by Kevin Tinto
Jack dug himself out from underneath the rough blanket and several feet of tied-down straw. In the soft glow of the lanterns, the people stared at him, eyes bright with curiosity and excitement.
“Mr. Jack!”
Jack recognized the familiar face of Hawar, his guide from ten years ago.
The Kurd had aged considerably. He looked shorter than Jack remembered and his beard, once jet black, was gray and thinning. Hawar wore traditional Kurdish clothing, including baggy pants with cummerbund. Although his body had aged, his eyes remained clear and sharp and his handshake strong. Jack embraced the gray-bearded Kurd, allowing Hawar to kiss him on both cheeks.
“I knew you would someday return, God willing.” He grabbed Jack by the hand and led him to the center of the village.
“Your sons have grown into fine young men.”
Hawar beamed. “They will climb with us. They have been waiting to climb with Jack Hobson, the famous mountain climber.”
Jack told Hawar about being stopped at the checkpoint and the harassment. “What is the situation on Ararat?”
“It is very, very bad, Mr. Jack. Many Kurds have disappeared, many more military have been sent to Kurdistan to search for terrorists and Kurdish rebels. We will be in much danger if confronted by Turkish soldiers.”
“Let’s see if we can avoid that.”
“We will climb at night—at least until we reach the glacier,” Hawar added. The warlord led Jack into his walled compound, where fresh lamb kebab cooked over an open flame and Jack, thankfully, was able to make the call of nature without a water bottle.
Jack sat outdoors, his parka zipped up, the fire offering welcome warmth. Coleman lanterns hung on poles around the compound provided the light. The food was served while the Kurds chatted and Hawar or one of his sons translated as best they could.
Loud, deep howls sounded outside the compound. Hawar pointed over the wall. “Wild dogs—probing for ways to get at the herds.”
“Do you still have those Kangals?” Jack asked.
Hawar nodded.
“Still as big and mean as I remember?”
A ghost of a smile flashed across Hawar’s face. “Pray they never see you as a wild dog, Mr. Jack.”
Chapter 33
Beckam swept the endless ice to the right, then to the left. He pulled the binoculars away and wiped at his eyes. It didn’t dissipate the fatigue-induced blurring and burning. He was on the bubble for active combat deployment and feeling his age. One thing was true: he no longer had the physical gifts he’d possessed as a twenty-five-year-old, gung-ho SEAL operator.
It was little things that degraded one’s combat fitness. In his case: vision. When Beckam got dog tired—not simply physical-workout weary, but combat-mission beat—his first impairment was vision. Only days ago, the Antarctic horizon had been a clear-cut line across the ice. Now, even through binoculars, it looked blurry. The sharp disparities in the horizon now shimmered like diamonds and the lines were anything but clear-cut.
Beckam had restricted their speed to no more than fifteen kilometers per hour. The ice was far from smooth, and he didn’t want Danny Frantino bumped around anymore than necessary. Beckam pulled his goggles back into place. “How’s your fuel consumption, boys?”
“Good here, Boss,” said Liam. “The gauge has hardly moved off full.”
“Same here,” Lenny added.
They’d raided the Russians for extra fuel before blowing up the balance of the gear with the Russians’ own satchel explosives, leaving a string of burning pallets and heavy smoke behind them.
If his estimates were correct, they should cross the South Pole Transverse at 250 kilometers. Then it would be another 250 to Amundsen-Scott.
Beckam had decided to drop one of the Taiga snow machines at 250 klicks, regardless. It would leave them with more fuel in case locating the South Pole turned out to be more elusive than expected. Whether they’d find Amundsen-Scott in one piece, or a smoldering wreck, he couldn’t predict.
Chapter 34
Grigoriy scanned the horizon with the binoculars, holding his breath to keep the image steady. The Taiga tracks told the story well enough. American survivors, also apparently out of contact with their command, had waited long enough and finally decided to find their own way off the ice. There was no confusion regarding which way they had gone. The tracks were fresh and crisp.
