Ice Fortress (A Jack Coulson Thriller) Page 5
General Kammler ran his fingers over the top of the wooden crate. The contents were rare beyond measure and had taken years to manufacture and purify. The Wunderwaffe or Wonder Weapon being assembled in his highly classified laboratory beneath the airfield was totally reliant on the remarkably rare and extremely dangerous to produce metallic liquid cocooned inside the heavily lead-lined wooden crate.
The Fuhrer had classified this project ‘Kriegsentscheidend’, decisive to the outcome of the war. With the last component finally shipped from the uranium enrichment facility at Auschwitz, Kammler would not disappoint his leader. He would personally see to it that the Thousand Year Reich would, indeed, last at least a thousand years.
Chapter 6
November 8, 2017, 07:00 UTC
Sunny Ridge Drive
Odenton, Maryland
Assistant Director Henry Preston woke with a boner so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it. He couldn’t remember the last time he woke up with so much wood. Then again, it had been a while since someone thought it was so damn important to wake him at 3am.
The comfort from a night cap of single malt and the apparent euphoria of a horny dream quickly subsided when he saw that it wasn’t his cell ringing but the secure landline on the bedside table. Only a handful of people had that number and none of them ever called at this hour with good news. Or any other hour, for that matter.
“Preston,” he slurred.
Fumbling for his glasses, Henry knocked over the bedside lamp in the process.
Beside him, his wife stirred and mumbled, her sleep mask and the drool on the pillow from her night guard put an end to the passing thought he had of giving her a little surprise when he’d finished his call.
“Repeat that,” he blurted. Sitting bolt upright and turning on the fallen lamp he listened intently, eyes closed as if to visualize what he was being told.
“That’s impossible. What do you mean its gone dark? A few billion dollars’ worth of satellites and enough fiber optic cable to go to the moon and back are there to make sure we can’t ever lose contact. The only way we’d lose comms with Pine Gap is if one of us got a direct nuclear strike and I’m guessing that’s not happened here in Fort Meade, right?” Preston barked sarcastically to the shift commander who wished he was on day shift.
When he’d finished listening to the remainder of the report he was silent, processing the magnitude of the two seemingly unrelated pieces of information. Without a further word, he dropped the phone back in its cradle and steepled his fingers together, composing himself for the call he had to make.
The NSA Assistant Director of Signals Intelligence hit the first number on speed dial, the scrambler beeped to confirm it was activated. Within three rings it was answered.
“Director, sir, this is AD Preston, SIGINT. We have a Threat Level Orange situation — Pine Gap has gone off the air and Pacific Command reports that one of their nuclear subs in the Antarctic hasn’t reported in on schedule.”
Another brief response.
“That’s why I called, sir. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence and PACOM don’t think so, either.”
A terse command was issued.
“Yes, sir. I’ll call and brief him immediately.” But the line was already dead.
Scrolling through his mental rolodex, he started dialing a phone number he had committed to memory. A number that could never be written down or saved to speed dial.
He felt a warm breath in his ear as his wife’s hand slid inside the front of his shorts. Impatiently he pushed her hand away, “Not now Audrey,” he scolded, brushing her hand away as he furiously punched the numbers into the keypad of his secure phone.
Preston immediately regretted his harsh manner but there was something quite grave in the Directors tone that made him uneasy. That and the fact that he’d been asked to call one of the most powerful men in the nation’s intelligence network.
Chapter 7
November 8, 2017, 11:00 UTC
Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)
-77° 51' 19.79" S 61° 17' 34.20" W
Altitude 1500 feet AGL
Sam Krupsky’s ears were assaulted by an almost inhuman, piercing scream of unrestrained terror. He’d never heard anything like it and it took a few seconds, which passed like minutes, before he realized the horrific sound was coming from his own mouth. By some strange logic, Sam figured screaming like a crazed animal was better than throwing up in his own oxygen mask. That bastard Coulson knew they’d be jumping. Now he knew what that smug little grin on his poster boy face was all about as they reached the destination. While Sam was tightening his straps for a rough landing on the pack ice, Jack bloody Coulson was releasing his harness and getting ready to gear up. Until fifteen minutes ago, Sam had never even heard of the Low Altitude Parachute-Extraction System that fly boys used to airdrop cargo. Now he knew that LAPES could just as easily be used to jettison terrified, screaming navy men.
With great clarity, Sam recalled the look of amusement on Jack’s face just before the tankers hastily modified cargo door opened, revealing a vast expanse of ice and snow as far as they could see.
Sam promised himself that if he survived, he’d smack the taste right out of Jack’s mouth. No matter what kind of Special Forces training Mr. Jack ‘Fancy-Pants’ Coulson had, Sam knew nothing came close to what kids like him learned growing up as they moved from one orphanage to another. He knew how to take care of himself, of that he was sure and he was going to enjoy slapping that hotshot smirk off Jack’s face. All he had to do was make it down onto the ice in one piece.
