“What are we searching for?” Ridgeway asked. “We combed that area good.”
Janssen grinned. “People are the messiest damn animals on the planet, Darryl; there’s bound to be evidence up in those cliffs.”
CHAPTER 19
Jack scrolled through his phone contacts until he found Harrison Cooper.
“Cooper Arctic Air Transport. Can I help you?” said the smooth voice over the telephone.
“Harrison Cooper.”
“Who is calling for Mr. Cooper?”
“Jack Hobson.”
Jack endured the on-hold music for what felt like an eternity.
The music suddenly and mercifully stopped. “Jack Hobson,” said a deep voice, permanently hoarse from yelling over the top of thundering turboprop engines. “You’ve got mountain climbers and you need a lift.”
Jack liked Harrison Cooper. He was a fifty-year-old self-made millionaire and aviation entrepreneur. Cooper had started as a primary flight instructor and then ferried stripped-down single-engine Cessna aircraft to Hawaii from the West Coast. They would remove all the seats except for the pilot’s and then load the aircraft with a rubber fuel bladder and send these often inexperienced pilots nearly three thousand nautical miles toward Honolulu with no GPS and no satellite navigation — classic Charlie Lindbergh-style, seat-of-the-pants adventure flying.
Jack had chartered Cooper’s airplanes for several large-scale mountaineering expeditions. His pilots were the best in the world at Arctic and Antarctic flying.
“How are things in the air-cargo business?”
“We haven’t had a crash in over a month, so it’s a good year,” Cooper said. “What’s up with you?”
“You ever heard of Alan Paulson?”
“Rich guy with a pile of warbirds and a taste for adventure. He’s all over the Internet.”
Jack paused. “This is strictly confidential.”
“This won’t go past my desk.”
“Paulson received permission to salvage a crashed B-29 called the Las Tortugas from the Chilean government. I’m the trip planner and we need a lift down to Antarctica. A ski-equipped the LC-130 Hercules.”
There was a longer pause. “That’s a Russian operation, and it’s not going well from what I hear.”
“Paulson has the blessing from the Chileans to attempt the salvage. They will supply support but won’t authorize an aircraft to land on the ice.”
“That makes sense,” said Cooper. “Chances are, without a top pilot they’d join the Russian transport crew as a monument to aviation stupidity.”
Jack bit down on his lip. “So you won’t take the charter?”
“Knowing I could milk a billionaire like Paulson for every dollar, I’d take it in a heartbeat.” He paused. “But we’ve gotten the word. Anyone with government contracts taking private parties into environmentally sensitive regions without the new federal eco-permit can kiss future contracts good-bye.”
Jack felt a chill run down his back. “What are you talking about?”
“You know how the Fed frowns on private expeditions to Antarctica. It’s even a pain in the ass dealing with them on something as non-threatening as ferrying down a group of tree-hugging mountain climbers for a shot at Mt. Vinson. The president and his new environmental czar have decided to set an example for the rest of the world, Antarctica, along with several other pristine regions of the planet ought to be off limits to Americans and those interested in obtaining American government contracts.”
“Shit,” whispered Jack. “When did this come about?”
“We were sent a notice about three months ago,” Cooper said. “Now that doesn’t mean we couldn’t do it, just means we need to get the permits, which could take six months. By then everyone will know what you’re up to.”
“Looks like we’re screwed even before we begin,” Jack said.
“If you didn’t need ski-equipped aircraft, there’d probably be some options. The smaller outfits are desperate for cash and might risk it.”
“What if we didn’t need a ski-equipped aircraft?” Jack asked.
“You’re talking about Antarctica. I don’t see how you’d get down on the ice without skis.”
“The Russians were planning to fly the bomber out on its tires, and so is Paulson,” Jack said. “The Russians must have prepared some kind of ice runway.”
“That might be true — but you said you needed the ski-equipped LC-130 Hercules. You land a loaded C-130 Hercules without skis, and it’s going to slide right into the mountain — most likely on its belly.”
“To get all the gear, crews and parts on the ice, yeah.”
“Do you like Russian vodka and beet soup?” Cooper asked. “Because I’d bet right next to the B-29 you’re going to find a large stash of Russian vodka and just about everything else you’d need to survive on the ice, not to mention repair the bomber. Assuming the Russians brought what was necessary; you could fly in with minimal equipment.”
“We wouldn’t know until we got down there. If the site is barren, we’d be screwed.”
“Then you’d better get a look at the crash and camp — that way you’d know exactly what’s in place.”
“How would we do that?” Jack asked. “Google Earth?”
“Nope,” Cooper said. “You need spy-sat-quality photos of a very specific area of Antarctica with a time stamp of yesterday. I mean you have to see cigarette butts and empty vodka bottles on the ice if you want usable intelligence on how far along the Russians got with the 29. That will tell you not only what equipment is in place but should give you some indication how much progress the Russians made with the Las Tortugas before the Antonov crash.”
“It’s a great idea,” Jack agreed. “I just don’t think the CIA will be open to relocating one of their satellites for a mission that violates an executive order from the president of the United States and puts them at odds with the Russians over a scrap bomber.”
“Who needs the CIA? Ever heard of OrbitImaging?” asked Cooper.
“Who?”
“They’re a commercial satellite company, for lack of a better term. You can order up pictures taken from their satellites for commercial purposes. We use them to shoot photos of remote locations for possible landing sites. If you get photos, you’ll have a real good idea of what the Russians have stashed and the condition of the Las Tortugas.”
Jack wrote the name down on a piece of paper. “What’s this going to cost?”
“For Paulson, pocket change. It wouldn’t surprise me if he uses them already.”
“Paulson has scheduled a meeting for tomorrow morning,” Jack said. “Assuming we don’t need an LC-130 Hercules and there’s an ice runway, can you give us any discreet leads on someone with the experience to get into and out of Antarctica?”
“There’s one I think might be interested,” Cooper replied. “They’ve got one airplane, an ancient De Havilland Caribou. It won’t carry a huge load, but it has range and these guys are good on the ice. We worked with them last year on the Alaskan North Slope. They ferried equipment around for a drilling company. They put that Caribou down on ice that made my asshole pucker, and did it without skis. I hear they’ve had some financial trouble.”
“What’s the name?”
Cooper cleared his throat. “InterGalactic Air Cargo…”
“InterGalactic?”
Cooper let out a gravelly chuckle. “Yeah. They’re based out of Oakland, California. Now, if you need any help getting cargo into or out of Chile, you let me know.”
Jack copied down the telephone number, thanked Harrison Cooper, and immediately redialed.
“InterGalactic Air Cargo,” said a voice sounding thick with sleep.