Ice Fortress (A Jack Coulson Thriller)

  ICE FORTRESS

  A Jack Coulson Thriller

  Robert B. Williams

  Published by Noble Star Publishing 2017

  All characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2017 Robert B. Williams

  All rights reserved.

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  Prologue

  January 4, 1945

  Bastogne, Belgium

  4th Armored Division HQ

  The general’s cold stare mirrored the bleak, snow covered battlefield he surveyed through the window. The bullet shattered glass did little to stop the numbing chill of the air penetrating his makeshift headquarters, yet sweat dampened his sharply pressed shirt. As his hands balled into fists behind his back, his impatience became almost palpable.

  Abandoned German Tiger tanks littered the muddy track. The general had lost count of the number of tanks his battalion had lost to these new and extremely lethal, vastly superior King Tigers. Weighing around 70 tons, the monstrous German machines dwarfed the undersized Sherman tanks under his command at more than double their weight and size. He knew that he wouldn’t have had a hope in hell of breaking through the German lines and securing Bastogne had the Reich had time to produce more of these behemoths. He also knew, despite what the press reported back home, that the hard won victory after months fighting the Battle of the Bulge wasn’t down to his fiery command style or the audacious thrust of his 4th Armored Division through the Wehrmacht’s panzer led offensive. Had the Germans not made a series of tactical errors, the outcome of the battle might have been quite different. As he scanned the artillery scarred road for a sign that his adjutant was returning, he feared that their good fortune might soon come to an abrupt end.

  Turning sharply on his heel, General George S. Patton returned to his desk and began to polish his nickel plated, ivory handled Colt .45, his brow knotted in fierce concentration.

  In the courtyard below a cruel snow-laden wind snapped angrily at the red and yellow flag of the 4th Armored Division, threatening to tear it from its halyard. The two battle weary soldiers at its base had been assigned sentry duty but they were more intent on shuffling from one foot to the other in a futile attempt to stay warm. With rain soaked woolen gloves tucked under their armpits to stave off frostbite, each breath of biting, freezing air burned their throat and lungs, chilling them to the very bone. Neither of them wanted to be there. Even digging latrines might have kept them from freezing to death.

  Who were they guarding against, anyway?

  Hadn’t the Third Reich been all but crushed now that Russian tanks were rumbling down the streets of Berlin, ready to fire an armor piercing shell right up Hitler’s ass? Of course, nobody dared ask out loud why it was that Eisenhower stood aside and let the Russians take Berlin. As enlisted men, they’d long since given up trying to figure out the logic of the military leadership. Truth be told, they no longer even cared.

  They just wanted to go home.

  “Remind me again who we’re supposed to be looking out for while we freeze our balls off,” the young private moaned.

  “Better not let Old Blood and Guts hear you say that, unless you’re looking for a public slapping,” cautioned the older and wiser twenty year old. Few had forgotten the highly publicized Sicily incident after which their gun toting general had been ordered by the brass to apologize to the hospitalized soldiers he’d slapped and accused of malingering. Apology or not, nobody in their right mind wanted to end up on the general’s bad side. “You need to keep a lid on that —”

  “Quiet,” the younger private snapped, raising a sodden gloved hand to silence his buddy.

  “Don’t tell me to —”

  Then they both heard it, the urgent screams of a klaxon horn piercing the still air from beyond the line of abandoned Tiger tanks. Only one vehicle made that sound. Only one man was arrogant enough to have his staff car announce its arrival like that. The general’s adjutant was returning in Patton’s heavily modified command car and he was in a hell of a hurry.

  As the speeding command car crested the rise its unmistakable .50 caliber post mounted machine gun came into view, confirming their expectation. A rooster tail of mud and snow chased the heavily armored Dodge as it sped toward the gates of the compound.

  “I don’t think he’s in any mood to stop for an ID check, do you?” the younger private suggested nervously.

  “No shit, genius? Well … you gonna stand there gawking or open the gate?”

  As he began to run toward the red and white striped gate, the private slipped on a patch of ice, sending his feet airborne before landing him flat on his back in the mud filed rut. As he floundered in the sludge trying to stand, his eyes widened in horror as the command car grew larger by the second, klaxon blaring and fishtailing as it took the final bend too fast for the slippery and treacherous conditions.

  A firm hand gripped the young soldier’s wrist and yanked him out of harm’s way as the Dodge, making no effort to reduce its speed, burst through the gate. The wooden boom splintered on impact against the heavy armor plate protecting the radiator. Both soldiers were showered with debris and mud as the careering car raced past, narrowly missing the pair by no more than a couple of feet. Both soldiers saw the general’s aid white knuckling the steering wheel, the planes of his face set into hard lines, imprinted with dread.

  “That can’t be good,” the private ventured, releasing the hand of his shocked and speechless comrade. He knew the general instilled fear among his subordinates, but the look on the drivers face was off the scale.

  “No siree, not good at all,” the grime covered soldier agreed as he spat a gob of filth from his mouth.

