Ninety minutes later, with a thick metal chain wrapped around the ice-shrouded probe, Mitchell and Jackson handed their axes up to the guards above them and climbed out of the hole. Their shirts were soaked in perspiration.
Mitchell was surprised to see that McMasters had changed into a chemical suit. However, he had left it undone around the neck. His gas mask hung down on his chest.
“Move over there,” ordered an armed guard, indicating to a spot a few meters away from the hole. With a shrug of his shoulders, Mitchell and Jackson did as they were told.
McMasters, still holding Maria by the arm, stepped back from the block of ice as two of his men hauled it up.
Mitchell saw the obvious fear McMasters and the others had for the ice-covered probe, and he wondered just what was hidden inside the device. It had been standard practice in the early days of the Apollo program to quarantine the astronauts when they returned from the Moon. However, it was dropped when it was shown that they weren’t carrying any extraterrestrial pathogens with them from the Moon’s surface.
McMasters said, “Maria, I want you to confirm that this is the probe we were looking for.” He let go of her arm and roughly pushed her towards the ice-encrusted return vehicle.
Maria stumbled forward. A second later, she got her footing and walked tentatively towards the block of ice dangling underneath the tripod. She stooped down and rubbed her hand on the ice, so she could better see the probe. For a few nervous seconds, Maria muttered to herself in Russian and then turned to look towards McMasters. “There’s a plaque in Cyrillic on the side of the recovery vehicle. I can’t read it all but what I can see identifies it as Luna 15’s return vehicle.”
“Are you completely sure?” asked McMasters.
“Yes, I have no doubt that we’ve found what we came for,” replied Maria.
“Thanks,” said McMasters. In the blink of an eye, he brought up his pistol and shot Maria in the chest.
For a moment, she stood there looking over at McMasters. Her lips moved but never made a sound. With a look of disbelief in her eyes, Maria dropped to her knees and fell facefirst onto the ice, dead.
“You stupid bastard!” snarled Mitchell. “You didn’t have to kill her. You have what you came for.”
“Yes, I do,” said McMasters smugly. “Now if you would place the probe in the container off to your left, we can be on our way.”
Mitchell gritted his teeth in anger. He turned his head and saw a robust metal box sitting on the ice. It looked custom made to fit the return vehicle.
“What if I say no?” said Mitchell.
“Then I’ll shoot you both where you stand.”
Mitchell turned his head and looked into Jackson’s eyes. The man looked as if he were ready to go berserk at any second and take as many of McMaster’s men with him before he fell under a hail of bullets.
Both men knew that they had minutes to live.
Mitchell said, “Nate, go over and drag the box to me while I lower the probe onto the ice.”
“Whatever you say,” replied Jackson. He slowly walked over to the container, got down behind it and tried to push it. It didn’t budge. It was an act. He could have easily pushed the box by himself. Jackson tried again, let out a deep grunt and then looked over at the nearest guard. “Hey buddy, wanna give me a hand?”
“Do it,” ordered McMasters.
The man slung his assault rifle on his back, walked over to the front of the box and pulled while Jackson pushed it over towards Mitchell.
“Bring it over in front of me,” said Mitchell.
Jackson and the guard brought the container over to Mitchell. He popped the lid open and stepped to one side.
Mitchell maneuvered the probe over the open box and started to lower it slowly into the heavily reinforced case.
“Hurry up,” called out McMasters. “We haven’t got all day.”
“You’re free to come over here and do this yourself,” replied Mitchell.
“No thanks, Mitchell, just pick up the damn pace.”
“Someone’s in a hurry to leave,” muttered Jackson under his breath.
Mitchell tugged on the heavy metal chain, swore, and looked over at his friend. “Nate, give me a hand with this.”
Jackson moved over beside Mitchell and placed his hands on the chain.
“When I drop this into the box, I want you to take out the guard,” whispered Mitchell.
“My pleasure.”
Jackson took a couple of steps away from Mitchell and moved towards the guard who had helped push the box over.
Mitchell let all of the tension out of the chain and the ice-covered probe dropped unceremoniously down into the container.
“Steady on,” said the guard, his attention fixed on the probe.
With lightning fast reflexes, Jackson swung his right arm over and smashed his hand into the man’s throat. His chemical suit didn’t help him in the slightest. In less than a second, his windpipe was shattered.
Jackson pivoted on his feet, reached over, and pulled the dying man’s M4 carbine from his hands. He swiftly dropped to one knee behind the container, flipped the safety off with his thumb, and took aim at the nearest guard. He pulled back on the trigger and felt the weapon fire. Through the gun’s sights, he saw the guard tumble to the ground with blood spraying from a hole blasted in his neck.
“Two down, three to go,” said Mitchell, wishing he had also had a weapon.
Both men had expected a barrage of fire to come their way; instead, only the sound of the helicopter’s engine revving up greeted them. Mitchell warily peered out from behind the box and was surprised to see McMasters and the two surviving thugs scrambling back on board their helicopter. He was about to say something to Jackson, when he saw why they had left in such a hurry: mounted on the side door of the helicopter was a heavy machine gun.
Mitchell grabbed Jackson by the arm. “Company’s coming. Grab an axe and break a hole through the ice wide enough for us to climb down into the plane.”
Jackson handed Mitchell the M4, picked up the nearest axe and slid down into the hole. With the strength of two men, Jackson swung the axe down, trying to cut his way down into the ice.
The helicopter took flight.
Mitchell propped himself up on one knee and looked up at the helicopter as it began to climb up into the sky. He took aim at the cockpit and pulled the trigger, hoping to hit the pilot or at the very least scare him off. With a curse on his lips, Mitchell saw the rounds strike home, only to ineffectually bounce off the cockpit’s reinforced bulletproof glass.
“Nate, hurry!” yelled Mitchell, over his shoulder.
“Almost there,” replied Jackson as he dug furiously at the ice, trying to make it wide enough for him to fit through. Not for the first time since he and Mitchell had started to work together, he bemoaned the extra pounds he carried around his waist.
“Down!” hollered Mitchell, just as the helicopter swung over them.
A split-second later, the ice all around them seemed to erupt as hundreds of bullets tore into the glacier.
In the helicopter, McMasters swore at the door-gunner. He warned him that if a single bullet struck the probe, he would pay with his life.
The gunner, a veteran of Colombia’s drug wars, leaned out of the door and carefully adjusted his aim as he tried to get a clear shot at Mitchell and Jackson. A second later, he felt a burning sensation in his leg. The gunner looked down and saw blood seeping from a wound in his leg. With a loud yell of surprise and pain, the man grabbed his leg and fell back inside the helicopter.
“Got him,” said Mitchell with a great sense of satisfaction as the gunner disappeared back inside the helicopter. He had no idea who these people were, nor did he care. They could all go to hell as far as he was concerned.