“I won’t insult you both by telling you that you were never here and that this part of the installation is above Top Secret and for good reason. Even the President isn’t aware of this facility and we’d like to keep it that way, as I’m sure you’d understand,” Colonel Daniels advised them as the elevator came to an abrupt halt, causing Sam to hunch even further.
The doors hissed open and revealed a brightly lit and cavernous space almost a football field in length and half as wide again. It was filled with massive wall mounted screens, banks of computer monitors attended by men and women wearing a variety of different uniforms. At first glance, it was plain to see that this was a joint operation between all divisions of the military who appeared to be working in harmony like a well-oiled machine. Again, the two outsiders shared a glanced.
“Follow me,” the colonel ordered, stepping through the doors with Jack and Sam trailing in his wake.
When he reached a glass walled conference room, the colonel paused as the facial recognition camera verified his identity before lighting up the biometric scanner with a pulsing green light, indicating that it was ready for him to present his finger for further corroboration. Security in the facility was second to none, Jack observed but remained silent.
The heavy glass doors sucked open and Jack noted that the doors, like the walls, were glass-clad polycarbonate, the most effective bullet resistant glass available. He couldn’t fathom why such precautions would be necessary in a top secret facility buried deep in the Central Australian desert. Some things were just not adding up the way they should. The covert operative senses in him became heightened when things didn’t feel right. Krupsky, he suspected, had the same misgivings.
As they entered the room, Daniels hit a button on a recessed wall panel and the clear glass of the fishbowl in which they found themselves instantly became opaque, giving them privacy from the eyes in the operations center. As the lights dimmed, a television screen that would leave even the best home theatre system green with envy lowered from the ceiling and the colonel gestured that they be seated.
“As you gentlemen are probably aware, the Antarctic, despite the sprinkling of research bases around its edges, is largely unexplored. The reasons for that are many, but suffice to say that it’s the harshest and most inhospitable place on earth.”
“Present location excepted,” Krupsky whispered to Jack.
Colonel Daniels trained his steely gaze on Sam. He was either not impressed by the interruption or with the reference to what amounted to his base. Most likely both.
Sam folded his arms and stared hard at the screen to avoid the colonel’s icy stare. He looked like a naughty schoolboy in spite of his stature and the fact that be barely fit in the boardroom chair he’d squeezed himself into.
“If I may continue … apart from being a scientific curiosity, there’s little of strategic value down there and the climate is so harsh it doesn’t even support permanent life, save for the odd penguin colony on the coast. No Polar Bears, no Orca’s. Nothing. It’s just too damn cold for anything to survive. That’s why we don’t waste expensive satellite resources monitoring what’s going on down there. Because nothing ever goes on down there.”
“Until now,” Jack politely interjected.
“Correct. Until now,” Daniels confirmed.
Sam glanced askance at Jack, showing his annoyance that he wasn’t given a reprimand for interrupting. But he figured that since the other two were both army and he was navy, he shouldn’t expect the same regard.
Palming a small remote, Colonel Daniels brought the big screen to life, displaying what was clearly a satellite image. As it progressed through a slide show, each image zoomed tighter and tighter as if the photographs were taken from a drone rather than a satellite in low earth orbit. The resolution was staggering in its detail. What was initially a small speck of black in a panoramic vista of white ice took shape as the images continued to zoom in.
“That’s not what I think it is?” Jack quizzed, leaning forward to get a closer look at the screen.
Jack turned to Sam who quirked a brow encouraging Jack to voice his opinion aloud.
“A sail. It’s a submarine sail, right?” Coulson looked from side to side seeking confirmation from either man.
“No,” Sam said as he leaned back in his chair as best he could, “it’s not a sail. Modern nuclear submarines have sails. What you’re looking at is something nobody has seen outside of a maritime museum in over 70 years.” Slapping Jack on the shoulder, he continued, “That, my friend is a conning tower from a Second World War submarine.”
