by Kevin Tinto
Colonel Kelleher sat in the other jump seat. Upon waking, he’d immediately demanded control of the aircraft, challenging Jane West and insisting she turn the Globemaster over to him.
As Leah promised, she’d backed up Major West, but Kelleher had continued to argue.
Finally, Leah held up a hand. “Colonel.” She placed her forefinger and thumb less than an inch apart. “I’m this close to ordering the crew to lower the ramp and having your ass tossed off the aircraft.”
That had shut him up.
Major West had told Leah about the MacMurdo evacuation, that had taken place soon after the event in Antarctica. They managed to evacuate all nine-hundred, or so residents off before the geo-magnetic net had fully engulfed the continent. This meant that they’d be landing at a ghost town.
“There!”
Leah looked out the windscreen. Captain Ross was pointing out the right side of the aircraft. In the distance, Leah could make out the buildings and structures that made up the MacMurdo complex. Unlike GPS navigation, which brought aircraft in on an exact route, flying by dead-reckoning and inertial guidance was more like hand-grenade combat. Close was good enough.
“Great job, Char,” said West, as she banked the Globemaster, now flying at 10,000 feet over the Ross Ice Shelf in clear conditions. When the Globemaster overflew the ski-way at 3,000, AGL, even Leah could see it was in perfect condition.
“Maybe your luck is changing.” West told her. Charlotte Ross and Jane West got busy configuring the Globemaster for landing. Colonel Kelleher continued to backseat-fly, but the women ignored him.
“How long till we touchdown?” Leah asked.
“Fifteen minutes,” Charlotte replied. “Make sure everyone is buckled up in back—and ready for a ski-way landing. The tires make a helluva roar on the ice, and the reversers will kick up ice onto the fuselage.”
Leah got up from the jump seat and worked her way into the cargo hold. Gordon had dosed the Ancients an hour ago with another shot of sedative in preparation for landing. He looked up, and gave her a rare thumbs-up. Adventure was growing on Gordon, it seemed.
Appanoose stood near the aircraft bulkhead. Leah pointed toward one of the empty seats. He gave one nod, then sat in the nearest empty seat. He pulled up on the seat belt, looked at it only for a moment, then snapped it together with some guidance from Leah.
She walked to the back of the seats and found Captain Hutchinson and the two helo crews sitting on the fuselage, a box full of cartridges and a stack of magazines beside them. Hutchinson said, “I thought we better get some magazines loaded—never know what we’ll run into out there.”
“Good thinking.”
“How far, ma’am?” asked Lieutenant Cruz.
“How far to where, lieutenant?”
“To where we’re headed?”
“A long way. Is this your first time in Antarctica?”
“Yes, ma’am. Looks pretty exciting from what we saw out the windscreen.”
“Don’t let that fool you—this place is a stone-cold killer.”
Leah felt the landing gear coming down, heard the sound the air buffeting the gear and tires. They were on final approach into the ski-way.
She thought about working her way back to the cockpit but decided against it. Instead, she plopped down next to the shaman, who had his eyes closed and was chanting in Lakota.
Even alien-juiced Ancients didn’t like to fly, she thought, a wry grin edging up the corners of her lips.
✽✽✽
One hour later, Leah stood on the ice, bundled up but still freezing. A breeze was blowing from the west, cutting through the layers. The Ancients stood next to her, in a group, also bundled but apparently unaffected by the cold, chattering away in a multitude of native languages, pointing out the structures and the landscape.
Hutchinson and the helicopter pilots were rushing around, unloading snow machines off the Globemaster ramp, hooking up the toboggans, and loading medical gear and food and water. Gordo had been right. The young men were a godsend.
Gordon said he’d take K’aalógii off the Propofol once they’d reached altitude in the Globemaster, and the plane was pressured to 8,000 feet. With the increase in altitude, he was confident that her symptoms could be managed. Leah hoped Gordon was right. Everything was simply an educated guess, concerning the changes on physiology.
