Polar Quest

10

Greg Kuhn flew through the bottom of an overcast sky and lined his plane up with the runway. This was his third night landing in eighteen hours — the first two being nothing more than pit stops at fuel caches secretly placed along his egress route from Lake Vostok.

Kuhn and his crew had put in almost thirty-six hours of airtime in something less than three days on this mission, far more than navy regulations or the FAA would ever permit. Then again, neither the navy nor the overnight express carrier he flew for in recent years would ever consider paying him what Duroc offered.

A strong wind blew down from the Andes to the west, buffeting against Kuhn’s plane. Instinctively, he corrected his speed and pitch. The wheels lightly touched down on the old tarmac runway and Kuhn taxied toward a collection of buildings. In the darkness, he saw a signalman waving him in with a pair of illuminated orange wands. Once in position, Kuhn was given the signal to cut power.

A short distance from the plane, Kuhn saw a black Hummer, a military personnel transport, an aviation fuel truck, a forklift, and a semi truck with a cargo container mounted on its trailer.

‘Well done, gentlemen,’ Kuhn said to his flight crew, relaxing for the first time in days. He then switched on the plane’s intercom. ‘Loadmaster, make ready to off-load our cargo.’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ a voice crackled back through the speaker.

As soon as the loadmaster opened the passenger door, Sumner Duroc stepped out of the plane carrying a Halliburton case and walked toward the jeeps. A uniformed man with a thick black mustache stood waiting beside the Hummer, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his long leather coat.

‘General, is everything ready?’ Duroc asked.

‘Si, the arrangements are as you specified. Once my men have loaded your cargo into the container, it will be taken down to the docks and placed on board the freighter.’ The general handed Duroc an envelope. ‘Here is the inspection paperwork and the container manifest for your security equipment.’

The ramp door in the tail of the LC-130 groaned as it slowly lowered to the ground. The general motioned with his hand, and his men moved toward the plane to assist the loadmaster and his mate with the cargo.

‘Where is the other plane?’ the general asked.

‘It didn’t make the return flight.’

Duroc and the general watched as the soldiers quickly moved the crates from the plane onto the truck. Kuhn and his copilot inspected their plane as the fuel truck refilled the tanks for the final leg of their journey. As soon as the last of the cargo had been removed, Kuhn handed a clipboard to his copilot and walked over to Duroc.

‘We lay over here until daylight, right?’ Kuhn asked.

‘That is correct,’ Duroc replied.

‘Good, because me and the crew could use a little sack time. I’d hate to have come all this way just to auger in over some cattle ranch because I nodded off at the wheel. I also believe it’s time to transfer the rest of our money.’

‘You are correct, Commander.’

Duroc set the Halliburton case on the hood of the Hummer and opened it — a laptop computer and a satellite phone were securely nestled in the case’s padded interior. He booted up the computer and quickly established a secure connection with a bank in Switzerland. He keyed in an alphanumeric account number, then pulled what appeared to be the video camera viewfinder from the case and held it up to his right eye. The device, which was wired directly into the back of the laptop, scanned the unique pattern of the blood vessels in his retina and passed the data on to the computer in Zurich. The bank’s computer compared the scan to the data in its secure files and verified Duroc’s identity.

‘Per our agreement, I am now transferring the balance of the six million dollars into your account. Of course, now you only have to divide it six ways.’

‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ Kuhn admitted, realizing that the loss of the second LC-130 had caused his pay to double. ‘My men knew the risks involved, as did yours.’

Duroc nodded, briefly thinking about his trusted friend Leon Albret. He keyed in a few more commands, shut the computer down, and closed the case.

‘Commander Kuhn, this is where we part company. Fuel has been cached for you at runways along your route back to the United States. At your final stop, a ground crew will also restore your plane’s original markings.’

‘I’m sure the old girl will appreciate that. She never flew in anything but navy colors before this.’

‘Make contact with our man at ASRF before you start the last leg of your flight. Good luck.’

Kuhn grasped Duroc’s hand firmly. ‘You too.’

After six hours of sleep, Kuhn roused his crew and ran through his preflight checklist. His old plane had flown well despite the years she lay in storage, and his crew had performed as if no time had passed since they left the navy.

