“I’m looking for the guys who run the show here.”
“That’d be me and my brother.” A man with a Southern accent cleared his throat. “The name is Chase Parker.”
“Everything I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential, Mr. Parker. Is that understood?”
“If this involves drugs, illegal importation of animals, minerals or people, you can forget it,” Chase stated, “and no amount of money will change my mind. Beyond that, we’re paid to keep our mouths shut. We wouldn’t be in business long if we didn’t.”
Jack explained who he was and why he was calling. “It’ll be a risky job,” he warned. “You’re going to land on an ice runway located in a valley between two mountain peaks. You’re looking at a high altitude, low density takeoff; the ice is nearly two miles deep at that point.
“We’d need fuel once we hit the continent,” Chase Parker said matter-of-factly. “We won’t be able to carry a full load of fuel, or cargo, due to the altitude.”
Jack explained fuel was no problem. They had cooperation from the Chilean government and fuel available on the way in and out at the Chilean Antarctica base, Bernardo O’ Higgins, plus a fuel drop from Chilean C-130 Hercules.
“Just one more thing,” Jack said. “Harrison Cooper says anyone hauling private expeditions into Antarctica can kiss government contracts, present or future, good-bye. So if you guys want to back out, I understand.” He waited for what seemed an eternity for the reply.
“We’re going to need $500,000—dry,” Chase said flatly.
“Dry” meant Paulson would pay all fuel costs, above the $500,000 for the charter.
“Is the plane worth that much?” Jack asked, hoping for some leverage.
“You need a lift to Antarctica, and we’ve got a blown engine, which means we’re not getting work right now. Still, we gotta consider the risk, which will be substantial.”
“I’ve got two hundred and fifty-thousand,” Jack said, holding his breath.
“I’d want to discuss this with my brother,” Parker said.
“Fine.”
Chase hesitated. “Four-hundred-thousand and we throw in a box lunch on the way down.”
“How many times have you flown into Antarctica, anyway?”
“Once… if you count this trip.”
It was going to be these guys or nothing.
Jack hesitated. “Start hunting down that new engine, Mr. Parker.”
“Meeting with Mr. Paulson,” Jack said to the security guard downstairs. “The name is Hobson.” The guard handed him a pass and led him to the elevators.
The door opened to Karen’s warm smile. “Back so soon?”
Jack kissed her on the cheek. “Remind me never to underestimate Paulson again.”
“I think I said that yesterday,” she said flatly.
Karen led him into Paulson’s plush private conference room. Paulson waved him over toward his office conference table, now covered with charts.
“Were you able to line up that ski-equipped Hercules?”
“Negative. No one will touch a private charter into Antarctica. I do have a back-up. An outfit with a De Havilland Caribou will take the job.”
Paulson looked up from his pile of notes. “A Caribou? Is that the best we can do?”
“Harrison Cooper said anyone landing in Antarctica without express permission of the U.S. government can and will forfeit all current and future contracts.”
Paulson picked up the telephone. “Is Ridley on his way? Good.” He dropped the telephone. “What’s the name of our charter?”
Jack swallowed. “InterGalactic Air Cargo….”
The billionaire remained emotionless for a moment, then burst out laughing. “It fits this entire fiasco perfectly.”
Paulson’s chief mechanic strolled into the conference room in his usual jeans and tee-shirt, although he’d attempted to smooth down his remaining gray hair, with little success.
“Mac, come on in and grab a seat,” Paulson said enthusiastically. “We’re going after the Las Tortugas.”
Ridley’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Like I already said, the Russians are all over that wreck. What makes you think they’re going to allow us to waltz in and fly that busted-up bird out from underneath their noses, assuming we land safely and that pile of aluminum is airworthy?”
Paulson put on his best earnest expression. “The Russians have an illegitimate claim on the Las Tortugas. It belongs to the Chilean people.”
Ridley looked down at his jeans and wiped at a spot of grease. “I doubt Russian commandos are going to have that view.” He stared at the white ceiling. “If the Russians start shooting, you’ll have dead employees on your hands; you want the bird that bad?”
Paulson moved to the chair next to his aircraft mechanic. “The Russians are scrambling to buy toilet paper back home. Oil prices are in the gutter and their economy’s imploding. They’ve already lost a cargo plane and a crew and brought worldwide attention to the Super Fortress. We’ve got the Southern Hemisphere summer window right in front of us.”
Ridley squirmed in the overstuffed chair. “This is looking to me like a real cluster.” He shrugged. “If you want to hang your ass out over a cliff—”
“We’re going to keep it real quiet,” Paulson said.
Ridley looked at Jack. “I’d guess you’re going to take care of us while we’re freezing our asses off on the other end of a socket wrench.”
“I’m getting your transportation down to the ice and taking care of the logistics.”
“What does this piece of shit need to get off the ice?”
“Rumor says it’s nearly repaired,” Paulson said. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“I’d have to get a look at it. Expect we’d have to fix everything, knowing those Russian aircraft mechanics. We’re going to have to be light, the altitude at the skiway is 9,000 feet.
Jack leaned forward. “Cooper told me about a company called OrbitImaging. They shoot commercial photographs from a satellite. If we can get digital pictures of the crash site, we’d have at least a solid picture of the situation.”
“Great idea, but can this OrbitImaging keep their mouths shut?”
Jack nodded. “According to Harrison Cooper, they’re discreet and like cash.”
“Get them hooked up,” said the billionaire. “That could save us a bundle in spare parts, and more important, time.”
Ridley stood, signaling he had heard enough and wanted out of the stuffy office. “Once I see the photos, I’ll know how many mechanics and what kind of gear we’re going to need to get the job done.”
“Meeting adjourned.” Paulson looked over at Jack. “Give your crew a heads-up and get the expedition gear together. Make sure you tell Leah this is gonna be dangerous. I’m going to get this bomber, Jacky — and I won’t quit till I’m flying her home.”
CHAPTER 20
“We have Antarctica,” Jack said over the telephone, in a monotone.
“It sounds to me like you’re getting ready to lay out some conditions,” Leah replied.
He drew in a deep breath. “Paulson is coming along.”
“What’s his interest in Native American archeology?”
“He’s going to salvage a World War II bomber that crashed near Thor’s Hammer.”
“What’s he planning to do, sell artifacts that we find?”
“This B-29 bomber is his only interest,” Jack said. “The bomber is at the center of an international incident — involving the Russians.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“There could be soldiers in and around the area — and if the Russians decide to oppose the salvage of the B-29, there is a strong possibility of shooting or worse. The terrain has proved lethal to aircraft, even though we are in the Antarctic summer. It will still be cold, well below zero, and you’ll be breathing thin air; imagine skiing in the rockies.”