by Kevin Tinto
“Like riding a bike,” Paulson said as beads of sweat ran down Ridley’s face. “Once a fighter pilot, always a fighter pilot.”
“Remember, Al. I’m the one who had to fix up those jets every time you busted something—which was often.”
“Iranian airspace in eight minutes,” Paulson called out. "I sure hope Jack got the runway clear of debris and hung up a windsock; otherwise we’re going to make a hell of a fireball.”
✽✽✽
Jack Hobson was hidden between the buildings of the rundown Iranian airfield. He should have been looking to the northwest, the direction Paulson would be coming in at low altitude, if he hadn’t already been killed in a crash. Instead, Jack was using a pair of binoculars to study the traffic on the dirt highway that crossed south of the airfield by a matter of a few kilometers. The traffic was about half civilian and half military this close to the border. So far, no one had turned north toward the airfield, but that would change the instant a jet came screaming overhead.
He swung binoculars over to where the ragged windsock still flew over the airport. The wind was blowing out of the north. That meant Paulson would have to overfly the airport, make a one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn, land, avoid the bomb crater, turn around, get Jack aboard, taxi to the end of the runway, and takeoff.
From touchdown, Jack estimated it would take five minutes to slow the jet, turn it around, pick him up, high-speed taxi, turn around again, and pour the coal to it.
Hawar and his sons Kajir and Camir also hid behind the buildings, with weapons ready. Bazi held the horses at the nearby rock-outcropping they’d hidden within, waiting for Paulson’s approach.
Jack had tried to convince the Kurds to leave. Even if he got off safe, they’d still be stuck on the ground. If Iranian solders showed up, they’d have to fight their way out. Hawar said he did not fear Iranian soldiers but the wrath of God, for leaving Jack at the airfield solo after guaranteeing his protection. That, he said, was something to fear.
“Who could argue with that?” Jack had said, thankful for the armed company.
He was swinging the binoculars back toward the road once again, when he heard the turbine whine of a medium-sized jet approaching from the north, already within a half mile of the runway. Either Al had guessed the wind direction or seen the windsock in the pre-dawn light. He was setting up for a right-hand pattern. He’d fly past the runway, make a descending turn to base, then final and set the jet down on the numbers. Without blowing the tires—Jack hoped.
He swung the binoculars back toward the highway—nothing turning toward the runway at high speed. All that praying he’d been doing might have paid off—he’d have to tell Badger…if he made it out alive. The old preacher would be thrilled.
The jet had made the turn and was on short final. Jack wasn’t sure if Paulson was going to make the runway, he was down so low over the sand on a flat final approach, nose high, rolling in more throttle, not pulling the throttles back to idle, as Jack expected.
The rear gear touched down no more than 5 feet from the end of the tarmac, the nose gear swiftly followed, and dust flew when both brakes and reverses were applied. Jack didn’t see a whole lot of dust. He turned to hug Hawar, Kajir and Camir, saying his goodbyes before sprinting for the slowing aircraft.
The jet’s hatch dropped down even before the jet had stopped and Mac Ridley’s creased smile was the first thing that popped out of the open door. Jack ran to catch up, reached up, and Ridley reached out, grabbing Jack by the wrist and pulling him up as Jack touched maybe one of the stairs before throwing himself inside the X.
Ridley operated the door closing mechanism and Paulson swung the aircraft around so fast it pinned Jack against the fuselage. Paulson taxied down the 3,000 feet he’d used on landing in less than a minute, jammed on the brakes, swung the jet 180 degrees once again, and firewalled the throttles, causing both Ridley and Jack to tumble back toward the rear of the aircraft.
Once they were airborne, Ridley climbed up and plopped himself into the co-pilot’s while Jack worked his head and shoulders into the cockpit. He got a side glance at Paulson and was shocked to see how worn he looked. This was a man who normally needed two hours a sleep a night and happily worked the other twenty-two. Even on Everest, he’d never seen Paulson looking this beat.
Paulson spun around for a moment and grinned. “You look like hell, Jack. When was the last time you slept?”
