by Kevin Tinto
Beckam leaned down and kissed Danny Frantino on the forehead, then he stood and said, “Put the spurs to it, Frog.”
Lenny gave his brother a bear hug, then Beckam. “Kill everything in front of you, Boss,” he said. “Then bring it home.”
Chapter 38
It was dark when Hawar gave the order to move out from the compound. Even at the altitude of five thousand feet, it was ice-cold and windy. Jack wore down-lined climbing pants and a parka, and Hawar had given him traditional clothing to wear over the top of his climbing gear. They would pass villagers on the move to and from Doğubeyazıt.
Having a westerner tagging along would raise questions and be hazardous not just for Jack, but for Hawar and his sons, should someone decided the western infidel would make a profitable target. The idea was to get up and down Ararat quietly. If the Kurds had to pull out automatic weapons and engage in a firefight, likely killing bandits, jihadists, profiteers, or others, it would create more than a few problems.
Hawar and his sons Kajir, Camir, and Bazi led two horses loaded down with food and weapons. From what Jack saw, there was way more, of both, than would be required for this fast turn-around. Hawar must have a weapons and food stash somewhere on the shoulders of Ararat. Hawar’s compound was less than eight kilometers from the base of the mountain. It seemed they’d just started when they started climbing up a steep grade, following a series of paths and trails.
There was no moon, but the skies were crystal clear, and the stars—brighter than is ever seen near a city or at lower altitude—provided enough light to navigate the well-worn paths leading up and down the mountain. Jack wondered for just how many thousands of years had this footpath been used by people? Even the stone was worn into steps in places from where feet had been wearing at them since the beginning of civilization.
At just after four in the morning, Hawar told Jack the dawn was nearing and that it was time to stop. Hawar shouted at Kajir, who was walking the lead horse up the steep trail. Kajir acknowledged with a wave, and turned off the trail, cutting across the rock, until he linked up with another trail a hundred meters to the right.
Hawar shouted again, pointing more toward the right. Kajir led the horse up a twisting switchback, while Jack did his best to keep sight of the young Kurd in the darkness.
Suddenly, Kajir and his horse disappeared. Jack stopped, then turned toward Hawar. The Kurd urged him on with a hand wave. The switchback trail disappeared into the mountain, or so Jack thought. The entrance, hidden behind rock shelving was just large enough to swallow the horses. Hawar shouted in Kurd, and Jack immediately stumbled into the rear of the second horse. Kajir had brought the two horses to an abrupt halt.
Hawar pushed past Jack, ducked under the horses and got ahead of Kajir. After a moment, Hawar said two words. Kajir continued with the horses, through two more narrow passages, before the passageway opened into a gaping blackness.
Hawar sparked an ancient gas lantern and a cavern at least thirty meters deep, wide and high, lit up in a soft glow. He motioned Jack over near the entrance, and showed why he had gone ahead of Kajir and the horses. He held a meter and a half-length of line, dyed black, with two steel washers, one on each end. He showed Jack how this attached to matching hooks located about a half a meter off the cavern floor, hidden by a series of well-placed rocks. Anyone entering the cavern, having stumbled across the naturally hidden entrance would have to step over the rock, tripping the line set just where a foot would naturally touch down. Even with a flashlight, the chances of spotting the trip line were near zero. Seated within pockets cut out of the rock walls, hidden behind a pile of stones, were two Chinese anti-personal mines, one on each side of the entrance. If tripped, they would kill everything facing them. Jack nodded, then turned and worked back into the main cavern, watching every step he took.
Protected and out of the howling winds that were driving the wind-chill well below zero, the grotto seemed warm and secure. Several wooden tables lined the walls, along with chairs, blankets, and a plastic tub full of cookware. Stacked along the rock walls, wooden boxes overflowed with weapons and ammunition of nearly every kind, Jack imagined. He’d been right guessing that Hawar was using Jack’s climb as a dual purpose expedition.