The rectangular canopy above him was the only thing that prevented him reaching terminal velocity and ending up as a wet, red smear on the Arctic ice. For that he was grateful as he yanked at the steering toggles and tried to follow the path of the equipment pallets that had been dropped first. His attention was equally divided between looking up to see if his canopy had become tangled and looking down to see where the hell he was heading.
Through eyes wide with terror, Sam watched Jack draw level with him, checking the altimeter on his wrist as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Jack pointed to his own eyes with two fingers then pointed down to the landing zone. His meaning, ‘watch and follow me’ was very clear.
Sam extended the middle finger of his right hand and gestured sharply upward. His meaning was equally clear.
The first equipment pallet hit the ice, its canopy snapping in the wind, unable to move the skids of the pallet across the sastrugi, the frozen wave like ridges carved into the surface of the ice pack by the incessant Antarctic winds. The second pallet hit the ice some 100 feet away from the first and it was that pallet which Sam had fixed his attention as he bobbled below his canopy, trying to maneuver as best he could with the toggles. The lesson given to him by the loadmaster in the final minutes of the fight, although rushed, had not been wasted.
Within seconds of Sam’s pallet hitting the ice, cracks and fissures began to appear in the ice, like a giant spider web before the pallet of survival equipment splashed through the ice. It’s colorful canopy remaining visible for a few seconds before that, too, vanished into the cold, dark depths below.
Almost too low to change direction, Sam wrenched one of the riser toggles in a frantic effort to avoid landing in the severely cracked surface of the ice and ending up in the frozen abyss, as their cargo had done. His direction was not altering anywhere near fast enough. With an almighty heave of the toggle, Sam saw his opportunity to beat the living daylights out of Jack slip away into oblivion when the toggle sheared from the riser, leaving him with no means to guide his descent. As a career sailor, Sam knew that the death that awaited him in the freezing waters below the ice would be swift and merciful.
As he hit the ice, the network of fissures flaring from the hole left by the pallet exploded and cracked with an ear-splitting boom. Sam felt the ice below him give way as he fumbled with the harness release pin. Without the parachute, he might have a fighting chance.
Sliding across the rough ice, Sam angled his head in search of the heavy grunting sounds behind him and within moments was staring up at the reddened, sweat drenched face of Jack Coulson as he wound Sam’s parachute lines in arm-over-arm.
Maybe bitch slapping Jack could be put on the back burner for now, Sam thought as he held out his hand to be raised up from the painfully cold ice by the man who had saved his life.
“Bluey, I don’t know why you’re even on this mission, but if you can’t even pick your own ass up off the ice, then you’re not going to last long down here. I’ve got enough to worry about without saving your ass every five minutes.” Jack shook his head and stomped his way across the frozen surface toward the surviving pallet of equipment.
Then again, maybe not, thought Sam as he heaved himself and his 60 pound combat pack off the ice.
Chapter 8
November 8, 2017, 12:00 UTC
Westlake
Fort Worth, Texas
32° 45' 26.49"N 97° 19' 59.45" W
J. Clifford Barnes wasn’t envious that his famous and high profile neighbor Mark Cuban had made it, yet again, to another business magazine rich list as he folded the glossy periodical and returned to his morning espresso. Quite the contrary. J. Clifford Barnes, or J.C. as he preferred to be addressed, had access to a wealth that would eclipse that of all of the top 10 on any such list, U.S. or international. The fact that he wasn’t even on the radar of such people, who had so little to do with their time that they had to make up such lists, spoke volumes for the work done over the past half century to keep the immense wealth and the figurehead of The Brotherhood invisible and away from the media spotlight.
Clifford Barnes’ only overt display of wealth was his home. His pride and joy. Clifford Barnes had built a detailed ¾ scale replica of The White House as his domicile and he was damn proud of it. Every detail was perfect and faultlessly duplicated, right down to the location of the light switches.
The post-election media jokes about Trump and his team working in the dark because they couldn’t figure out the White House light switches validated his insistence that every detail be precise.
“When I’m President,” he’d instructed the architect, “I don’t want to be fumbling around for light switches when I take a piss in the middle of the night.” The architect had laughed but he would not have done so if he knew just how serious J. Clifford Barnes was. Of course he had used the word ‘president’ but that’s not what the world would know him as when his time came to take over.
Sipping his coffee, J.C. stared out the windows that had been designed to withstand the impact of armor piercing rounds, he marveled at the surrounding lawns and gardens, which were laid out exactly the same as the Washington D.C. originals. There was, however, one invisible and noteworthy exception — not even 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue had this much firepower and high tech security protecting its occupant.
With access to every facial recognition database in the world, military, law enforcement and civil, the arrays of hidden security cameras nested around the impressive self-styled presidential home ensured that only those properly matched to their database record could enter the perimeter. Once inside, the security became even more inescapable. Some might call it paranoia, but as Barnes always said, just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
Retinal scanners probed unsuspecting eyes, on the lookout for anyone who might try to slip through the security cordon relying on cosmetic surgery. Passive monitors outside of the building and scattered around the grounds also recorded the body temperature, heart rate and skin moisture levels of each visitor and employee during the length of their visit, alert for any changes to any of these parameters. Any changes would result in a swift response from the contingent of heavily armed security who remained ensconced in a below ground bunker, operating in rotating shifts 24/7.