  The general was on his feet before the colonel burst through the door. Both men knew each other well enough to dispense with etiquette when alone. What the Colonel hadn’t expected was to see General Patton with his signature Colt .45 Peacemaker in his hand when he entered the general’s office.

  “Relax Colonel, just keeping it clean.” The general holstered the weapon and fixed his stern eyes on the colonel. “Well?” he barked impatiently, his voice pitched a little higher than he would have liked.

  The colonel’s face paled. He was lost for words.

  He soon found them again when the general brought his fist crashing down on his desk, knocking over the bottle of gun oil that lay open next to his holstered sidearm.

  “It’s gone general. There’s nothing left. The whole thing has just … well … gone.”

  “And Kammler? Tell me that SS bastard is in the brig. Or better still, dead.” Again the general’s fist slammed the desk.

  “Sir … Obergruppenführer Kammler has vanished, too. Blueprints. Journals. Files. Scientists. They’re all gone sir.”

  The general’s face, too, became ashen and felt his legs suddenly become weary. With uncharacteristic restraint, he eased himself into his chair and opened his desk drawer. Sensing he was being dismissed, the colonel retreated in silence
and closed the door behind him.

  General ‘Blood and Guts’ Patton took his diary from the drawer, the rich patina the leather had developed served as a chilling reminder of how just long this most bitter conflict had been raging. Victory should be within their grasp. The Third Reich was on the verge of becoming a crumbling ruin.

  Opening the diary, he wrote one brief entry as neatly as his unsteady hand would allow.

  “We can still lose this war.”

  Chapter 1

  November 6, 2017, 00:20 UTC

  Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

  -77° 51' 19.79" S 61° 17' 34.20" W

  USS Barracuda

  Depth 660 feet

  Sleek, black and dangerous, the USS Barracuda cut through the frigid darkness in total silence. Unlike its cold war ancestors, the Barracuda wasn’t cursed with the inherent cavitation noise that came from screws churning noisily through the water. Equipped with a cutting edge, nuclear powered Pump-Jet propulsion system, this stealthy deep sea beast could glide below the waves at 20 knots making less noise than a Los Angeles class sub tied to a dock.

  But this particular attack sub wasn’t running silent, deep and deadly under pack ice at the very bottom of the world so that it could fire a surgically accurate cruise missile at an unsuspecting target. The Barracuda was tasked with a different mission altogether as it slipped silently through the dark waters below the arctic ice shelf, much to the annoyance of the captain, Frank Jameson, who was used to commanding a sub armed to the teeth with ADCAP Torpedoes and Tomahawk missiles.

  Looking to the starboard side of the Command Center, he surveyed the motley crew of geeks who occupied what was once the most mission critical station on the boat — Combat Systems. Not only had the Barracuda been stripped of its vertical launch tubes and torpedo tubes to make way for a hoard of scientific equipment, even the weapon system consoles had been virtually torn out by the roots to make way for the geek squad and their all-important research computers. It wasn’t anticipated that they would engage an enemy on what was, for all intents and purposes, a peaceful scientific mission. The Antarctic was also subject to the 1961 Antarctic Treaty banning all military activity on (and under) the continent. Only Sonar Systems on the port side of the Command Center remained intact with its wrap around monitors scrolling a continuous display of data fed from the hundreds of highly sensitive hydrophones mounted on the subs bow and fed through some of the most advanced computing algorithms available.

  “We are in position Dr. Anderson. Let me know when you’re ready to deploy the AUV.” Jameson spoke crisply and without making eye contact, his attention fixed on the bank of monitors at all times. The Barracuda was no longer a silent hunter of the deep but a taxi service for an Autonomous Underwater Vehicle or AUV while his small crew played nursemaid to a high school science experiment.

  Leah Anderson barely heard the captain. She was too intent visualizing herself being entombed in a steel tube, frozen for eternity below fifty feet of pack ice. It almost felt as if the grey steel bulkheads and low ceiling, covered in conduit and pipe, was closing in on her. With each jolt from the swirling currents she cringed and waited for the near freezing water to start gushing in. She wasn’t sure what would kill her first, the 30 degree water or drowning. She preferred the former, hoping it would be quicker and far less traumatic. Her large steel-blue eyes darted around the sub interior looking for the first signs of leakage but found instead the piercing gaze of the young captain.

  Leah still couldn’t get her head around him looking way too young to be commanding a nuclear submarine. Only the hint of gray at his temples, against the otherwise natural darkness of his hair gave any clue to his age. With his perfect white teeth and dimples in all the right places Frank Jameson looked like he’d be more at home at a Tommy Hilfiger photo shoot than the harsh, utilitarian environment of a warship. But his mood and demeanor certainly matched the cold, grey interior of what had previously been one of the U.S. Navy’s prize attack subs.

  “Relax Dr. Anderson. Geothermal currents from the subglacial volcanoes. Nothing more. Well, at least I hope so.” A telltale grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, as if he knew what she was thinking. “We’re not quite at hull crush depth … yet.” He broke into a full smile after returning to his instrument screens. There was no margin for error this deep. If they collided with a submerged ice island, the pack ice was too thick for them to surface. Rescue simply wasn’t an option.