While Kajir and his brothers tended to the horses, Hawar lit two Whisperlite stoves and hydrated several packages of freeze-dried stew. He spoke in Kurdish to Bazi, who nodded, and ran toward one of the military-green, canvas bags they’d packed onto the horses. He unzipped the bag, laid a blanket down on the rock, and then began pulling one automatic weapon, after another, out of the bag.
“We rest today and wait for darkness, Mr. Jack. Then my sons will lead you up Ararat. Past the Parrott Glacier to the Western Plateau. At the Western Plateau, there is another protected spot you can rest. It is a half-day climb from there to the spring.” He put his arm around his youngest son. “Bazi and I will wait here with the horses for your return.” He placed a hand to his ear. “Have you heard them? Turkish helicopters, searching below. Does anyone know that you are here, Mr. Jack?”
Jack hesitated. “Is there any other reason they’d be searching the mountain?”
“It could be an exercise.” Hawar shook his head. “But I think not.”
This can’t be a coincidence, Jack thought but didn’t say. “The helicopters won’t search much above fourteen-thousand feet. Once we reach the Western Plateau, we can climb nonstop. Does Kajir know the way to the spring?”
Hawar nodded. “He has not seen it, but I have told him how to find it.”
Jack pulled one of the handheld GPS units out of his parka. “At least the GPS units are working. Hopefully, we won’t need them.”
“God willing,” Hawar said.
***
Jack woke to the sound of the Whisperlite stoves burning fuel under high pressure. On one stove, Kajir brewed tea, while on the other he was cooking up ‘murtuga,’ a Kurd breakfast staple of eggs scrambled with butter and flour. Bazi ran over to Jack, dropped on his knees and handed him a steaming cup of traditional Kurd tea brewed with cinnamon and a sizable helping of sugar.
After two sips of the strong tea, Jack felt his energy level rising. He climbed out of the mummy bag and dressed in his climbing gear, sans the traditional Kurd clothing. They were far enough up the mountain it was unlikely they’d run into anyone, especially during the winter, and they’d start the climb under the cover of darkness.
Regardless, both Kajir and Camir were already sporting automatic AK-47s on shoulder straps. They didn’t expect to see anyone on the mountain, but open carry of automatic weapons was a deterrent to any unexpected casual or inquisitive conversation. Anyone who saw them coming would quickly disappear. Even after a chance encounter, Jack, Kajir, and Camir would be long gone off the mountain, and Jack headed back toward Cappadocia, before someone could round up a large enough gang necessary to take on the young Kurds armed with automatic weapons.
After Jack dressed, he walked over to the stoves, where he put his hands down near the flame to warm them. Hawar squatted near the stoves, helping Kajir dole out helpings of the egg, flour, and butter combination. “God has given you the gift of a perfect night, Mr. Jack. The weather is clear, the stars bright, and the winds have stopped—for now.”
***
After several hours working up through the rock, still traveling on ancient trails that led toward the Western Plateau, they hit the base of the glacier. Jack dropped his gear to the ice. He said, “Crampons, ice axes and harnesses…from this point on, no one goes anywhere without crampons and an ice axe.”
Kajir pointed out the Cehennem Dare glacier.
Jack nodded and gave a low whistle. “You live at the base of one of the most magnificent mountains in the world.”
“We are blessed by God, Mr. Jack.”
Jack, Kajir, and Camir pushed on through the icy winds, each laden with nearly fifty pounds of ge
ar, not including the AK-47 automatic rifles each of the brothers had slung across his chest.
The icy winter winds and bone-chilling cold was every bit the match for Everest at the worst of times. The fact they were climbing through fourteen-thousand feet, not twenty-five thousand was a life-saver. The air was thick enough to cut with a knife, compared to the eight-thousand meter world-class peaks. Beyond having a whole lot more air to breathe, the extra oxygen molecules in each breath kept a body a whole lot warmer than the thin air at hyper-altitudes.
Kajir stopped and waited for Jack. “The Western Plateau,” the young Kurd said, pointing out a false summit, glowing under starlight, several hundred meters in the distance.
Jack nodded, sipping from a water bottle he’d stuffed inside his parka. “How far to camp?”
