ICE GENESIS: Book 2 in the ICE Trilogy

by Kevin Tinto

  “Stan, will you please explain to Mr. Krause the details concerning our missing nuclear weapon.”

  Krause slid forward on the couch. “Nuclear weapon?”

  Fischer concisely explained how Al Paulson and his crew were extorting the American people with a nuclear weapon hidden somewhere in the mountains of New Mexico—or so the administration assumed. Fischer didn’t mention this was a non-conventional, highly classified Hafnium warhead, or the magnitude of its yield upon detonation.

  Krause chuckled when Fischer was done. “You boys really got yourself into a ball of knots, now, didn’t you?” He shook his head in disbelief.

  Wheeler ignored the slight. “Based upon the information I have provided, what would be your course of action with regard to securing the warhead? We have no choice but to secure it before we can deal with Paulson.”

  “First,” Krause said, “I’d have drones patrolling grids over sections of New Mexico 24/7, just in case you catch unusual activity. Forget looking in the mountains. You said they landed an aircraft. The old pilot who flew the warhead out to its hide, Luke Derringer I think you said the name was, would know the washes that would serve. He’d need cover nearby, and somewhere to stash this warhead.”

  “We already have drones on that mission, Mr. Krause. So far, nothing has yielded any clues.”

  “I figured you would and I wouldn’t mistake Paulson or his crew for fools, based upon the way they have your king in check right now.” Krause paused, appearing to work the problem in his head. “From what Mr. Fischer said, it seems our best source for the location would be this old pilot. If what you say is true, he’s the only one who’s vulnerable. The location is so remote, it’s perfect for a question-and-answer session.”

  Fischer interrupted. “Mr. Paulson did say they’d moved the warhead into a more secure location—known only to him and Jack Hobson. We can assume that Mr. Kinney is providing security, as his current location is unknown.”

  “I’ll call bullshit on that one,” Krause said. “Moving a canister of that size isn’t easy. Paulson knows you’d double-cross him in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t take a chance you’d spot him with your drones trying to move it.”

  Wheeler’s jaw visibly tightened after Krause mentioned, ‘double-cross.’

  “Beyond that,” Fischer said, “Luke Derringer is protected by Al Paulson. Al Paulson is protected by his congressional cabal, who would move against the Administration at the first sign we were in breach of our agreement. I believe the chances of getting information out of him prior to death from any extended questioning would simply make our problem larger. He’ll die, be found, and Paulson will have all the political gravitas to get us pushed out of the White House, while still able to use the nuclear warhead more effectively than ever as a blackmail device.”

  The president stood. “Okay, you can go, Stan. There’re issues I need to speak with Mr. Krause about that don’t require your expertise.”

  Fischer stood and nodded. “Thank you, sir. I will see you in the a.m. for the briefing—however, I want to strongly disagree with this plan, should it involve Mr. Derringer.”

  Krause gave him a thin smile. “Not to worry, Mr. Fischer. There’s no way we’d move on the old pilot, provided what you’ve told me. We will find another solution.” Krause doubled-down on the phony smile. “Nice to meet you. I look forward to working with you on this operation.”

  Fischer walked to the doorway out of the private residence.

  When the door had closed, Wheeler sat back into the couch. “So—reimbursement for an operation of this size and scope?”

  “It got a whole lot higher when you mentioned a nuclear weapon. That’ll require helicopter support for a team of between five and ten men. Such men do not come cheap, Mr. President. Not only are you buying their expertise, you’re buying their silence.”

  Krause paused for a moment, staring out the window at the Monument.

  “Moving Mr. Paulson out of your orbit will be the easy part of this. Getting the information necessary to locate this warhead, and dealing with anyone tasked with sentry duty? That will get—messy.” Krause nodded toward the door Fischer had just exited. “He’s right. We can’t make some blatant move against the pilot. I’d save that for the last option—assuming we had other things fall into place that takes Paulson out of the picture first.”

