Beneath the Dark Ice

Five

“Chyort vozmi; now I get my information!” Viktor Petrov, Resources and Energy Minister for the Russian Federation, read the security squawk from one of the dozens of their American sleeper agents with frustration and growing anger; he had just left a surprise meeting with President Volkov where he had been severely ambushed. He knew there was going to be trouble when the President had refused to shake his offered hand and had come around his desk to stand mere inches from Petrov’s face — a sign this was to be more a confrontation than a meeting.

President Vladimir Volkov was ex-KGB and had earned the name “Little Wolf” on account of both his small stature and terrifying presence. What he lacked in height he more than made up for with a blood-chilling ferocity; the Little Wolf was a predator whose bite was much worse than his bark.

Petrov wiped his brow and took several deep breaths. He still felt sickened by his own feebleness but had been pinned by the President’s mesmerising gaze. Those eyes — almost colourless and unblinking. He just knew his legs had been shaking. Damn him for having better information sources than he did. Petrov remembered the chilling exchange and again felt a wave of nausea pass over him.

“Russia is a giant hungry bear, Petrov. It must be fed constantly so it slumbers and remains docile. If it is not it will grow weak and get eaten by another hungry bear, or it will rear up and tear its masters to pieces before devouring them.” The President stood close and looked at different points on Petrov’s face, watching the beads of perspiration fatten and then slide down his cheeks and neck to disappear into his tight, yellowing shirt collar. Petrov stood mute, not knowing whether he should respond to the cryptic little analogy or simply nod. He decided to do neither.

“Do you know what we must feed our hungry bear, comrade Petrov? What the Americans feed theirs, or the Chinese or the Europeans… Oil, lots of oil; the very blood of the earth. Tell me, how much oil do we have locked away in the soil beneath our feet, Petrov?”

Petrov didn’t like where this was going. “About sixty billion barrels, President Volkov.”

“And how much do the Americans have?”

Petrov stood a little straighter, “Less than a third of that of Mother Russia, comrade President.”

“And if the Americans run out of oil before us, that is a good thing, da? But what will happen if Russia runs out before America? What will our giant bear do to us, dear friend Petrov?”

“Impossible, with their rate of consumption and volatile relationship with the Middle East, they will be using horse-drawn carts within twelve years.”

“I see. How much oil do you think they will find down in Antarctica, comrade?”

“What? They would never touch it; they are signatories to—”

“Svoloch! They are already on their way now!”

Petrov, bludgeoned by the ferocity of the Russian curse, had an urgent need to use the bathroom. He suddenly felt very small before this man who only came up to his nose and he wanted to be out of this room and his presence immediately. The President brought his face even closer to Petrov’s until he was no more than an inch from his nose. The cold grey eyes bored deep into Petrov’s very core.

“When we next speak you will tell me what you are doing about the American secret mission in Antarctica and why you should remain my Energy Minister, da? Do svidanja, comrade Petrov.”

The Energy Minister’s name was spat out like an obscenity and the President turned away from Viktor Petrov, signalling the meeting was over. On shaky legs Petrov wobbled towards the door and as he put his hand out to open it, he heard a final chilling warning from the President. “The bear feeds on incompetent ministers first, comrade Petrov.”

Petrov went out through the door quickly for a large man, only just managing to close it and get his hand over his mouth before the bile hit the back of his teeth.

In the soft burgundy leather chair Viktor Petrov finally felt his heart rate returning to normal. The small bottle of Stolichnaya Elit was half empty on his desk and he felt he could finally think clearly enough to organise his plans. The first thing he would do was find the agent who had delivered his information to the President before he had given it to him and see he spent his next assignment on the Afghani border; perhaps that would teach the little koshka to recognise his priorities.

Petrov read the security paper again. The Americans were preparing a research team to investigate a possible sub-strata oil find in the Antarctic; no wonder the President had been so explosive.

He knew that if they could in any way secure and exploit the find it would destroy the carefully crafted plans that Russia had been building slowly over the last decade. Russia was once a contender to be the supreme superpower in the world and jostled with the United States over dominance in armaments and the space race. It had an army that shook the ground when it paraded its military might through Red Square. Now it had descended into a corrupt and bloated pretend-capitalist nation that had watched its soldiers boil cabbage to eat from their helmets. But as Energy Minister, Petrov was well aware that Russia was sleeping on gold. Locked beneath its soil were an estimated sixty billion barrels of oil and twenty-one trillion cubic feet of natural gas. As the world around them became ever hungrier for oil and the Middle Eastern countries became more fractious with the West, the price of the black gold went through the roof.

Russia was the second largest oil producer and largest natural gas producer in the world. It had more than it could use domestically so could sell millions of barrels. Petrov didn’t have to negotiate better prices for the oil; he merely had to threaten to withhold supply and Russia’s customers came back magically with more to spend. This booming resource revenue once again allowed a Russian leader to square his shoulders and look the United States in the eye.

Petrov had been at the radio interview when President Volkov had gone so far as to hint that they would price their oil in Euros and move away from using dollars — the Americans could only grind their teeth. They knew that the dollar-based global oil trade gave the United States carte blanche to print dollars without sparking inflation — to fund huge expenses on wars, military build-ups, as well as cut taxes. This suggestion was immediately seized upon by Iran, the world’s number five oil producer and even by the United States’ traditional ally Saudi Arabia. And of course the Europeans would like nothing better than to see another needle in the eye of the United States.

