Skibird, page 16
“The best sport in the whole world is the internationally recognized sport of…”
“Airborne Boondoggle!” They shouted in unison, then traded a high-five across the cockpit.
The LC-130H Skibird hummed in agreement.
The two back-seaters groaned in unison.
“Nothing better in the whole world than flying, folks, especially when it’s anywhere new. Come on. Tell me the last time you crossed an entire continent made of ice? Daylight the whole way. I’m telling you. Nothing better.”
He scanned the readouts, though the plane would warn him of anything wrong faster than he’d be able to notice it. Jackie was currently pilot in command, which also didn’t take much as they were on autopilot. With the upgrade of the Skibird fleet to an all-glass cockpit, it was actually trickier to drive a car. The big LCD screens had replaced the ranks of dial instruments. Now it placed exactly what they needed to see at their fingertips.
As long as they stayed high enough to clear the occasional mountain peak that jammed up through ten thousand feet of ice and low enough to not freeze the fuel—unlikely in midsummer—they were good. That didn’t mean they weren’t vigilant, it was a key safety protocol. But Lockheed Martin had built over twenty-five hundred Hercs in more variants than could be counted on all of the fingers of the four-person crew. They had it down.
For this flight, the National Science Foundation, who ordered all US flights on The Ice, had scrounged together a quick twenty-five thousand pounds of cargo at McMurdo. They’d dropped it at the South Pole—unloaded on the hustle—and only needed a third of a load of fuel to top off all the tanks. They were traveling fuel heavy-cargo light, which made the plane handle like a go-kart and an utter dream. It also meant that they could cross the continent twice and not care about fuel.
When Footie and Stretch had gone to do their periodic walk through the plane, Jackie flipped the intercom to Pilots Only.
“Hey, Cap. What’s up with those guys?”
No question who Jackie was talking about. It wasn’t their two new crew. They’d slid into place like they’d always been there. Two months into the season they never missed a step.
But in lieu of cargo, they now had four US Marshals in the back. He hadn’t known that there were any law officers on the American Ice. There were. Four of them—three at McMurdo and one at the South Pole. He’d been ordered to bring them all. The three men and one woman looked serious, too. Day jobs: machine shop, firefighter, telescope maintenance, and heavy equipment driver. Night jobs? US Marshal. And these weren’t commercial flight guys with badge, handcuffs, and a hidden ankle piece. They’d come aboard with heavy bags that clanked when they hit the deck. When one guy had opened his duffle, Cap caught sight of a bulletproof vest. These were serious people.
“Kandahar flashbacks?” Before shifting to the Skibirds, they’d both put in their fair share of air time in the dustbowl. Huge wear and tear on the equipment. Doing combat landings and takeoffs—screaming through the vertical airspace ruled by MANPADS as fast as possible—cut a third out of the life of a plane. They’d also dressed in layers of armor and prayed no one shot their asses off with a sniper rifle.
“Shit man,” Jackie concurred.
They had their own gear aboard. Just because they flew over Antarctica, and had skis in addition to their wheels, didn’t mean they weren’t military. They flew for the 109th Airlift Wing, and if any foreign actor was coming for them down here on The Ice, they’d be ready.
33
Hu Min’s question was answered and his wish fulfilled because Daiyu and her four laowai needed a ride to the Russian skiway. That meant they probably weren’t coming back or they’d have commandeered a vehicle to leave at Progress Skiway—whether or not it was convenient for him.
Daiyu had also requested several items from the Station’s weapons locker.
He’d tried backdooring the question of what she was doing, “Why now?” What happened that you are taking on the Russian stations?
Daiyu had looked around, but he’d been careful to ask when they were briefly alone near the tracked Nanji snow vehicle. It was very, very similar to the Swedish Hagglund, but with improvements by China’s best polar science engineers.
“You know the Russian Kalibr?” Daiyu kept her voice low.
“No! Those bastards!” A cruise missile in Antarctica?
“Four of them were stopped en route to here at Progress. We don’t know why yet, or if more are already here. But be ready.”
Min had stood up straighter. “You inspect Vostok. Min will watch Progress.”
She had offered a sharp nod as her pet laowai came out of the station and loaded into the Nanji.
It took seven kilometers of rough road to reach the Russian skiway. Over the final rise, a big surprise awaited him. They could see Progress Station in the distance from their perch. He stopped to stare.
He’d heard that the Russian supply ship was in as well. That it had managed to come within a kilometer of the shore was most annoying, but that was not what was important.
What he hadn’t heard was that a massive cargo ship had come with it. Min pulled the binoculars out of the glove compartment and focused on the distant ships.
Yes, stacked on the cargo ship’s deck were scores of bright steel shipping containers—with windows in the ends. Great piles of them were already stacked on the shore. He only saw one of their Helix helicopters helping with the unloading; he didn’t see the other one anywhere. But they had three snowcats scuttling back and forth across the ice dragging their loads on skied sleds. May the Xue Long captain roast in hell.
“The Russians have finally managed to deliver the modules for the new Vostok Station. They will need to be dragged over fourteen hundred kilometers of ice in massive tractor trains and assembled, but they are here.”