Major Jane West walked down the ramp, and then ran over to Leah, wrapping her arms around her and hugged. “We’re so worried for you,” she said. “Are you sure you want to do this? We can load everyone back up and get you and the Ancients out of here.”
“Honestly, Jane. I’d love to do that.”
She nodded eagerly. “We can have everyone back aboard and be gone in twenty minutes.”
Before Leah responded, Kelleher was shouting out the rear of the ramp.
“Major West. Let’s go! If the weather degrades we could be stuck here for months! Come on! Now!”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Hate to say it, but he’s right. We’re flying Visual Flight Rules until we get back into the South Ocean. What do you think?”
Leah smiled but shook her head. “These people have a destiny. An amazing, wonderful, fabulous destiny—and I’m responsible for destroying that. I have to get them back to a place where they have another chance.”
Jane took a deep breath, then leaned over and hugged Leah so tight it squeezed half the wind out of her.
“You have a satellite phone?”
Leah nodded. “Not that it’ll do any good.”
Jane tucked a piece of paper with a number and email address. “When you’re ready to get the hell out of here—you call, text, email, whatever. Got it? I fuel the bird and we’re coming back for you.”
Leah hugged Jane back before the pilot turned around and sprinted for the ramp, where Kelleher was still signaling for her get aboard.
“Captain Hutchinson!” Leah shouted.
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Let’s get everyone inside Murdo and crank some heat. What’s on my Christmas list, Captain?”
“Ah—long-range snowcats and lots of gas.”
“Exactly.” She nodded toward the structures. “Start moving the Ancients away from the Globemaster. Kelleher’s got an itchy takeoff finger, and we don’t wanna be in his way.”
Hutchinson signaled to the other pilots and they starleading everyone toward the buildings in the distance. Two of the pilots operated the snow machines with K’aalógii and the medical gear onboard and Gordon riding on the back. Murdo had a full hospital, which he would make full use of, as needed.
At the front of the procession, Appanoose led the Ancients. She’d gotten them this far. It was up to Appanoose to get them the rest of the way to the connected dome complex—if it existed.
What a switch from the old days, working as an archeologist, worried sick every second of every day when Jack was off on some world-class summit climb. She had to trust that, true to form, Jack was tough as they come and a survivor, along with Al Paulson and Teresa Simpson.
Captain Hutchinson ran up to her as the Globemaster was spooling up the number one engine. “I know there’s this weird interference, but we stole several satellite phones from Holloman.”
Leah nodded. “Long shot, Captain. I have one too.”
“We can always hope the interference dissipates. Call in a C-130. Get us out of here?”
“Don’t you remember what you were taught in high school?”
“Ah—well, I didn’t pay too much attention in high school, so probably not.”
“Hope is not a method....”
Hutchinson looked at her with a blank expression, then burst out laughing.
“Good one, doc. I’ll have to spread that one around.”
Leah waved him off, then studied the horizon ahead. Hope might not be a method, but that’s all she had right now…and it was in critically low supply.
What was it Commander Beckam said?
Embrace the suck. Get comfor
table with the uncomfortable....
Well, there was plenty of suck, and she had a feeling it was gonna get a whole lot worse. Searching for a needle in a haystack in the most inhospitable place on the planet…. That was bad enough. Then there was the part of her vision that she hadn’t mentioned to anyone: the two massive bursts of energy, ice blocks the size of skyscrapers. If one part of her vision were true, wouldn’t that mean all of it had to be true?
“Jack Hobson,” she said out load. “If you’re out there, get your ass down here and save me!”
“Did you say something, Dr. Andrews?” Hutchinson asked.
“Nothing you have to be worried about, Captain. Let’s get to work.”
Hutchinson gave her a salute, then ran ahead to help lead the Ancients toward MacMurdo—and their destiny.
Epilogue
I was born at night, but not last night. That’s what Luke Derringer had said for more years than he could remember any time some shifty actor tried to pull a fast one over on him.