“Twenty minutes, no more.”
“A cavern?”
“Not so much, Mr. Jack.”
Jack swore under his breath. He was cold, exhausted, and second-guessing his desire to get out of Washington D.C. Staff Sergeant Carlson mixing endless cocktails while Jack sat in front of the fireplace, in the clubhouse, had never sounded so good as it did right now.
Chapter 39
Kajir’s “not so much” description of the cavern was an understatement. The ‘cavern’ turned out to be a rock shelf cutting four meters back under the glacier, the ceiling a mere meter in height. Even so, it felt every bit as good as a five-star resort hotel as Jack unslung his backpack and crawled under the overhang, tugging the pack in behind him.
Kajir and Camir followed Jack, chattering in Kurdish and clearly enjoying the climb way more than Jack was. Youth. A reminder he might be getting too old for these off-the-cuff, high-altitude trips in the middle of winter.
Jack pulled the GPS from his pocket, slid back out to the entrance to the cavern so he could get satellite signal. The small device did its calculations and gave him a distance to Jacob’s Well: slightly less than six kilometers. Jack logged the magnetic bearing in case the GPS satellite dropped off. Back under the overhang, he glanced at his watch. It was still at least three hours until sunrise, and they needed rest.
He told Kajir and Camir to take a load off, they’d rest for six hours. Kajir was delighted. Jack caught something about how, if it were Hawar leading the trip, they’d get an hour of rest and a horse whip across the back of the neck if they failed to move at his command.
“Soup, Mr. Jack?” Kajir scooped air toward his mouth.
“Yes, please.”
Camir pulled out the beat up Whisperlite and succeeded in lighting the cantankerous stove. Kajir slid out from underneath the overhang and stuffed a two-quart, dented aluminum pot well above the rim with packed snow and ice. Minutes later, after several more cups of ice went into the pot, all three were sipping reconstituted chicken noodle soup.
“The soup?” Camir asked Jack. “Very good?”
Jack grinned. “Hot soup on the side of a mountain after a brutal day climbing—better than the best restaurant meal in Ankara.”
The two young Kurds smiled and again began chatting in Kurdish. Jack was in mountaineering paradise. Stuffed under a rock overhang, the sound of winds howling outside and the Hubble-like view of the sky—the Milky Way so bright and thick it appeared like a solid band bisecting the heavens above. The jet-like sound of a Whisperlite burning gas under high pressure, the warm feel of the steam, and the aroma of the hot soup.
Jack zipped up his parka, pulled a black, wool hat down over his eyes and rested his head on his backpack. He was asleep in less than thirty seconds.
***
“God has blessed us with another fortunate day, Mr. Jack.”
Kajir pulled the Kurdish-style hat down over his forehead, almost to his eyes, keeping as much of the wind out of his face as possible.
Jack had awakened to find the Whisperlite hissing again, and a pot of hot water steaming. Kajir was making tea. He handed a mug to Jack, after adding what looked like a half-cup of sugar to the tea. The winds had moderated, and the sun was already well above the mountain. A near-perfect day. They were high enough up on Ararat that there was no need to continue on in the dark. If all went as planned, they’d be at the location of the hot spring in the afternoon. By the time they got down to the Western Plateau it would be dark again. They’d continue on down in the dark, right back to the cavern where hopefully, Hawar would have hot soup and tea brewing on the stoves when they arrived.
If it went as planned, they’d find Jacob’s Well, Jack would rig up his GoPro cameras and two underwater lights on the custom mount made to Jack’s specifications. He’d sink a line down into the hot spring and drop the Go-Pros down to around fifty meters, the maximum depth and pressure the camera cases could withstand. He had one Go-Pro set to video straight down, and with the clarity of the water it should easily see to the bottom of the well at seventy meters. The other GoPro would shoot horizontal. That way he’d cover video straight down, and also at a 90-degree angle from the line. The two GoPro’s offered redundancy. He’s used the GoPro enough to know how easy it was to hit the start button, see a blinking red light, then inadvertently hold the start button again, shutting the camera down. He was determined to shoot a few minutes of GoPro, then get the hell off the mountain. He pulled the GPS out of the jacket; it still held signal.
