Eternity Base

Chapter 26

General Morris rubbed his forehead as Hodges came into the situation room. His conversation with the president had not gone well. The secretary of defense was on his way back from the West Coast to take over the operation, but in the meantime the monkey was on Morris’s back.

“What is it?” he demanded as Hodges took a seat across from him. He was trying not to slay the bearer again, but it was difficult.

“We have the serial numbers on the two bombs, sir. They were on the aircraft carrier Enterprise in 1970. Both bombs were loaded on the wings of an A-7 Corsair, which was lost overboard during a typhoon and never recovered.”

Morris felt the pounding in his head grow stronger. “Where?”

“In the Pacific, to the east of the Philippines.”

“Were they really lost or was that a cover?”

“Our data says they were really lost.”

“So how the hell did they end up at this place?” Morris demanded. “Who recovered them?”

“I assume the same person who built the base, sir,” Hodges replied. “Anyone who could support that could also support the undersea recovery of the bombs.”

“Anything from your two guests?”

“Not yet, sir, but we’ll get something. We’re close. From what we’ve received so far, I would say that it appears Eternity Base was a privately funded enterprise using government support.”

Morris closed his eyes. He didn’t doubt that for a moment. Billions of dollars a year were spent by the government on various secret projects. Who was to say that some influential civilian couldn’t do the same thing, especially if that civilian had the proper connections in the military industrial complex. “I want a name.”

“Yes, sir.”

Morris opened his eyes as an imposing figure in a medal-bedecked uniform stomped into the room.

Morris stood. “General Kolstov. Welcome.”

The Russian general wasted no time on a greeting. “I understand there is a problem. A nuclear one.”

Since the president had informed the Kremlin of the source of the nuclear explosion, a liaison officer from the embassy representing all of the countries of the former Soviet Union had been assigned to the Pentagon to follow the situation. It was part of the nuclear disarmament and control treaty that both countries had signed the previous year. Any incident involving nuclear weapons was to be monitored by both countries to ensure there would be no confusion or misunderstanding that might lead to unfortunate consequences.

Morris wasn’t sure which he hated worse — having a civilian superior riding herd on him or the presence of General Kolstov in the Pentagon war room. Still, he had to admit that the provision was a good idea. He knew that if his people had picked up an unknown nuclear explosion in Antarctica and the Russians had reported it as an accident — an accident that had no logical explanation — he’d sure as shit want to have someone sitting in on their investigation. Morris wasn’t sure he’d buy a story of two bombs lost overboard and suddenly reappearing at a mysterious base. He wasn’t sure General Kolstov was going to buy it either.

The merchant ship Am Nok Gang cruised south at a steady twenty knots. The captain stalked the bridge, unable to sleep. He watched as an iceberg, long ago spotted by his lookouts and radar, slipped by a mile from the port bow, the constant sunlight reflecting off its slopes.

This was insanity, the captain knew, but he dared not say it. The political officer’s cabin was next to his, and that man, not the captain, held the ultimate control over the ship. They’d received the order from

Pyongyang less than twenty-four hours ago, and there had never been any question but to obey.

The captain shook his head. The fools! How could he pick up someone off the coast of Antarctica? Obviously no one had bothered to look up the facts. The ice pack surrounded Antarctica the year round, giving up slightly to the sea in the summer but never allowing open water to reach the coast. The captain knew the history of these waters. He’d spent thirty-two years of his life in Antarctic waters on the annual whale hunts. North Korea was one of the few rogue nations that still ignored the international outcry against the ravages of the hunt.

The captain knew that Capt. James Cook, the first to sail around Antarctica, from 1773 to 1775, had never once spotted land, the ice pack keeping him well out of landfall. The first party ever to land on Antarctica and spend the winter had not succeeded until well over a century later, in 1895. And in the century since, men in ships had been able to accomplish little more in these vicious seas.

But now, now, the idiots in Pyongyang wanted him to pick up people off the coast of Antarctica! The captain silently laughed to himself — as if a simple command could make it happen. He would see what the political officer had to say when they hit the ice pack in the morning. Maybe he would order the ship to fly over the ice! Whoever was to be picked up would have to come to them, not the other way around.

The captain twisted his head and peered into the distance as the lookout phoned in another iceberg off the port bow. The false dawn of the time piece was a long way off.