Grigoriy had already taken photos and video of ground zero, including detailed video of the fractured and twisted metallic pieces that remained of whatever had been discovered beneath the ice. A thousand meters or more from ground zero, they had also found some assorted, small debris. Grigoriy had ordered his men to pack up to twenty kilos of it for examination in case they made it back to mother Russia.
The American survivors were headed toward the magnetic South Pole.
There’s no other reasonable explanation, Grigoriy assured himself.
Without communications and navigation, the Americans’ decision made sense.
Grigoriy was sure they planned to bisect the ice highway that connected the American base on the Ross Ice Shelf—McMurdo—with Amundsen-Scott, make a turn south, and follow the highway directly to the South Pole base. During the Antarctic summer months, it was a small city. Finding that mote of civilization would be their chief and perhaps only chance for survival.
Grigoriy had three options: Return to where they had been airdropped and hope that somehow Russian forces located them. Follow the Americans to Amundsen-Scott. Or continue past the ice highway and try to navigate their way to the Vostok Russian Station. Even with GPS navigation, Vostok was more than 1,500 kilometers distant, over barren ice. No possible way to make Vostok. Similarly, the odds of Russian troops arriving at their drop location, loaded with vodka, was laughable. Waiting around was guaranteed death. The best chance at survival appeared to be Amundsen-Scott.
Grigoriy made a silent command decision. Follow the Americans, avoiding contact until they were within a hundred kilometers of the South Pole station. Then, engage before the Americans reached Amundsen-Scott. At most, five Americans had survived, and they’d suffered combat and/or blast-related injuries. Grigoriy, on the other hand, had six Spetsnaz commandos, fresh and combat-ready, with plenty of weaponry for almost any scenario.
Eliminate the Americans, gather additional intelligence, and then occupy Amundsen-Scott. Resupply and hope that GLONASS satellite navigation and communications came back online. It they didn’t, then with a large enough resupply he and his men could make for Vostok.
“Your thoughts?” asked Vasily.
Grigoriy smiled. “I was once a student in Moscow. Skating at Gorky Park with a girl I had been smitten with at Winter Festival. The lights, the music, the feel of this girl’s hand in mine.” Grigory flashed a weary grin. “I think that was the best day of my life.”
“What made you think of that?”
“That tranquility of the blue ice filling in ground zero. Such peacefulness after a detonation…. It’s…unimaginable.” He shrugged and looked at his second-in-command. “I don’t know why it reminded me of ice skating at Gorky and the girl. It was such an uncomplicated time. And death?” He shrugged. “Death was only to be found in history books about the Great Patriotic War. We were immortal and invincible.”
“Perhaps you will return to Gorky, during Winter Festival, and that same girl, having not aged a day, will see you and come skating into your arms.”
Grigoriy nodded but his gaze remained distant. “I think my days at Gorky are behind me. Your thoughts?”
“How easily it could have been our platoon instead. Ordered to engage the Americans and secure the target. Vaporized on a mission so secret that our families would never learn the truth.”
Grigoriy nodded again. “Our surveillance mission is complete. I’ve formulated a plan.”
“We hunt Americans,” Vas
ily said plainly.
“What makes you think that?”
“We are Spetsnaz—that’s what we do.”
Grigoriy patted his friend on the shoulder. “Yes, indeed, we are Spetsnaz—but we don’t hunt Americans today.”
Chapter 35
Beckam focused the binoculars behind them, scanning in the direction of their tracks for any sign that they had a tail. The sun didn’t set during December, the height of the Antarctic summer. While the constant daylight didn’t provide any cover, it did protect them from the minus hundred degree Fahrenheit temperatures that would descend down over the ice when the Antarctic winter enveloped the continent. There was no threat of that today, or tomorrow. It was highly unlikely they’d ever see an Antarctic winter, or a summer in Virginia Beach, again.
Even with twenty-four-hour daylight, it wasn’t like a clear summer day in Miami Beach.
The temperatures ranged from zero to minus twenty, the sun bright but filtered. A momentary flash glinted suddenly on the horizon.
Reflection off an ice dam—or another set of binoculars?
“Shit,” he whispered.
