Ice Station Nautilus (19 page)

Once the equipment was reassembled, he was confident it would work properly, even in the subzero temperatures. What concerned Raila was lowering their submersible through the three-meter-thick ice after digging a five-by-fifteen-meter wide hole. They had to excavate over two hundred tons of ice.

As Raila wondered whether the equipment could withstand the rigors of digging through multiyear ice as hard as concrete, his attention was captured by the whirr of helicopter rotors. But unlike the heavy beat from the MI-26 cargo helicopters, the sound was a soft purr. He donned his jacket and opened the door, examining the heliport on the east side of camp.

As the helicopters approached, the bright lights around the landing pad were extinguished. In the faint illumination from the remaining ice camp lights, Raila watched the first of four white helicopters land and a dozen soldiers in white Arctic gear exit. It took only fifteen seconds and the helicopter lifted off, settling to rest in the snow twenty meters to the east. One by one, the three other helicopters landed, each off-loading another dozen men, although the fourth helicopter off-loaded two extra soldiers, whom Raila assumed were the unit’s senior officers, for a total of fifty.

Raila watched the camp director, Demil Poleski, greet the men and direct them toward their berthing huts. When Raila returned his attention to the heliport, he had difficulty locating the white helicopters blending into the landscape. As he closed the door, he wondered why a Polar Spetsnaz unit had been sent to Camp Barneo.

49

SVALBARD, NORWAY

Christine leaned back in her seat aboard the C-32 executive transport, the military version of Boeing’s 757, looking out the window as the aircraft descended. The C-32, normally used by the vice president, was designated Air Force One whenever the president was aboard, or Air Force Two when the vice president was being flown. However, with only Christine, Brackman, and twelve ONI personnel as passengers today, neither call sign applied.

Seven hours earlier, Christine had departed Joint Base Andrews just outside Washington. Pam Bruce at ONI had assembled a team of experts on short notice; there was no lack of volunteers. Stu Berman and Greg Hartfield sat behind Christine and Brackman, with both men gazing out the window while Brackman sat in an aisle seat beside Christine, his eyes closed.

They were flying over Spitsbergen, the largest and only permanently inhabited island in the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard. Through a break in the clouds, Christine spotted the town of Longyearbyen, the world’s northernmost city, with a population of two thousand. In Norwegian, Longyearbyen translated to Longyear City; the town was founded by John Longyear, an American who established a mining operation on the archipelago in 1906. A more appropriate name, however, would have been Long
night
City.

In late October, the sun sets for the last time each year, remaining below the horizon and shrouding Longyearbyen in the Arctic night for almost four months. Thankfully, it was mid-March and the sun rose at the respectable time of 6 a.m. In another month, the Arctic day would begin, the sun not setting until late August.

As they prepared to land and begin the final leg of their journey to the polar ice camp, Christine figured the first-class seats would be the last creature comforts she would experience for a while. A few minutes later, the C-32 touched down at Svalbard Airport and coasted to a halt opposite the terminal and adjacent hangar. While she waited for the staircase, she examined the scenery through the cabin window. The airport was running out of parking space.

Lining one side of the runway were fifteen C-17 aircraft, their ramps down and cargo bays empty, while a CH-53E Super Stallion, the U.S. military’s most powerful cargo helicopter, hovered above the pavement, attached to the last load of equipment. In addition to the American aircraft, a dozen Russian Anton AN-74s were parked alongside the runway, their ramps also lowered and cargo bays empty. It looked like Svalbard Airport had become a staging point for both countries establishing ice camps.

Christine nudged Brackman and his eyes opened. After a glance out the window, he stood and pulled Christine’s luggage from the overhead, then his. They donned their coats and Christine headed toward the front of the cabin, followed by Brackman and the ONI team. The cabin door opened and a blast of frigid air hit Christine. As she descended the staircase, several four-person transporters approached, stopping near the base of the stairs. The driver exited the first vehicle and greeted Christine as she stepped onto the tarmac.

“Good morning, Ms. O’Connor,” he said loudly over the whine of the C-32’s jet engines. “I’m Bobby Pleasant, director of the Arctic Submarine Lab. I’ll get your team geared up for your stay at the ice camp and send you on your way.”