The boys who were sneaking up on the airfield, off-road, in the middle of night had another thing coming if they thought Luke Derringer was gonna be caught with his pants down, waiting for his head to be blown off.
Sound carried over the desert. Hell, he hadn’t even been outside when he sensed something was off. For someone in his 90s, Luke had pretty good hearing, but you didn’t live in the desert your whole life without picking up some instincts along the way.
He picked up a set of binoculars that sat on the counter of the FBO lounge, then walked out back toward the World War II-era hangar that had originally been constructed out of tin, then patched up with aluminum over the years. He’d learned decades ago that he could hear aircraft inbound from the south much, much earlier if he happened to be working on something behind the hangar.
Countless winter storms had battered the south side of the hangar over the years, slowly bending the tin and aluminum siding into a slight concave shape. If he stood in the right spot, it magnified the sound of inbound aircraft, gave him an extra minute or two to brew up fresh hot coffee, maybe even open a box of donuts if he had any in the kitchen, before an aircraft landed.
Tonight, as he stood on the ‘spot’ behind the hangar, he heard trucks working their way across the washes, the crunch of their tires running through gravel.
He walked around the hangar, braced an arm on the wall, and lifted the heavy binoculars to his eyes. It was moonless, still, and the stars shone bright, their light reflecting dimly off the sand and rock. The low growl of the engines and sound of the tires across open desert intensified as the trucks rolled over the top of a small hill; then the noise faded as they dipped down into a wash.
The next time the convoy reached the top of a hill, Luke made out two trucks. The lead vehicle was clearly struggling to get through the loose sand and soil. It stopped, backed down the hill, out of Luke’s sight, then tried another path up the rise that featured more solid ground.
Bet that’s making ‘em madder than a wet hen, he thought. Wasting time. They should have scouted it out by foot first.
They would’ve been a whole lot smarter to come by plane, Luke thought. Hell, I would’ve welcomed ‘em with open arms and hot coffee.
Luke carried one of his two Glock handguns at all times. Trouble rarely visited his remote airstrip, but that didn’t mean he was unprepared for it.
Luke estimated they were still at least a mile, perhaps a mile and a half out. He hobbled around to the front doors of the hangar, spun the combination on the padlock and removed the chain that secured the two doors closed. He slid one door open, then went to the other door and rolled it as far as it would go.
Luke walked into the hangar, picked up a flashlight he kept on a table near the entrance, and checked out the Cessna 172 parked in the middle of the building. He disconnected a battery trickle charger, pulling it well out of the way, and removed the wheel chocks. He opened the left door on the Cessna and worked his way into the pilot’s seat. The keys were in the ignition, right where he always left them. He thought for a moment maybe he ought to leave a note for Paulson, but then whoever was sneaking up on him would find it first.
Plus, he didn’t want to take a chance his trick knee might fail him as he tried to hobble back to the Cessna. He’d be as helpless as a capsized turtle on a hot summer road.
Instead, Luke put his feet on the rudder pedals, engaging the brakes, and turned the key, certain the Cessna would fire before the prop had rotated twice. Sure enough, the engine roared to life immediately. He pushed the throttle forward enough to move the Cessna out of the hangar and onto the tarmac.
That done, he climbed gingerly out of the Cessna, limped back to the hangar, and pulled the doors shut again. There was something inside him that wouldn’t let him leave a hangar door open.
Hell, in days it’d be filled with sand and the next poor slob who ran the airport would have a helluva time getting it cleaned up.
That done, he pulled himself back into the idling Cessna. He didn’t need to glance at the gas gauge to know he only had a few gallons in the wing tanks. The last time he’d flown the Cessna was when he’d been looking for a hiding place for the nuke. Leaving an airplane stored with less than a full tank of fuel would get you a long winded tongue-lashing from old Luke. It allowed water to build up in the tanks, a stone-cold killer if that water caused corrosion or worked its way into the engine.
It was sloppy and stupid but somehow, amid the excitement of finding the hiding spot, and then arguing with Al Paulson about Luke’s desire to stay at the airfield, he’d forget to top off the fuel…even though he’d remembered to hook up the trickle charger.