Once airborne Kuhn laid in a straight-line course that roughly paralleled the Argentine coast. Kuhn estimated approximately six hours of flying time to reach Buenos Aires, given the current weather and wind conditions. The skies were mottled with large billowy clouds and foamy whitecaps broke the blue-green surface of the Golfo San Jorge below.

Lieutenant Aurelio Rodriguez flew his French-built Mirage III at forty-five thousand feet across the assigned patrol area — a rectangular stretch of space that ran along the Argentine coast from Bahia Blanca in the north to the Golfo San Jorge in the south. His regular patrol of this area was part of the government’s response to the increasing flow of illegal drugs through Argentina to Europe and the United States.

Rodriguez rarely encountered anything during his patrols, but during the mission briefing, his commanding officer told him to look sharp today. According to a well-placed informer, a large shipment of drugs was scheduled to fly out of southern Patagonia aboard a plane disguised to look like one of the United States military transports used to service research stations in Antarctica.

A blip appeared on the Mirage’s radar, an aircraft almost due south of his position, flying at twenty-six thousand feet on a north-north-east heading. The plane was not broadcasting a commercial identification, which immediately made Rodriguez suspicious. He maintained his altitude and began mentally plotting a course that would allow him to get behind the unidentified aircraft.

Rodriguez maintained a five-mile separation as the two aircraft passed by each other, then brought his Mirage around and into a parallel course. The delta-winged fighter easily closed the distance on the slower plane, which Rodriguez visually identified as a variant of the Lockheed C-130. He brought the Mirage into position, just behind and off to the right of the plane. The markings indicated that the aircraft belonged to the United States Air Force. Rodriguez pulled alongside the transport and switched his radio to send.

‘Argentine Air Force Alfa Zulu Three Zero,’ Rodriguez announced over the radio, ‘United States Air Force Sierra Kilo Nine Eight, over.’

‘I copy, Alfa Zulu Three Zero, over.’

‘Sierra Kilo Nine Eight, what is your purpose and destination? Over.’

‘Emergency transport of injured personnel from San Martin research station to Buenos Aires, over.’

‘Sierra Kilo Nine Eight, maintain speed and heading. Alfa Zulu Three Zero, out.’

‘What do you suppose that was all about?’ Kuhn’s copilot asked, staring out the window at the needle-nosed Mirage fighter.

‘He’s just checking us out. Right now he’s contacting his base for confirmation of our story. That’s where the general comes in. He’ll tell them we’re legit and this guy will fly off and find something else to do.’

‘Negative, repeat negative, Alfa Zulu Three Zero. United States Air Force Sierra Kilo Nine Eight is not on emergency transport mission and is not authorized to land in Buenos Aires. Aircraft is illegal drug transport. You are authorized to fire on Sierra Kilo Nine Eight. Do you copy? Over.’

‘I copy. Alfa Zulu Three Zero out.’

The Mirage rolled ninety degrees, then peeled off to the right, away from the LC-130.

‘I guess you were right, Greg,’ the copilot said. ‘Our shadow just took a hike.’

‘Money buys you friends in high places,’ Kuhn said confidently.

Rodriguez flew the Mirage in a tight flat arc behind the LC-130, throttling up the SNECMA Altar 93-C turbojet engine after running it at near-stall to keep pace with the lumbering transport. The Mirage responded with a thundering burst of acceleration. As he circled around the transport, he switched his avionics from navigation to attack mode and selected the Mirage’s two DEFA 30mm cannons. Rodriguez leveled out of his turn and aimed the attack fighter at the center of the LC-130.

An audible tone buzzed in Rodriguez’s helmet — his weapon’s system had locked onto the aircraft. Cruising at five-hundred knots, the Mirage closed quickly and Rodriguez squeezed the trigger.

Two streams of shells erupted from the Mirage, white tracer lines marking the trajectory of fire. The LC-130′s left wing disintegrated, the wing tanks exploding as the white-hot rounds tore through the thin aluminum skin. Rodriguez continued firing as he banked the Mirage, strafing the side and tail of the aircraft as he pulled away from his kill. A trail of black smoke marked the Ice Queen’s fiery descent. The shattered hulk crashed into the Atlantic and disappeared.