ICE GENESIS

by Kevin Tinto

  He’d have to leave it up to Lenny to come up with inventive ways to defend Amundsen if the civilians had not been evacuated.

  “Oh, hell yeah, Skipper!” Liam was celebrating. “We kicked their ass! They’re tucking tails and running.”

  Beckam grinned. “Yeah, we really kicked their ass, Frog. One problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We dumped the Taigas into the crevasse. No way we can winch snow machines up after wedging them in the ice, thirty meters down.”

  Liam was so stoked; he couldn’t be deterred. “Couple of meat-eaters like ourselves—we’ll walk to Amundsen Scott. We don’t need no stinking snow machines.”

  Beckam nodded. ‘I’m climbing up, take a look see.”

  When he got to the edge of the crevasse and was able to look out on the horizon, the Spetsnaz were already moving out of sight. Probably picked up Lenny’s trail already.

  “Okay, Frog. Have it your way. Let’s walk it.”

  “Shit, yeah!” hollered Liam from down blow.

  “Once you get up here, pull up one of those toboggans. We take all the gear we can on the sled, fix up a couple of harnesses, and get to it.”

  ✽✽✽

  One hour later, with a light breeze blowing, and the remaining gear and ammo salvaged out of the crevasse, Beckam was ready to go. He’d used climbing line to configure a waist harness system that allowed the two SEALs to pull the sled.

  Beckam glanced over at Liam, who was fitting an MP5 over his harness.

  “I’m all set, Boss.”

  Beckam nodded. He paused for a second, still wondering how the boys ahead were doing. He hoped the crevasse stand-off showed the Spetsnaz that SEALs had teeth and would bite, regardless of the situation. A bit of caution on the Russians’ part might be the small advantage Lenny and Danny needed to get to Amundsen. Once there, though, a whole new set of problems would arise.

  One problem at a time, Beckam reminded himself.

  “Any parting words, Boss?”

  Beckam grinned. “Embrace the suck, Frog.”

  Liam nodded, pulled a balaclava up over his nose, and took off at such a fast pace, Beckam had to jog to keep up.

  Three or four hundred kilometers to Amundsen-Scott.

  We’re SEALs—piece of cake.

  Chapter 70

  Leah woke to a light shake on the shoulder. Captain Hutchinson knelt next to her. “We’re ready to refuel, Dr. Andrews. I thought you’d want to watch this from the cockpit. It’s an amazing sight.”

  Leah nodded, then stretched and glanced at her watch. They’d already been in the air eight hours. She stood and twisted around, taking in a view of the Ancients. Most of them still slept. Appanoose, who remained wide awake and standing, had been silent so far.

  She was shocked to find Colonel Kelleher hard asleep in the seat next to her. Then she remembered that Jane West had been tapped to command the refueling maneuver. Leah worked her hands along the seat tops, making her way toward the cockpit. The sun was about to set to the west, the last rays reflecting off the waves of the endless Atlantic Ocean below.

  Major West was in the command pilot seat. Leah looked forward, expecting to find a refueling jet ahead, but the horizon was clear. The two jump seats at the rear of the cockpit were empty, so Leah slid into one of them.

  “Hutchinson said you were refueling,” Leah said. “I don’t see a flying gas can.”

  West turned. “We’re still thirty minutes north of the tanker. The weather is clear, light to zero turbulence—should be a piece of cake.”

  “Trust me when I say, I’m bad luck,” Leah said wearily. “If anything can go wrong, it will.”

  “As pilots, we pretty much live with Murphy day and night. It’s never the first thing that goes wrong that will kill you—it’s when Murph decides he’ll throw a few at you, all at once. We call that the Cascade to Hell.”

  “In my case, he threw me in an elevator and cut the cables. Cascaded my ass into a free-falling elevator.”

  Major West smiled, and Leah couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Can I ask you a question, Dr. Andrews?”

  Leah expected the pilot wanted more detail about the operation in Antarctica—past and present. That was fine. Leah had already decided that everyone aboard deserved to know the whole truth.