  “Hull crush depth? Do I even want to know what that is?” She’d given up asking him not to call her Doctor.

  “Don’t listen to him, ma’am, we’ve still got another twelve hundred feet to go before we reach our ‘never exceed’ depth. Crush depth is even deeper than that.” The Executive Officer or XO, Peter Durand tried to reassure her but from the furrowing of her brow, he doubted he was having much success. A last minute addition to the crew when Jameson’s regular XO became ill, Durand was new to both the captain’s sense of humor and dealing with civilians on board a navy boat.

  He threw Leah a reassuring smile. Then again, he’d been doing that a lot recently and his interest in the attractive young doctor had not gone unnoticed. A heat began to rise in Leah’s cheeks.

  Juan Alvarez, her software engineer and Dave Sutton, the AUV’s robotics and sonar tech both smiled at her, making her feel like she was back in high school again. Grow up, she mouthed at the smirking pair as she pulled her shoulder length blonde hair back into a ponytail and twirled and elastic to hold it in place. It was time to go to work.

  She responded to the captain. “I’m ready to start the deployment procedure for the AUV now, thank you captain. That is, if my team is actually ready to do some work, for a change.” She stared down hard at the pair of them and at once felt a twinge of guilt. They’d both worked tirelessly on the project and had stuck by her for the past three years. Even when funding had dried up, they continued working as hard as if they were still drawing a pay check. She felt they deserved a little slack.

  “All systems are in the green and good to go, Doctor Anderson,” Juan reported, adding emphasis to her title for a little payback. Juan knew how much she hated people drawing attention to her academic credentials.

  “Sonar has completed diagnostics and is ready to fire some pulses, Leah,” Dave concurred. Leah had given the lanky postgrad student a once in a lifetime opportunity to work on what could be a career making project, when he had virtually no field experience to speak of and he treated her accordingly. His spiky blond hair gave him a look more like a freshman than a graduate with years of technical training in sonar and robotics.

  The Barracuda’s silent propulsion together with its unique sonar absorbing outer hull renders it all but invisible to both active and passive sonar and ten times more sensitive when detecting other submarines. Dubbed the Silent Assassin, the Barracuda showcased the very latest in submarine stealth technology, making it a perfect weapon against both sea and land based targets. Those same attributes also made it the perfect research vessel to host the Antarctic Ice Shelf Profiling Survey (AISPS) team, a U.S. navy funded oceanographic research team tasked with measuring and mapping the thickness of the Antarctic sea ice. The purpose of the survey was to provide a baseline from which to assess the future effects on the ice sheet and Antarctic glaciers as a result of both climate change and subglacial volcanic activity. It was one of the most extensive, and expensive, studies of its type ever conducted in the Antarctic.

  The U.S. Navy was keen to be the first nation to map the entire region below the polar ice cap, regardless of the expense. During the Cold War, they’d learned first-hand how easy it was for the Russians to park a sub with nuclear missile capability undetected and within striking range of U.S. cities once they’d mapped the channels beneath the Arctic ice. The U.S. military were determined to be the first to map the previously unexplored sub ice oceanography of the planet’s South most polar ice cap.

  Civilian oceanographer, Leah Anderson was the team leader of th
e small but dedicated group who had first proposed using an Autonomous Underwater Vehicle or AUV to fire sonar pings from below to survey the ice shelf, using military grade high frequency sonar originally designed to hunt enemy submarines. The anechoic or sonar absorbent skin covering the Barracuda’s hull prevented the sub, which was the length of a football field, echoing and distorting the pings fired from the small unmanned submersible.

  It was a revolutionary concept and one that overcame the inaccuracies of satellite survey methods and the inherent limitations and dangers of drilling ice cores on the surface of the ever shifting ice. Leah and her team had even designed the one-of-a-kind AUV. The bright yellow craft with its black and white tail fin had been christened ‘Nellie’ by Dave after he won the rock, paper, scissors contest for naming rights. As a James Bond fan, Dave claimed the revolutionary craft looked much like Bond’s gyrocopter, ‘Little Nellie’ in You Only Live Twice and had to name her in accordingly. Nellie could operate as an autonomous robotic vessel when conducting surveys or it could be tethered to the host vessel via a fiber optic cable allowing it to feed live data and video streams to the team. Even the operating software of the submersible had been developed in-house by Juan but was highly classified at the request of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) who had funded the development of the small craft and its self-learning software at considerable cost to the U.S. taxpayers.

  “Juan, Dave? Are you ready to let our little baby out of the nest?” Leah asked the anxious techs.

  Wiping his sweaty palms down the front of his slightly paunchy ‘Beam Me Up, Scotty’ T-shirt, Juan took hold of the joystick control with one hand and gave Leah the thumbs up with the other before flipping back the switch cover, exposing the release button. “Ready to release the docking clamps on your command.”