stumbled forward. A second later, she got her footing and walked tentatively towards the block of ice dangling underneath the tripod. She stooped down and rubbed her hand on the ice, so she could better see the probe. For a few nervous seconds, Maria muttered to herself in Russian and then turned to look towards McMasters. “There’s a plaque in Cyrillic on the side of the recovery vehicle. I can’t read it all but what I can see identifies it as Luna 15’s return vehicle.”
“Are you completely sure?” asked McMasters.
“Yes, I have no doubt that we’ve found what we came for,” replied Maria.
“Thanks,” said McMasters. In the blink of an eye, he brought up his pistol and shot Maria in the chest.
For a moment, she stood there looking over at McMasters. Her lips moved but never made a sound. With a look of disbelief in her eyes, Maria dropped to her knees and fell facefirst onto the ice, dead.
“You stupid bastard!” snarled Mitchell. “You didn’t have to kill her. You have what you came for.”
“Yes, I do,” said McMasters smugly. “Now if you would place the probe in the container off to your left, we can be on our way.”
Mitchell gritted his teeth in anger. He turned his head and saw a robust metal box sitting on the ice. It looked custom made to fit the return vehicle.
“What if I say no?” said Mitchell.
“Then I’ll shoot you both where you stand.”
Mitchell turned his head and looked into Jackson’s eyes. The man looked as if he were ready to go berserk at any second and take as many of McMaster’s men with him before he fell under a hail of bullets.
Both men knew that they had minutes to live.
Mitchell said, “Nate, go over and drag the box to me while I lower the probe onto the ice.”
“Whatever you say,” replied Jackson. He slowly walked over to the container, got down behind it and tried to push it. It didn’t budge. It was an act. He could have easily pushed the box by himself. Jackson tried again, let out a deep grunt and then looked over at the nearest guard. “Hey buddy, wanna give me a hand?”
“Do it,” ordered McMasters.
The man slung his assault rifle on his back, walked over to the front of the box and pulled while Jackson pushed it over towards Mitchell.
“Bring it over in front of me,” said Mitchell.
Jackson and the guard brought the container over to Mitchell. He popped the lid open and stepped to one side.
Mitchell maneuvered the probe over the open box and started to lower it slowly into the heavily reinforced case.
“Hurry up,” called out McMasters. “We haven’t got all day.”
“You’re free to come over here and do this yourself,” replied Mitchell.
“No thanks, Mitchell, just pick up the damn pace.”
“Someone’s in a hurry to leave,” muttered Jackson under his breath.
Mitchell tugged on the heavy metal chain, swore, and looked over at his friend. “Nate, give me a hand with this.”
Jackson moved over beside Mitchell and placed his hands on the chain.
“When I drop this into the box, I want you to take out the guard,” whispered Mitchell.
“My pleasure.”
Jackson took a couple of steps away from Mitchell and moved towards the guard who had helped push the box over.
Mitchell let all of the tension out of the chain and the ice-covered probe dropped unceremoniously down into the container.
“Steady on,” said the guard, his attention fixed on the probe.
With lightning fast reflexes, Jackson swung his right arm over and smashed his hand into the man’s throat. His chemical suit didn’t help him in the slightest. In less than a second, his windpipe was shattered.
Jackson pivoted on his feet, reached over, and pulled the dying man’s M4 carbine from his hands. He swiftly dropped to one knee behind the container, flipped the safety off with his thumb, and took aim at the nearest guard. He pulled back on the trigger and felt the weapon fire. Through the gun’s sights, he saw the guard tumble to the ground with blood spraying from a hole blasted in his neck.
“Two down, three to go,” said Mitchell, wishing he had also had a weapon.
Both men had expected a barrage of fire to come their way; instead, only the sound of the helicopter’s engine revving up greeted them. Mitchell warily peered out from behind the box and was surprised to see McMasters and the two surviving thugs scrambling back on board their helicopter. He was about to say something to Jackson, when he saw why they had left in such a hurry: mounted on the side door of the helicopter was a heavy machine gun.
Hellfire Page 9