The Citadel (26 page)

Airspace, McMurdo Station

The MC-130 Combat Talon leveled out over the Ross Ice Shelf, boring straight in for Mount Erebus, twenty miles away. In the rear, Major Bellamy checked the rigging of the static lines for the two bundles, one hooked to each cable. The bundles were tied down on the back ramp, and Bellamy's men were standing now, parachutes on their back, just short of the edge of the ramp.
They all felt the plane slow down, and the loadmaster looked at Bellamy. "Three minutes out."
A gap appeared up in the top part of the rear of the aircraft, and freezing air swirled in. The back ramp leveled off, while the top part ascended up into the tail, leaving a large open space. Bellamy stared out. The view was spectacular, with the entire Ross Ice Shelf laid out below to the east.
"One minute!" the loadmaster yelled through the scarf wrapped about his face, trying to be heard above the roar of engines and air.
"One minute," Bellamy relayed to his men, all hooked up to the left cable. He edged out, right behind the bundle. The red light glowed up in the darkness of the upper tail structure.
"Stand by!" the loadmaster yelled as he leaned over one of the bundles with a knife in his hand as another Air Force man did the same on the other side.
The light flashed green, and the loadmaster severed the nylon band holding the bundle down. It immediately was sucked out the rear of the plane. The other bundle went out at almost the same time. Bellamy waddled out after it, hands over his reserve, chin tucked into his chest.
He felt like he was passing straight through the static line and deployment bag of the bundle as he stepped off the edge of the ramp. Three seconds of free fall were followed by the snap of the chute deploying.
Bellamy guided himself by the two bright red parachutes of the bundles as he descended. As the ice rushed up, he stared straight out at the horizon and bent his knees. With a grunt he hit the ice.
Gathering in his chute, Bellamy watched as the rest of his men hit in a long line of white parachutes along the track of the aircraft. He could also see a large snow tractor rumbling toward him, pulling a sled. The tractor pulled up, and two men hopped off, one wearing an Air Force parka and the other in civilian garb, sporting a large beard.
The military man introduced himself first. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Larkin, and this is Dr. O'Shaugnesy, McMurdo Station leader. We—"
"What is your purpose here?" O'Shaugnesy interrupted.
Bellamy blinked and looked at the civilian, then at Colonel Larkin. "Didn't you brief him?"
Larkin wearily nodded. "I briefed him."
"If you expect me to believe you and your men are conducting rescue practice, then you must take me for a fool," O'Shaugnesy snorted. "Do you have any weapons with you?"
Bellamy spread his empty hands wide. "Of course not." Asshole, he thought. O'Shaugnesy and the entire scientific community at McMurdo were almost totally dependent on support from the U.S. military, yet they acted as if they owned the place. Bellamy had not been thrilled about putting all his weapons in the bundles, but had followed his orders. One of these days public relations was going to destroy a mission.
Larkin interposed himself between the two. "Your other aircraft is en route, Major. It should arrive in about four hours. In the meanwhile, we'll put you up in the airstrip control tower." He turned to O'Shaugnesy. "Doctor, I did you a courtesy by obliging your request and bringing you out here. I ask that you not harass Major Bellamy and his men. They will be out of your station as soon as possible."
Under the distrusting eye of O'Shaugnesy, Bellamy's team gathered together and loaded the two bundles on the sled. The men jumped on board, and then they all moved out for the main base, three miles away.

Ice Pack, 8 Miles off the Ruppert Coast, Antarctica

"This is as far as we can go," the captain informed Fatima. The bow of the freighter was securely wedged in ice, and less than a hundred meters to the front a large block of ice that had broken off a glacier last season and slowly made its way out into the ocean blocked the way.
The captain knew he could probably do some more maneuvering—trying to find the thin ice—but he also had to be able to get back out, and he felt he was as far in as he could go and still be able turn around.
Fatima stood next to him, peering out the glass of the bridge at the mountains that now loomed in the near distance. They looked less than a mile away, but the captain knew they were farther—he just didn't tell Fatima that. A large glacier, probably the same one that had spawned the block just in front of them, split the mountains to the right front.
"All right. We wait." Fatima turned and went back to his cabin.

