Ice Fortress (A Jack Coulson Thriller)

by Robert B. Williams

  Four hours later, the torpedo shaped Nellie returned to the sub where its hydrojet propulsion system guided it effortlessly to the docking collar. Two red lights above Juan’s forest of monitors turned green one after the other. The first showed the AUV had docked and the second confirmed that the seal was watertight. Nellie once again rode on the back of the Barracuda, like a Remora on the back of a giant Orca.

  “Hard dock confirmed. Seal is good. Pressure is holding steady,” Juan stated needlessly. They’d all fixed their eyes on the green status lights. Opening a hatch at this depth without a proper seal would be disastrous. It would be impossible to close the hatch with the incredible pressure it would be subjected to.

  Only now could they access the AUV to swap out the battery packs and plug in to the solid state data storage arrays containing the results from its first solo voyage. Operating in pre-programmed autonomous mode meant they couldn’t stream the data live because there was no tether connecting it to the sub. Instead, they had to wait for their baby to complete the programmed grid and return to the nest before they could upload the sonar data to their systems.

  “OK, Dave, you’re the skinniest, you can have the honor of climbing into the docking chamber and refreshing the battery packs. But first, I want those data packs connected to our network so Juan can start downloading. There’s terabytes of data there and I want to see it ASAP.”

  Dave didn’t move. He looked from Juan’s rotund belly to his own slight frame and realized that his genetics and healthy eating habits had made him the ideal candidate to open a hull hatch 660 feet underwater. Tonight he was having a double helping of apple pie and cream, for sure.

  “I meant today, Dave.” Leah barked more sharply than she had intended.

  “Aye, aye Doctor.” Dave gave a mock salute and removed his headset. Even Juan raised a brow. She’d never snapped at them before. Of course, they both knew her career and any future funding from DARPA depended on this first field test. In fact, the careers of all three of them were riding on the success of this project. Big time.

  “This isn’t right,” sighed Dave Sutton as he tried to make sense of the graphics on the huge flat screen. “Dude, your software isn’t calibrated right. None of these interpretations are anywhere near accurate.”

  “Hey man, before you start blaming my software, maybe we need to take a closer look at your sonar hardware. You know, dude, the computers are only as good as the data they’re fed, right?” Juan looked to Leah for some backup.

  “Man? Dude? Are you two hipsters back in college now? Honestly, if you two kids are going to start bickering like a pair of school girls, I’ll throw you off this ship myself. Now Dave, tell me what you’re seeing that’s got your shorts all bunched up.” Leah who’d been watching the display over their shoulders leaned in for a closer look.

  “Boat,” Dave whispered under his breath.

  “He’s right,” Juan joined in, “historically a submarine is called a boat, not a ship.”

  They both looked across to the conn, where the captain did his best to look like he was studying his charts. But like the others, he was curious about seeing a part of the ocean depths not previously explored. He nodded in agreement. “Boat,” he confirmed.

  “Lord, give me strength,” Leah muttered, punching each of them gently on the arm. “Explain before I punch you for real.”

  “Okay, these are the initial sonar scans when Nellie first started pinging the ice shelf. The blue is the water, obviously, and the green above it shows the ice shelf, from which we can deduce the thickness. See here,” he froze the scrolling display, “the depth of water between Nellie and the base of the ice shelf — 580 feet.”

  “So we would assume that was correct given that we’ve programmed her to follow the contours of the shelf and cruise at that depth,” Leah said.

  “Correct. We would also assume that this green section here,” again he pointed to the paused graphic, “is also correct at a shelf thickness of 50 feet as that finding is supported by estimates based on satellite and seismic surveys in this area.”

  Dave hit the mouse to resume the scrolling display and then paused it again.

  “What on earth is that?” Leah gasped. Something in her tone piqued the captain’s interest, too and he looked up from his chart display.