He handed the binoculars to Daiyu and she too spent a long time gazing at the ships.
“An incredible asset,” he ventured.
She nodded without looking away.
“But why here instead of Mirny?” And then he remembered. “The fire! Mirny burned down half their station two years ago. Of course, Progress burned down their own new station building back in 2008, immediately after they finished it.” They had managed to reconstruct one big building, but reports stated that it was painfully overcrowded.
Then, as she handed the binoculars to the laowai in the rear, she leaned close to whisper, “Unless I personally tell you otherwise, do nothing until those ships are unloaded and gone.”
In his estimation that would take at least a day more. “And after?”
Wang Daiyu shrugged, then waved him on.
Min put the Nanji in gear and descended toward the skiway.
His day was improving.
Taking a lesson from Daiyu, he had informed Taishan Station that his technicians were going to be on the Snow Eagle the minute it landed. Only if Taishan behaved would he send the technicians back to finish their repair of the power plant. And not before the Xue Long was unloaded. That it meant shutting down half of their equipment wasn’t his concern. Their station would have heat and food—for now that was enough.
He decided to take one further risk after they had arrived and were awaiting the arrival of the American plane. “Do what you must with their warrens, Daiyu. Do not damage their foundations for the new station.”
Again, her terse nod. “Do not let the Xue Long depart before the Russian ships.”
“The hún dàn captain said he is leaving in five days whether or not I have my supplies. How am I supposed to do that across thirty kilometers of crappy sea ice that I know he can easily break through?”
Daiyu pulled out her phone and sent a text message. “He may be a bastard, but he will shortly receive orders that he will be moving forward directly to Zhongshan and will not be departing without your clearance.”
Did she truly have such power? Or did she have it simply because she acted as if she did? Min had spent too much time attempting to placate others. From this woman, he had received a lesson about when to simply inform them of his decision.
Min bounced on his toes several times and felt the warmth surge into his chest. Today may have started terribly, but it was fast becoming the best in his years as station master. The yin and yang of life curled together. It was an excellent time to be alive.
If the Xue Long was indeed going to be on the move, he would offer his own helicopter to aid the Russians unloading their ships. Yes, far better than letting it sit idle. Perhaps the cargo ship could be fully unloaded by this afternoon.
The tall blonde laowai heard it first. It had been less than ten minutes since their arrival when she twisted to face south. The American airplane came into view from over the high ice. It was strangely unimpressive. It was a third smaller than the Ilyushin-76s that both Russia and China used to supply Antarctica, when the bay ice was hard enough.
Again, China was far too reliant on the Russians. Someday he would see nothing but Xi’an Y-20 cargo jets arriving here. They might be built from stolen American C-17 Globemaster III plans, but they would be Chinese built. And better stolen from the West than purchased from the Russians.
However small it might seem as it descended toward the ice, the modified Hercules LC-130 was the largest ski plane in the world. What he could do for the other stations with a Skibird at his call. And rumor said that the Americans had ten of these. Envy struck deep in his soul. If he had two of those…but he didn’t.
Viktor Petrov, the Russian Progress Station Manager, arrived on his snowmobile at the same time the Americans landed. They traded friendly nods, and Viktor took that as an invitation to reopen the discussion of landing fees for the American airplane.
Min carefully made no commitments, answering as often with a shrug as a word. Viktor looked sad when he understood that it was out of Min’s hands and now up to him to salvage what he could. Not that any fee he collected would be recorded anywhere other than Viktor’s wallet.
Everyone watched the plane land and taxi in silence.
Viktor tried another question as the plane slowed in front of them, “Have you news of my other Ka-32S Helix helicopter or Colonel Nikolas Romanoff?”
Min didn’t but was fascinated that Viktor had managed to lose a fifty-five-million-yuan helicopter, over eight million American.
“Both dead, and the pilots.” The Miranda Chase woman spoke as if she was discussing the temperature.
“And the supply airplane that I was expecting?” Viktor asked quickly as the Skibird slid toward them over the snow.
“Destroyed,” she replied from that place of such peace, nipping off the word as no more was needed. She then turned to face into the wind of the plane’s propellers as it turned tightly in front of them and presented its rear to them.
Viktor gave up.
Min could only gaze at her in wonder as the plane rocked to a final halt. Death and destruction had surrounded her, yet her clarity was so pure that not even the pushy Viktor Petrov dared breach the bastions or her perfect serenity. A Chán Buddhism master ready for instant action and therefore needing to take none. He must learn that for himself. Though he doubted he’d ever succeed, he could at least strive.
The Americans didn’t come out the side door below the wing. Instead, they lowered the massive rear ramp as if they were going to load up pallets of gear and not a mere five people carrying their own packs.
Two men and a women stood on the ramp in gray flightsuits with parkas pulled on but not zipped. A pilot must be at the controls, as the engines were running and the propellers beat the air with a low drone. Four men stood behind them, visible as silhouettes in the shadows of the vast cargo bay. Their stance made it clear that they were military as well.