The SUSV stuttered, pivoting to the right and not moving forward. Pak grabbed the dashboard and turned a quizzical look to his driver. “What is wrong?”

“I don’t know, sir. It is not responding.”

“Stop.” Pak zipped up his coat and then opened his door. He climbed down to the snow. The answer stared him in the face. The track on the right side was gone. Pak peered back. It was thirty feet to the rear, laid out in the snow like a long, thick metal snake. One of the linchpins holding it together had snapped in the bitter cold.

Kim joined him. “What now, sir?”

Pak’s reply was terse. “We walk.”

Kim didn’t question. He rapped on the door to the rear cargo compartment and yelled in his instructions. Ho and Lee began unloading the gear. Sun left the driver’s seat and joined them around the sled. They unhooked the tow rope and rigged it to be pulled by men.

Kim used his last satchel charge on the SUSV. The party moved out to the north, all the men straining in the harness. Twenty minutes out a sharp crack from behind told of the destruction of the vehicle.

Riley was channeling his anger into his legs, pumping steadily as the miles flowed beneath them. The anger had started smoldering low in his gut from the minute he’d seen the bullet holes in the soldier’s back at the base of the stairs. Then when Devlin had raced down the shaft and told them that Kerns and Vickers were dead, it had piled more fuel on the fire. The last two shots had really ignited it. He’d been on the other side of this kind of ruthlessness before, but it had been for a better cause. Or at least he’d thought it had been a better cause.

Riley was more than willing to go on without rest, but he knew that wasn’t smart. His plan was to halt the party every fifty minutes for ten minutes of rest. Every other hour, he would break out his small stove and cook up something hot — soup or coffee. They would go slower that way, but in the long run they would cover more miles. Years of experience in Special Forces, marching with the merciless weight of a rucksack on his back, had taught him that it was the long haul that counted.

They continued to follow the tracks in the snow: two treads and a deep impression in the middle. Occasionally the trail would disappear, covered by blown snow, but it was easy to pick up again. The Koreans were heading due north as directly as the terrain would allow. Riley didn’t permit himself to dwell on the fact that they were probably moving two to three times faster than he was.

“Does the sun shine all the time?” Kim asked as the five men huddled together next to the large sled, trying to share some warmth during the short break Pak gave them every so often.

Pak looked up. The storm had lessened two hours previously, and visibility had increased to almost a mile. “We will have no night.” Pak’s best estimate was that they were less than five miles from the coast. The only map he had was one he had torn out of a world atlas stolen from a schoolroom prior to their departure from Angola. It was totally useless for navigating. He was offsetting his compass based on the map’s notation of magnetic south, but he wasn’t confident that he was taking the quickest possible route.

Pak’s main goal was to head north — as best he could tell — and also stay on the lowest possible ground, skirting around mountains. Despite the bomb’s weight, the sled pulled easily behind the five men — as long as they were on level ground. They’d just spent the past forty-five minutes traversing back and forth — getting the sled up and over a large foothill — making only two hundred horizontal meters in the process.

Pak directed them to the left, along the edge of a massive wall of ice that shot up into the sky, where the polar ice cap had ruptured itself against rock. He hoped they could continue bypassing such formations and make it to the coast on schedule. They’d already lost quite a bit of time hauling the sled.

“Let’s move,” he ordered. The five men staggered to their feet and placed themselves in the harness.

“I’m awfully thirsty down here, big brother.”

“Roger. I’ve got what you need.”

The Stratotanker KC-10 dwarfed the MC-130 Combat Talon as it jockeyed into position, closing in less than forty feet above and to the front of the smaller aircraft. In the rear of the tanker, seated in a glass bubble, the boom operator toyed with his controls, directing the drogue boom toward the refuel probe on the nose of the Combat Talon. As the cup fit, he flicked a button on his yoke, locking the seal.

“We’re in,” he spoke into his mike, verbally confirming what the pilot 120 feet in front in the cockpit could already see on his control panel. “Pumping.”

The two planes were at 25,000 feet, cruising at 350 miles per hour yet maintaining their relative positions with less than a two-foot variance at any moment. Jet fuel surged through the hose, filling up the almost dry tanks of the Combat Talon. The umbilical cord stayed in place for two minutes.

“I’m full down here, big brother.”

