“I doubt he’s changed that much.”
“No, he’s still full of piss and vinegar. That’s why I hired him. With him running operations, we’ve been able to double our space launch capabilities for the coming year.”
Mitchell leaned forward and said, “Mister Houston, I have to agree with the general. This isn’t in our job description.”
“I was told that this was an organization that could get things done and could be counted on to do it discreetly, with a minimum of fuss,” said Houston.
“That is all true,” agreed O’Reilly.
“Also, folks, I don’t want anybody jumping my claim. Industrial espionage is huge in my line of business. I have no doubt that my competitors will come sniffing around once they figure out what is going on.”
O’Reilly said, “Surely the return vehicle is still the property of the Russian government. There’d be hell to pay if they found out that someone had taken possession of some of their property. Also, any expedition on Norwegian territory would have to be cleared by their government.”
Houston smiled. “General, you and your people needn’t worry about a thing. I own Luna 15, lock, stock, and barrel. I bought it from the Russian government last year. Therefore, any part of the probe is mine to do with as I please. As far as the current Russian government is concerned, they think that I must be some kind of lunatic to buy the crashed remains of an old probe still sitting up there on the Moon. As for the Norwegians, I have already obtained the necessary permits to retrieve my property from Bouvet Island. As long as we remove only what belongs to me, the Norwegians are okay with you poking about on their island.”
Jackson said, “No disrespect, sir, but I doubt that it’s just lying out there waiting for us to come along and pick it up.”
“It could be under meters of ice,” added Donaldson. “Some glaciers gain up to thirty centimeters of new ice per year.”
“You’re both right,” said Houston. “When I learned where it had come down, I had one of my satellites pass over the island. Normally, it looks for oil. However, a simple reprogramming of its mission parameters and, wouldn’t you know it, my satellite found three possible spots not too deep under the ice where the return vehicle could be located.”
Mitchell looked over at O’Reilly. He could see in O’Reilly’s eyes that he was beginning to warm up to the idea of sending his team to look for the probe. “Sir, the assignment appears pretty straightforward. Logistics will the biggest problem that I can foresee.”
Houston jumped in. “Gents, I’ve taken the liberty of hiring an Argentinean ship which is currently being outfitted in Buenos Aires and should be ready to sail in the next seventy-two hours. I’ve been told that her captain has sailed the waters around Bouvet Island many times and is an old hand in the South Atlantic.”
Mitchell glanced at Jackson, who noncommittally shrugged his shoulders. If Mitchell decided that a trip inside a raging volcano was part of the mission, Jackson would have followed him.
Mitchell looked over at his boss. “Sir, Sam and Gordon are back home at her parents’ place. They’re helping Sam’s mother clean up her late grandmother’s old home. I don’t expect them back for another week.”
“Gents, if manpower is an issue, I can hire a few men to help out,” said Houston.
“Perhaps,” said O’Reilly. He would never say it around a client, but he preferred to use his own people. It was safer that way. The element of uncertainty was removed when he used his own trusted and highly trained personnel. “Ryan can take a look through our personnel files. I’m sure he can find a couple of suitable replacements.”
“Excellent, so you’ll take the assignment?” said Houston, smiling from ear to ear.
“Let’s take a quick break and then continue this discussion in my office,” said O’Reilly to Houston.
Mitchell, Jackson, and Donaldson knew what was coming next and respectfully stood while O’Reilly escorted Houston out of the room.
The instant the door closed Mitchell chuckled. “Say, Mike, how come you don’t talk like that?”
“I’ve worked hard to lose my Texas twang,” said Donaldson. “Air Force Academy was hell enough without sounding like you had just walked off the farm.”
“Damned Russkies,” said Mitchell, doing an impersonation of Houston.
“Good thing Yuri wasn’t here,” said Jackson. “Speaking of him, do you think he can meet us in Buenos Aires before the ship leaves? That’s if the General takes the mission.”
“I don’t know. It’s really short notice and I haven’t heard from him in weeks,” replied Mitchell. Ever since meeting a young and beautiful police officer in Sierra Leone, Yuri had been extremely hard to reach. “Regardless, if I were you, Nate, I’d go shopping for some long underwear tonight. You just know the General and Mister Houston are busy working out the business details as we speak.”
Jackson shivered from his head to his toes.
“Well then, gents, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best head below and have Fahimah dig up everything she can on the Luna 15 probe and Bouvet Island for you two fine Northern gentlemen,” said Donaldson, playing up his Texan accent.
Fahimah Nazaria, a young Iraqi-American with multiple degrees in Middle-Eastern studies, was a favorite of Mitchell’s team and had worked closely with them, sometimes even coming out into the field.
Mitchell grabbed Jackson by the arm. “Come on, let’s see Tammy and get a printout of all the available personnel in Polaris who has experience with this sort of mission.”
“You know, I really don’t like the cold,” griped Jackson.
“Quit whining. Seriously, what could possibly go wrong on the remotest island in the world?”
“Do you want me to make a list?” said Jackson as he reached for a pad of paper.
8
Police Senior Lieutenant Anton Petrenko ignored the blustery, cold wind whipping through the darkened and eerily deserted camp. He was wearing a thick, blue police parka, with a ubiquitous brown fur cap jammed firmly on his head. His world-weary, bloodshot, slate-gray eyes moved from side to side as he studied every detail. He opened the door to the camp’s makeshift office, stepped inside and turned on his flashlight. He swore when he found a couple of his newer men standing inside trying to avoid the frigid wind. “If you don’t get outside right now, you’re all going to spend the next month working double shifts!” yelled Petrenko. As one, they scrambled back outside to look for clues.
A thirty-year veteran of the Russian Police, Petrenko had seen his country change from a Communist superpower to a European power that was governed by crooked former KGB men. The more things change, the more they stay the same, mused Petrenko. His deputy, Police Senior Sergeant Vladimir Vladov, had only hours ago woken him from a deep, vodka-induced sleep. Petrenko had to get his deputy to repeat the news a couple of times before it took hold in his fog-filled mind. Vladov reported that a police helicopter pilot had just flown over Maliy Lyakhovsky Island and found it abandoned. There were no signs of the almost fifty Russian and American students and their local support staff to be found anywhere. Petrenko roused himself out of his warm bed. Within an hour, Petrenko, his deputy Vladov, and a handful of junior policemen had commandeered the pilot and his helicopter and immediately flown back to Maliy Lyakhovsky.
They landed in a blowing snowstorm. Petrenko ordered his men to spread out and keep a watchful eye for any of the missing people. He doubted that he would find any of them alive, but if they were lucky, they just might stumble upon their frozen corpses.
The camp’s generator had run out of gas and ceased working several days ago, plunging the camp into complete darkness.