Tactically and strategically, enemy forces, Russian or otherwise, would like nothing more than snatch-and-grab the SEALs, pump them full of drugs, add a variety of physical tortures to extract any intelligence possible about what exactly had been discovered at the alien site. This meant that Beckam had to consider all potential contacts as hostile until they were determined to be non-hostile. Capture was unacceptable, given what they knew.
“Might have company, Frogs,” said Beckam.
“Russians collecting rental fees?” Lenny shaded his eyes and scanned the horizon.
“Doubt it’s a food truck delivering a hot lunch.”
“We sure are popular. Wanted dead or alive by just about everyone with a rifle,” Lenny said.
Beckam shook his head, holding back a chuckle. The twins could be less than disciplined at times, but if the clock on his life were about to run out, he could ask for no better crew than Danny, Lenny, and Liam. They’d open the gates of hell on an enemy before taking the express elevator down to be greeted by Satan himself.
Chapter 36
Grigoriy stood on the seat of the Taiga, using the extra meter to acquire more range out of the Swarovski binoculars. No visible sign of the Americans. The Taiga tracks were still crisp and clean—perhaps too much so.
Grigoriy had ordered his men to slow in order to maintain distance. He could not afford to make contact with the SEAL platoon. They had hundreds of kilometers until they reached Amundsen-Scott. American SEALS, like a Siberian badger, would charge even if cornered. It was pointless to engage them earlier than necessary, unless discovered and risk having to care for wounded and dying so far from their objective.
Given an almost flat ice terrain, and thin, high-altitude and smog-free atmosphere, he could identify objects at approximately fifteen kilometers. Nothing but blowing snow, ice, and then more ice.
Keeping a good tactical distance meant calling a halt every fifteen minutes, scanning the horizon ahead, then continuing at a conservative pace.
He turned to his men. “Keep the ‘Karakatitsa’ within arm’s length. If necessary, I want everyone and everything camouflaged at once.”
Grigoriy turned his binoculars to the sky and swept three-hundred and sixty degrees. All clear for many miles. Not one aircraft had overflown them since they’d landed on the ice. He had no reason to think that would change.
Grigoriy thought about his lovely Sasha back in Moscow. Perhaps the unthinkable had already happened? M.A.D. Mutually assured destruction via intercontinental ballistic weapons on Moscow, Washington, and the balance of all other major cities.… Grigoriy cleared his mind and dropped the binoculars against his chest.
“All clear.” With a sweep of his hand, he ordered his reconnaissance platoon to advance.
Chapter 37
Lenny raised his eyebrows in anticipation. “Ambush?”
Liam studied the terrain. “We won’t be much of a surprise out here in the open, Boss.”
“Not here,” said Beckam. “We need to confiscate a crevasse from Mother Nature.” He lifted the binoculars, scanning the bearing toward the magnetic South Pole, their direction of travel. A slight ridge to the left signaled a possible crevasse.
“Liam?”
“That’s me.”
“See that pressure ridge couple of klicks away?”
“Got it.”
I want you to run a straight set of tracks with the Taiga, right toward the pressure ridge. Right up to it. I’m hoping there’s a crevasse running parallel to it. If so, we can bridge over it using the aluminum connectors we ripped off from the Russians. I want it to appear we found nothing but a pressure ridge and ran the Taigas right over the top of it. Don’t make a bunch of tracks that we have to cover up. If we are being tracked, they’ll will think we just kept going…until they’re within range and we can identify friend or foe. I’m so irritable, I’m inclined to just open up on them, regardless.”
“Yeah, baby.” Liam did a little ice dance.
Lenny nodded, his gaze turning deadly. “Challenge SEALs, pay the price.”
Beckam added, “Slow learners awarded lead crowns with complimentary 5.56-millimeter thorns.”
“Ouch,” said Lenny said. “Glad you’re on our side, Boss.”
“Yeah, well, something about being dropped into a meat grinder and hung out to dry has soured my normally sweet disposition.”
***
“We’re in business,” Beckam said.
Lenny had given a wave and a double thumbs-up signal after checking out the pressure ridge and crevasse.