So far, a near-perfect day indeed.
They resumed their hike fully rested, hydrated, and in good spirits. When the GPS indicated they were within a thousand meters of the coordinates provided by Jacob Badger, he signaled for Kajir and Camir to stop.
“We’re close, Jack said.
Kajir looked at the mountain, using his hands to frame the mountain against points on the horizon. He nodded in agreement. “We will go ahead and see if we can locate it.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “But don’t go swimming until I get there.”
Kajir grinned and then took off up the mountain at a jog, with Camir right behind him, both disappearing from sight in a flash.
Youth, once again, bares its ugly head. Jack drew a deep breath, turned, and looked back to the Western Plateau, then turned again to see the East summit and the actual Summit of Mt. Ararat.
No peaks to bag today, he thought wistfully.
Jack got underway again, climbing solo for an hour in Kajir and Camir’s crampon tracks. He had just stopped for a breather and to sip a mouthful of water, when the two Kurds appeared upslope, running down toward him, their AK-47s, unslung and in firing position.
What the hell? Jack thought. This can’t be good.
When the brothers approached within fifty meters Jack saw they were excited and spooked. Eyes opened wide, they swept weapons left and right.
Kajir spoke, while Camir continued scanning the horizon with his rifle barrel. “Mr. Jack. We found the spring!” He bent over and sucked several deep breaths, gassed from the thin air, the excitement, and the sprint down the glacier. Kajir rattled off in Kurdish at Camir, who continuing to sweeping the horizon with his weapon.
“Easy, Kajir, Jack said. “Tell me what you found.”
“The spring! We found it. But, Mr. Jack, someone, perhaps soldiers, have been there!”
Jack felt his own head going into swivel mode, looking for signs they were about to be attacked. “How long ago?”
Kajir shook his head. “Very soon ago. There is equipment—you will see.…”
***
Jack stared down at Jacob’s Well. The three-inch frozen ice cap over the spring had been cut with a task-specific, Husqvarna ice saw. That was a good sign. If the waters had been cold, the ice would be far thicker—perhaps meters thick at this altitude. The Husqvarna lay alongside other gear, scattered haphazardly around the perimeter of the hot spring. A Honeywell Dura winch, normally painted bright yellow, repainted in desert camouflage, had been dragged away from the spring, then disassembled, before being tossed aside.
“Only Israelis have apparatus this….” Kajir struggled for the words in English.
“Brand-new equipment,” Jack said.
“Yes!” Kajir said, scanning the horizon.
Jack studied the gear. Whoever had been here had left in a hurry and not bothered to clean up the site—even going as far as dumping the gear into the spring to cover their tracks.
A flash of light emanating from a chunk of cut ice caught his attention. Jack pulled the ice away, exposing a small aluminum cylinder. It was painted white, with the words, DILUENT, circling the cylinder in bold red block letters
Kajir walked over as Jack picked the cylinder off the ice and spun it.
“What is that, Mr. Jack?”
“A cylinder of gas that’s used in what’s called a Rebreather. A sophisticated type of SCUBA equipment used by Special Operations Commandos—Navy SEALS in particular.”
“American commandos searching for the Ark, Mr. Jack?”
Jack shook his head. “No worries there. I know for a fact they weren’t searching for the Ark.” Jack glanced around the site. “Explore the area. Look for anything that might identify the nationality: uniforms, weapons, writing. Have Camir keep watch for unwanted visitors.”
Kajir began digging through the scattered gear while Jack did the same. Pulling up the leftover gear, searching empty gear bags for a uniform, flag, cigarette, lighter—anything that would give them a clue who had already explored the spring.
Jack had rummaged without success when he decided to circle back to the Honeywell. If they’d brought anything up, it would have been near the Honeywell.
Two gear bags had been discarded. The first one was empty; he tossed it aside. The second had something inside—something that had been salvaged from the bottom of Jacob’s Well.
The remains of David Samuelson….