  Wheeler nodded. “A situation’s developing that may provide me with help on the Paulson problem—or at least keep him occupied for a period of days. However, the warhead, as I’ve said, remains the number-one deterrent to my goals. Once it’s been located and secured, we can move, not only against Paulson, but all of those involved in this nuclear-blackmail coup.”

  “Then I suggest you make a cup of coffee, Mr. President. Because two things are going to happen: We’re going to review this entire operation until I know every detail. And the fee for my services is going up. One more thing. The information regarding the mission in Antarctica, classified beyond Top Secret. Who has had access to this information? I’d like to have Mr. Fischer along with us on the operation. He’s your direct point of contact, and of course we want to make sure we’re doing this work to your specifications.”

  Krause turned his attention from the lighted Washington Monument back to Wheeler. “By the way—we don’t clean up the mess. We go in fast, do the job, and get out. You’ll need another team for mop up.”

  Wheeler nodded.

  Krause gave him curt nod back. “Good. Now, let’s get this comprehensive briefing underway.”

  Chapter 18

  Jack woke from a deep sleep, feeling like he was suffocating inside a mountaineering mummy bag. He reached for the flashlight he always kept next to his side when on a climb. Instead of the flashlight, his hand struck the metallic neck of a table lamp and knocked it to the ground.

  It took a moment for Jack to realize he wasn’t bivouacked on the shoulder of a mountain, waking from one of those bizarre dreams created by a nauseating blend of stress, oxygen deprivation, and poor nutrition. Instead of a mummy bag, a comforter had tangled itself around his body, and he found himself in the bedroom of a modest log home located on a fifty-acre parcel of federally-owned land in Falls Church, Virginia.

  The cozy log house wasn’t listed on any Internet booking sites, and even if it were, the listing could hardly do it justice, given all the extras. Resembling a summer camp for adults, the property hosted a total of twenty individual cabins, each situated to provide seclusion from others. They were all connected by a series of dirt roads and deer trails and decorated like the chalets you’d find at an expensive ski resort. While the log exteriors were stained in a single shade of reddish-brown, the interiors featured wood-beamed ceilings, granite kitchens, high-end oak and pine décor, soft leather furniture, landscape paintings, and even antique fly rods. Jack’s home had a working wood stove, a rarity in urban environments. Stacked next to the fireplace, a mix of pine and oak firewood cut into ten-inch by two-inch sections, sized perfectly for the stove.

  If not for the persistent presence of heavily-armed military police and a fortress-like fence surrounding the camp, Jack might have forgotten he was under constant surveillance, even held prisoner, depending on one’s perspective.

  The log homes were laid out in a circular pattern around a three-story lodge dubbed ‘the clubhouse.’ It had an open-air atrium ringed by three massive fireplaces. Built from river rock, the immense chimneys rose three stories to exit the pine ceiling.

  A gourmet restaurant occupied one of the clubhouse’s ground floor wings. It opened at six a.m. and served the last dinner at ten. Also open from five until midnight was a bar, complete with dance floor and DJ-operated disco. The temporary residents of this secure lodging facility could roll in after a long day, enjoy a cocktail at the bar, watch sports in the lounge, or head over to the game room, which included an impressive collection of old-school pinball mach
ines. Oh, and in case you had to conduct actual government business, the business center offered secure communications and related IT services.

  It sounded entertaining, and it might have been under different circumstances. Unfortunately, Jack was the only guest. After his long days at DARPA, he’d make his way over to the excellent gym inside the clubhouse and do a variety of strength training and high-intensity intervals for another hour, then shower, dress, and hit the lounge. There he could order his cocktail of his choice, made to order—no charge. The lounge was hosted by an army veteran/mixologist outfitted in an Armani suit. Staff Sergeant Carlson was as skilled a pro bartender as you’d find in the toniest clubs in Georgetown.

  Jack checked his watch. It was past three in the morning, eastern time, and his secure satellite phone was ringing. He’d intended to call Leah earlier, but had gone from resting his eyes one moment to fast-asleep the next.