Eventually the American President would have to knock on Vladimir Volkov’s door and the terms of trade would be all Russian. Petrov took another sip of the expensive vodka and leaned back into the leather of his chair. Everything would go to plan, unless the United States could somehow secure an unclaimed source of petroleum or natural gas reserve, then all their careful machinations could be destroyed.

He sipped again and swirled the alcohol around in his mouth. On face value, the Antarctic was off limits to all nations. It was earth’s last uninhabited continent; nearly six million square miles with more than ninety-eight per cent of them ice covered. Every Energy Minister around the world looked hungrily at the continent but was held in check by an agreement signed decades ago that prohibited military activity and mining but allowed scientific research. This treaty was largely policed by Australia, being the closest nation.

Petrov knew that when push came to shove, the Americans had a way of bending the interpretation of the rules to allow them to act and get what they needed. With the United States’ huge resource requirements and the oil-producing nations of the world becoming increasingly hostile towards them, they would find a way. Added to this, Australia, one of their strongest allies, was monitoring activity in the Antarctic; no one would hear a thing until somehow they had secured some form of beneficial access to any new reserves.

Petrov could not allow the Americans to gain any sort of self-sufficiency from a large, unexploited oil reserve. He had to stop them or at least slow them down so he could formulate a longer-term plan. He could share the information with the Chinese who were just as hungry for oil as the Americans; however, they had a tendency to act in their own interest and were more likely to stake their own claim or cut a deal with the Americans. Besides, they were Russia’s biggest customer. Going public with so few facts or presenting the information to the United Nations was a waste of time; either the UN would take six months to come up with an angry letter or the Americans would simply state they were doing research just the same as the 4,000 other scientists that worked down in their nationally marked-out zones. It would be much better for Russia if no one obtained the oil in the Antarctic or even knew about it.

This job needed something a little more arm’s length; something that didn’t involve the Russians directly. Until they were publicly exposed the Americans would deny all knowledge of the secret mission in the Antarctic; “plausible deniability” the Americans called it. Well, if the Americans could deny all knowledge of the existence of their secret team, then Petrov would ensure it really didn’t exist. He knew a man who was very good at making things cease to exist — and knew exactly what to tell him to ensure he got results immediately.

Uli Borshov walked from the little hut, wiping his bloody hands on a piece of torn Chechen dress fabric. As expected, it hadn’t taken him long to learn everything he needed to know from his victim and he was preparing to rejoin his Special Forces team so he could upload the rebel base information.

Borshov was an imposing sight, standing more than six and a half feet tall, with a flat Slavic face that betrayed no emotion. He and his entire squad were made up of handpicked ex-Spetsnaz personnel who had displayed some form of special skill or ruthlessness that made them ideal for jobs that were either extremely dangerous or distasteful to the Russian public or sometimes for roles that broke the very laws of humanity.

His unit, known as the Krofskoya, or blood people, were not necessarily the first into combat, but they always infiltrated behind enemy lines. More assassins than soldiers, they were selected for the worst of the worst assignments. There were six of them — none were friends and all knew they were expendable. The pay was non-existent, food terrible and unless on special assignment, weapons were only upgraded from the bodies of their enemies. However, the main attraction was that they were allowed to kill, and torture, and do it often. Never could a more suitable job be found for a psychopathic profile.

Borshov’s GSM communication unit pinged once softly; he frowned, there was less than a handful of people worldwide who had this number and all knew only to call in extreme emergencies. The global system for mobile communications meant he could be contacted anywhere in the world via satellite; it also meant he could be pinpointed via the same technology, and there were a dozen nations who would like to see Borshov obliterated. He hunkered down beside a ruined car, plugged in the earpiece and spoke one word: “Da.”

On the other end of the line, Viktor Petrov did not bother with a greeting. Borshov listened as the Russian politician briefly outlined his new assignment, his rules of engagement, and gave him one final piece of information. “You may be interested to know, comrade Borshov, that Captain Alex Hunter, the ghost you said you killed, is not only walking around, but leading the American team on this mission.” Borshov tightened his grip on the small communication device and a low rumbling could be heard from deep within his chest.

Petrov continued the needling. “Doesn’t he have something of yours? Something in his head, I believe. What are you shooting these days, Borshov, peas?”

Alex Hunter still alive was an insult to Borshov’s skills and reputation as an efficient killer and assassin. It had been nearly three years since they had faced off not far from where he was now. Borshov had beaten Hunter senseless and when he wouldn’t give away any information, had shot him in the head and walked away. He saw the bullet hole; how could he have survived?

Borshov hung up on Petrov and stood motionless in the cold Chechen air for several seconds, before pressing more buttons on his phone and holding it to his ear. There was another who needed to be kept informed. One who paid even better than Petrov.

Borshov hurried back to the camp and drove straight to the airfield where he would be kitted out and flown directly down to the Antarctic. He selected two of his best team members to accompany him.

His rules of engagement were simple as usual — leave no one alive, leave nothing in one piece. To his men there was one extra rule — Alex Hunter was to be his.