Robert Williams - Ice Fortress

J. Clifford Barnes watched the entire debacle unfold from the safety and warmth of his study. Who needed to launch their own satellites when you had hackers who could re-task and intercept images from any US Defense SATCOM satellite in orbit? Barnes liked to think of it has his own private cable network, but one that offered far better entertainment than anything HBO had to offer.

Static hissed through the video conference speaker on his desk. The team leader’s audio link via satellite phone was patchy and fragmented due to atmospheric interference but Barnes got the gist of what had happened. The live satellite feed and the team leaders disjointed transmission told him all he needed to know.

His crack team of mercenaries had lost the U-Boat. They’d snatched defeat right out from the jaws of victory. Karl Muller was supposed to be the best, that’s why he’d been handpicked to lead the elite team on the ice. Barnes wondered if he’d chosen the right man for the job. Perhaps choosing one of their own had been a mistake, after all. Would the outcome have been any different if the mission had been led by someone without so much at stake? Would a team leader in it just for the money have made better tactical decisions?

“What do you mean it fell through the ice? How is that even possible?” Rage laced his words.

“It just cracked…. then… collapsed… we lost… men…”

“I don’t give a damn about the men. I want that submarine!”

Static hissed and crackled with a few words making it through to Barnes’ anxious ears. “… Ice Station… two-eleven… in case… drifts…”

Barnes pieced together what he thought Muller was trying to say. Of course! The man wasn’t a fool after all.

“I don’t care what it takes. Get down there and find me that U-Boat. And when you’re done, make sure you take care of your men. Leave nobody alive down there. I’ll transmit the coordinates you will need in a few minutes.”

J. Clifford Barnes ended the call and reflected on what was at stake.

For decades The Brotherhood had been waiting for Kammler’s device to reappear. The time had been put to good use. Vast fortunes had been amassed from the gold that had been shipped from the death camps and underground vaults before Berlin collapsed.

Infiltration of governments and strategic corporations around the world by Brotherhood members had been carefully orchestrated from the beginning and with each passing decade they rose to higher echelons of power and influence. Today, there was hardly a significant government agency or major finance or defense corporation that didn’t have Brotherhood members entrenched in decisive and high level assignments.

All of that was the backup plan. Possibly the biggest, most expensive and most assuredly the boldest backup plan in history. A plan that assured The Brotherhood some level of control in the world and unlimited wealth for the indefinite future.

But that was never the primary plan. With Kammler’s device back in Brotherhood hands, the real operation could begin, making Plan B look paltry and amateur.

With Kammler’s Bell, they wouldn’t be working within the confines of the world as it was shaped after the war, but they would re-create the world as it should have been in the wake of a resounding Nazi victory.

Barnes clenched his fist, his knuckles whitening as his nails dug into his flesh. He wanted it all. He wanted to be the next Fuhrer, the leader of the Thousand Year Reich and he’d watched his chance slip into a gigantic watery grave.

Failure was not an option. He would secure the Bell no matter what the cost, even if it meant risking exposure of The Brotherhood in the process. If he succeeded, that wouldn’t matter anyway. Nothing would matter.

Blood oozed from J. Clifford Barnes fists, rivulets of crimson trailed across his polished desk. He stared at his own blood.

At any cost .

The many hours Sam Krupsky had spent freezing his ass off in the ‘get wet’ training simulator at Ballast Point when he first enlisted came back to him in a heartbeat. A navy man’s worst nightmare was to be trapped in a flooded compartment with burst high pressure pipes jetting cold seawater into the hull at a prodigious rate. But this was no simulation. The gushing water was colder than anything Sam had ever experienced and this time he was all alone. Jack was still out cold.

Find the patch repair kit. Locate the split in the pipe. Bypass the cutout-valve. Slide the steel patch sleeves into place and bolt them down with clamps. Easy enough in a simulator with two sets of hands to do the job and everything labelled in English, Sam thought as the icy water sprayed him in the face.

He spotted a large metal box mounted on a bulkhead with the word Reparieren stenciled in red on the lid. That had to be worth a try. Popping it open, he saw that it was a vintage wartime version of the kit he’d trained with as a young sailor in San Diego. It wasn’t the U.S. Navy issued Band-It kit that he was used to, but there seemed to be enough sleeves, clamps, bolts and nuts to make do. Clipped into the lid of the rudimentary tool box was a solid looking wrench. Perfect.

There was no time to waste looking for the cutout-valve. The entire bulkhead was a confusing maze of pipes and conduits. His first priority was to patch the rupture, and then he’d have time to deal with bypassing the flow to take pressure off the patch.

His hands shook in equal parts from the adrenaline that coursed through him and the bitter cold of the near freezing water that spurted from the pipe. If he didn’t fix it fast, the numbing cold of the water would freeze his hands and they’d be useless for the dexterous job at hand. Grabbing the box, he tore it from its mountings and removed the wrench, which he slotted into his jacket pocket for fast access. Overturning the box, he emptied the assorted hardware onto a narrow shelf behind the jetting water, sorting the items into some kind of order that allowed him to identify them by feel. Sleeves. Clamps. Bolts. Nuts. His damage control training in the simulator served him well. He remained level headed and methodical. This was no time to panic.

There were two ruptures that he could identity through the cascade that almost blinded him. Time was running out. The water level in the compartment was already above his ankles. As the boat got lower in the water from the flooding, the pressure would increase exponentially and the pipes would split even further. If that happened, the water would be at head height within a few minutes and they’d be sinking to a watery grave.

Head height …

“Oh shit…” Sam had forgotten that Jack was lying on the deck. He quickly checked and his face was above water. For the moment.

Every second he delayed, the greater the flow rate of the incoming water. Jack would have to wait or they’d both die a cruel and terrifying death. The decision made, Sam began to position the sleeves over the first rupture. It took all of his considerable strength to keep in in place. The force was almost impossible and he needed his other hand to locate and fit the clamp, which he was holding ready. He had no idea how he was going to hold the whole mechanism in place, insert the bolts and attach the nuts to secure it. It was hopeless.

Suddenly the pressure eased enough for Sam to shimmy the clamp into place and hold both the sleeve and clamp in place. Now he only had to deal with the nut and bolt one handed. Still a challenge, but maybe possible.