Christine thanked him and climbed aboard with Brackman and Berman, and the vehicle took off with a jolt. Pleasant spoke into a handheld radio as the transporter curved toward the hangar, and the forty-foot-tall double doors slid open. Inside, men were placing equipment on cargo pallets and rolling fifty-gallon drums toward awaiting aircraft. There was a row of offices on the left side, and along the back wall, arranged on hanging racks and shelves, was an assortment of winter clothing. Pleasant stopped beside a rack of black jackets, each with a fur-lined hood, an American flag on the left shoulder, and the Arctic Submarine Lab patch on the right breast. After they exited the vehicle, Pleasant eyed Christine, then pulled a jacket from the rack and handed it to her.

“Try this on.”

Christine removed her coat and slipped into the thick insulated jacket. The arm length was right, but it was loose fitting otherwise.

“It’s a little big,” she said.

“It’s perfect,” Pleasant said. “Once you’re bundled up in the rest of your gear, there won’t be extra room.”

He handed jackets to Brackman and Berman, who tried them on. After a nod of satisfaction, Pleasant sorted through a box and retrieved three black leather name tags with gold lettering on the front and Velcro on the back. He pressed one tag onto Berman’s jacket, over the corresponding Velcro patch on the left side, then slapped the second onto Brackman’s jacket. He stopped by Christine and was about to press her name tag onto her jacket when he pulled up short and handed the tag to her instead. The Velcro patch was over her left breast.

“You should probably put this on,” he said.

Christine smiled. “No problem.”

Pleasant led them down the line of clothing, explaining what the items were as he piled them in their arms. “On the polar ice cap, you’ll wear three layers of clothing: the parka and bib overalls, a mid-layer fleece pullover and pants; and a base layer of thermal underwear.”

He added a balaclava to keep her head and neck warm, gloves, and four pairs of wool socks. Finally, he stopped by a bin and pulled out three green duffle bags.

“Stow your gear in these,” he said, “then put on two pairs of socks.”

After donning the socks, Christine tried on a pair of boots Pleasant provided, which were a perfect fit.

“There’s an empty office where you change into your gear. Hop in.”

The transporter took off with a jolt again, leaving the rest of the ONI team behind as they accumulated their clothing, and Pleasant pulled up to the empty office.

“When you change,” he said, “turn your cell phones off. They won’t work on the ice cap. No signal. We use special Iridium phones.”

*   *   *

Once Christine and the two men were properly clad, Pleasant guided them toward an aircraft with its rear ramp lowered, explaining the Casa C-212 twin turboprop cargo plane would take them to the ice camp. There were no executive transports; everything hauled cargo. Inside the aircraft were a dozen fifty-gallon drums, six on each side, leaving the center aisle clear. At the front of the cargo bay were two bench seats facing rearward.

Pleasant disappeared into the cockpit and reemerged with a man who looked like a backwoodsman, with a bushy beard, knit cap, sweatshirt, and coveralls.

“This is Frank Salimbene, your pilot.”

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Salimbene said, breaking into a grin as he gestured to the bench seats, outfitted with thin, worn pads. “We’ve got a two-hour trip. If you want,” he added, “I’ve got an extra seat in the cockpit, if anyone wants to join me.

Stu Berman immediately perked up but didn’t say anything, and Christine could tell he was waiting for her to accept or decline.

“Why don’t you join Frank?” Christine said.

Berman smiled. “Thanks, Ms. O’Connor.”

“Well,” Pleasant said, “that wraps things up on my end. You’ll be in good hands from here on out. The rest of your team will follow in additional aircraft.”

Pleasant shook everyone’s hands, then headed down the cargo bay ramp. Christine and Brackman deposited their duffle bags on the bench seats on one side of the aircraft, then settled into their seats on the other side, with Christine by the window and Brackman along the aisle again. A moment later, the ramp lifted upward, and she felt the vibration in the deck as the twin turboprops began spinning. There were six small portals on each side of the cargo bay, and Christine looked out the nearest one as the Casa exited the hangar, then taxied onto the airstrip and took off.

