Robert Williams: Ice Fortress

Looking out the window at their next ride, a modified Airbus KC-30 aerial refueling tanker on loan from the Royal Australian Air Force, something bugged Jack but he couldn’t work out what it was. There were too many questions and he began to think he was worrying needlessly. Ground crews were busy loading skids of equipment into the cargo space below the belly of the aircraft which housed the passenger compartment and air-to-air refueling tanks.

Although a strange choice of transport for their mission, Colonel Daniels explained that it was the only aircraft available in the region that had the fuel capacity and range to make the 8,500 mile journey to the ice shelf. At the time, Jack was too preoccupied with mission logistics to question how the huge tactical airlift transport would land on a runway carved into the ice. The question and the solution would soon come together as his combat ready brain processed the information his senses took in, on a subconscious level.

Krupsky had finally stopped eating long enough for them to gear up, check each other’s equipment and make their way to the KC-30, which was loaded, fueled to the brim and undergoing pre-flight checks for an immediate departure. Jack checked his watch as they left the hanger, “Better pick up the pace, Bluey, wheels up in 5 minutes,” he called over his shoulder. Dust devils spiraled across the surrounding desert sands and the heat shimmer rising from the baking tarmac distorted the distance to the transport. He couldn’t wait to get airborne.

“Maybe they’ll go without me if I’m late,” replied Sam, short of breath as he struggled to keep up with his more athletic comrade. “I’m Navy and proud of it. My golf handicap wasn’t good enough to join the Chair Force. Besides, I don’t like heights.

“This ought to be interesting, then”, Jack murmured as he sprinted toward the waiting aircraft.

Jack stopped so suddenly that Sam almost slammed into the back of him. “I thought we were in some almighty rush?”

Raising his hand to silence Sam, Jack looked through the heat haze, toward the distant black specs in the distance.

“Helicopters at 3 o’clock. Six of them.” Jack pointed to the horizon for Sam’s benefit.

“So? We’re on a U.S. military base in the desert. I’d be more surprised if there weren’t any helicopters.”

Jack shielded his eyes from the glaring sun and tried to get a better view. “But these aren’t military choppers. They’re civilian and they shouldn’t be anywhere near our airspace.”

As the choppers got closer their identity became clearer to Jack, but Krupsky was still confused. As a keen mountain climber, Jack remembered vividly the Eurocopter AS350 B3 which landed on Everest in 2005 at an altitude of 29,029 feet. It had been unheard of for any rotary wing aircraft, least of all one in unmodified factory specification. The approaching formation had the same recognizable silhouette to Jack’s trained eye. He had an almost eidetic memory for such things, especially as his life usually depended on it.

“What color would you say they are, Sam?”

Sam squinted, “Maybe red, if I had to guess.”

“Like firefighting choppers, right?”

“I suppose. We don’t see too many of them in port.”

“So,” mused Jack to himself as much as Krupsky, “why are they in echelon formation?”

“What formation?” asked Sam.

“That’s a standard attack formation for Blackhawks and the like. Not firefighters.”

As he spoke, a trail of vapor corkscrewed from one of the inbound helicopters. Jack had seen enough Hellfire air-to-surface missiles in his day to recognize the distinctive vapor trail. As he sprinted toward the tanker transport he shouted to Krupsky, “Incoming. Move your ass.”

Sam didn’t wait for a second invitation. He, too, had seen his share of air-to-surface missiles and knew first-hand the destruction they could wreak. Suddenly, cured of his fear of flying Sam nearly overtook Jack as they both bolted to the stairs of the waiting aircraft. Jack took the steps two at a time, shouting to the ground crew to clear the portable stairs and take cover as he reached the top.

Without waiting for Sam, Jack surged past the loadmaster who had been waiting to brief them on arrival and made his way to the cockpit. Both pilots turned as he burst through the cockpit door, alarmed at the unexpected and unorthodox intrusion.

The pilot in command confronted Jack, “What’s the meaning—”

Jack pointed outside the flight deck window. Both pilots followed his gesture and their eyes widened in understanding as they saw the incoming missile. Dispensing with the usual protocol, they checked that the stairs were clear and began to taxi toward the runway.

“We’re out of here, go get strapped in,” the other pilot called over his shoulder.

Jack was already gone.

Looking out the windows, he could see more plumes of smoke as missile after missile was released from what he could now see were sidepods mounted to the former civilian helicopters. “Sneaky bastards.”

“You can say that again,” agreed Sam. “Is it a coincidence that this is happening just as we’re jetting to the South Pole?”

“You heard the colonel. There’s no such thing as coincidence in this game.”

“Game?” Sam asked.

“Welcome to covert ops, Bluey. You’re not in the Navy anymore.”

As if to punctuate his words, the first missiles hit their targets, turning the giant golf balls into flaming ruins, one by one.

“They’re knocking out our eyes and ears first. Very clever.” Jack had to admire their tactics. It’s exactly what he would have done in their place and after that, he’d —

“Oh, shit!” Again he sprinted toward the flight deck to warn the pilots that the runway would be the next target. As he approached, it became obvious that the Australian pilots were well aware of the next phase of the attack as they pushed the throttle levers all the way home and the ungainly aircraft began to pick up speed. There was nothing else Jack could do, so he made his way back to Sam who had already shoehorned himself into one of the passenger seats, across the aisle from the terrified loadmaster.

Jack cast a questioning glance at the loadmaster, then to Sam.

“He’s never been shot at before. Apparently, this is his first deployment.”

“Great. We get the work experience boy on this mission,” sighed Jack. “It just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?”

The jet engines screamed with a deafening roar and the entire airframe shuddered in protest, but within a few seconds the aircraft left the ground, its nose pointing skyward. Jack began to noticeably relax, confident that within minutes they would be out of range of the choppers, making a course to their mission objective.

“Well, if these guys get us out of this in one piece, I’ll never call them the Chair Force again and that’s a spit promise.” With that he spat in his hand and held it out for Jack to shake.

Screwing up his nose in revulsion, Jack fastened his belt and folded his arms.

Sam was not growing on him. Not one bit.

Jack let out a sigh and pulled a mini commando knife from his belt and began honing the blade with a small ceramic whetstone.

It was going to be one very long flight to the South Pole.

Tension in the confined hull of the Barracuda was palpable. Navy personnel and civilian scientists were an abrasive combination in even the most convivial environments, but in a tactical situation, enclosed in a steel tube below the ice pack and with an unseen enemy firing at them, it was fair to say that the atmosphere was at flashpoint. For two days they had played cat and mouse with their unidentified adversary with no chance of being able to return fire. Their only hope rested with their ability to remain silent and invisible. No longer the lethal attack sub it had once been, the Barracuda was now rendered impotent by the very scientists it was tasked with protecting.