Robert B. Williams

Ice Fortress

Prologue

January 4, 1945

Bastogne, Belgium

4th Armored Division HQ

The general’s cold stare mirrored the bleak, snow covered battlefield he surveyed through the window. The bullet shattered glass did little to stop the numbing chill of the air penetrating his makeshift headquarters, yet sweat dampened his sharply pressed shirt. As his hands balled into fists behind his back, his impatience became almost palpable.

Abandoned German Tiger tanks littered the muddy track. The general had lost count of the number of tanks his battalion had lost to these new and extremely lethal, vastly superior King Tigers. Weighing around 70 tons, the monstrous German machines dwarfed the undersized Sherman tanks under his command at more than double their weight and size. He knew that he wouldn’t have had a hope in hell of breaking through the German lines and securing Bastogne had the Reich had time to produce more of these behemoths. He also knew, despite what the press reported back home, that the hard won victory after months fighting the Battle of the Bulge wasn’t down to his fiery command style or the audacious thrust of his 4th Armored Division through the Wehrmacht’s panzer led offensive. Had the Germans not made a series of tactical errors, the outcome of the battle might have been quite different. As he scanned the artillery scarred road for a sign that his adjutant was returning, he feared that their good fortune might soon come to an abrupt end.

Turning sharply on his heel, General George S. Patton returned to his desk and began to polish his nickel plated, ivory handled Colt .45, his brow knotted in fierce concentration.

* * *

In the courtyard below a cruel snow-laden wind snapped angrily at the red and yellow flag of the 4th Armored Division, threatening to tear it from its halyard. The two battle weary soldiers at its base had been assigned sentry duty but they were more intent on shuffling from one foot to the other in a futile attempt to stay warm. With rain soaked woolen gloves tucked under their armpits to stave off frostbite, each breath of biting, freezing air burned their throat and lungs, chilling them to the very bone. Neither of them wanted to be there. Even digging latrines might have kept them from freezing to death.

Who were they guarding against, anyway?

Hadn’t the Third Reich been all but crushed now that Russian tanks were rumbling down the streets of Berlin, ready to fire an armor piercing shell right up Hitler’s ass? Of course, nobody dared ask out loud why it was that Eisenhower stood aside and let the Russians take Berlin. As enlisted men, they’d long since given up trying to figure out the logic of the military leadership. Truth be told, they no longer even cared.

They just wanted to go home.

“Remind me again who we’re supposed to be looking out for while we freeze our balls off,” the young private moaned.

“Better not let Old Blood and Guts hear you say that, unless you’re looking for a public slapping,” cautioned the older and wiser twenty year old. Few had forgotten the highly publicized Sicily incident after which their gun toting general had been ordered by the brass to apologize to the hospitalized soldiers he’d slapped and accused of malingering. Apology or not, nobody in their right mind wanted to end up on the general’s bad side. “You need to keep a lid on that—”

“Quiet,” the younger private snapped, raising a sodden gloved hand to silence his buddy.

“Don’t tell me to—”

Then they both heard it, the urgent screams of a klaxon horn piercing the still air from beyond the line of abandoned Tiger tanks. Only one vehicle made that sound. Only one man was arrogant enough to have his staff car announce its arrival like that. The general’s adjutant was returning in Patton’s heavily modified command car and he was in a hell of a hurry.

As the speeding command car crested the rise its unmistakable .50 caliber post mounted machine gun came into view, confirming their expectation. A rooster tail of mud and snow chased the heavily armored Dodge as it sped toward the gates of the compound.

“I don’t think he’s in any mood to stop for an ID check, do you?” the younger private suggested nervously.

“No shit, genius? Well… you gonna stand there gawking or open the gate?”

As he began to run toward the red and white striped gate, the private slipped on a patch of ice, sending his feet airborne before landing him flat on his back in the mud filed rut. As he floundered in the sludge trying to stand, his eyes widened in horror as the command car grew larger by the second, klaxon blaring and fishtailing as it took the final bend too fast for the slippery and treacherous conditions.

A firm hand gripped the young soldier’s wrist and yanked him out of harm’s way as the Dodge, making no effort to reduce its speed, burst through the gate. The wooden boom splintered on impact against the heavy armor plate protecting the radiator. Both soldiers were showered with debris and mud as the careering car raced past, narrowly missing the pair by no more than a couple of feet. Both soldiers saw the general’s aid white knuckling the steering wheel, the planes of his face set into hard lines, imprinted with dread.