This time of year, the Svalbard archipelago was ice-locked, and it was only a few minutes before the island of Spitsbergen faded in the distance, leaving nothing but a white landscape. As far as she could see, there was nothing but flat ice, interrupted only by ragged ridges that marked where the edges of the ice floes met. From their altitude of only a few hundred feet, the ridges looked like raised ant trails, wandering randomly across the polar ice.

*   *   *

The drone of the Casa’s turboprop engines filled Christine’s ears as it plodded steadily northeast toward the ice camp. In the unheated cargo bay of the aircraft, Christine’s left shoulder began to ache. She tried massaging it through her thick jacket, but her efforts had no effect. Brackman noticed and watched for a while, then spoke.

“Does it always hurt?”

“Only when it’s cold and my muscles tighten up.”

Brackman glanced at her legs. “How’s the thigh?”

“It’s fine.”

The aching in her shoulder and Brackman’s questions pulled Christine’s thoughts into the past, when she had been trapped in Beijing’s Great Hall of the People during China’s war with the United States. She had left a trail of six bodies, but the seventh and final death had always been difficult to reconcile. With bullets in her thigh and shoulder, and blood running down her face from a gash in her head, she had been in no mood for negotiation. Christine knew she was impulsive and it sometimes got her into trouble, but this time she had put a bullet in the head of a defenseless man who knelt at her feet.

She had replayed the scene in her mind a thousand times, wondering how different choices would have turned out. As she relived the encounter, a lump formed in her throat. She glanced at the hand that pulled the trigger, then looked out the small window, trying to divert her mind from what she had done.

Christine felt Brackman’s hand on hers, and she turned and met his eyes.

“You did the right thing,” he said. “Stop second-guessing yourself.”

Brackman had somehow known where her thoughts were. In the heat of the moment, it had seemed justified; the lives of many Americans were at stake. In hindsight, she wasn’t sure. It was murder, despite the justification.

“I can’t,” she replied.

Brackman left his hand on hers, and Christine wondered if there was something more to his gesture. She recalled his kiss in the Pentagon when USS
Kentucky
’s last warhead was destroyed, a kiss that lingered too long for a simple congratulation. However, Brackman had given no other indication he was interested in her. That was fine with Christine. A romance with another member of the president’s staff would have complicated her life.

As she looked at his hand, she remembered the first time she met him; there had been a faint tan line on his left ring finger. Brackman had been a recent widow, his wife and daughter killed in an accident a few weeks before arriving at the White House. Brackman had never talked about it, and up to now, she had never asked.

Christine peered around the corner, into the cockpit. Berman was chatting with the pilot, and she could see a GPS display in the console. They still had a ways to go; plenty of time to kill. She decided to broach the subject.

“What happened to your wife and daughter?”

Brackman’s head snapped toward her and she felt his body tense as he pulled away his hand.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Christine added quickly. “I was just wondering.”

Brackman stared at her for a long moment, then leaned back against the bulkhead, but the tension in his body didn’t ease. He answered, “They were killed in a car accident. They got rear-ended at a traffic light and their car burst into flames. They were trapped inside.”

It was Brackman’s turn to look away, staring out one of the windows on his side. Christine reached over and squeezed his hand. He gave no indication he noticed. They completed the rest of the flight in silence.

*   *   *

Her stomach dropping signaled the aircraft’s descent, and Christine peered out the window as the plane turned in preparation for landing. She spotted the ice camp in the distance, a hodgepodge of buildings and tents, with a depot of supplies to one side.

They landed with a gentle bump and the aircraft coasted to a halt. The aircraft ramp lowered and Stu Berman and the pilot emerged from the cockpit. After collecting her duffle bag, Christine stepped onto the hard-packed snow and shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight reflecting off the white surface.

A man approached and said, “Good morning, Ms. O’Connor. I’m Vance Verbeck, technical director of the Arctic Submarine Lab. Welcome to Ice Station Nautilus.”

50

ICE STATION NAUTILUS

“I take it your trip was uneventful?” Verbeck asked as he escorted Christine, Brackman, and Berman from the airstrip toward the cloister of buildings.