Chapter 44
Langley
DDO Flynn sat transfixed in the CIA Operations Center. He, too, was watching Russia.
The video was amateurish. The camera lens jittered and the audio was muffled, all of which only heightened its authenticity. It was exactly what one would expect from a maelstrom at the top of the world.
He watched the crew of the Aurora, Russia’s newest and most deadly attack submarine, hand out blankets like Red Cross volunteers.
A medic wrapped a bandage around a survivor’s head.
Flynn caught a glimpse of Kasey as the camera settled on a group of passengers.
Her hair was askew and there was a contusion on her forehead.
But the alertness of her gaze, the control in her posture, told the real story. Kasey was switched on.
“When did this first air?” the DDO asked the room.
A comm technician answered, “2123 Zulu. Sixteen minutes ago.”
“The Chinese are seeing it as well,” said the duty officer.
“Stands to reason,” agreed Flynn. “Has the Snow Dragon 2 moved?”
This question was directed to the junior CIA analyst in the room. He had been given one vital task—using all available reconnaissance, he wasn’t to take his eyes off the icebreaker.
“Her position hasn’t changed,” the young man said. “But there has been some activity.”
“Activity?”
“I’m getting images at ten-minute intervals. In the most recent three I see changes on deck. They’ve pulled in some kind of sonar sensor, and in the newest photo the UUV has surfaced. It looks like they’re hooking it up to a deck crane.”
“And when were you going to mention this?” the duty officer admonished.
Flynn also felt a spike of annoyance. The ship hadn’t moved, but the kid should have said something about the change of status. He held his irritation in check.
“Sorry,” the young man stated.
“Learn from it,” said the DDO. “We’re looking at a fishing boat that’s reeling in all the lines. Snow Dragon 2 about to move to a better spot, and we all know why.”
“How will the Chinese deal with this Russian submarine?” the duty officer wondered aloud.
“There’s no telling,” replied Flynn, “but we have to assume the worst. They’ll find a way to get Chen and Sky Fire on board, at gunpoint if necessary.”
“And probably Orion as well,” said the duty officer. “We need to warn her the Chinese are inbound.”
“No way to do that unless they boot up Sky Fire, which we specifically told them to not do.”
The young analyst offered, “If they see Snow Dragon 2 approaching, they might initiate comm anyway.”
Flynn looked at the kid and nodded. “Good point.” He ordered comms to watch continuously for a signal from Sky Fire. Then he shot a look at the workstation labeled DOD. “Any word yet on some kind of air asset to get our people out of there?”
“Arriving now, sir,” the tech replied. She read off the specifics of the proposed rescue mission.
“Seriously?” asked a stunned Flynn. “Does the Air Force realize where they’d be landing that monster?”
“We were very specific about the operating area. They say it’s doable. Tasking is being sent to the unit as we speak.”
Flynn spat a humorless laugh. “I hope to hell they know what they’re doing.”
THE TASKING FROM DOD dropped like a brick through a maze of command channels. It landed with a thud in the hands of an aircraft commander of the New York Air National Guard.
Lieutenant Colonel James Driscoll, seated next to a space heater in a chilly prefab building, stared at the one-page printout. He didn’t know what to make of it.
From a theoretical standpoint, the mission proposed in the message was feasible.
That said, it was the kind of flying stunt he and his buddies typically debated in the squadron bar, and even then, after considerable lubrication.
No one had ever actually done it. The consensus was, it was an op that would never happen because higher headquarters would never approve it, the risk level being off the charts.
Now, out of the blue, higher headquarters was actually assigning it.
He folded the printout and stuffed it in a pocket of his winter flight jacket. He needed to show it to his copilot, who would likely have the same first thought he’d had. If this had come at the beginning of the month, I would have written it off as an April Fool’s prank.
Driscoll bundled up until every inch of skin was covered, put on his goggles, and stepped outside into a clear evening. The scene, as always, was awe-inspiring. The cold was extreme—on last check minus-30 degrees—and in the dim twilight the heavens seemed boundless.
He was standing squarely in the middle of the Greenland ice sheet, the second largest body of frozen water on the planet.
Save for a few distant mountains to the east, the ice stretched as far as he could see in every direction.
He’d been told it had an average depth of one mile, and that if it ever melted, it would raise the world’s oceans by 24 feet.
Which, obliquely, was why Driscoll was here.
Summit Station was a year-round research facility situated centrally on the ice shelf, and his unit, the New York Air National Guard’s 109th Airlift Wing, was the primary provider of logistics.
Indeed, it was the only squadron in the entire Air Force equipped to do so, flying the LC-130—the largest aircraft on earth that operated on skis.
A hundred yards away, his airplane squatted on the ice like a snowbound colossus.
Ground units were presently pumping warm air into the four turboprop engines, a typical preparation for starting in extremely cold temperatures.
His copilot, Captain Doug Harrison, was in the cockpit running preflight checks.
They had originally been scheduled to depart in an hour, a three-flight hopscotch back to their home base in Schenectady, New York.
Since the aircraft’s skis were retractable, landing in the spring thaw there didn’t pose a problem.
Now those plans were shredded.
Driscoll set out across the snow-swept ice.
As he made his way to the airplane, he studied the surface.
The runway, if it could be called that, was like few others on earth.
It wasn’t composed of concrete or asphalt, or for that matter even hardpan dirt.
It was simply a block of ice 6,000 feet thick.
The good news was, there was little snow at the moment.
If they could get the airplane started without any critical systems crapping out, they should be able to get airborne.
And then? Driscoll recalled recently watching one of the Mission: Impossible movies, and the series’ ever-present opening line came to mind: Your mission, should you choose to accept it…
“Why do I never get a choice?” he muttered, his breath going to vapor.
He climbed up the boarding stairs and found Harrison programming the navigation computer.
“Hold off on that,” Driscoll said. “We’ve got a change in destination.”
The copilot looked up. He was a compact man with dark hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow. “Will we still get home tomorrow? I’ve got a trip starting the next day.” A part-time Guardsman, Harrison’s “day job” was as a first officer with Southwest Airlines.
“Doubtful.”
“Where are we going?”
“North,” Driscoll said, unable to think of a better way to put it.
“North? Thule?” Thule, Greenland, was the only airfield in that direction certified for Air Force operation.
“No, farther.”
Harrison blinked. “There aren’t any airfields north of there.”
Driscoll removed the message from his pocket and handed it to his copilot. “Yeah… that’s the problem.”