“Ah,” the big man at the front took in a deep breath and huffed it out. He spoke loudly enough to be heard easily over the running engines. “I was hoping that your air here in East Antarctica was more exciting than ours, but it smells the same—cold and dry.”
And he gave a belly laugh that Min found easy to join.
He alone strode down the ramp, but didn’t step onto the snow. “Are you one of my five?”
Min could only shake his head. The man was so confident. Of course, he was a tall blond American in command of such a beautiful aircraft. He also stood with a towering black woman and red-haired man. Min had seen a few blacks before, though none so striking, but he’d never seen red hair. It was the color of the lucky red dragon painted over the door of his grandson’s bedroom and he could only gawk.
“Maybe next time,” the blond man shook his hand as if they were old friends.
Daiyu led the four laowai up the ramp.
“No, wait,” Viktor protested. “I must board for a customs inspection and a landing fee. We can also sell you fuel if you need it.”
The big man looked amused, “This is a pickup, not a delivery—no boarding and no customs. Don’t need fuel—it’s a small continent after all.”
Antarctica wasn’t. If it was a country, it would be the biggest in the world after Russia. The American was rubbing their vast capabilities in Viktor’s face.
“And a landing fee?” The big man winked at him.
That finally shook Min loose of his temporary paralysis. He was worldly enough to know that Americans thought a wink to be friendly and conspiratorial. In China it was a vulgar invitation for sex. He was now sure that the plane’s commander had received Min’s warning. He managed to return the wink.
“I crossed the entire continent to fetch these folks. That sounds like an emergency to me. Can’t see charging anyone for anything in an emergency.” He waved a hand upward and the ramp began to rise, carrying him aloft. “Thank you for assisting in this crisis. Need to get a move on before my skis stick to the ice.” Then he turned and strode into the aircraft as the ramp continued to close.
While Viktor was spluttering in protest, the engines roared to life and a heavy propeller-driven wind blasted against them. Taking a hint from the commander’s actions, Min let the wind drive him over to his Nanji snow tractor.
By the time Victor recovered, the plane was underway with a great shooshing sound of the skis sliding over the snow.
And Min was underway back to his station to start preparing for whatever was about to happen.
34
Artemy Turgenev tried to take it in. He was sitting in Colonel Romanoff’s Lubyanka Building office as if it was his own—at least until the man was found. It was no grand affair, but it was an office in FSB headquarters. And in General Murov’s wing, a placement of high prestige.
His window didn’t face Lubyanka Square like Murov’s, instead it looked inward at one of the many narrow courtyards, but it had a window. He could see the helipad perched high on the opposite side of the building, which would be interesting to watch for VIP arrivals and departures.
A major, his own rank until yesterday, sat in an outer office waiting for his slightest command. It was nearing midnight, but the man was there. What had Romanoff been up to that he was staffed around the clock?
Turgenev began organizing his notes. There must be a way to trace—
The harsh buzz of his desk phone had him nearly leaping out of his chair.
“A Viktor Petrov is calling you,” his new aide stated over the intercom.
“Um, thank you.” That sounded weak. He shot for a more brusque tone, “Patch him through.”
No verbal response, merely an audible click. Good.
“Petrov?”
“The Americans have left and they took the Chinese woman with them.”
“Left? Left for where?”
There was a long enough pause that he wondered if the connection to Antarctica had been broken. “I don’t know, sir.”
In the palm of his hand! He’d had them in the palm of his hand and now they were gone?
“What aircraft were they in?” A helicopter or small plane would most likely mean they were going back to Davis for an inscrutable reason. He didn’t know why they’d come to Zhongshan Station in the first place.
“An American Skibird.”
Turgenev hit the back of his new chair as if he’d been punched in the chest by the President himself. They could go anywhere. American and Chinese together—cooperating!
“They said that my Helix Ka-32S helicopter and its pilots are dead. And Romanoff as well.”
“Who said that?”
“One of the Americans.”
It was both terrible and excellent news. The loss of a half-billion-ruble aircraft and three lives on the one side—and Romanoff would never return to oust Turgenev from his new office on the other.
“What else?”
“That’s it. That’s all I know.”
More terrible news. “How is it, Petrov, that you have so failed in the simple task I assigned you?” How could he go to Murov with such incomplete information? Yet he knew he must.
“I tried. They wouldn’t let me board the plane for an inspection. They were on the ground for less than five minutes, stopped for less than two.”
“And yet you learned so little.”
“I saw inside the cargo bay. There was nothing there. No equipment, no pallets of supplies. Three people in flying uniforms and four standing back in the shadows. That is all.”
Four in the shadows? Military operatives? They would be if it was his flight. Combined with an air-crash investigation team, if that’s all they were, and an envoy of the Chinese Central Military Commission. What could it all possibly mean?
“Describe them to me.”
“Which ones?”
“All of them, you dolt.”
Petrov’s failure to observe details was staggering. The only ones who had made an impression on him were the big blond commander of the plane and the small brunette woman who had told him Romanoff was dead. “She might be the same one who was wearing the NTSB vest under her parka when they arrived. I think her name was Miranda Chase. Or Clace. Or something like that. Oh, and there was another small Chinese woman who stayed close to her.”