Far South Pacific Ocean

With the assistance of the hydraulic catapult, the E-2 Hawkeye roared off the deck of the
Kitty Hawk
and dipped down below deck level, then rapidly gained altitude as it headed southeast. Upon reaching 10,000 feet altitude, the twenty-four-foot diameter radome that sat on the top of the fuselage began turning, at a rate of six revolutions per minute. Inside the fuselage, the three controllers watched their screens as an area three hundred miles out in all directions from the aircraft was displayed before them. In three hours the Citadel would be in range.

Vicinity Ruppert Coast, Antarctica

They were three-quarters of the way up the ridge when Min finally called a halt. It was only another kilometer straight-line distance to the top, but the wide traverses would more than triple that distance.
"Rest," Min ordered. "I will be back shortly." He had to know whether they were at the coast or not. He could tell that dedication to duty only went so far. His men were at the limits of their capabilities. They needed some positive news.
Leaving his three men huddled together next to the sled, Min untied the rope from his waist and headed straight up the ridge, ignoring the screaming pain of exhaustion in his thighs. His breath crackled in the brittle air as he made his way to the top.
As he climbed, his thoughts turned to home, a place he had a feeling he would never see again. Even if they made it to the freighter—if the ship was there—and the ship made it to Hawaii…and they managed to infiltrate with the bomb…and—
Min stopped that train of thought. He thought of his mother and regretted never having married so his mother would have a daughter-in-law to take care of her in her old age. As an only son, his dedication to country had taken him away from his family, leaving his parents alone.
The top was not much farther. Min slipped and fell, almost tumbling back down the way he had come, but he dug the metal folding stock of his AK-47 into the ice and stopped himself. Getting to his feet, he covered the remaining distance.
Cresting the ridge, he stopped and stared, his heart lifting. The ocean—at least he assumed it was the ocean under all that ice—was less than four kilometers away. Sweeping in from his left and descending to the ocean was a large glacier.
Min stared for a long time, then his eyes focused in on a black speck just to the side of a large iceberg. The ship! It was far out on the ice sheet but within sight. He turned and headed back down the slope.

Vicinity Ruppert Coast, Antarctica

"Look!" Vaughn exclaimed.
Tai squinted and peered through red-rimmed eyes. She had no idea what he was pointing at. In fact, she had a feeling she was in a dream—a very bad one at that. She wished she could dream of warmth and comfort and lying in front of a fireplace with—
"There." Vaughn grabbed her and pointed again. "Near the top of the ridge of ice."
Tai seemed to remember lying safe and warm in a pair of strong arms. Was that a dream too? Or had that been reality and this a dream? Which was which? Then she saw it too. Tiny black figures against the white background, just below the top. An oblong shape on the ice to their left rear. Reality came flooding back.
"Is it them?"
"Yes." Vaughn's voice held an edge she had never heard before.
"How far away do you think they are?"
"It's hard to tell. Maybe four, five miles."
It had seemed closer than that to Tai. Four or five miles sounded like forever. "Can we catch them?"
"It depends on how far away the coast is," Vaughn replied. "They've got the high ground on us." Instead of immediately running off toward the Koreans like she expected him to, he turned and looked at her. "Are you all right?"
"I'm tired and I'm cold. But I can make it." Tai was surprised as soon as she said it, but it was true.
Vaughn's face was wind-burned, and the stubble of a two-day beard competed with the raw flesh for surface area. When he smiled at her, the lines around his eyes and cheeks cut deep divots. He glanced at Burke, who nodded his assent. "All right. Let's go."
They moved out, and the Koreans disappeared from sight as the two approached a small ice ridge. Vaughn was leading the way up when he caught sight of something black off to the right. He headed in that direction.
"What's that in the snow?" Tai asked as she also spotted the unnatural object.
"Wait here," Vaughn told her. He walked forward and stared down for a few brief seconds until he recognized what he was looking at, then quickly turned and bumped into Tai, with Burke standing next to her.
"I told you to wait back there."
"I'm not a child that you can tell what to do and what not to do." Tai looked over his shoulder. "What is that?"
"One of the Koreans. Or what's left of one of them," he replied.
Now she could recognize the pieces of white as bone and the charred flesh. Thankfully, there was no smell. "What could have done that to him?"
"I don't know how he died, but someone put a couple of thermal grenades on the body so it couldn't be identified." Vaughn tapped her on the shoulder. "Let's keep going. This means they'll be moving even slower."