“Roger. That’ll be fourteen ninety-five.” The drogue separated and the KC-10 started gaining altitude, pulling away.

“Roger. Do you take checks?”

The Stratotanker banked hard right, turning back toward home. “Your credit is good. Good luck and good hunting.”

Riley worked the bolt of the Ml6, making sure it moved freely. He pushed the magazine release and caught the aluminum box as it fell out. He pushed down on the top bullet, making sure the spring was still functioning correctly, then he replaced the magazine and loaded a round into the chamber. Looking up, he noticed Sammy watching him, her eyes framed by the frosted edge of her hood.

“Do you think we’ll catch them?” she asked. He could see that she was shivering. That was bad — he thought he’d planned enough rests for them to make up for the loss of heat. It was hard for him to factor in the others’ needs with his desire to catch the Koreans.

Riley glanced over to where Devlin and Conner were wrapped together in a sleeping bag, trying to conserve their warmth, then he returned Sammy’s gaze. “Not unless we get lucky.”

“Then why do you want to go after them?” The words came out in puffs.

Riley laid the rifle across his knees. His face hurt from the cold and the skin on his cheeks felt like crinkled parchment as he spoke. “Several reasons. I didn’t see much sense in doing anything before. I figured we’d get out alive if we did nothing, and I also figured these guys would get caught. I was wrong on both counts: we’re lucky to be alive, and these people are getting away. That’s two mistakes, and I don’t want to go for number three.”

“But what can we do if we catch them?”

“I’ll figure that out when we get there,” Riley replied. He didn’t like to admit this, but it was the truth. He had no plan. “We have to catch them first,” he said, getting to his feet. “All right. Let’s move out.”

“We’re never going to catch them,” Devlin said, peering out from his bag. “I say we stay still — we’re losing too much energy walking.”

Riley held back his anger. “Listen. If you want to, you can head back to Eternity Base and camp out in the reactor room. Or you can head for the Russian base. Or you can stay here. I don’t care. You do whatever you want to.” He picked up his pack. ‘Time to move out.” Sammy stood and started putting her gear in her backpack.

Conner slid out of the sleeping bag, then spoke to Devlin. “We can’t split up now. It would be too dangerous. Come on, Devlin, let’s go. Please.”

“We should have gone after them at the base like I wanted to,” Devlin complained. “We’ll never catch them here. We need a break. We’ve been moving for over eight hours now.”

Riley started walking along the track, and Sammy moved with him. After twenty yards he looked over his shoulder. Conner was talking to Devlin, her head bent close to him. Riley went another twenty yards and looked again. They were following.

The two men walked down the underground corridor, the squeak of their shoes echoing off the cinder block walls. “I got everything out of Glaston,” the short man remarked. “He put the bomb on the C-130.”

“Why?”

“To keep the location secret, and for five hundred thousand dollars. His rationalization was that they were losing over fifty thousand men in Vietnam for no reason, so five more wouldn’t make much difference. He also killed the courier who accompanied the bombs down there — some SF guy who worked OPCON to Combat Control South, MACV-SOG. He says the SF guy didn’t know what was in the crates, but he couldn’t take a chance.”

“Shit,” was the tall man’s only comment. “Nothing more on Peter?”

“No.”

“Let’s do the old man again.” They stopped at a thick steel door.

“He’s a tough old bird. But if we give him another shot, he’ll be gone,” the short man warned. “His heart can’t handle it.”

The tall man’s face didn’t show the slightest sign of emotion. “We’ve had a nuclear detonation. We need the name. Give him another shot.” He opened the door and they walked in. General Woodson was seated in the same wheelchair they’d used to take him out of the hospital. His eyes peered up, unfocused, trying to see who had come in.

The short man shrugged — it wasn’t his responsibility. He walked over to the table and charged the needle.

The twin-engine plane skidded to a halt and the tractor rumbled up to it. The side door opened and a skinny man with long hair poking from beneath his parka hood hopped out and ran over to the driver of the tractor. The SNN support team had finally arrived.

“Hear anything from Atlanta?”

“Yeah. They say sit still.”

The man was incredulous. “We bust ass to get here and they want us to sit on our butts! What the fuck is going on?”

The driver of the tractor was just the messenger. “Damned if I know. Get your stuff on the wagon and I’ll get you all settled in.”