Beckam’s first impression was that of a giant clam opening; something out of the 1960s TV show “Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.” His second impression was of sudden and intense cold as the heat sucked out of the fuselage.
Breathing wasn’t a problem. He wore an oxygen mask and bottle and Nomex flight coveralls over an Arctic white combat suit. He waddled toward the back of the aircraft, weighed down with a hundred pounds of combat gear, including a Beretta 92-SF in a thigh holster and a Heckler & Koch MP5 machine gun, along with 600 rounds of ammo, plastic explosives, a second parachute, and a host of other necessary and mostly lethal goodies.
Beckam adjusted his oxygen mask, necessary at this altitude to keep him and his men from passing out, then waited in anticipation of a green light signaling they were over the drop zone.
When the twin green jump indicator lights came on, the teams flung their heavily loaded bodies off the ramp and into an atmosphere so thin and cold that exposed skin would freeze instantly.
Commander Beckam spread his arms and legs out like a flattened crab’s in the same way he’d done nearly a thousand times before. He looked through his jump goggles at the landscape and, more important, his altimeter. He’d calculated they’d have approximately ninety-seconds of free fall at 130 miles per hour before they opened their parachutes at the leisurely altitude of 1,800 feet above the frozen surface.
When he passed through 1,900 feet, he released a small pilot chute from his parachute pack. As the pilot chute pulled his main parachute out of its container, he dropped one shoulder just in case the chute caught in the vacuum — called a “burble”—forming at the small of his back.
When he felt the lines tighten as the main chute inflated, he snapped his knees into the airborne version of a deep knee bend. The overwhelming air pressure on his outstretched arms and the sudden reduced pressure on his lower body caused Beckam to pivot into a vertical position.
He reached up and grabbed the risers a millisecond before the chute snapped open and his airspeed dropped from 130 to only 20 miles per hour in a bone-cracking, one and a half seconds.
Beckam looked up and counted the open panels on the parachute. Called “squares,” the chutes were more rectangular than square and allowed a jumper to glide down with more directional mobility and forward speed than the old round chutes made famous by paratroopers in World War II. All his panels were open and inflated, so he cleared the steering toggles and pulled hard on the right one to initiate a high-speed spiral toward the ice.
The massive granite cliff known as Thor’s Hammer overlooking the valley stood a short distance away. Beckam made note to stay away from the dangerous downdrafts created by the mountain cliffs and ridges, especially in the prevailing twenty-knot winds.
As he spun toward the ground, Beckam caught a glimpse of the Las Tortugas, its gleaming aluminum skin contrasting sharply with the more recent, blackened carcass of the Russian aircraft.
The ice came up fast; Beckam held his breath, released his gear bag, and pulled on both steering toggles, hoping to slow his descent by flaring the canopy directly above the frozen surface.
He hit the ice hard. The parachute, now powered by the surface winds, dragged him and his gear horizontally across the coarse surface. Beckam pulled a ring that cut away his parachute on one side, allowing the air to escape.
He took several deep breaths before standing. Quickly and quietly, he gathered the SEALs and assessed the success of the jump with one simple question.
“Everybody in one piece?”
The nods and professional manner told him the team was on the ice safely and ready to go.
Frantino produced a compact pair of high-powered binoculars. Beckam studied Thor’s Hammer, then turned the glasses in the direction of the B-29.
Bodies wearing brightly colored cold-weather overalls scattered like ants from a kicked anthill. They clearly knew Beckam and his platoon had dropped in for an unscheduled visit.
“I want everyone to remember that these are not combatants.” Beckam looked several of his SEALs directly in the eye. “That, gentleman, means you will use restraint. I don’t have to remind you this mission is a pet project of the President. Unless you want to spend the rest of your career advising the Botswana military, I suggest you think twice and open your mouth once.”
One of the SEALs raised his hand. “So if someone starts taking pot shots at us, should we return fire or shout soft poetry?”
Beckam grinned. “I don’t believe we will be shot at. That said, there’s shit we haven’t been told, so report anything out of the ordinary.” His expression hardened. “Everything I just said goes out the window if we meet up with the Russians or anyone else packing weapons and hostile intent.”
Beckam shouldered his pack. “I’m buying the booze when we get back to Virginia. Now, let’s get this done quick and clean.”
CHAPTER 68
“Let’s assume for argument’s sake that this is one of your Native American travelers. Could this body be 800 years old, based on its appearance?”
“I can’t say for sure,” Leah replied.
“You guys okay in there?”
“We’re fine, Marko,” Jack said, “but we’ve found another door and we’re going to jam it open.”
“Can I come take a look?”
Jack hesitated and then said, “Okay, grab a couple of axes on your way in.”
Jack crouched down in front of the second sealed doorway, axes held at the ready.
“Okay, Leah. Open it.”
When the door flashed open, instead of thrusting the axe, Jack flew back across the smooth floor in an explosion of compressed gas.
Leah skidded across the floor with visions of a commercial airliner suffering explosive decompression. She ended up lying near the opposite side of the rounded room with Jack sprawled on top of her.
Paulson was the first to his feet; he rushed over to Jack. “You okay?”
Jack nodded, and Paulson helped him into a sitting position as Garrett and Marko checked out Leah.
“Where’s the axe?”
“I don’t know. All I remember is a hammer hitting me in the chest and not much else.”
“Over here.” Marko walked cautiously across the wet floor and retrieved it.
“That explains those airtight doors,” Paulson noted.
Jack pushed to his feet. “Why would the military pressurize a science station?”
Paulson shrugged. “If we hadn’t found the body, I’d say this was a test model for a habitat to be used on the moon, or maybe a trip to Mars.”
“That would explain the location.” Jack rubbed his head, where now he had two lumps: one from falling into the crevasse and the other from being tossed across the room. “You’d need to isolate the inhabitants in an environment resembling a hostile planet’s surface.” He paused. “But that doesn’t begin to explain how it got buried so quickly.”
“Or why they’d pressurize the inside of the structure,” said Paulson.
“It’s not pressurized anymore,” Leah said hopefully.
Jack nodded. “It could be that the small outside compartment served as an airlock.” He wiped water from his face. “That might explain how it got buried.”
“How’s that?” asked Paulson.
Jack nodded. “If both doors leading outside were opened at the same time, the explosive decompression would send a massive shock wave into the ice. It’s conceivable the shock wave created an avalanche and buried the structure.”
“If ’someone’ were still inside….” Garrett began.
“They’d be buried under a million tons of ice,” said Jack.