The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 2

by Christopher Cartwright

  No one had the answer.

  “There’s another thing, too,” Rigby said.

  “What?” Maverick and Davidson said in unison.

  “There’s a timer. Wakefield is looking at it now, trying to see if there’s a way to disarm it. He says it’s doubtful. Whoever built it wanted to make it impossible for anyone to make changes while the plane was in the air –”

  “How much time?” Maverick interrupted.

  “Fourteen hours,” Rigby replied. “But Reynolds says not to worry because our fuel will run out after ten hours, which means we’ll be on land with plenty of time to get this thing off, right?”

  Maverick looked at the young gunner. Nineteen years old, this was the boy’s first rotation of active service. He pointed at the instrument panel. “Every single reading is wrong. We’re flying blind. We should have enormous fuel supplies, but that won’t help much if we can’t point ourselves in a straight direction towards land – our land. If we go anywhere near the soviet bloc we’re going to get ourselves shot down. Without a working compass we’re just as likely to fly in circles.”

  “Are you saying, you can’t land without instruments?” New beads of sweat formed above Rigby’s brow.

  Maverick grinned. “I can land this bird without anything else so long as I can see out the windshield. The problem is, I have to find somewhere to land first.”

  “Whoa!” Rigby looked like he was just coming to realize the severity of the situation.

  Maverick ignored him, trying to concentrate on the bigger problem. He looked at Davidson, the next person below him in the chain of command. “Broken Arrow!”

  “What?” Davidson said.

  “We’re carrying twenty AGM-69 SRAM nuclear missiles. If we don’t find land before we run out of fuel they’re going to the bottom of the ocean.” Maverick thought about the next step. “When the Strategic Air Force Command finds out they’ve had a loss of 20 nuclear weapons over Siberia, they’re going to think the worst!”

  “They’re going to think we’ve defected?” Rigby pointed out.

  “If we’re lucky,” Maverick said. “If not, they’re going to think Russia was responsible. This could trigger Armageddon.”

  A red telephone handle and wire was attached to the ceiling of the cockpit directly above his head. It represented the most secure communication line directly to the Strategic Air Force Command – used only as a means of confirming nuclear attack orders.

  Maverick picked up the phone and pressed the connect button. He shook his head, unable to comprehend a disruption in the secure link, as he heard only static. He spoke clear and firmly. “Strategic Air Force Command. This is Maverick’s Menace. Requesting break in radio silence for immediate assistance.”

  More static.

  He repeated his request. Waited for a response. And then hung up the phone.

  “What did they say?” Davidson asked.

  “Nothing. All I got was static.” Maverick didn’t wait for Davidson’s response to the news. With his right hand he flicked the radio over to 122.750 MHz – the standard channel for air to air communications. “Mayday, Mayday. This is U.S. Air Force Aircraft Maverick’s Menace. Seeking radio transmission from any aircraft or radio station in our vicinity. We have lost control of our navigational instruments and are seeking a radio signal to set our bearings. Over.”

  The radio returned heavy static. Davidson increased the volume. The static seemed to worsen. “There’s nothing but white noise.”

  Maverick reached forwards to rotate to another channel. Rigby put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Just wait a second. I think I hear something.”

  “What do you hear?” Maverick asked, studying the face of the youngest man in the room. He could be the only person onboard whose ears hadn’t yet been damaged by the ever-present sound of the eight turbofans. Or his mind was already shot by the recent series of events and he was now delusional. Maverick couldn’t determine which category Rigby fit into, so he let him keep going. “What do you hear?”

  “Music,” Rigby said, with certainty.

  “You hear music behind the static?” Davidson looked doubtful.

  “Yes. It’s very light, but I can hear piano music!” Rigby searched their faces for recognition. Finding none, he continued. “I played piano my entire life. I was quite good, too. My mother wanted me to go to Juilliard. She drove me hard and I ended up joining the Air Force out of retaliation.”

  Maverick took a chance the kid might be telling the truth. “What’s the song?”

