Robert Williams - Ice Fortress

Sam extended the middle finger of his right hand and gestured sharply upward. His meaning was equally clear.

The first equipment pallet hit the ice, its canopy snapping in the wind, unable to move the skids of the pallet across the sastrugi, the frozen wave like ridges carved into the surface of the ice pack by the incessant Antarctic winds. The second pallet hit the ice some 100 feet away from the first and it was that pallet which Sam had fixed his attention as he bobbled below his canopy, trying to maneuver as best he could with the toggles. The lesson given to him by the loadmaster in the final minutes of the fight, although rushed, had not been wasted.

Within seconds of Sam’s pallet hitting the ice, cracks and fissures began to appear in the ice, like a giant spider web before the pallet of survival equipment splashed through the ice. It’s colorful canopy remaining visible for a few seconds before that, too, vanished into the cold, dark depths below.

Almost too low to change direction, Sam wrenched one of the riser toggles in a frantic effort to avoid landing in the severely cracked surface of the ice and ending up in the frozen abyss, as their cargo had done. His direction was not altering anywhere near fast enough. With an almighty heave of the toggle, Sam saw his opportunity to beat the living daylights out of Jack slip away into oblivion when the toggle sheared from the riser, leaving him with no means to guide his descent. As a career sailor, Sam knew that the death that awaited him in the freezing waters below the ice would be swift and merciful.

As he hit the ice, the network of fissures flaring from the hole left by the pallet exploded and cracked with an ear-splitting boom. Sam felt the ice below him give way as he fumbled with the harness release pin. Without the parachute, he might have a fighting chance.

His feet hit the icy water but the frozen pin refused to budge. He was about to give it a final tug when the suspension lines attached to his harness snapped taught and he felt himself being dragged across the ice, away from the cold, watery grave that tried so hard to claim him.

Sliding across the rough ice, Sam angled his head in search of the heavy grunting sounds behind him and within moments was staring up at the reddened, sweat drenched face of Jack Coulson as he wound Sam’s parachute lines in arm-over-arm.

Maybe bitch slapping Jack could be put on the back burner for now, Sam thought as he held out his hand to be raised up from the painfully cold ice by the man who had saved his life.

“Bluey, I don’t know why you’re even on this mission, but if you can’t even pick your own ass up off the ice, then you’re not going to last long down here. I’ve got enough to worry about without saving your ass every five minutes.” Jack shook his head and stomped his way across the frozen surface toward the surviving pallet of equipment.

Then again, maybe not, thought Sam as he heaved himself and his 60 pound combat pack off the ice.

J. Clifford Barnes wasn’t envious that his famous and high profile neighbor Mark Cuban had made it, yet again, to another business magazine rich list as he folded the glossy periodical and returned to his morning espresso. Quite the contrary. J. Clifford Barnes, or J.C. as he preferred to be addressed, had access to a wealth that would eclipse that of all of the top 10 on any such list, U.S. or international. The fact that he wasn’t even on the radar of such people, who had so little to do with their time that they had to make up such lists, spoke volumes for the work done over the past half century to keep the immense wealth and the figurehead of The Brotherhood invisible and away from the media spotlight.

Clifford Barnes’ only overt display of wealth was his home. His pride and joy. Clifford Barnes had built a detailed ¾ scale replica of The White House as his domicile and he was damn proud of it. Every detail was perfect and faultlessly duplicated, right down to the location of the light switches.

The post-election media jokes about Trump and his team working in the dark because they couldn’t figure out the White House light switches validated his insistence that every detail be precise.

“When I’m President,” he’d instructed the architect, “I don’t want to be fumbling around for light switches when I take a piss in the middle of the night.” The architect had laughed but he would not have done so if he knew just how serious J. Clifford Barnes was. Of course he had used the word ‘president’ but that’s not what the world would know him as when his time came to take over.

Sipping his coffee, J.C. stared out the windows that had been designed to withstand the impact of armor piercing rounds, he marveled at the surrounding lawns and gardens, which were laid out exactly the same as the Washington D.C. originals. There was, however, one invisible and noteworthy exception — not even 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue had this much firepower and high tech security protecting its occupant.

With access to every facial recognition database in the world, military, law enforcement and civil, the arrays of hidden security cameras nested around the impressive self-styled presidential home ensured that only those properly matched to their database record could enter the perimeter. Once inside, the security became even more inescapable. Some might call it paranoia, but as Barnes always said, just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

Retinal scanners probed unsuspecting eyes, on the lookout for anyone who might try to slip through the security cordon relying on cosmetic surgery. Passive monitors outside of the building and scattered around the grounds also recorded the body temperature, heart rate and skin moisture levels of each visitor and employee during the length of their visit, alert for any changes to any of these parameters. Any changes would result in a swift response from the contingent of heavily armed security who remained ensconced in a below ground bunker, operating in rotating shifts 24/7.

Brightly colored and well-tended flower beds disguised a lethal series of M-134 Miniguns, each of which was capable of unleashing up to 6,000 rounds a minute. The interlocking arcs of fire from the strategically placed and heavily fortified gun emplacements would cut any ground assault force to mangled shreds before they got half way to the house itself.

And those that the guns didn’t cut to pieces would quickly fall foul of the remotely detonated XM-7 anti-personnel Spider Mines that carpeted the perfectly manicured lawns.

A series of outbuildings which appeared to the casual observer to serve as vehicle, garden or pool supply storage instead housed one of the best air defense systems ever devised. The Russians called it Triumf, but Barnes preferred its NATO reporting name, the SA-21 Growler missile system. He had enough of these “Growlers” hidden below and above ground to bring down a small air force. Perhaps even a large one.

J. Clifford Barnes was proud of his defense system and even prouder of the complete juxtaposition between the glorious and peaceful appearance of his prize winning garden and the devastating firepower that it concealed.

No expense had been spared to protect the man who was destined to become the most powerful and feared man in the entire world. For over 70 years, The Brotherhood had waited patiently for one of their leaders to ascend to a position even greater than that of their original Fuhrer. Only by some divine intervention that even Barnes himself couldn’t fathom was he the chosen one. Of the many before him who had occupied this seat of power since 1945, it was Barnes who now had the opportunity to use The Brotherhood’s immeasurable wealth and boundless scientific resources to unleash the Thousand Year Reich with a terrifying vengeance upon nations that had basked in victory for over half a century.