Colonel Daniels nodded in agreement but remained silent to allow Sam to continue.
“And if I’m not mistaken,” Sam added, “judging by its size, shape and the rakish lines of the conning tower, it’s a Kriegsmarine Type XXI U-Boat. But that’s impossible —”
“Far from it, Mr. Krupsky. I’m pleased to see we didn’t waste a berth on the GITMO flight. You may yet live up to expectations.”
Jack raised his hand. Now it was his turn to play the schoolboy. “Am I the only one here who’s surprised that I’m being shown a photograph of what looks like a perfectly preserved Nazi submarine buried in the ice near the South Pole? Why has this just been discovered now?”
“I’m no oceanographer, Captain Coulson, but the squints out there have written some goddam report about thinning of the ice sheet and some kind of subglacial volcanic eruption forcing the sub up through the ice. Then again, the report suggests they don’t really know shit from clay about how it got there, but they need to come up with something, right?”
“Great,” Jack huffed.
“Something to contribute Captain?”
“Sorry sir. It’s just that the pocket protector patrol, the squints as you call them, aren’t my favorite people right now. It’s because of them that my last mission got so royally screwed.”
“Alright, so that explains why I’m here, I guess. You need a navy grunt on board whatever mission you’re planning, right?” Sam threw in, cutting off the discussion between Jack and the colonel.
“In part,” Daniels responded, “we need a navy man on this expedition with a particular skill set and your stock went up ten points thanks to the time you’ve spent volunteering at the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry restoring the U-505 submarine. That could prove useful. Plenty of navy men know their way around a nuclear attack submarine, but a Second World War German U-Boat, let’s just say that it proved challenging to say the least when we searched the personnel database.”
“Skill set? You have a skill set?” Jack looked Sam up and down as if to elicit what his special skill could be from his sheer size.
“Let’s not worry about that now. The colonel hasn’t finished his briefing.”
Now he wants to be quiet, Jack thought.
“Speaking of museums,” Jack turned to the colonel, “isn’t this more of a historical shipwreck recovery mission, better suited to a civilian group?”
Now it was the colonel and Krupsky exchanging a look of understanding.
“Ordinarily yes. Sam, do you want to bring the captain up to speed?”
A shit eating grin beamed from Krupsky’s face. “Gladly, sir.”
Sam awkwardly eased himself out of the undersized chair and stood opposite Jack before continuing. “After the Second World War, the Nazis, particularly the SS, reportedly commandeered every functioning submarine they could and loaded them with all the gold, diamonds and art work they could get their dirty little hands on.”
Jack nodded, so far, Sam hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know from watching History Channel. He was less than impressed with what Sam brought to the table from his work at the science museum.
“So, we know many of these subs surrendered. We also know some were torpedoed by Allied ships and submarines. Many more were scuttled by their own captains. The point is that we can account for, more or less, every such German sub. If there’s one thing the Nazi’s d
id well it was keep meticulous records. Between what we know from their accounts combined with the Allied forces accounts … well, let’s say that the notion of finding a mystery sub full of Nazi gold is highly unlikely, although it might make a good movie.”
“Okay, so there’s no gold. I still don’t see where we come into the equation.”
Krupsky turned to the colonel who nodded for him to take his seat.
“It’s not just gold and art those guys spirited away,” the colonel resumed the briefing, “there were many unconfirmed reports that some of Hitler’s most secret and highly advanced weapons were also bound for Argentina and other secret submarine bases.
“One of those bases was reportedly hidden under the Antarctic Ice Shelf, although that has never been proven. We need to get to that sub and see for ourselves what’s in there. It may be nothing, but we can’t afford to take that chance. If it is significant, we need to secure it before someone else does.
“We need to secure the area and that submarine as the primary objective. After that, we can worry about finding the missing nuclear sub. I’ve been running covert operations too long to believe in coincidences. There’s no such thing.
