Gary smiled easily. “It’ll give me some time to catch up on my reading.”
After the CG boat had sped away, a couple of the other divers gathered around, wanting to know if the afternoon dive was cancelled. Beckam replied that the group would enjoy a shallow afternoon dive and he would instruct everyone on the dangers of nitrogen narcosis. He also said the diver named Gary had probably saved the other diver’s life and made a miraculous free ascent.
“I imagine he’s done that before, probably more than once,” said another diver in Gus’s group.
How do you know that?” Gus asked.
“He’s a Navy SEAL,” the diver replied in admiration.
That single act of bravery and modesty had altered Gus Beckam’s life path entirely.
Twelve years later, he no longer guided tourists on Caribbean tourist getaways. Instead he served as the skipper of SEAL Team Two, a collection of fifty-six officers and enlisted men. They were motivated commandos trained to infiltrate and eliminate terrorist cells, provide intelligence and raise hell and create mayhem, whether in a local pub in Virginia Beach or on a suspected hard target in the deserts of the Middle East.
Little Creek, Virginia, near Virginia Beach, served as the base for several SEAL Teams, including SEAL Team Two. Here the Team trained day and night — especially at night for missions that might require their special brand of lethal skills.
Normally Beckam loved loading his men aboard a Hercules, flying hours on end, and then parachuting through the darkness into a hive of bad guys.
Lt. Danny Frantino, his Executive Officer and the number two man in the Team watched Beckam shake his head as the C-17 Globemaster taxied to where they’d load the team and their gear.
“You got a bad feeling about this one, Skipper?” Frantino asked, his Brooklyn, accent always more discernible during a mission.
“What’s not to like? We’re ordered to drop into Antarctica to forcibly remove American civilians.”
Frantino shook his head. “How is it we rate this special duty?”
Beckam grinned. “You’re famous, Danny. Remember?”
Frantino shook his head. “Jesus — for a mission that was supposed to be top secret, it seems like everyone in freaking Washington knows about it.”
“If we’re lucky this one will be little easier.”
“Yeah, but it sounds like a chance to snoop and scoop that Russian base. Maybe we find something good. Plus we’re out of the sand.”
“Are you just trying to piss me off?” Beckam joked.
Frantino knew Beckam had expressly been ordered not to break into any of the Russian-built structures or remove anything from the site.
Beckam watched the last of his team’s gear be loaded aboard the C-17. It wasn’t their full complement. After all, he’d been told the mission footprint was minuscule, and he’d hand-picked 24 SEALs for the mission.
“Sounds like a milk run,” Frantino said, shrugging. “We snatch a few civilians off the ice, plant a few American flags just to piss off the Russians. Compared to the mission in Iran, this is pure holiday.”
“That’s what worries me, Danny.” Beckam walked slowly toward the Hercules. “In this case, 2 and 2 are adding up to more like 10. There’s something going on down there we haven’t been told about. There’s no way there sending us down there to escort civilians off the ice unless someone is expecting serious trouble.”
Coddling civilians wasn’t a mission for SEALs, Beckam thought. Like well-armed urban street gangs, SEALs often found trouble even when they weren’t looking for it. More to the point, you didn’t send out a SEAL team unless you expected trouble.
CHAPTER 50
Paulson stood in front of the World War II Super Fortress, admiring the weathered nose art featuring a naked blond riding a turtle. The shell housed machine gun turrets and featured bombs dropping out of the belly. The face of the turtle had been painted with an evil grin, and a pair of World War II flying goggles covered its eyes.
Ridley walked over and stood beside his boss. “Looks damn near airworthy. I might have to change my opinion about the Russians.”
“Beautiful.” The billionaire shaded his eyes and looked down the stretch of ice. “What about preparing the runway?”
Ridley pointed toward the Russian camp. “If we manage to get that cranky-looking Russian tractor started, we should be able to flatten a path through the sastrugi, at least enough to get you 5,000 feet of runway.”
“I’ll have her airborne in less than that.”
Garrett walked up and nodded through the face mask he wore to protect his skin from frost bite. “It appears we’re in luck. The Russians have made decent shelters out of these containers, including some crude but functional propane heaters.”
“I’m going to call Jack and rub it in,” Paulson gloated. He pulled the radio from his jacket and keyed the microphone. “Hey, Jack! Do you copy?”
They had been cross-country skiing across the ice for an hour toward the base of Thor’s Hammer. Jack, Leah, and Marko each towed a fiberglass sled, loaded down with tents, sleeping bags, and climbing gear, all secured to their bodies with a tow harness.
“I don’t understand why we have to ski over to Thor’s Hammer when we brought snowmobiles,” Leah complained. She removed her cross-country skis and sat on the overloaded sled, breathing heavily, not yet acclimated to the high elevation.
“Since you enjoyed a free trip down, I wouldn’t complain too much about the logistics,” Jack replied. “Mac and his crew need the three snow machines way more than we do in order to haul gear to the B-29. Besides, I’m not interested in rolling along at thirty miles per hour, and suddenly finding myself dropping into a crevasse. Once we check out the route, and Paulson has the gear transferred, we may get lucky and get a lift back via snow machine.
Jack’s handheld radio suddenly crackled to life.
“Hey, Jack! You copy?”
He unclipped the radio and keyed it. “I read you loud and clear, Al. What’s your status?”
“We’re in camp and in luck. The Russians left us a small city. We’re moving in like we owned the place.”
Jack glanced back at Leah. She was sipping out of a water bottle and shaking her head in disgust. “Leah’s thrilled,” he said dryly.
“How close are you to the hammer?”
Jack studied the towering granite wall. A mountain of snow and ice lay against the granite; it flowed down from the mountains above. They would have to climb the slope to get anywhere near the base of the mountain.
“We have a ways to go; we’re going to pitch a camp well away from the slope leading up to the base, just in case it’s unstable.”
He glanced at Leah, who now lay across her sled. “I don’t know how much farther Leah will pull her sled.” He looked over at Marko and winked. “We may have to camp here until her highness gets her beauty sleep.”
Leah held up her hand in response. Jack knew from experience which finger she was displaying within the thick mitten.
“Did she hear that?” Paulson asked in a stage whisper.
“I’m afraid so.” Jack looked back toward the Caribou, just a speck in the distance. “Hey, Chase or Rooster, you guys got your radio handy?”
“Never thought I’d hear so much chatter this far from civilization,” Chase replied.
“How are you guys doing with the Caribou?”
“We’re figuring out how we’re going to get the wheel off without dropping her on the ice.”
“Are you setting up a campsite or gonna sack out in the airplane?”
“I’d prefer to set up camp,” Chase said. “It will be a lot warmer than sleeping in this drafty old airplane, but we’re shot to hell. We’re sacking out for a few hours.”