  “Sure—and just call me Leah.”

  When West turned, she flashed a sly smile, not exactly what Leah had been expecting. “So—your hostage—Captain Hutchinson. Is he single? Not for me, of course—but Captain Ross…. Char’s just a wee bit smitten.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I’d like to have him as my hostage—for a month in Tahiti.”

  The pilots burst out laughing. Leah felt the galaxy-wide divide between her reality, an endlessly looping horror movie, and the ‘normal’ life these young military women were still enjoying.

  “On a serious note,” Major West said, apparently noting that Dr. Leah Andrews hadn’t laughed, “we’re coming up on this refueling and both Char and I will be super busy. But, we’d love to have you sit up front, and after the refueling, tell us everything. Colonel Kelleher said something about ‘compartmentalized intelligence’ and national security, then clammed up.”

  ✽✽✽

  As it turned out, Leah slept through the entire refueling. When she woke, the tanker was a series of blinking lights in the distance. Captain Hutchinson was sitting in the starboard jump seat, headset on, regaling Captain Charlotte Ross with tales of flying for the Genesis Settlement.

  Leah found herself grinning, despite the situation. The grin evaporated when she thought how much Jack would have loved to jump into this conversation.

  Major Jane West said, “Leah—we’ve got time. Anything you’d like to share on the Genesis Settlement and the discovery in Antarctica—that would be awesome.”

  “Okay,” Leah said. She glanced over at Hutchinson. “This will take a while. How about if you gather coffee and food for me and the ladies. Check on Kelleher—wake him if he’s still sleeping.”

  “Belay that order, Captain,” West said. “Leave sleeping dogs lie.”

  “Isn’t Kelleher flying the approach into Antarctica?” Leah asked.

  “Oh, hell no,” West said with conviction. “First off, he’s not our boss. We just happened to be flying through Holloman. Second, all he’s flown outside of a desk for the last however-many years is a T-38 around the pattern, a few hours per month to stay current. Third, I’m responsible for this aircraft, not Colonel Kelleher. This plane’s signed out to me; I fly it nearly every day. No one takes this bird onto the ice, but Char and me.”

  West and Ross high-fived, as if they’d planned it. Then West said, “I let Kelleher fly the first leg, as a courtesy. You know, allow the Base Commander a chance to blow off some testosterone. After two hours, he was already nodding off.” She turned in her seat, dead serious. “I hope you read me on this, Leah.”

  “Got it, and I got your back. Besides, I’ve already landed on the ice with guys flying the plane. I can tell you first-hand—total nightmare.”

  The pilots laughed and high-fived again, and even Hutchinson had his hand in on this one.

  “I’m on the food,” Hutchinson said. “Should I have Gordo knock out the Colonel with a Sleeping Beauty?”

  Leah chuckled at his use of ‘Gordo’ instead of Dr. Gordon. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear that Marko Kinney had been reincarnated into Hutchinson—with a few…well, more than a few…upgrades. Something about that filled her, at least momentarily, with a sense of well-being. “Sure. Tell Gordo to go short on the sedative, though.”

  Hutchinson was gone in a flash.

  “Oh. Yeah,” Charlotte said. “He’s a keeper. Didn’t even try to ‘mansplain’ why we shouldn’t drink coffee while flying the airplane.”

  Leah couldn’t hold back a momentary grin. “You ladies mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot,” said West. “We’re an open book.”

  Leah s
aid, “I’ve pretty much hijacked this aircraft, forcing you to fly on what we all agree is a hazardous mission. Not to mention, we’re right on the cusp of the greatest crisis, for mankind, with unimaginable cultural, hyper-technology and power shifting consequences, even a war with Russia, and yet, you two seem pretty calm and cool.”

  Charlotte looked at Jane West, and then nodded, like she should answer.