Damn fool.
There was a reason he hadn’t passed a flight physical in years and had no business flying as pilot-in-command. Hell, he had even forgotten to check the oil.
He taxied out to the runway, skipping the run-up. If you’re gonna make flyin’ mistakes, might as well go whole-hog.
He pushed the throttle into the firewall, and the Cessna leaped forward. With no passengers and no gas, the plane was running mighty light. He pulled back on the yoke and had it off the ground in less than 200 feet. He flew straight out from the runway before banking, making a heading toward the southeast. He estimated he had about thirty minutes of fuel, give or take.
Luke leveled the aircraft at 3,000 feet above ground level, running the motor as lean as he could. He needed to conserve what little fuel remained.
He’d have to fly restricted airspace over the northern corner of White Sands, due to his bingo fuel situation.
One more error, old man.... Let’s see how long you can keep it up.
He was flying for the Sierra Blanca mountain range, near Ruidoso. He’d always considered it one of the most beautiful regions of New Mexico. One you got into the Sierra Blanca, the land looked a whole more like the Rocky Mountains than New Mexico. Miles and miles of green forest.
Luke had to climb some as he reached the foothills of the range, and that little bit of climbing did it. The engine gave its first cough, then coughed a couple more times, caught again, and then stopped for good.
Luke had enjoyed an amazing life. He had no complaints, nothing left undone. He felt at peace. This part of his life had been on his mind for some time now. Somehow, the idea that someone would find him lying in bed, half mummified, having died there alone, never had seemed…dignified. He’d never been the kind of man to leave a mess for others.
Luke listened to the sound of the wind whistling through the wing supports and the prop, said a prayer, checked once again that the forest below was uninhabited, then reached down to the trim wheel, dialing in plenty of down trim. The nose of the Cessna immediately dropped. He leaned back and folded his arms against his chest, a smile on his face.
Damn right…this is the way you go out.
Luke started humming a song from his youth. “In the Mood.”
At Las Alamos, during the Manhattan Project, Saturday night at t
he dorms was something to see. The ‘punch’ made out of ethyl alcohol liberated from laboratory stock would magically appear and Glenn Miller’s music soon followed. They worked like dogs on the ‘Gadget,’ but don’t let it ever be said they didn’t have some fun too.
A smile crossed the old man’s face as the Cessna picked up speed and disappeared into the tall pine and fir forest of the Sierra Blanca.
Afterword
Thank you for reading ICE GENESIS. Writing, editing and producing a professional quality INDIE novel is an incredibly challenging and expensive undertaking. We try and give you, the reader, an amazing experience, at just a fraction of the price of legacy publishers. Sometimes, we make mistakes. If you find any mistakes in ICE GENESIS, send me a note at [email protected]. We can fix those mistakes in a heartbeat!
I'm always thrilled to get feedback on the ICE series. Please stop by my website www.writingthrillers.com and send me an email or drop in at Kevin Tinto on Facebook. If you enjoyed ICE, please tell a friend or two. And please help out by rating ICE and writing a short review at Amazon. REVIEWS ARE EVERYTHING!
CLIFF HANGERS?
ICE GENESIS is book two in a three book series. That by defination, means there is more to come. We work hard not to leave readers on the edge of a cliff hanger. But with any story that is simply too rich to tell in one novel, we have to end ICE and ICE GENESIS somewhere!
The last volume in the Leah and Jack trilogy is ICE REVELATION. That is well underway at the date of IG publication.
(March, 26th, 2018). REVELATION: Fall, 2018.
Acknowledgments
Producing a (readable) novel without a professional editor is like trying to make an Olympic team without a coach. Ed Stackler is the best. There are plenty of editors who can correct messy English. Ed took ownership of my characters and plot lines, and guided me along throughout the twists and turns of ICE, many times, over a period of nearly TEN years. Without Ed’s guidance and professional help, ICE wouldn’t exist.