“Let’s get after it, Frogs,” Beckam said, simultaneously checking on Frantino, who was lying comfortably inside the toboggan.
Liam climbed aboard the Taiga and waited for Beckam to lead. Once Beckam had pulled forward, Liam realigned his Taiga so his tracks lined up exactly with Beckam’s.
Several minutes later, Beckam idled up to within ten meters of Lenny’s position at the edge of the crevasse. He shut down the Taiga and walked over to where Lenny stood. The crevasse measured a little less than two meters wide and more than ten meters deep. Even better than Beckam had hoped.
“Watch out, Boss. That first step is a killer,” Lenny said.
Beckam nodded. “Excellent choice, Mr. Clay.”
“We can use the crevasse to set up an effective ambush, the break in the ice making it natural for trench warfare.”
“You won’t get that lucky, Len. But you’re right. Lethal bad guy set up. I wouldn’t want to be on the incoming side. You two unload the aluminum bridging.”
Minutes later, a rainbow-shaped aluminum bridge nearly three meters long and a meter and half wide joined the two sides of the crevasse. The Clays secured the bridge with ice screws, courtesy of the Russians.
“Let’s get the Taigas across,” Beckam said.
Lenny wore a harness and climbing line attached to an ice screw with the line threaded and anchored. Should the Taiga decide to take a dive to the bottom of the crevasse, Lenny and the aluminum bridge would be saved to fight again another day.
Once on the other side, Lenny shielded his eyes, and studied the barren ice leading out toward the Trans-Antarctic-Highway. “How are we going to camo the snow machines? There’s no way they won’t spot these miles away.”
“No need, Len.” Beckam pointed in the direction of travel. “You’re taking my rig with Danny. We’ll load the Taiga and toboggan to the gunwales with fuel, food, and meds. You’ll navigate to the Transverse, solo, make a left turn and get Danny to Amundsen-Scott as fast as you can, keeping him comfortable. We’re gonna dump the remaining two Taigas in the crevasse. Even with camo, the snow machines would be spotted by a trained eye using binoculars in a hot minute.”
Le
nny hesitated, and then said, “Boss, I can’t do that…”
Beckam held up a hand. “That’s an order, Lenny.”
Lenny nodded, the look on his face grim. “This operation just keeps getting better. I can’t wait to see what’s coming next.”
Liam grinned. “Tell me about it, bro. I’m the one who has to stay here.”
“Yeah. But at least you have a chance to kill some commies.”
Beckam said, “If we are being tracked by the Russians, and we do this right, there’s a good chance we take out the entire patrol, leaving us with fresh Taigas. If friendlies; we high-five, tell war stories, and ride to Amundsen-Scott like Patton into Messina. If it turns into a cluster, you know where we are. Get Danny medical, then haul ass back with the cavalry, if you find any, and rescue our asses.”
Beckam pointed at the aluminum bridge. “You wondered how we were gonna make this work. We unfasten the bridge and force it down into the crevasse, anchor it with some line and screws. Voilà. We’ve got a fighting position.”
Liam shouldered his weapon. “That’s why you’re the boss.”
“Inventory the weapons; ours and whatever we poached from the Russian drop. I want to see exactly what kind of toys and ammunition we’re bringing to the party.”
Beckam worked with Lenny, loading all the fuel, extra food, blankets, and water strapped behind Lenny on the passenger pillion and around Danny in the toboggan. When done, Beckam knelt at the head of the toboggan where Danny lay semi-conscious.
“I’m sending you ahead with Lenny to recon and then take—with extreme violence, if necessary—Amundsen.”
Danny Frantino reached a shaky hand out from underneath the blankets. He replied in a weak voice. “You got it, Boss. We’ll show those civilians how it’s done.”
Beckam nodded, his eyes bright, steely. “Make sure Lenny doesn’t drink up all the booze. We’re showing up right behind you.”
“I can’t promise we won’t be drunk as skunks, draped with adoring and lonely glasses-wearing, uptight, female scientists with a SEAL crush—other than that, you bring it, Boss. We’ll be waiting.”