Jack paused for a moment to digest what the colonel was suggesting. His eyes narrowed as he spoke his mind to the colonel, “And who’s leading this Indiana Jones mission to the Antarctic, sir?”
The colonel pointed a stubby finger directly at Jack’s chest. “You are, captain.”
There was only one thing Jack hated more than the heat and dust.
And that was the cold and snow.
Chapter 3
November 8, 2017, 03:00 UTC
Joint Defence Facility
Pine Gap, Central Australia
23° 47' 56.4" S 133° 44' 13.2" W
Captain Jack Coulson, like Colonel Daniels, had also been around covert ops long enough to know when something wasn’t quite right. Need to know basis was all well and good but a mission this unique and in such unforgiving terrain and weather, with a missing nuclear submarine thrown into the mix was usually a mission that required all available intel to make it work. There was more to the mission than the colonel had shared at the briefing but Jack doubted even he knew the full story. Someone sure as hell knew what was going on and he hoped it wasn’t going to turn into a complete cluster like his last mission.
No such thoughts went through Sam Krupsky’s mind as he wolfed down mouthful after mouthful of Aussie party pies and sausage rolls piled high on two plates as the two men sat in the mess hall awaiting their equipment to be requisitioned and loaded for transport to the Antarctic.
“Did you leave any for the rest of the base?” Jack asked dryly. The way he devoured his food, barely chewing it at all, Jack was reminded of a county fair hot-dog eating contest.
Wiping a drizzle of ketchup from his chin then licking it from his finger, Sam responded with his mouth full, “These things are delicious. Think they’ll let me take some on the plane? It’s a long flight.”
It took a minute for it to dawn on Jack that he was actually serious. They were about to, quite literally, fly to the ass end of the earth, secure a Nazi U-Boat stuck in a polar ice pack, and then try to find a mislaid U.S. Navy nuclear attack submarine … and this guy was worried about how much food he could take on the flight. Shaking his head slowly, Jack felt the specter of that bad feeling wash over him again. He had no appetite at all.
Looking out the window at their next ride, a modified Airbus KC-30 aerial refueling tanker on loan from the Royal Australian Air Force, something bugged Jack but he couldn’t work out what it was. There were too many questions and he began to think he was worrying needlessly. Ground crews were busy loading skids of equipment into the cargo space below the belly of the aircraft which housed the passenger compartment and air-to-air refueling tanks.
Although a strange choice of transport for their mission, Colonel Daniels explained that it was the only aircraft available in the region that had the fuel capacity and range to make the 8,500 mile journey to the ice shelf. At the time, Jack was too preoccupied with mission logistics to question how the huge tactical airlift transport would land on a runway carved into the ice. The question and the solution would soon come together as his combat ready brain processed the information his senses took in, on a subconscious level.
Krupsky had finally stopped eating long enough for them to gear up, check each other’s equipment and make their way to the KC-30, which was loaded, fueled to the brim and undergoing pre-flight checks for an immediate departure. Jack checked his watch as they left the hanger, “Better pick up the pace, Bluey, wheels up in 5 minutes,” he called over his shoulder. Dust devils spiraled across the surrounding desert sands and the heat shimmer rising from the baking tarmac distorted the distance to the transport. He couldn’t wait to get airborne.
“Maybe they’ll go without me if I’m late,” replied Sam, short of breath as he struggled to keep up with his more athletic comrade. “I’m Navy and proud of it. My golf handicap wasn’t good enough to join the Chair Force. Besides, I don’t like heights.
“This ought to be interesting, then”, Jack murmured as he sprinted toward the waiting aircraft.
Jack stopped so suddenly that Sam almost slammed into the back of him. “I thought we were in some almighty rush?”
Raising his hand to silence Sam, Jack looked through the heat haze, toward the distant black specs in the distance.
“Helicopters at 3 o’clock. Six of them.” Jack pointed to the horizon for Sam’s benefit.
“So? We’re on a U.S. military base in the desert. I’d be more surprised if there weren’t any helicopters.”