  “That’s what I’m saying. It’s just not possible. What we’re seeing can’t be there. That structure simply can’t exist and there’s no suggestion of anything like it in the Arctic, either. It’s an anomaly and I’m convinced it’s a software glitch. It’s misinterpreting that data somehow.”

  Juan didn’t respond. He was too busy tapping furiously at his keyboard, debugging code and trying to find an explanation, even though the code cutter in him knew his code was good. They’d given it every test possible before releasing it. But he needed to be sure.

  “Conn, sonar,” yelled the lieutenant stationed at the Barracuda’s sonar console, “we have fish in the water.”

  “Repeat that, sonar,” responded the captain his tone plainly conveying his disbelief.

  “Fish in the water. Two torpedoes bearing two-eight-zero closing at 35 knots. Range 2,000 yards.”

  Years of training, countless drills and many naval exercises, kicked in all at once, despite his youthful appearance. In a split second, Frank Jameson the geek squad babysitter became Captain Jameson, the attack sub commander. He quickly began shouting orders.

  “Pilot, ahead flank right full rudder.”

  He then turned to the Combat System consoles, “Launch countermeasures, on my mark.”

  His eyes widened when he realized that his weapons capability had been replaced by a bunch of civilian science geeks who simply stared at him with gaping mouths.

  “Conn, Sonar. Two more fish in the water. Bearing two-eight-five and two-eight-seven. 35 knots. Range 2,000 yards.”

  “XO, sound action stations,” Jameson ordered his Executive Officer, “and take us down. Fast.”

  The XO began shouting orders at the other crew members and within seconds, the submarine rang like a bell to the sound of flood proof hatches being slammed shut, valves pulsing open and the terrifying sound of air venting and ballast tanks being rapidly filled with seawater.

  Alarms sounded. Lights flashed.

  Leah almost lost her footing as the submarine went into a sharp dive, empty soda cans on Juan’s workstation slide every which way and Dave struggled to keep Leah from falling.

  All three of them looked to the captain for reassurance that everything was all under control. The whole ‘torpedoes in the water’ thing had yet to register in their civilian brains.

  Strobing emergency lights limned the captain’s face. Gone were the GQ Magazine dimples and smile, replaced instead by the firm, angular lines of a battle ready submarine captain. With no countermeasures and no weapons with which to launch an attack, the U.S. Navy’s Silent Assassin had just become someone’s idea of target practice.

  “Who said science missions were boring,” whispered the captain as he strapped himself into his seat.

  Chapter 2

  November 8, 2017, 01:00 UTC

  Joint Defence Facility

  Pine Gap, Central Australia

  23° 47' 56.4" S 133° 44' 13.2" W

  Jack Coulson hated the heat. He hated the buzzing flies that swarmed around him. He hated swallowing mouthfuls of desert sand each time he opened his mouth. In short, he hated Australia, or more accurately, he hated the Central Australian desert. It made sense that the NSA chose to build its strategic spy satellite base there in the 1960’s at the height of the Cold War. It was in the middle of, quite literally, nowhere and far away from prying eyes and ears especially those of the Russian and Chinese spy ships that were routinely and openly intercepting transmissions.

  The sprawling facility looked as if a family of giants had abandoned a game of mini golf with its collection of mammoth golf ball like structures shielding the top secret satellite dishes within from view. Overhead s
py satellites couldn’t even see in which direction the dishes were aimed thanks to the golf balls or Radomes as they were more correctly known. The highly unorthodox appearance of the remote facility gives no clue as to its true purpose. It is well documented that Pine Gap, the CIA’s largest and most important intelligence facility, provides intelligence gathering capability with eyes over North Korea, China, Russia and the Middle East. The original intent was that Pine Gap be part of an early warning system should a foreign power launch a nuclear strike against the United States, but over time morphed into the largest intelligence listening post on earth.

  In recent years, despite the thawing of the Cold War, counter terrorism operations have greatly enhanced the operational and tactical role of the Pine Gap facility within the U.S. intelligence community while it still maintains its original surveillance monitoring function.