“That can’t be good,” the private ventured, releasing the hand of his shocked and speechless comrade. He knew the general instilled fear among his subordinates, but the look on the drivers face was off the scale.

“No siree, not good at all,” the grime covered soldier agreed as he spat a gob of filth from his mouth.

* * *

The general was on his feet before the colonel burst through the door. Both men knew each other well enough to dispense with etiquette when alone. What the Colonel hadn’t expected was to see General Patton with his signature Colt .45 Peacemaker in his hand when he entered the general’s office.

“Relax Colonel, just keeping it clean.” The general holstered the weapon and fixed his stern eyes on the colonel. “Well?” he barked impatiently, his voice pitched a little higher than he would have liked.

The colonel’s face paled. He was lost for words.

He soon found them again when the general brought his fist crashing down on his desk, knocking over the bottle of gun oil that lay open next to his holstered sidearm.

“It’s gone general. There’s nothing left. The whole thing has just… well… gone.”

“And Kammler? Tell me that SS bastard is in the brig. Or better still, dead.” Again the general’s fist slammed the desk.

“Sir… Obergruppenführer Kammler has vanished, too. Blueprints. Journals. Files. Scientists. They’re all gone sir.”

The general’s face, too, became ashen and felt his legs suddenly become weary. With uncharacteristic restraint, he eased himself into his chair and opened his desk drawer. Sensing he was being dismissed, the colonel retreated in silence and closed the door behind him.

General ‘Blood and Guts’ Patton took his diary from the drawer, the rich patina the leather had developed served as a chilling reminder of how just long this most bitter conflict had been raging. Victory should be within their grasp. The Third Reich was on the verge of becoming a crumbling ruin.

Opening the diary, he wrote one brief entry as neatly as his unsteady hand would allow.

“We can still lose this war.”

Chapter 1

November 6, 2017, 00:20 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

-77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

Depth 660 feet

Sleek, black and dangerous, the USS Barracuda cut through the frigid darkness in total silence. Unlike its cold war ancestors, the Barracuda wasn’t cursed with the inherent cavitation noise that came from screws churning noisily through the water. Equipped with a cutting edge, nuclear powered Pump-Jet propulsion system, this stealthy deep sea beast could glide below the waves at 20 knots making less noise than a Los Angeles class sub tied to a dock.

But this particular attack sub wasn’t running silent, deep and deadly under pack ice at the very bottom of the world so that it could fire a surgically accurate cruise missile at an unsuspecting target. The Barracuda was tasked with a different mission altogether as it slipped silently through the dark waters below the arctic ice shelf, much to the annoyance of the captain, Frank Jameson, who was used to commanding a sub armed to the teeth with ADCAP Torpedoes and Tomahawk missiles.

Looking to the starboard side of the Command Center, he surveyed the motley crew of geeks who occupied what was once the most mission critical station on the boat — Combat Systems. Not only had the Barracuda been stripped of its vertical launch tubes and torpedo tubes to make way for a hoard of scientific equipment, even the weapon system consoles had been virtually torn out by the roots to make way for the geek squad and their all-important research computers. It wasn’t anticipated that they would engage an enemy on what was, for all intents and purposes, a peaceful scientific mission. The Antarctic was also subject to the 1961 Antarctic Treaty banning all military activity on (and under) the continent. Only Sonar Systems on the port side of the Command Center remained intact with its wrap around monitors scrolling a continuous display of data fed from the hundreds of highly sensitive hydrophones mounted on the subs bow and fed through some of the most advanced computing algorithms available.

“We are in position Dr. Anderson. Let me know when you’re ready to deploy the AUV.” Jameson spoke crisply and without making eye contact, his attention fixed on the bank of monitors at all times. The Barracuda was no longer a silent hunter of the deep but a taxi service for an Autonomous Underwater Vehicle or AUV while his small crew played nursemaid to a high school science experiment.

Leah Anderson barely heard the captain. She was too intent visualizing herself being entombed in a steel tube, frozen for eternity below fifty feet of pack ice. It almost felt as if the grey steel bulkheads and low ceiling, covered in conduit and pipe, was closing in on her. With each jolt from the swirling currents she cringed and waited for the near freezing water to start gushing in. She wasn’t sure what would kill her first, the 30 degree water or drowning. She preferred the former, hoping it would be quicker and far less traumatic. Her large steel-blue eyes darted around the sub interior looking for the first signs of leakage but found instead the piercing gaze of the young captain.