  “I don’t know. It’s old, but not as old as the classical greats such as Beethoven or Chopin. Sounds sullen, almost depressing.”

  “Well, that’s going to do us a lot of good!” Davidson flicked to the next channel. It was broken with the same heavy static. He switched between more than a dozen before leaving it on the original channel. “It’s useless. There’s nothing on any of them.”

  “Except that damned music!” Rigby replied.

  “The music’s on all of them?” Maverick asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. The same song. Every time. Same melody.”

  *

  After nearly twenty two hours of continuous flight the four turbofans on the right wing, unable to draw any more aviation fuel, misfired and failed. The engines on the left wing continued for a total of six more minutes, sputtered and then stopped completely.

  Maverick naturally dipped the nose of the aircraft to avoid an immediate stall. He then brought Maverick’s Menace into a controlled glide. But without any land in sight, they were destined to end in the water.

  “All right gentlemen,” Maverick said. His voice calm and confident. “We knew the fuel would run out eventually. Rigby, I want you to prepare the life raft, but don’t deploy it until right before we’re ready to eject or you’ll never see it again.”

  Rigby nodded his head in silence.

  “I want you all to know it has been a privilege and an honor working with you. We have a week’s supply of water and rations inside the life raft. Depending on the temperature, we might just live long enough to be picked up by a search crew.” Maverick grimaced. “Let’s just hope it’s one of ours.”

  “Is that an island?” Davidson stared vacantly out the left windshield.

  Maverick looked as the tiny island came into clear view through the port windshield. At a guess, it was somewhere in the vicinity of ten miles in width and perhaps eight in length. A small mountain, no more than a couple hundred feet tall could be observed at the far end of the island. The island was covered in snow and ice at least several feet thick. With the exception of the small mountain it was entirely flat. The only man-made structure he could see was a single runway which ran the entire length of the island. Although the island looked deserted the strip of blacktop appeared to have been cleared of snow only hours beforehand.

  “My God! Thank you!” Maverick said. “If that isn’t some sort of Divine Intervention, I don’t know what is!”

  The entire crew cheered.

  Maverick made a shallow bank to the left, losing more altitude and lining up for an easy approach. He knew he only had one chance. In the process it gave him a clear view of the island. A small lake lay, unfrozen, near the middle of the island. Thick snow and ice reached the lake’s edge and then stopped short of the water, as though someone had taken a carving knife to it. It appeared in striking green and purple colors – most likely a sign it was made by a geothermal spring, releasing mineral rich warm water.

  Through the port side window, Maverick was startled to see how deep it went. At a guess, it could be as much as 100 feet.

  “Looks like a nice island,” Davidson said.

  Maverick adjusted the flaps another ten degrees. “Yeah. Shame we’re unlikely to live long enough to enjoy it. We’ve got less than four hours to work out how to get rid of that bomb, remember?”

  Davidson kissed his Rosary Beads for good luck. “Just get us on the ground and I’ll get rid of it my
self even if I have to carry it by hand.”

  Maverick banked left until he lined the B52 up perfectly to the runway for the final approach. He leveled both wingtips. Confident that he had been saved for a higher purpose, he said, “I’ll put us on the ground. Don’t you worry about that!”

  The nose passed the edge of the island and he saw the start of the runway. Even without the instruments to tell him, after more than 20,000 hours in the cockpit Maverick instinctually knew his beloved aircraft was close to the ideal 136 knots recommended for landing.

  He moved the wheel just slightly towards his chest, raising the nose of the aircraft, slowing his descent rate, and settling perfectly level to touchdown.

  After nearly twenty-two and a half hours in the air, and 312, 000 pounds of aviation fuel lighter, the ten landing wheels of Maverick’s Menace made contact on the runway of the unidentified island. The brakes locked and the tires gripped the blacktop sending a dark cloud of burnt tires into the surrounding air as the monstrous aircraft slowed to a final stop no more than a hundred yards from the end of the small runway.