  “Pine Gap … where careers go to die.” Jack, one of the most experienced intelligence operatives in the Security and Intelligence Directorate and he could feel the long arm of DARPA behind his rushed posting to the middle of nowhere.

  Jack stood outside in the stifling heat wondering for the hundredth time that day who it was that he’d had pissed off so much. He might not be at the ass end of the world, but he sure as hell didn’t need an oversized radar dish to see it from where he stood. Someone above his paygrade had to have laughed his ass off when he signed Jack’s orders for transfer. He was convinced it was an administrative screw up. A typical military FUBAR screw up.

  His mood wasn’t helped any by the change of time zones together with the lack of sleep in the cold, utilitarian cabin of the C-130 that delivered him to his final destination.

  “Time to hit the chow hall, Jack?” Sam Krupsky slapped him on the back as he came up behind.

  Suddenly Jack was in the shade. Sam was a big unit. So big he blocked out the hot Australian sun as he stood beside Jack in his rumpled, sweat stained fatigues.

  “Good call. God knows how many time zones I’ve crossed in the past 48 hours. I can’t remember the last time I ate or slept. The way I’m feeling right now I’m not sure if I want a shit or a haircut. What day is it here, anyway?”

  “It’s Wednesday, one of the security detail who showed me around told me they have pork sausages and eggs benedict with bacon on Wednesdays.” Sam licked his lips at the thought.

  “Is that all you think about, Sam? Your stomach?” Jack asked lightheartedly.

  “Thinking about food is probably better than wasting time trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing here. I never thought I’d say this, but this place has to be a hundred times more boring than GITMO.” To emphasize his loathing of his current posting, he spat on the path between his feet.

  Jack crinkled his nose in disgust as the pavement oyster sizzled on the hot concrete.

  “I’m a navy man, I should be able to at least smell the ocean. What am I doing in the middle of the desert?”

  Sam had been based at Guantanamo Bay but Jack was there only briefly to make the connection to his Australian assignment. During the long haul flight from GITMO, when Sam’s head wasn’t buried in an airsickness bag, the two men learned a few things about each other. They had two things in common. Neither knew what they’d done to deserve the Pine Gap punishment. Secondly, they both hated the heat. Sam said it was because it reminded him of The Gulf. Jack just plain hated it. Period.

  Other than that, the two men were a study in contrasts. Jack was regarded by most women as ruggedly handsome and with his abundance of well groomed, jet black hair he looked more like a corporate executive than an intelligence operative. Lithe, narrow-waisted and broad shouldered, Jack had an athletic look about him, a look that was partly a function of the genes he’d been born with and partly the many hours of disciplined work in the gym. He took pride in his appearance and to the casual observer he appeared to be a man who could look after himself. Jack exuded an aura of proficiency and self-assurance that only those familiar with the rigorous training regime of an elite Special Forces unit would recognize.

  Krupsky was just a hulk of a genetic anomaly. He was huge and powerfully built, despite doing only as much PT work as the Navy required. He’d joined the Navy as soon as he was legally able with the notion that he’d like to become a Navy diver. He soon learned they didn’t make diving suits his size and had to settle for an assortment of duties over time before finding his true talent, which also happened to be his passion.

  By his own admission, Sam had a face ‘like a bashed crab’ and often joked that he ended up in a foster home because his own parents couldn’t stand to look at him. The shock of red hair that crowned the menacing lines of his face didn’t do him any favors, either, buzz cut on the sides and flat across the top.

  Ironically, the ubiquitous red dust that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction covered Sam’s boots so they almost matched his hair, making him look like some kind of demented burger clown.

  “And if this place isn’t strange enough, everyone here calls me ‘Bluey’. What’s that about?” Sam asked although it was clear he didn’t expect Jack to have any more idea than he did.

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe it’s some weird Aussie humor? Either way, my care factor is zero. I don’t plan on being here long enough to learn the local customs. Or the language.”

  “Well, it’s a stupid name. I hate it.”