Leah still couldn’t get her head around him looking way too young to be commanding a nuclear submarine. Only the hint of gray at his temples, against the otherwise natural darkness of his hair gave any clue to his age. With his perfect white teeth and dimples in all the right places Frank Jameson looked like he’d be more at home at a Tommy Hilfiger photo shoot than the harsh, utilitarian environment of a warship. But his mood and demeanor certainly matched the cold, grey interior of what had previously been one of the U.S. Navy’s prize attack subs.

“Relax Dr. Anderson. Geothermal currents from the subglacial volcanoes. Nothing more. Well, at least I hope so.” A telltale grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, as if he knew what she was thinking. “We’re not quite at hull crush depth… yet.” He broke into a full smile after returning to his instrument screens. There was no margin for error this deep. If they collided with a submerged ice island, the pack ice was too thick for them to surface. Rescue simply wasn’t an option.

“Hull crush depth? Do I even want to know what that is?” She’d given up asking him not to call her Doctor.

“Don’t listen to him, ma’am, we’ve still got another twelve hundred feet to go before we reach our ‘never exceed’ depth. Crush depth is even deeper than that.” The Executive Officer or XO, Peter Durand tried to reassure her but from the furrowing of her brow, he doubted he was having much success. A last minute addition to the crew when Jameson’s regular XO became ill, Durand was new to both the captain’s sense of humor and dealing with civilians on board a navy boat.

He threw Leah a reassuring smile. Then again, he’d been doing that a lot recently and his interest in the attractive young doctor had not gone unnoticed. A heat began to rise in Leah’s cheeks.

Juan Alvarez, her software engineer and Dave Sutton, the AUV’s robotics and sonar tech both smiled at her, making her feel like she was back in high school again. Grow up, she mouthed at the smirking pair as she pulled her shoulder length blonde hair back into a ponytail and twirled and elastic to hold it in place. It was time to go to work.

She responded to the captain. “I’m ready to start the deployment procedure for the AUV now, thank you captain. That is, if my team is actually ready to do some work, for a change.” She stared down hard at the pair of them and at once felt a twinge of guilt. They’d both worked tirelessly on the project and had stuck by her for the past three years. Even when funding had dried up, they continued working as hard as if they were still drawing a pay check. She felt they deserved a little slack.

“All systems are in the green and good to go, Doctor Anderson,” Juan reported, adding emphasis to her title for a little payback. Juan knew how much she hated people drawing attention to her academic credentials.

“Sonar has completed diagnostics and is ready to fire some pulses, Leah,” Dave concurred. Leah had given the lanky postgrad student a once in a lifetime opportunity to work on what could be a career making project, when he had virtually no field experience to speak of and he treated her accordingly. His spiky blond hair gave him a look more like a freshman than a graduate with years of technical training in sonar and robotics.

The Barracuda’s silent propulsion together with its unique sonar absorbing outer hull renders it all but invisible to both active and passive sonar and ten times more sensitive when detecting other submarines. Dubbed the Silent Assassin, the Barracuda showcased the very latest in submarine stealth technology, making it a perfect weapon against both sea and land based targets. Those same attributes also made it the perfect research vessel to host the Antarctic Ice Shelf Profiling Survey (AISPS) team, a U.S. navy funded oceanographic research team tasked with measuring and mapping the thickness of the Antarctic sea ice. The purpose of the survey was to provide a baseline from which to assess the future effects on the ice sheet and Antarctic glaciers as a result of both climate change and subglacial volcanic activity. It was one of the most extensive, and expensive, studies of its type ever conducted in the Antarctic.

The U.S. Navy was keen to be the first nation to map the entire region below the polar ice cap, regardless of the expense. During the Cold War, they’d learned first-hand how easy it was for the Russians to park a sub with nuclear missile capability undetected and within striking range of U.S. cities once they’d mapped the channels beneath the Arctic ice. The U.S. military were determined to be the first to map the previously unexplored sub ice oceanography of the planet’s South most polar ice cap.

Civilian oceanographer, Leah Anderson was the team leader of the small but dedicated group who had first proposed using an Autonomous Underwater Vehicle or AUV to fire sonar pings from below to survey the ice shelf, using military grade high frequency sonar originally designed to hunt enemy submarines. The anechoic or sonar absorbent skin covering the Barracuda’s hull prevented the sub, which was the length of a football field, echoing and distorting the pings fired from the small unmanned submersible.