* * *

Min collapsed. Getting to the top of this ridge, pulling the sled, was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. His entire body reverberated with pain overlaid with exhaustion. He lay there panting, feeling the sweat freeze on his skin. He knew he needed to do something, but he couldn't. Not now. He wanted to be home again, lying on the tiled floor of his parents house, feeling the heat rising through the floor from the burning coal he had to load every evening, hearing his mother in the kitchen pounding cabbage, preparing kimchee.
Min roused himself. "The radio," he called out. Ho pulled a package off the sled and handed it to him. With fumbling fingers inside his mittens, Min unwrapped the radio. He hoped it worked. They had wrapped it in metal foil to protect it from the EMP blast of the bomb, but he had little faith in the recommendations of scientists.
He threw the antenna out on the ice. Taking his mittens off, Min swiftly dialed in the correct frequency and turned the radio on. By the time he put his gloves back on, he had lost the feeling in all his fingers. A distant part of his mind told him that was bad, very bad.
Using both hands, he pushed the Send on the handset with a palm. "Tiger, this is Wolf. Over."
As each second of silence ticked by, Min's heart fell.
"Tiger, this is Wolf. Over."
"Wolf, this is Tiger. Over."
Min felt a wave of relief. "This is Wolf. We are within sight. Over."
"Roger." There was a brief break of squelch as if the other station went off the air. Then the voice came back. "Do you have the package? Over."
"Yes. Over."
"Roger. We will wait for you. Out."

Airspace, Ross Sea, Antarctica

"What language does that sound like?" the Signal Intelligence operator aboard the E-2 Hawkeye asked the other four men on board as he played back the message he had just intercepted.
He received negative replies from all, although the pilot suggested it was Asian. "Where'd you pick it up from?"
"Low power, high frequency radio coming from the southeast."
"Airborne platform?" the pilot asked.
"Negative. I don't think so—the signal was fixed," the SIGINT operator replied.
"I've got zip on the scope," the radar operator replied. "We're the only thing in the air other than the blip down near McMurdo."
"Relay it back to the ship, maybe they can figure it out," the pilot ordered.
"Roger."

McMurdo Station, Antarctica

The Osprey slowed as its engines switched from horizontal to vertical. Major Bellamy watched as the aircraft slowly settled down in a whirlwind of snow.
"Let's go," he yelled as his men followed him, hauling their two as-yet unopened bundles with them. They crowded into the cargo bay as the crew chief ran out and coordinated the refueling. Hoses were run from the fuel blisters, and JP-4 fuel was pumped in as Bellamy's men settled in. Bellamy went forward into the cockpit.
The pilot looked over his shoulder as Bellamy poked his head in. "Captain Jones." He nodded at the copilot. "As soon as we're topped off we'll be lifting."
"Have you heard anything about the target site?" Bellamy asked.
The pilot shook his head. "Nothing. We've got a Hawkeye in the air, and it should be in radar range of the site soon. I'm not sure if that will give us anything, but at least we'll know if we're the only ones in the sky."
Bellamy frowned. He'd expected something more.
"We're full," the pilot announced.
Bellamy made his way back to the rear. His men had opened the bundles and were passing out the weapons, each man receiving his according to his specialty and talents: silenced MP-5SD submachine guns, PM sniper rifles, SPAS 12 shotguns, M249 Squad Automatic Weapons (SAW), LAW 80 rocket launchers, and sidearms. If there was anybody left alive at the target site and they were antagonistic, Bellamy's men were ready.

Airspace, Ross Sea, Antarctica

The radar operator stared at his screen. "Shit, there's still nothing out here," he muttered to the man on his left. He'd never seen such a blank screen. Not a single aircraft in a six-hundred-mile radius, the Osprey having disappeared as it landed at McMurdo.
He flipped a switch and the radar went from air to surface. This was a different story. He stared at the screen, trying to make sense out of the jumbled mess. The surface bounce-back was very confusing, even where the sea should be. He was used to a flat reflection where ships stood out in stark relief to the ocean. Here, ice formations broke that image up into a confusing disarray.
The naval officer slowly started sorting the screen out, trying to see if there was anything identifiable. He fiddled with his controls, adjusting and tuning, like a kid playing a computer game.
"Hey, I've got something here," he told the SIGINT operator. Keying his mike, he relayed his report back to the
Kitty Hawk.
"Big Boot, this is Eye One. We have a surface target, bearing 093 degrees true. Distance, 273 miles. Speed zero. Over."