Jack shielded his eyes from the glaring sun and tried to get a better view. “But these aren’t military choppers. They’re civilian and they shouldn’t be anywhere near our airspace.”
As the choppers got closer their identity became clearer to Jack, but Krupsky was still confused. As a keen mountain climber, Jack remembered vividly the Eurocopter AS350 B3 which landed on Everest in 2005 at an altitude of 29,029 feet. It had been unheard of for any rotary wing aircraft, least of all one in unmodified factory specification. The approaching formation had the same recognizable silhouette to Jack’s trained eye. He had an almost eidetic memory for such things, especially as his life usually depended on it.
“What color would you say they are, Sam?”
Sam squinted, “Maybe red, if I had to guess.”
“Like firefighting choppers, right?”
“I suppose. We don’t see too many of them in port.”
“So,” mused Jack to himself as much as Krupsky, “why are they in echelon formation?”
“What formation?” asked Sam.
“That’s a standard attack formation for Blackhawks and the like. Not firefighters.”
As he spoke, a trail of vapor corkscrewed from one of the inbound helicopters. Jack had seen enough Hellfire air-to-surface missiles in his day to recognize the distinctive vapor trail. As he sprinted toward the tanker transport he shouted to Krupsky, “Incoming. Move your ass.”
Sam didn’t wait for a second invitation. He, too, had seen his share of air-to-surface missiles and knew first-hand the destruction they could wreak. Suddenly, cured of his fear of flying Sam nearly overtook Jack as they both bolted to the stairs of the waiting aircraft. Jack took the steps two at a time, shouting to the ground crew to clear the portable stairs and take cover as he reached the top.
Without waiting for Sam, Jack surged past the loadmaster who had been waiting to brief them on arrival and made his way to the cockpit. Both pilots turned as he burst through the cockpit door, alarmed at the unexpected and unorthodox intrusion.
The pilot in command confronted Jack, “What’s the meaning —”
Jack pointed outside the flight deck window. Both pilots followed his gesture and their eyes widened in understanding as they saw the incoming missile. Dispensing with the usual protocol, they checked that the stairs were clear and began
to taxi toward the runway.
“We’re out of here, go get strapped in,” the other pilot called over his shoulder.
Jack was already gone.
Looking out the windows, he could see more plumes of smoke as missile after missile was released from what he could now see were sidepods mounted to the former civilian helicopters. “Sneaky bastards.”
“You can say that again,” agreed Sam. “Is it a coincidence that this is happening just as we’re jetting to the South Pole?”
“You heard the colonel. There’s no such thing as coincidence in this game.”
“Game?” Sam asked.
“Welcome to covert ops, Bluey. You’re not in the Navy anymore.”
As if to punctuate his words, the first missiles hit their targets, turning the giant golf balls into flaming ruins, one by one.
“They’re knocking out our eyes and ears first. Very clever.” Jack had to admire their tactics. It’s exactly what he would have done in their place and after that, he’d —
“Oh, shit!” Again he sprinted toward the flight deck to warn the pilots that the runway would be the next target. As he approached, it became obvious that the Australian pilots were well aware of the next phase of the attack as they pushed the throttle levers all the way home and the ungainly aircraft began to pick up speed. There was nothing else Jack could do, so he made his way back to Sam who had already shoehorned himself into one of the passenger seats, across the aisle from the terrified loadmaster.
Jack cast a questioning glance at the loadmaster, then to Sam.
“He’s never been shot at before. Apparently, this is his first deployment.”
“Great. We get the work experience boy on this mission,” sighed Jack. “It just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?”
The jet engines screamed with a deafening roar and the entire airframe shuddered in protest, but within a few seconds the aircraft left the ground, its nose pointing skyward. Jack began to noticeably relax, confident that within minutes they would be out of range of the choppers, making a course to their mission objective.
Ice Fortress (A Jack Coulson Thriller) Page 3