It was a revolutionary concept and one that overcame the inaccuracies of satellite survey methods and the inherent limitations and dangers of drilling ice cores on the surface of the ever shifting ice. Leah and her team had even designed the one-of-a-kind AUV. The bright yellow craft with its black and white tail fin had been christened ‘Nellie’ by Dave after he won the rock, paper, scissors contest for naming rights. As a James Bond fan, Dave claimed the revolutionary craft looked much like Bond’s gyrocopter, ‘Little Nellie’ in You Only Live Twice and had to name her in accordingly. Nellie could operate as an autonomous robotic vessel when conducting surveys or it could be tethered to the host vessel via a fiber optic cable allowing it to feed live data and video streams to the team. Even the operating software of the submersible had been developed in-house by Juan but was highly classified at the request of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) who had funded the development of the small craft and its self-learning software at considerable cost to the U.S. taxpayers.

“Juan, Dave? Are you ready to let our little baby out of the nest?” Leah asked the anxious techs.

Wiping his sweaty palms down the front of his slightly paunchy ‘Beam Me Up, Scotty’ T-shirt, Juan took hold of the joystick control with one hand and gave Leah the thumbs up with the other before flipping back the switch cover, exposing the release button. “Ready to release the docking clamps on your command.”

* * *

Four hours later, the torpedo shaped Nellie returned to the sub where its hydrojet propulsion system guided it effortlessly to the docking collar. Two red lights above Juan’s forest of monitors turned green one after the other. The first showed the AUV had docked and the second confirmed that the seal was watertight. Nellie once again rode on the back of the Barracuda, like a Remora on the back of a giant Orca.

“Hard dock confirmed. Seal is good. Pressure is holding steady,” Juan stated needlessly. They’d all fixed their eyes on the green status lights. Opening a hatch at this depth without a proper seal would be disastrous. It would be impossible to close the hatch with the incredible pressure it would be subjected to.

Only now could they access the AUV to swap out the battery packs and plug in to the solid state data storage arrays containing the results from its first solo voyage. Operating in pre-programmed autonomous mode meant they couldn’t stream the data live because there was no tether connecting it to the sub. Instead, they had to wait for their baby to complete the programmed grid and return to the nest before they could upload the sonar data to their systems.

“OK, Dave, you’re the skinniest, you can have the honor of climbing into the docking chamber and refreshing the battery packs. But first, I want those data packs connected to our network so Juan can start downloading. There’s terabytes of data there and I want to see it ASAP.”

Dave didn’t move. He looked from Juan’s rotund belly to his own slight frame and realized that his genetics and healthy eating habits had made him the ideal candidate to open a hull hatch 660 feet underwater. Tonight he was having a double helping of apple pie and cream, for sure.

“I meant today, Dave.” Leah barked more sharply than she had intended.

“Aye, aye Doctor.” Dave gave a mock salute and removed his headset. Even Juan raised a brow. She’d never snapped at them before. Of course, they both knew her career and any future funding from DARPA depended on this first field test. In fact, the careers of all three of them were riding on the success of this project. Big time.

* * *

“This isn’t right,” sighed Dave Sutton as he tried to make sense of the graphics on the huge flat screen. “Dude, your software isn’t calibrated right. None of these interpretations are anywhere near accurate.”

“Hey man, before you start blaming my software, maybe we need to take a closer look at your sonar hardware. You know, dude, the computers are only as good as the data they’re fed, right?” Juan looked to Leah for some backup.

“Man? Dude? Are you two hipsters back in college now? Honestly, if you two kids are going to start bickering like a pair of school girls, I’ll throw you off this ship myself. Now Dave, tell me what you’re seeing that’s got your shorts all bunched up.” Leah who’d been watching the display over their shoulders leaned in for a closer look.

“Boat,” Dave whispered under his breath.

“He’s right,” Juan joined in, “historically a submarine is called a boat, not a ship.”

They both looked across to the conn, where the captain did his best to look like he was studying his charts. But like the others, he was curious about seeing a part of the ocean depths not previously explored. He nodded in agreement. “Boat,” he confirmed.

“Lord, give me strength,” Leah muttered, punching each of them gently on the arm. “Explain before I punch you for real.”

“Okay, these are the initial sonar scans when Nellie first started pinging the ice shelf. The blue is the water, obviously, and the green above it shows the ice shelf, from which we can deduce the thickness. See here,” he froze the scrolling display, “the depth of water between Nellie and the base of the ice shelf — 580 feet.”