  After looking down at Sam’s red, dusty boots Jack craned his neck to look him in the eyes. “Are you planning to go to the colonel’s office looking like that?” Jack’s boots, like his well-fitted uniform were spotless, despite mileage they had endured.

  “Looking like what?” Sam looked confused as he gave himself a quick once-over before making his way to the main administration building.

  The colonel was a solid and compact fireplug of a man and he clearly kept himself in shape, despite his age, which Jack guessed was mid-fifties. Old school from his combat ready boots to his high and tight haircut, the colonel had the bearing of an officer with a history of leading men through skirmishes. The white crescent shaped suture scars on his scalp hinted that the man had seen his share of action in his time. Jack was curious as to why a hardened combat veteran would be stationed at a remote intelligence facility. He was even more curious as to why both he and the oversized navy man were standing to attention before him.

  “At ease men. I’m Colonel Daniels, Chuck Daniels.” The colonel gestured for them to take a seat before taking his own.

  He gave Jack a penetrating stare. “Captain Coulson, your reputation precedes you.”

  “Reputation, sir?” An uneasiness stirred within Jack.

  “Your reputation for finding trouble, or should I say, for trouble finding you.”

  “The rumors are exaggerated, colonel.”

  “I’m not talking about the rumors, Coulson.” He again fixed a piercing gaze on Jack.

  Sam watched the exchange with interest. The air was thick with tension.

  “Let’s begin,” the colonel addressed both men this time, “what we are about to discuss cannot, I repeat cannot go beyond this room. Is that clearly understood?”

  “Yes sir,” both men responded.

  “One of our Virginia Class submarines has gone dark during a scientific mission under the Antarctic Ice Cap. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency funded mission was a collaboration between civilian scientists and a the Navy,” the colonel looked to Krupsky as if to indicate why he had been summoned, “using a modified sub, the USS Barracuda, the mission was to survey measure the ice shelf and the land masses below it.”

  Daniels turned his attention to Coulson.

  “I don’t need to tell you the strategic advantage of being able to navigate Boomers directly under the ice cap,” he continued.

  Sam leaned slightly closer to Jack. “A Boomer’s a sub full of ballistic nukes.” He nodded authoritatively.

  “I know what a Boomer is, thanks Bluey.” Jack was beginning to get a feel for why he had been cal
led in.

  “As I was saying … we’ve lost contact with the sub. The protocol was for the captain,” Daniels rifled through the file on his otherwise empty desk, “Jameson, Captain Frank Jameson, to surface at 18:00 hours each day to report and upload via satellite link the data collected during that day’s survey.”

  “When did they last report, colonel?” Jack asked.

  “Good question. They didn’t. All we know is that they reached the Ronne Ice Shelf and began testing the civilian designed submersible and failed to log even one report after that. We have satellite coverage but it can’t help us see what’s going on below the ice shelf.”

  “So what are we doing here, in the middle of the desert? Why didn’t DARPA ship us direct to McMurdo Station?” Krupsky felt it was time he asked a question to let the colonel know that Jack wasn’t the only one who could ask good questions and he knew that McMurdo was the largest U.S. scientific base on the Antarctic continent.

  “Gentlemen, leave your cell phones on my desk and come with me. There’s something here you need to see and we couldn’t risk transmitting it, not even through encrypted channels.”

  Krupsky and Coulson exchanged curious glances. They’d both been in their respective military branch long enough to recognize an ominous undertone when they heard it. Whatever they were about to be briefed on, they knew it was nothing good.

  The cramped elevator plummeted deep into the bowels of the earth, or so it felt to Sam as he hunched to avoid slicing his head on the egg crate grille covering the dim overhead lights. Jack did his best to mask his surprise. Like most, he’d always assume that the Pine Gap base was a ground installation. There had never been any speculation, not even among the tin-foil-hat brigade who protested in favor of its closure, that there was far more to the base than was visible from ground level. If only they knew.