Brightly colored and well-tended flower beds disguised a lethal series of M-134 Miniguns, each of which was capable of unleashing up to 6,000 rounds a minute. The interlocking arcs of fire from the strategically placed and heavily fortified gun emplacements would cut any ground assault force to mangled shreds before they got half way to the house itself.
And those that the guns didn’t cut to pieces would quickly fall foul of the remotely detonated XM-7 anti-personnel Spider Mines that carpeted the perfectly manicured lawns.
A series of outbuildings which appeared to the casual observer to serve as vehicle, garden or pool supply storage instead housed one of the best air defense systems ever devised. The Russians called it Triumf, but Barnes preferred its NATO reporting name, the SA-21 Growler missile system. He had enough of these “Growlers” hidden below and above ground to bring down a small air force. Perhaps even a large one.
J. Clifford Barnes was proud of his defense system and even prouder of the complete juxtaposition between the glorious and peaceful appearance of his prize winning garden and the devastating firepower that it concealed.
No expense had been spared to protect the man who was destined to become the most powerful and feared man in the entire world. For over 70 years, The Brotherhood had waited patiently for one of their leaders to ascend to a position even greater than that of their original Fuhrer. Only by some divine intervention that even Barnes himself couldn’t fathom was he the chosen one. Of the many before him who had occupied this seat of power since 1945, it was Barnes who now had the opportunity to use The Brotherhood’s immeasurable wealth and boundless scientific resources to unleash the Thousand Year Reich with a terrifying vengeance upon nations that had basked in victory for over half a century.
The most fearsome weapon imaginable had finally and quite literally surfaced after decades of searching.
The video conference link that beamed from the other side of the world was totally secure. Owning an aerospace company with satellite launch capability had its perks and secure, encrypted communications was one of many.
J.C. sat in his private conference room, soundproofed in case the help overheard anything they ought not, waiting for the static to clear and the video camera on the other end of the line to begin its feed. As soon as it did, he was face to face with his most senior operatives.
“Report,” instructed Barnes without greeting or preamble.
“We have confirmed that the U-Boat is a Kriegsmarine Type XXI and what we can see of it dates it to early 1945. It bears no identification markings at all, which also confirms that it is the one.” His English was faultless as was to be expected of a senior German diplomat.
“Radiation signature?” asked Barnes, fully aware that the unique and unmistakable radiation signature of the device could only be detected at close range. The lead lined compartment in the U-Boat could even render it impossible to detect even then.
“None detected, but that was always a longshot. If there was a detectable signature, we would have found it long before now.”
Barnes dragged an errant lock of jet black hair across his forehead as he digested the information. The ambassador made a good point, but it didn’t account for their failure to locate the U-Boat previously. After all, The Brotherhood knew the approximate region where the top secret German base known as Base 211 had been built. That part of the Antarctic continent had been searched many times over the years using the technology available at the time, yet no sign of the U-Boat was ever found, nor any trace of the former Antarctic base itself. If it wasn’t for the chatter intercepted from the CIA’s Pine Gap communications facility, they might have missed the inexplicable appearance of the missing U-Boat altogether.
Half a decade before Homeland Security began monitoring cell phone, email and online chat communications searching for key words that warr
anted further attention, The Brotherhood had built an entire data center filled with rows and rows of computer racks housing over a thousand of the most powerful computer servers available. This Server Farm was dedicated solely to monitoring the communications channels of every government agency of the major world powers.
The secluded, subterranean facility gave new meaning to the term ‘Dark Data Center’. Unmanned, the entire data center was managed using the tried and tested ‘follow the sun’ model from a series of monitoring stations around the world, all using cutting edge Lights-Out Management systems. As the sun set on one station, another would take over, monitoring the traffic designated by the Server Farm as being credible enough to be further investigated.
This facility alone put The Brotherhood in a class of its own, even when compared with the collective intelligence gathering resources of all U.S. law enforcement, military and intelligence agencies.
Barnes was not about to let the prize out of his sight now that it had been located
“Is it secure?”
The high definition video stream highlighted the beads of sweat pebbling his forehead and upper lip as if he were sitting in the same room. “Well …”
“Don’t tell me we don’t have the device secured!” Barnes stood as he screamed at his subordinate.
“One of the Russian Yasen class submarines, most likely the Kazan, has taken out the American research sub that was snooping around where we think Base 211 might be. We don’t believe they had the opportunity to send a distress signal. It could be days or even weeks before they are missed because of the nature of their mission.”
The Russian fools were only supposed to shadow the American submarine, not fire on it. Barnes seethed at his oversight but there was nothing he could do about it.