“I was going to say the same,” Jack said. “Does that mean my suspicions were right? Wheeler’s gone nuts and all hell is breaking loose?”
Paulson kept his eyes on the terrain as the X rolled over the four-hundred knot mark, and he held the altitude at less than two-hundred feet AGL, just about to cross the Turkish border, headed for the Black Sea again.
“Mac. Fill Jack in. If I so much as sneeze, we’re going to make a large pile of scrap aluminum.”
Ridley turned, grabbed a thermos of coffee and a bag of sweet rolls. “Yeah—what we have here is a class-a-number-one clusterfuck.”
“Leah,” Jack said. “Where’s Leah?”
“She’s still at the Settlement,” Ridley said. “Last time we checked, the trouble-maker hadn’t cut her throat.”
“Mac!” Paulson said.
Ridley shrugged and grinned. “C’mon, Al. Just keeping it real.” Then he added, “Don’t worry about Leah. From what Al thinks, this might some kind of governmental coup—Leah’s the least of their problems. Plus, she’s surrounded by the Indians. Al says they turned out to be a lot less like nervous squirrels and more like pissed off wolverines. I’d bet she’s sitting by the fire, listening to them tell stories, and having a hot cup of—well whatever those people drink. No worries.”
Jack suddenly dug into his filthy backpack, and pulled out the two GoPro cameras. He removed them from the protective water and shock proof clear cases, and pulled the SD disks out of both. While the newer GoPro cameras had a playback feature, it was so small, it was hard to make out detail, especially in a low-light environment.
“Anyone got a laptop?” Jack asked.
Ridley pointed to a bag stuffed underneath a seat. Inside was a MacBook. Jack opened it—after he’d gotten the password from Ridley. It was one he wouldn’t rdepeat in mixed company.
Jack pushed the disk into the slot and waited. When it opened on the home screen, he clicked on it and found several files. The first three had been testing the GoPro. The only thing on those files would be Jack’s own mug, while he examined the camera, making sure it was operating. The fourth file was the one that had the goods: any video taken down inside the hot spring. He pulled it up, and was immediately thrilled to find a clear, well-lit underwater image.
He clicked on the file, and the camera, this one facing vertically down, feaured underwater video, jerky at times, sinking deep down into Jacob’s Well. He only had to view the video for a minute to determine that what David Samuelson had seen was neither the filament, nor another alien complex. It was simply, a dome-shaped rock, polished smooth over time, perhaps by a glacier that had once slid over the top of it.
“Well?” Ridley was looking back at Jack. Paulson had no idea what he had been doing, he was still focused on getting them out to sea while avoiding both the ground, and anything resembling an air-to-air missile.
Jack shook his head. “Nothing worth risking our lives over.”
Ridley simply flashed him a told you so look. “I think it’s time we started looking out for ourselves. Each and every damn time we’ve stuck our neck out, we’ve been burned.”
Jack nodded on agreement. “What’s your plan, Mac?”
Ridley pointed a finger. “I tell you what my damn plan is—if they’re trying to kill me, I’ll give them a shot at it, while I’m coming at them with a Desert Eagle aimed right between their F**** eyes.”
Jack grinned. “Now that’s a plan I can get behind.”
Chapter 66
Alexi had the sniper scope up to his eye before Grigoriy could pull his
Swarovski glasses from the gear bag.
“Contact?”
Grigoriy seated the Swarovskis against his face. “Negative,” he answered.
The sudden change of direction was wrong, Grigoriy thought. Unnecessary.
SEALS didn’t make arbitrary changes in direction unless something else was in play.
“Distance to the pressure ridge?” he asked.
“Estimating 3,000,” Alexi responded without hesitation.
Grigoriy spun, focusing the binocs on their flank. Clear. He then scanned 360 degrees, his combat-honed alarm system still activated. “Forward 300 meters. Keep the Taigas in single file.”
✽✽✽
“Contact,” Beckam said.
“Hell, yeah,” Liam breathed, his eye pinned to his scope.