  Maverick applied the park brake and unclipped his seatbelt. “All right, Davidson. We’re on the ground. Let’s work out what we’re going to do about that bomb.”

  *

  Maverick gritted his teeth and used his shoulder to help his men slide the crate free of the fuselage. It slid down the grated steel ramp along a series of wheels and the momentum carried the heavy bomb nearly twenty feet along the runway. He stepped down the ramp and on to the runway’s blacktop – only it wasn’t blacktop. He grinned at the surprise finding and pressed his hand against the runway. It was smooth. Almost glassy like obsidian or polished ebony and despite the icy cold ambient temperature the stone was warm, bordering on hot to touch.

  “What the heck is it?” Davidson asked.

  “I have no idea,” Maverick replied.

  His men worked quickly with electric screwdrivers to remove the bomb’s safety panels. Wakefield, his weapons systems operator, was the only one on board who might have a clue what he was looking at on the inside of the nuclear bomb. It was a far stretch to imagine he would be capable of disarming it, but so was finding a safe landing spot at the precise time the fuel ran out.

  It was the first step, and a long way off saving their lives. Unless they could disarm the bomb in the next three hours they were all going to die. There was nowhere on the island that would keep them safe from its blast.

  Maverick smiled. Today was a day of miracles. He sat down on the warm runway and simply looked at the island. The warmth made him feel safe for the first time in the past 24 hours since he was introduced to Mr. Avery and this bizarre mission.

  The sensation was short lived.

  Maverick stood up and swore loudly. It was the first time he showed his men he’d lost control. He didn’t care. It was over and he and his men had lost. He walked over towards the bomb. “You can stop working on the bomb, Wakefield.”

  “What on earth you mean?” Wakefield laughed uncomfortably. “I have less than three hours to disarm this thing and I don’t have a clue where to start.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I think I just worked out exactly where we are, and whether you disarm that bomb or not won’t change a thing.”

  “Why?” Rigby asked. “Where are we?”

  “Wait here and I’ll show you.” Maverick climbed back into the cockpit, and returned less than a minute later with a cup and bottle. He carefully poured the contents of the bottle into the mug. It was a dark, rich, coffee. He filled it until the contents formed a narrow film on the surface. “Look at that.”

  It was perfectly still.

  “What is it? I don’t see anything, sir?” Wakefield asked.

  “Just watch.”

  A slight tremor caused the liquid to move.

  He waited slightly longer.

  A second ripple formed. This one was slightly larger.

  Davidson was the first to realize the significance. “I don’t believe it! Of all the shitty luck – we had to pick this island to land!”

  “What is it?” Rigby asked. “Where are we, sir?”

  Reynolds was the next to fathom the depth of their desperate situation. He was the first to accept his fate with equanimity. He had survived ten years as a pilot during the war. Even if it was a cold war so far, he knew that he’d been living on borrowed time. He’d flown more than four hundred missions without significant incident. It was simply his time to lose. “We’re never going to be allowed to go home, are we?”

  “No, son. I’m afraid this is it. On behalf of the President himself, who spoke to me before we left – I thank you all for your service.”

  Rigby was the last to understand. At nineteen years of age he was by far the youngest man on board. His face shriveled in abject horror as understanding finally reached his simple mind.

  “We’re on The Island, aren’t we?”

  Maverick felt at peace. At least he finally knew what this was all about. Why it had been kept secret to them all. He didn’t even condemn the President for doing so. He just wished he’d had a chance to speak to his kid sister once more and see his niece Alexis, who he’d been told was going to do great things for the world one day.

  He then spoke with the calm, reassuring authority of a man who’d spent the greater portion of his time on earth in command. “Yes, son, I’m afraid we’re on The Island.”

  Chapter One

  Antarctic Coast – Present Day

  Her whole body ached as she rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. It was 10:35 a.m. and still there was no sign of them. They normally came in at 8 a.m. on the dot every morning to check in on her and insist she try to eat and drink something. She was feeling better and thought maybe today she would try getting up and leaving her room – if they let her.