“So we would assume that was correct given that we’ve programmed her to follow the contours of the shelf and cruise at that depth,” Leah said.

“Correct. We would also assume that this green section here,” again he pointed to the paused graphic, “is also correct at a shelf thickness of 50 feet as that finding is supported by estimates based on satellite and seismic surveys in this area.”

Dave hit the mouse to resume the scrolling display and then paused it again.

“What on earth is that?” Leah gasped. Something in her tone piqued the captain’s interest, too and he looked up from his chart display.

“That’s what I’m saying. It’s just not possible. What we’re seeing can’t be there. That structure simply can’t exist and there’s no suggestion of anything like it in the Arctic, either. It’s an anomaly and I’m convinced it’s a software glitch. It’s misinterpreting that data somehow.”

Juan didn’t respond. He was too busy tapping furiously at his keyboard, debugging code and trying to find an explanation, even though the code cutter in him knew his code was good. They’d given it every test possible before releasing it. But he needed to be sure.

“Conn, sonar,” yelled the lieutenant stationed at the Barracuda’s sonar console, “we have fish in the water.”

“Repeat that, sonar,” responded the captain his tone plainly conveying his disbelief.

“Fish in the water. Two torpedoes bearing two-eight-zero closing at 35 knots. Range 2,000 yards.”

Years of training, countless drills and many naval exercises, kicked in all at once, despite his youthful appearance. In a split second, Frank Jameson the geek squad babysitter became Captain Jameson, the attack sub commander. He quickly began shouting orders.

“Pilot, ahead flank right full rudder.”

He then turned to the Combat System consoles, “Launch countermeasures, on my mark.”

His eyes widened when he realized that his weapons capability had been replaced by a bunch of civilian science geeks who simply stared at him with gaping mouths.

“Conn, Sonar. Two more fish in the water. Bearing two-eight-five and two-eight-seven. 35 knots. Range 2,000 yards.”

“XO, sound action stations,” Jameson ordered his Executive Officer, “and take us down. Fast.”

The XO began shouting orders at the other crew members and within seconds, the submarine rang like a bell to the sound of flood proof hatches being slammed shut, valves pulsing open and the terrifying sound of air venting and ballast tanks being rapidly filled with seawater.

Alarms sounded. Lights flashed.

Leah almost lost her footing as the submarine went into a sharp dive, empty soda cans on Juan’s workstation slide every which way and Dave struggled to keep Leah from falling.

All three of them looked to the captain for reassurance that everything was all under control. The whole ‘torpedoes in the water’ thing had yet to register in their civilian brains.

Strobing emergency lights limned the captain’s face. Gone were the GQ Magazine dimples and smile, replaced instead by the firm, angular lines of a battle ready submarine captain. With no countermeasures and no weapons with which to launch an attack, the U.S. Navy’s Silent Assassin had just become someone’s idea of target practice.

“Who said science missions were boring,” whispered the captain as he strapped himself into his seat.

Chapter 2

November 8, 2017, 01:00 UTC

Joint Defence Facility

Pine Gap, Central Australia

23°47′ 56.4" S 133°44′ 13.2" W

Jack Coulson hated the heat. He hated the buzzing flies that swarmed around him. He hated swallowing mouthfuls of desert sand each time he opened his mouth. In short, he hated Australia, or more accurately, he hated the Central Australian desert. It made sense that the NSA chose to build its strategic spy satellite base there in the 1960’s at the height of the Cold War. It was in the middle of, quite literally, nowhere and far away from prying eyes and ears especially those of the Russian and Chinese spy ships that were routinely and openly intercepting transmissions.

The sprawling facility looked as if a family of giants had abandoned a game of mini golf with its collection of mammoth golf ball like structures shielding the top secret satellite dishes within from view. Overhead spy satellites couldn’t even see in which direction the dishes were aimed thanks to the golf balls or Radomes as they were more correctly known. The highly unorthodox appearance of the remote facility gives no clue as to its true purpose. It is well documented that Pine Gap, the CIA’s largest and most important intelligence facility, provides intelligence gathering capability with eyes over North Korea, China, Russia and the Middle East. The original intent was that Pine Gap be part of an early warning system should a foreign power launch a nuclear strike against the United States, but over time morphed into the largest intelligence listening post on earth.