It was too far out to make out any details other than several points on the horizon that were non-natural, having just appeared minutes ago.
“I’m not making out any movement,” Beckam said.
“Same here, Boss.”
“Probably saw the change in direction on the Taigas.”
“Maybe they’re spooked. Probably tucking tail right around and head for Vladivostok.”
Beckam chuckled. “Or it’s SEALS, following Russian Taiga tracks, thinking those sneaky bastards are setting up an ambush.”
“Too slow for SEALs,” Liam said.
Beckam nodded. “Elements of the Spetsnaz. Reconnaissance, probably. They don’t want to make contact.”
“Bitches already made their first mistake,” Liam said.
✽✽✽
Grigoriy studied the pressure ridge from 2,000 meters out. He pulled the glasses away from his face and said in Russian: “Truten.”
Vasily dug into a gear bag and lifted out a metallic case about the size of a carry-on piece of travel luggage. He opened the case: inside was a device resembling a high-tech version of a radio-control toy. It was made of aluminum and featured four propellers run by electric motors. Mounted on the bottom of the aluminum frame was a high-resolution camera on a pivot system that allowed the operator to move the camera nearly 360 degrees.
Alexi handed Grigoriy a pair of virtual-reality goggles and a twin toggle controller with a wide variety of switches and buttons aligned around the aluminum-encased remote. The last item he pulled out was a lithium battery the size of a brick. He was confident the drone would work to a range of two kilometers. They’d tested handheld radios to that distance, without apparent negative effect by the atmospheric disturbance. The radio control drone could operate well beyond two kilometers, out of sight even, and on its own, with a highly sophisticated onboard computer system. He didn’t intend to test it past two kilometers.
“Transmitter is on,” Grigoriy said after flipping a switch. A red light lit on the transmitter panel. Vasily waited until the blinking red light on the transmitter had gone solid, then slid the battery into a compartment on the drone.
He made sure the electrical contacts were connected, then shut and locked the battery door. He switched the drone on, and a series of lights blinked to life. Three beeps later, the computer brain in the drone had initialized, and the light on transmitter had turned from solid red to green. The Truten was prepped and ready to fly.
Vasily held the drone over his head, and Grigoriy pushed the right lever up a notch. All four props spun up, and the drone took off, rising vertically to fifteen meters above the ice. Grigoriy hit a switch that placed the drone in an autopilot hover, then fitted the VR glasses over his eyes. He felt the switch that initiated the camera link and within a second, the panorama of Antarctica spread out before him. He tested the controls, overriding the hover autopilot. He’d hand fly the drone, but if he ever took his hands away from the controls it would spontaneously begin a hover and stay there until instructed otherwise or until the battery ran out of power. When operated in conjunction with GLONASS, he could send the drone out and it would automatically return when instructed and land, no additional control necessary. With both GLONASS and GPS systems offline, Grigoriy would be hand-flying the miniature craft.
He pushed the left stick forward and the drone accelerated away from the platoon in a flash. Grigoriy increased power and the drone gained altitude. He brought it up to 100 meters above ground level, the HD camera giving him a magnificent view of the pressure ridge and the horizon ahead.
In a matter of seconds, we’ll see exactly what lies beyond that pressure ridge.
Chapter 67
Beckam was holding down on the drone with his MP-5 as it flew up the center of the crevasse toward their position. The drone pilot had dropped altitude and speed as he homed in on the crevasse.
Beckam sighted on the drone through his scope; an easy shot flying straight at them at less than a fifty-meter altitude. When it got within sixty meters of their position and on line to overfly them, he opened-up with a short burst. The drone exploded into a shower of plastic and aluminum.
“Nice shot, Boss!” said Liam.
“If they had the camera pod aimed forward,” Beckam said, “they already made us and our strength. From the angle of the camera, it appeared to be scanning the crevasse straight down. For all they know, we’ve got an entire company of SEALs lined up in here, ready to charge out like the light brigade.”
“How long will that slow them down?”