  Jack stared at the blurry LED display. He pushed the phone away until his arm wouldn’t extend any farther. He trusted it was fatigue and not early-onset presbyopia. He read a series of numbers: 090-8816, then the prefix 532, followed by another string of digits.

  Jack jumped off the bed. 0-9-0 was the satellite country code for Turkey; 8-8-1-6 the Iridium satellite phone system; and 5-3-2 and the following digits were classic Turkish satellite numbers. No question, it was his guide and old friend: Hawar.

  And in record time, no less.

  He’d just called the warlord earlier that day, using the contact number he’d been given.

  Hawar lived in the badlands of eastern Turkey, but as the Kurdish warlord liked to say: Just because a man grew up without a flush toilet and was schooled in a goat house, do not mistake him for an idiot.

  Hawar was far from that, and he was also equipped with the latest satellite communications gear. The way you contacted Hawar was to send a text to a satellite phone with a contact number. If Hawar’s number changed, he sent you an update. He never returned a call or sent a text on the same satellite phone twice. He was after all, an outlaw.

  Eastern Turkey, bordered by both Iraq and Iran, was dangerous at the best of times. Without Hawar and his sons, armed to the teeth and offering protection, Jack would have never ventured into the region.

  He dialed the number.

  “Elu,” said a hoarse but familiar voice.

  “Demêke tum nebînîwe,” Jack replied in his best Kurdish dialect. It translated as ‘Long time, no see.’

  “Mr. Jack,” Hawar said in near-perfect English. “How are you, my friend?”

  Jack answered with another Hawarism. “I’m alive and my family is well, which is more than I can say for many.”

  “Are you in Turkey?”

  “Not yet, but I may have need of your services in the near future.”

  “This is a very bad time for a holiday in Turkey.”

  “Yes, I know. This is personal business. I need a guide to the summit of Ararat.”

  “In the middle of winter? Ararat will still be here this summer, God willing.” Hawar paused for a moment, faint static sounds filling the dead air. “You are quite famous, my friend. I was hoping, God willing, that you survived the mysterious events in Antarctica.”

  “News travels fast.” Jack was more than a little surprised that Hawar would know anything about it, given his remote home near the Iranian border.

  “Because a man grew up without a flush toilet and was schooled in a goat house, do not mistake him for someone who has no access to CNN.”

  Jack grinned. “Tell me, do you remember a man named Jacob Badger? The guy who led at least two expeditions searching for the Ark?”

  “Of course. He claimed to have located the Ark, and God made him pay a terrible price.”

  “I don’t believe he found the Ark. However, he did locate a hot spring near the summit of Ararat. I’m searching for this location.”

  “Yes. I know of this spring. It is frozen over most of the time—very hard to locate.”

  Jack almost fumbled the phone out of his hands. “Can you find it? During the winter?”

  “There is no Ark there, my friend.”

  Jack sucked in a deep breath. “Have you seen the spring?”

  “Yes. Yes. Many years ago.”

  “How large was the opening?”

  “Not enough for the great Ark of Noah. Perhaps ten meters. Listen, Mr. Jack: Boiling waters come from the depths of the earth at this location. It’s the cauldron of Satan, my friend. God would have nothing to do with this place.”

  “Do you remember how to find it?”

  “In the winter? It’s possible. Ararat is my home.”

  Jack felt a wave of relief. If Jacob Badger could provide a location, along with Hawar’s knowledge of Ararat, it was a near certainty he could complete the mission in short order.

  “But seriously, Mr. Jack. Risking a climb on Mt. Ararat in winter? Risking the Turkish military and Persian jihadists who would gladly cut off your head for fifty lira…. Why would you do this?”

  “I can tell you more when I get to Turkey. If you can guide me and provide protection.”

  “Your friendship is worth more than any price, Mr. Jack. However, my family thanks you, for your generosity. My sons, they have grown into men since your last trip.”

  “If they are like their father, they’re fierce fighters as well.”

  “Yes. And you will need such fighters. War rules our region.”

  “I’ll know if I’m headed to Kurdistan within the next forty-eight hours.”