In recent years, despite the thawing of the Cold War, counter terrorism operations have greatly enhanced the operational and tactical role of the Pine Gap facility within the U.S. intelligence community while it still maintains its original surveillance monitoring function.

“Pine Gap… where careers go to die.” Jack, one of the most experienced intelligence operatives in the Security and Intelligence Directorate and he could feel the long arm of DARPA behind his rushed posting to the middle of nowhere.

Jack stood outside in the stifling heat wondering for the hundredth time that day who it was that he’d had pissed off so much. He might not be at the ass end of the world, but he sure as hell didn’t need an oversized radar dish to see it from where he stood. Someone above his paygrade had to have laughed his ass off when he signed Jack’s orders for transfer. He was convinced it was an administrative screw up. A typical military FUBAR screw up.

His mood wasn’t helped any by the change of time zones together with the lack of sleep in the cold, utilitarian cabin of the C-130 that delivered him to his final destination.

“Time to hit the chow hall, Jack?” Sam Krupsky slapped him on the back as he came up behind.

Suddenly Jack was in the shade. Sam was a big unit. So big he blocked out the hot Australian sun as he stood beside Jack in his rumpled, sweat stained fatigues.

“Good call. God knows how many time zones I’ve crossed in the past 48 hours. I can’t remember the last time I ate or slept. The way I’m feeling right now I’m not sure if I want a shit or a haircut. What day is it here, anyway?”

“It’s Wednesday, one of the security detail who showed me around told me they have pork sausages and eggs benedict with bacon on Wednesdays.” Sam licked his lips at the thought.

“Is that all you think about, Sam? Your stomach?” Jack asked lightheartedly.

“Thinking about food is probably better than wasting time trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing here. I never thought I’d say this, but this place has to be a hundred times more boring than GITMO.” To emphasize his loathing of his current posting, he spat on the path between his feet.

Jack crinkled his nose in disgust as the pavement oyster sizzled on the hot concrete.

“I’m a navy man, I should be able to at least smell the ocean. What am I doing in the middle of the desert?”

Sam had been based at Guantanamo Bay but Jack was there only briefly to make the connection to his Australian assignment. During the long haul flight from GITMO, when Sam’s head wasn’t buried in an airsickness bag, the two men learned a few things about each other. They had two things in common. Neither knew what they’d done to deserve the Pine Gap punishment. Secondly, they both hated the heat. Sam said it was because it reminded him of The Gulf. Jack just plain hated it. Period.

Other than that, the two men were a study in contrasts. Jack was regarded by most women as ruggedly handsome and with his abundance of well groomed, jet black hair he looked more like a corporate executive than an intelligence operative. Lithe, narrow-waisted and broad shouldered, Jack had an athletic look about him, a look that was partly a function of the genes he’d been born with and partly the many hours of disciplined work in the gym. He took pride in his appearance and to the casual observer he appeared to be a man who could look after himself. Jack exuded an aura of proficiency and self-assurance that only those familiar with the rigorous training regime of an elite Special Forces unit would recognize.

Krupsky was just a hulk of a genetic anomaly. He was huge and powerfully built, despite doing only as much PT work as the Navy required. He’d joined the Navy as soon as he was legally able with the notion that he’d like to become a Navy diver. He soon learned they didn’t make diving suits his size and had to settle for an assortment of duties over time before finding his true talent, which also happened to be his passion.

By his own admission, Sam had a face ‘like a bashed crab’ and often joked that he ended up in a foster home because his own parents couldn’t stand to look at him. The shock of red hair that crowned the menacing lines of his face didn’t do him any favors, either, buzz cut on the sides and flat across the top.

Ironically, the ubiquitous red dust that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction covered Sam’s boots so they almost matched his hair, making him look like some kind of demented burger clown.

“And if this place isn’t strange enough, everyone here calls me ‘Bluey’. What’s that about?” Sam asked although it was clear he didn’t expect Jack to have any more idea than he did.

Jack shrugged. “Maybe it’s some weird Aussie humor? Either way, my care factor is zero. I don’t plan on being here long enough to learn the local customs. Or the language.”

“Well, it’s a stupid name. I hate it.”

After looking down at Sam’s red, dusty boots Jack craned his neck to look him in the eyes. “Are you planning to go to the colonel’s office looking like that?” Jack’s boots, like his well-fitted uniform were spotless, despite mileage they had endured.

“Looking like what?” Sam looked confused as he gave himself a quick once-over before making his way to the main administration building.