  Quarantine was a big issue on a cruise ship. And any incidence of gastro meant passengers forfeited their right to leave their stateroom. She picked up the phone and pressed nine. No answer. The Indonesian service staff on board the Antarctic Solace had the highest ratio of staff to passengers of any cruise ship on the ocean. They were always attentive to her every need. She checked the number. Tried again. Still nothing.

  Perhaps I’m ringing an old number?

  She tried the Beauty Therapy, followed by the team from Fine Dinning reservations. Their prices were so extravagant they could afford to offer twenty-four-hour service. Still no response. Maybe there’s a fault with the internal phone system. She waited some more and then tried again, before deciding it was time to get out of bed anyway. She was feeling better. Not well, but better.

  She’d already missed the first three days of her voyage by being confined to her stateroom. It was nice, but even the best prison can become torture. In this case, one she’d paid big dollars to enjoy. She rolled onto her side. One long, and slow movement. She’d spent nearly three straight days in bed, and now everything was sore. Then, in another single movement she slipped her legs out from under the blankets. Her whole body felt cold. She took four steps to the door of the ensuite bathroom, stepped inside and turned the shower faucet to hot.

  Steam began rising from the shower. Confident it was warm enough, she undressed and stepped inside. As the water warmed her body, she felt like she might pass out. She sat down in the shower and the feeling slowly went away. For three days she’d had nothing to eat and barely anything to drink. Once the seasickness had dissipated she just wasn’t interested in trying any food again.

  After about ten minutes, she reluctantly turned the shower faucet to off. Closing her eyes for a moment, she waited while the last of the hot water ran down her back, and then stepped out. Her ordinarily white skin, pale from years of work with limited natural light, appeared red and angry; having run the shower as hot as she could withstand.

  Alexis Schultz stared at herself in the mirror. Her intelligent emerald green eyes stared right back at her with scientific accusation.

  How in the world
did I end up in this fucking mess?

  Her otherwise perfect life had taken a stunning series of downward turns over the past five days, culminating in her present situation – three days of being sea sick and quarantined to her honeymoon suite aboard the overpriced cruise ship, the Antarctic Solace.

  It was the large swell as the ship entered the latitudes south of forty degrees that had stirred the tremendous seasickness she never knew existed. The cruise ship doctor, worried about a spread of gastroenteritis, had quarantined her in the honeymoon cabin. For eight hours they had come to check up on her constantly, being more of an annoyance than of any real benefit. Then, she’d been given a series of painful antiemetic injections, which had finally allowed her stomach to settle, and then she slept almost continuously for the past forty eight hours.

  Since then, no one had come to check up on her. Despite her multiple calls to every service department she could think of, her calls went unanswered. She dried her curly brown hair. Then pulled on a pair of black denim jeans, a white tank top, and dark green skivvy. Her myriad of freckles reached to her small dimples, giving her face a cute, albeit erroneous, appearance of innocence. She didn’t put makeup on. Never wore any. Didn’t need to – and if she did, still wouldn’t have. As a scientist she didn’t care for vanities. She forced herself to smile – even to her, it looked contrived; the sorrow of a lost puppy unmistakable in her otherwise striking green eyes. She tied the laces to her boots, opened the door and stepped out into the empty hallway.

  She was on her honeymoon – and all alone.

  Chapter Two

  The Antarctic Solace was an eight hundred and twelve-foot adventure cruise ship. Designed specifically for navigating waters in some of the world’s most remote and inhospitable destinations, including both of earth’s Polar Regions. The 85,072 ton vessel boasted a strengthened hull with a Lloyd’s Register ice-class notation 1A for passenger ships, authorizing her to take commercial passengers to areas otherwise reserved for icebreakers.

  She spent the summer months in each polar region providing luxury travel in the lucrative trade of Arctic and Antarctic adventure. This was the last of her trips in the southern hemisphere for the season, and probably a little too late. She carried a hundred and fifty paying guests and nearly twice that many crew and entertainers to ensure her passengers experienced the world’s best in luxury cruising.