  “Then I will call you as usual. Say, in twenty-four hours?”

  The downside was that it’d be a three a.m. call tomorrow morning. The upside? There was no way Jack would be caught in a meeting and unable to answer his phone.

  “That’s is perfect,” Jack said. “Use the same number.”

  Hawar cut the connection, and Jack glanced at his watch once more. Past one a.m. in New Mexico. Leah probably wasn’t getting much sleep anyway. He hit the speed dial on Leah’s satellite phone, and she picked up after only the second ring.

  “Jackson! So nice to hear your voice.”

  “Wow—you sound relaxed. Is everything going well?”

  “Fabulous,” Leah replied “Our young lady is doing great. No surprises with her, or back at the Settlement. We’ve got one more day here with Gordon. Not a peep out of him, and K’aalógii is no worse for wear. Hell, I’m tempted to take her into Alamogordo for a Happy Meal and a movie.” She switched subjects. “How’d your bigwig meeting with the shit sticks go?”

  “If you mean Wheeler and Fischer, surprisingly cordial. Paulson and Teresa both said to say hello.”

  “Aw. At least someone cares,” Leah said. “Hey, my name didn’t come up at all, perchance?”

  Jack decided bringing up Fischer’s comment would send her ballistic, so he dodged. “Nothing that impacts the Settlement. Between the nature of the technology and our military challenges in the Southern Ocean, they don’t have much time for the Genesis Settlement.

  “This didn’t come up at the meeting, but that energy net that’s descended over Antarctica appears to be intensifying. We don’t know how—we can assume the why—to keep us off the continent. The energy beam emitted by the complex when you touched the entry pad seems to be mimicking a high radiation particle burst, better known as a sunspot. It has infected, for lack of a better term, the atmosphere over Antarctica, making electronic communications of any kind impossible.”

  “I think I knew that,” Leah said. “Do you know,” she asked, “how much energy it takes to create inference of that scale and intensity? Immense.”

  “Teresa Simpson’s analogy was sobering. She said, ‘If you wanted to Taser a planet, this is exactly how you’d do it.’”

  “I never had any illusions we were dealing with cute ETs,” Leah said. “I saw how these
people were purposely terrified, starved to death, even murdered, kidnapped, and stuffed into alien deep-sleep gadgets. The purpose of a Taser is to disable someone, so you can take them into custody. Sounds like we’re being disabled.”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  “Again,” she said, “I had a pretty good idea of this already. Why is it you’re calling, again—unless you JUST had to hear my voice.”

  Busted.

  “Okay,” Jack said, unable to hold it back any longer. “I’m just going to spit it out.”

  “Don’t tell me. Gordon ratted us out?”

  “No. Nothing like that. One of our key charges at DARPA is leaving no stone unturned in locating other alien complexes.”

  “Makes sense. No better guy on the planet than Jack Hobson for that job.”

  “Right,” Jack replied, treading lightly. “We have one location that, although evidence-thin, does have potential. Eastern Turkey. On Mt. Ararat.”

  “That makes sense,” Leah said. “You’ve got the Cappadocia dwellings and a location chock-full of mythology, including the Ark. But you’ve covered Ararat pretty thoroughly in the past as a guide for Ark-hunters. There’s nothing up there—nothing that’s easy to locate, anyhow.”

  He was stunned. Leah had figured out in five seconds what had taken him days of thinking to conclude.

  Okay, he thought. Here it goes.

  “I’m the guy they want to investigate. I’ve got Hawar available. If this operation launches, I’d do a solo trip to Turkey, hook up with Hawar, check out this hot spring called Jacob’s Well, and get the hell out of the country.” He waited for the explosion he was sure would come…. Instead—only silence.

  After a few seconds, Leah shouted. “Jack! You still there?”

  Jack was so stunned; it took a moment to respond. “Honestly, I expected you to have an objection.”

  “Ha! That’d be slightly hypocritical. Here I am, waiting to get my throat cut, sitting on a human powder keg—and I expect you to hatch an office chair. Fat chance that’s gonna happen.”