None of this was of any interest to the general as he stood at the edge of the muddy airfield dressed in his immaculate uniform and polished boots, awaiting the arrival of a cargo so critical to his research that he felt compelled to supervise the unloading himself. His commanding, black SS uniform was not the reason why most of the airfield personnel avoided him. None of them wanted the attention of the man who commanded the largest contingent of slave labor in all of Europe. There was no point in risking the displeasure of such an imposing and fearsome figure.
When the heavy transport plane came into view, Kammler marveled at the beauty of the engineering masterpiece. As a gifted engineer himself, the design of the twin tailed transport aircraft was not lost on him. The Junkers 390 was an awe inspiring aircraft that left those not well versed in the ways of aeronautical engineering amazed that something so enormous could take off and actually remain aloft. Just as unbelievable was its previously unheard of 6,000 mile range. With a wingspan of over 160 feet, the flying behemoth would become the first German aircraft to bomb New York City, when it had completed its development. In the meantime, it had more important work to do for the Reich.
The six powerful BMW radial engines produced a thunderous roar as the pilot expertly touched down on the extended runway. Kammler released a breath that he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding. At the end of the runway, the aircraft braked to a stop and soon the ear shattering exhaust of the engines was replaced by a symphony of pinging sounds as the engines and manifolds cooled. Kammler strode impatiently toward the rear cargo doors.
Inside the cavernous belly of the aircraft sat a wooden crate emblazoned with a stenciled Reichsadler or German Imperial Eagle. No other markings were visible. No other identification was necessary. It was the only piece of cargo in the hold of the aircraft and it was destined for one recipient only.
General Kammler ran his fingers over the top of the wooden crate. The contents were rare beyond measure and had taken years to manufacture and purify. The Wunderwaffe or Wonder Weapon being assembled in his highly classified laboratory beneath the airfield was totally reliant on the remarkably rare and extremely dangerous to produce metallic liquid cocooned inside the heavily lead-lined wooden crate.
The Fuhrer had classified this project ‘Kriegsentscheidend’, decisive to the outcome of the war. With the last component finally shipped from the uranium enrichment facility at Auschwitz, Kammler would not disappoint his leader. He would personally see to it that the Thousand Year Reich would, indeed, last at least a thousand years.
Chapter 6
Assistant Director Henry Preston woke with a boner so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it. He couldn’t remember the last time he woke up with so much wood. Then again, it had been a while since someone thought it was so damn important to wake him at 3am.
The comfort from a night cap of single malt and the apparent euphoria of a horny dream quickly subsided when he saw that it wasn’t his cell ringing but the secure landline on the bedside table. Only a handful of people had that number and none of them ever called at this hour with good news. Or any other hour, for that matter.
“Preston,” he slurred.
Fumbling for his glasses, Henry knocked over the bedside lamp in the process.
Beside him, his wife stirred and mumbled, her sleep mask and the drool on the pillow from her night guard put an end to the passing thought he had of giving her a little surprise when he’d finished his call.
“Repeat that,” he blurted. Sitting bolt upright and turning on the fallen lamp he listened intently, eyes closed as if to visualize what he was being told.
“That’s impossible. What do you mean its gone dark? A few billion dollars’ worth of satellites and enough fiber optic cable to go to the moon and back are there to make sure we can’t ever lose contact. The only way we’d lose comms with Pine Gap is if one of us got a direct nuclear strike and I’m guessing that’s not happened here in Fort Meade, right?” Preston barked sarcastically to the shift commander who wished he was on day shift.
When he’d finished listening to the remainder of the report he was silent, processing the magnitude of the two seemingly unrelated pieces of information. Without a further word, he dropped the phone back in its cradle and steepled his fingers together, composing himself for the call he had to make.
The NSA Assistant Director of Signals Intelligence hit the first number on speed dial, the scrambler beeped to confirm it was activated. Within three rings it was answered.
“Director, sir, this is AD Preston, SIGINT. We have a Threat Level Orange situation — Pine Gap has gone off the air and Pacific Command reports that one of their nuclear subs in the Antarctic hasn’t reported in on schedule.”
Another brief response.
“That’s why I called, sir. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence and PACOM don’t think so, either.”
A terse command was issued.
“Yes, sir. I’ll call and brief him immediately.” But the line was already dead.
Scrolling through his mental rolodex, he started dialing a phone number he had committed to memory. A number that could never be written down or saved to speed dial.
He felt a warm breath in his ear as his wife’s hand slid inside the front of his shorts. Impatiently he pushed her hand away, “Not now Audrey,” he scolded, brushing her hand away as he furiously punched the numbers into the keypad of his secure phone.
Preston immediately regretted his harsh manner but there was something quite grave in the Directors tone that made him uneasy. That and the fact that he’d been asked to call one of the most powerful men in the nation’s intelligence network.
Chapter 7
Sam Krupsky’s ears were assaulted by an almost inhuman, piercing scream of unrestrained terror. He’d never heard anything like it and it took a few seconds, which passed like minutes, before he realized the horrific sound was coming from his own mouth. By some strange logic, Sam figured screaming like a crazed animal was better than throwing up in his own oxygen mask. That bastard Coulson knew they’d be jumping. Now he knew what that smug little grin on his poster boy face was all about as they reached the destination. While Sam was tightening his straps for a rough landing on the pack ice, Jack bloody Coulson was releasing his harness and getting ready to gear up. Until fifteen minutes ago, Sam had never even heard of the Low Altitude Parachute-Extraction System that fly boys used to airdrop cargo. Now he knew that LAPES could just as easily be used to jettison terrified, screaming navy men.
With great clarity, Sam recalled the look of amusement on Jack’s face just before the tankers hastily modified cargo door opened, revealing a vast expanse of ice and snow as far as they could see.
Sam promised himself that if he survived, he’d smack the taste right out of Jack’s mouth. No matter what kind of Special Forces training Mr. Jack ‘Fancy-Pants’ Coulson had, Sam knew nothing came close to what kids like him learned growing up as they moved from one orphanage to another. He knew how to take care of himself, of that he was sure and he was going to enjoy slapping that hotshot smirk off Jack’s face. All he had to do was make it down onto the ice in one piece.