Robert Williams - Ice Fortress

They all turned to the flood compartment hatch where Sam was crouching to get through.

“Tell me you didn’t blow the shit out of something while I was out of it?” Sam pleaded.

“Sorry Sam. We could have used some help, but we got by,” said Jack.

“What did you say?”

“I said we managed without you,” Jack repeated.

“Not that… you called me Sam.”

“So I did, Sam. So I did.” Jack walked over to Sam and offered his arm for Sam to lean on as he started to lose his balance with the movement of the deck.

“We’re going to end up scuttling before long, so we’d better make a move before the water gets any deeper,” Sam suggested.

“Okay, let’s grab all the blankets, warm clothing and flashlights we can round up and meet in the control room. I doubt they’ve sealed us in as they weren’t expecting us to live long enough to try to get out of here,” Jack said as he guided Sam back through the hatch. “It’s going to be cold and dark up there.”

“If this is a typical day at the office for you, Coulson, I’m glad we won’t be working together any more. I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“What’s that?” Jack pointed to the empty U-Boat pen where the Barracuda had been berthed. His view was unobstructed from the conning tower as he climbed through the hatch ready to give Sam a hoist by his good arm.

Something yellow with bright running lights all around it broke through the surface of the water and lit up the bunker.

“It’s Nellie!” cried Juan and Dave in unison.

“Nellie?”

“The AUV. We thought the Russian torpedo had nailed it. Apparently not. Like her 007 namesake, she’s full of surprises,” Jameson explained.

Juan and Dave looked at each other excitedly. Juan’s negativity seemed to slide off him like he was wearing a Teflon suit.

“Okay, let’s hear it.” Jameson rolled his eyes.

“We can use her to get a signal to PACOM.” Juan’s voice was squeaking with excitement. “The subroutine little miss back-stabber embedded in her code can be modified to send a signal to PACOM if you give me the frequencies and authentication codes we need for them to pay attention.”

“Don’t you need computers and cables and stuff to do that?” Jameson asked.

Dave pointed to the dock where Muller’s men had dumped the equipment they’d ripped out of the Barracuda to make way for the bell. “All we need should be right there. We just need to plug a console into one of Nellie’s uplink ports and we’re good to go. She’s got enough power in reserve to get out into open water and transmit for hours.”

Jack was impressed. “Maybe you science guys are good for something after all.”

AD Preston’s door burst open but before he could yell at the young man waving a printout in his hand, he was interrupted.

“They’re alive!”

“Who’s alive?”

“Coulson and a few survivors from the Barracuda,” the young man clarified.

“But that’s just not possible…” Preston let his words hang in the air. Of course, no one else knew about the Tomahawk and its nuclear warhead.

Nobody could survive that.

“Has it been verified?” Preston enquired, hoping it was all a mistake.

“Yes, sir. It’s an authenticated message from the Barracuda’s captain. Only he has that authentication code.”

“And there’s been no… other report from down there?”

“No sir. Should there have been?”

“That’ll be all.” Preston waved his hand absently dismissing the man.

Jack had left the science brigade and the two Barracuda officers alongside the generators with Sam. It was the warmest place for them to hunker down until help arrived. They had blankets and Sam was cocooned in a bundle of old German pea coats to keep him warm. He’d lost a lot of blood but seemed to be stable, for the moment.

Jack closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers over his stubble. He couldn’t remember when he’d last shaved. Or slept. Or eaten. The concrete of the bunker was cold and hard against his back, but he was too fatigued to move, opting instead to enjoy a moments peace and look down at the nearby U-Boat getting lower in the water my the minute.

His body ached all over and the head-butt he’d given Muller had come up in a nasty lump on his scalp. Maybe that accounted for the cracking headache he was trying to deal with.

As a soldier, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the field without a weapon. Muller had stripped him of his LWRC and his handguns. All he had was the vintage mini Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger he’d been given as a gift by a British agent he’d once saved from beheading by extremists in Syria. The man was an ex SAS commando and an avid collector old militaria. The dagger might be old, but the 2 inch blade had been honed to a fine edge by Jack during the long flight from Pine Gap.

His hand felt for the slim and unobtrusive handle tucked inside a concealed belt sheath and he felt strangely comforted. There was no reason to not feel comfortable, the enemy had been dealt a savage blow by, ironically, their own torpedo.

Schlick. Schlick .

Fuck, not again.

That was Jack’s only thought as he turned to look over his shoulder. He half expected to see Leah with her gun bearing down on him. Again. Maybe she’d had a change of heart and didn’t get aboard the Barracuda.

He was even more surprised when he saw it was Muller. The man was like The Terminator. Indestructible.

Well, almost. Half an ear had been torn away and a flap of scalp hung over the wound like a grotesque comb over. There wasn’t time to figure out how he’d escaped the crippled sub.

Jack’s hand went intuitively to his empty holster.

“No point reaching for your weapon, Jack.” Muller sounded cocky.

Muller was soaking wet. Jack assumed he’d survived the sub implosion somehow and slithered out of the water onto the dock behind Jack.

Coulson kicked himself in the butt for letting his guard down. He should have known better.

“Lights out Jack.” Muller smiled a cruel smile that never touched his cold, hateful eyes.

Click .

That’s when Jack remembered what was clawing at his subconscious when he first saw they were using H&K MP7 machine pistols. They weren’t used in polar climates for a reason — they froze up if they got too cold. Or too wet. Muller’s weapon had now been exposed to both conditions.

If Muller had done his homework and read the LWRC brochure, he would have known that their nickel-boron coated bolts resisted corrosion and had permanent lubricity. They fired without fail even under the most extreme conditions.

“Should have bought American made, you Nazi son-of-a-bitch.”

With blinding speed and the advantage of Muller being caught unprepared, Jack whipped out the tiny commando blade from his belt and jammed it with all his strength into Muller’s inner thigh.