  West said, “Remember we’ve been at war, mentally, since our first day at the Academy. We’ve never known peace time, as military officers. Char and I have been flying into and out of combat zones our entire careers. We’ve had to run ass-over-teakettle for the bird, when an Afghan farmer, oh, I mean ‘Taliban Fighter’ sets up a mortar in order to take a pot shot at a big juicy Globemaster, maybe ten minutes after unloading a hundred-thousand-pounds of One-Five-Five artillery destined to pound Taliban targets out at Camp Wilderness.” West hesitated. “We’ve medevaced wounded to Ramstein, who are then rushed to Landstuhl Medical Center, more times than I’d care to count. That goes double for the KIA we’ve flown back into Dover.”

  West glanced over at Charlotte Ross. “Honestly, Leah, our biggest worry is what happens when we punch out of our flying jobs and have to return to civilian life. Neither one of us can wait at a greenlight for more than three seconds before screaming a string of four-letter greetings to the Prius that takes ten seconds to move its ass.”

  When West turned to look at Leah, the stress was written across her face. “We’ve gotten so numb—we’d just go on like it’s another day at the office. We had a few, well more than a few shots one night, and Char and I decided, regardless if the world is going to hell, that wouldn’t keep us from enjoying every day we’re alive and in one-piece.”

  Hutchinson was back minutes later, loaded with coffee, sandwiches made by the mess hall, plus cookies and waters. When everyone had something to eat, Leah told them whole story, starting at the beginning….

  ✽✽✽

  An hour later, Leah had finished, and the facial expression on Major West and Captain Ross had dramatically changed. Gone were the easygoing pilots who’d seen it all and were sure they’d faced worse in Iraq and Afghanistan. Their expressions had turned sober and serious. Even Hutchinson had fallen quiet.

  Major West broke the silence. “Your husband’s missing somewhere in Turkey—all your friends: KIA. Our government: taking a cue from North Korea on how to get rid of adversaries. I’d say it sucks, except that doesn’t even come close. It makes the whole, alien part of the story seem meaningless—and that should be impossible to do…. So, what’s your plan—once we land at Murdo?”

  “Yeah…still working on that part,” Leah said.

  “And everything is based upon these visions you had while going all Timothy-Leary in the sweat lodge?”

  Leah slumped back into the seat. Suddenly she felt like an idiot.

  Had manipulation by the shaman, her fatigue, and the devastating deaths of Garrett and Marko damaged her psyche enough that she’d led herself down a delusional path? Was Wheeler right? Was she certifiably crazy?

  Before she could respond, Major West said, “We are processing a situation way beyond our ability to understand. The technology is thousands, perhaps millions of years ahead of our own. It seems totally reasonable, to me, that this shaman was subject to ‘special programming,’ especially if he’s supposed to lead them somewhere else. This visions in the sweat lodge—it was completely different than anything you’ve experienced, even using peyote buttons?”

  Devastated by the thought that she was leading these amazing young officers on a lethal fool’s errand, Leah could only manage a nod.

  “Okay then,” West said. “Char, get a chart—no, better yet, get a good-sized map of Antarctica out of the flight case.” She turned to Leah. “Take the map back to your shaman buddy. Show it to him. Make him point out where this alien complex sits. If he ‘transferred’ this information to you, maybe it’s like an old-fashioned fax. The original always has the sharpest information.”

  Chapter 71

  President William Wheeler fell back into the couch in the private residence. At first, he’d thought he could still beat them. But, hour by hour, the reality had sunk in.

  There was no one he could blame except himself. Beaten…no, destroyed by a group of homegrown terrorists, led by a corporate raider who, in normal circumstances, would be licking the bottom of his shoes. Not even the most powerful political fireman could douse this roaring inferno and save his administration.

  Wheeler pushed himself off the couch and steadied himself against the dizziness. Gravity was pulling his pants toward the carpet, his belt no longer able to prevent their fall.

  He unfastened the belt, intending to tightened it an additional notch. When he looked down, he saw the belt was already on the last notch. To tighten the belt any more, he’d have to cut another hole in it.

  Wheeler counted four notches, to where the belt had a well-worn crease, back when he’d thought he looked great in the mirror, even if he needed to lose five or ten pounds.