“Wouldn’t slow me at all if we had our guys and our weapons. I’d just set up a couple of light mortars, standoff a thousand meters and lay down a line of fire on the crevasse.”
Before Liam replied, the whistle of an incoming Russian mortar round signaled the Russian’s thinking was close to his own. The first round went fifty meters long and a hundred meters to the left of their position.
Beckam was right. He’d shot down the drone before the Russians were able to make their position, strength, and capability. That bought them a couple of minutes before the commander got a bead on the crevasse and then walked those mortars laterally in both directions, killing them before they had a chance to return fire.
“Get me the extra coils of line.”
Liam grabbed two coils of line hooked up on the wall of the crevasse.
“Clip onto the line through a pulley and drop the line down to the bottom of the crevasse. We’re going to rappel down as far as we can go.” Beckam unwound the line. “The chance of hitting us with the mortars are zero. We’ll see how long it takes for the Russians to get curious and take a peek into the crevasse.”
“Love it, Boss. What did Schwarzenegger say in the Predator movie? ‘Dug in like an Alabama tick’?”
“Jesse Ventura, but the analogy is dead-on. We’re gonna make ourselves a real pain in the ass to dig out.”
Chapter 68
Grigoriy crouched behind the snow machine, the Swarovskis pressed against his eye sockets, watching the mortars detonate as the team worked the range until they were hitting the crevasse. He watched two rounds in a row drop inside. “Progulki vlevo i vpravo.”
The mortar team did as they were instructed, walking rounds left and then right, hoping to kill everything pinned down inside the crevasse.
Grigoriy didn’t leave the cover provided by the snow machine but lifted up a bit in order to get a scan of the target zone. A thousand meters might seem safe, but an expert sniper could blow his head off even at that range.
Even with the mortars, he’d be lucky to eliminate the SEALs. They’d need a direct hit on their position, and even then, a smart commander would have his platoon spread out, working the natural terrain features inside the crevasse, providing cover from the mortar shrapnel. There’d been no return fire from the American position. Aside from one or perhaps two snipers with rifles and spotters looking over the lip of the crevasse, the commander had the balance of his guys dug in, saving ammunition, waiting for Grigoriy to tire of the mortars and move up to take on the soldiers directly.
If only we had a ‘crocodile,’ he thought. Five minutes with that and we’d flush them all out.
; Crocodile was a term Russian soldiers used for a lethal ground-attack helicopter: The M-24. The heavily armed gunship would make fast work of anyone, crevasse, or not, with a combination of machine guns and rockets.
If this were the deserts of Syria, Grigoriy could leisurely continue mortaring, while sipping hot coffee and munching sugar cookies. Down at the bottom of the world, they carried a total of 30 mortar rounds. The temperature hovered around -25 Celsius, at last check. And they only had food for another five days, ten if they went on half rations.
When he really thought about it, having no attack helicopters was likely the least of their problems.
Chapter 69
Beckam and Clay had wedged themselves more than ten meters down in the crevasse, backs pressed against one wall, boots braced against the opposite side. The six mortar shells so far had bracketed them on the left, right, front and rear. Wedged this far down in the crevasse, it would have to be a perfect shot to kill them.
“They can’t keep this up long, Boss. I think we got ‘em right where we want them.”
Beckam grunted. "Either they think we’re dead or wounded.”
“What’s their best play, Boss?”
“They’ve got to keep moving. Getting side-tracked by us, running through their supplies and ammo in sub-zero temperatures…. If roles were reversed, I’d first try and eliminate or injure them, then cripple their ability to travel—wave bye-bye on my way to Amundsen-Scott. Pointless to waste ammo when the Antarctic will do the job for them.”
Beckam heard the snow machines cranking up before moving off, quickly picking up speed and giving the crevasse a wide berth.
It wouldn’t take long for the Russians to pick up Lenny and Danny’s tracks. Hopefully pinning the Russians down for a couple hours had given the boys a solid head start for Amundsen. That wouldn’t solve their problems, unless air support miraculously appeared or American troops had already made their way to Amundsen and set up a forward command post.