  Back in the heady, early days of his administration, winning the election, putting into action his vision for the country and the world—that seemed a lifetime away. As his realm began to collapse, like a bubble, shrinking in size, he’d had to pull the belt tighter as well. It was ironic that most people would dream about the problem of having their belt grow too long. For Wheeler, though, it signaled defeat. Each notch one step closer to the end.

  Wheeler carefully refastened the belt and pulled his pants up to the point he thought they’d stay in place, at least for a few minutes. That’s all that would be required. He shuffled toward a chair, where his suit jacket had been folded and laid across the back. He put the jacket on, making sure to button it.

  He walked into his bedroom, then into the closet. At the bottom of a box full of old magazines, where he’d been featured as an up and coming public servant, Wheeler pulled out an ancient handgun. Given to him by his father, it was a Remington 1911, handed down to his father by his grandfather and used during World War II during the invasion of Italy. It hadn’t been fired for decades but was loaded with a full magazine, exactly as it had been when his father handed it over to him some twenty years prior.

  Wheeler felt the cold steel, and it reminded him of home, growing up in Michigan. Summers on the lakes, winters building endless snowmen, and riding his wooden toboggan down the small hill behind his house.

  He drew a deep breath, then walked to a dining table, where he sat and placed the 1911 on the surface. He pushed the handgun back for a moment, having second thoughts. Was this to be his legacy? Or was there still a ray of hope, a path back to his true destiny as the most successful and loved president of the United States since John F. Kennedy?

  ✽✽✽

  Teresa Simpson was in West Wing of the White House, waiting anxiously for the daily security briefing with the President, when all hell broke loose. Secret Service came running from every direction, several wielding fully automatic weapons.

  “What is going on?” she shouted to one of agents running past.

  “Shelter in place, ma’am. For your own protection.”

  “Why?”

  “The President has been shot in the private residence.”

  Teresa shut the door to her office, heart racing. Shelter-in-place, the president shot? That meant there was an active shooter in the White House. She wondered if she should barricade the door shut. This was a scenario that she’d trained for on several occasions, but to think it might be happening for real was almost paralyzing. Had Paulson’s guess about a coup correct? Brazenly taking place right inside the White House?’

  Her terror ramped up a whole lot higher when the brass handle knob turned and the door was shoved open. To her immense relief, it was Kerrie Handleson, one of the executive assistants. Tears were running down her cheek and she seemed on the edge of breaking down.

  “No,” she moaned to Teresa. “No. No. No.”

/>   “What’s happening?” Teresa said, holding Kerrie’s shoulders and looking her in the eye.

  “President Wheeler shot himself in the private residence.”

  Chapter 72

  Leah sat in the port jump seat, her emotions a complicated mix of excitement and dread. She was excited one moment, that the Ancients were back on track, returning to their genuine purpose—not the flawed Settlement. The next moment she felt only fear, dread, and darkness.

  Leah had gotten a huge boost when she’d flattened the plastic continental map of Antarctica on the floor of the C-17’s fuselage and told the shaman, “Ha’át’éegi.”

  Without hesitation, Appanoose slammed his forefinger down on the map. The good news was that he apparently knew, without doubt, where to find this twin-domed complex.

  The bad news was that Appanoose’s spot was a thousand kilometers from MacMurdo. Leah had no idea how they’d travel that distance on open ice. Jane told her that MacMurdo had specially designed trucks, snow cats, and fuel. Thousands of gallons of fuel were necessary to run the convoys between Murdo and Amundsen-Scott. With some skills at hotwiring, she’d have plenty of transportation at her beck and call. Given that they were headed off the Transverse, a prepared ice highway, they might want to stick with the snow cats, except that they burned a whole lot more fuel. She’d have to make that call when she got there.

  Leah looked out the windscreen and down on the ice below. Barren for as far as the eye could see. She had flashbacks of making a similar flight in the Caribou, her biggest concern then had been having to use some makeshift toilet.