* * *

The colonel was a solid and compact fireplug of a man and he clearly kept himself in shape, despite his age, which Jack guessed was mid-fifties. Old school from his combat ready boots to his high and tight haircut, the colonel had the bearing of an officer with a history of leading men through skirmishes. The white crescent shaped suture scars on his scalp hinted that the man had seen his share of action in his time. Jack was curious as to why a hardened combat veteran would be stationed at a remote intelligence facility. He was even more curious as to why both he and the oversized navy man were standing to attention before him.

“At ease men. I’m Colonel Daniels, Chuck Daniels.” The colonel gestured for them to take a seat before taking his own.

He gave Jack a penetrating stare. “Captain Coulson, your reputation precedes you.”

“Reputation, sir?” An uneasiness stirred within Jack.

“Your reputation for finding trouble, or should I say, for trouble finding you.”

“The rumors are exaggerated, colonel.”

“I’m not talking about the rumors, Coulson.” He again fixed a piercing gaze on Jack.

Sam watched the exchange with interest. The air was thick with tension.

“Let’s begin,” the colonel addressed both men this time, “what we are about to discuss cannot, I repeat cannot go beyond this room. Is that clearly understood?”

“Yes sir,” both men responded.

“One of our Virginia Class submarines has gone dark during a scientific mission under the Antarctic Ice Cap. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency funded mission was a collaboration between civilian scientists and a the Navy,” the colonel looked to Krupsky as if to indicate why he had been summoned, “using a modified sub, the USS Barracuda, the mission was to survey measure the ice shelf and the land masses below it.”

Daniels turned his attention to Coulson.

“I don’t need to tell you the strategic advantage of being able to navigate Boomers directly under the ice cap,” he continued.

Sam leaned slightly closer to Jack. “A Boomer’s a sub full of ballistic nukes.” He nodded authoritatively.

“I know what a Boomer is, thanks Bluey.” Jack was beginning to get a feel for why he had been called in.

“As I was saying… we’ve lost contact with the sub. The protocol was for the captain,” Daniels rifled through the file on his otherwise empty desk, “Jameson, Captain Frank Jameson, to surface at 18:00 hours each day to report and upload via satellite link the data collected during that day’s survey.”

“When did they last report, colonel?” Jack asked.

“Good question. They didn’t. All we know is that they reached the Ronne Ice Shelf and began testing the civilian designed submersible and failed to log even one report after that. We have satellite coverage but it can’t help us see what’s going on below the ice shelf.”

“So what are we doing here, in the middle of the desert? Why didn’t DARPA ship us direct to McMurdo Station?” Krupsky felt it was time he asked a question to let the colonel know that Jack wasn’t the only one who could ask good questions and he knew that McMurdo was the largest U.S. scientific base on the Antarctic continent.

“Gentlemen, leave your cell phones on my desk and come with me. There’s something here you need to see and we couldn’t risk transmitting it, not even through encrypted channels.”

Krupsky and Coulson exchanged curious glances. They’d both been in their respective military branch long enough to recognize an ominous undertone when they heard it. Whatever they were about to be briefed on, they knew it was nothing good.

* * *

The cramped elevator plummeted deep into the bowels of the earth, or so it felt to Sam as he hunched to avoid slicing his head on the egg crate grille covering the dim overhead lights. Jack did his best to mask his surprise. Like most, he’d always assume that the Pine Gap base was a ground installation. There had never been any speculation, not even among the tin-foil-hat brigade who protested in favor of its closure, that there was far more to the base than was visible from ground level. If only they knew.

“I won’t insult you both by telling you that you were never here and that this part of the installation is above Top Secret and for good reason. Even the President isn’t aware of this facility and we’d like to keep it that way, as I’m sure you’d understand,” Colonel Daniels advised them as the elevator came to an abrupt halt, causing Sam to hunch even further.

The doors hissed open and revealed a brightly lit and cavernous space almost a football field in length and half as wide again. It was filled with massive wall mounted screens, banks of computer monitors attended by men and women wearing a variety of different uniforms. At first glance, it was plain to see that this was a joint operation between all divisions of the military who appeared to be working in harmony like a well-oiled machine. Again, the two outsiders shared a glanced.

“Follow me,” the colonel ordered, stepping through the doors with Jack and Sam trailing in his wake.

When he reached a glass walled conference room, the colonel paused as the facial recognition camera verified his identity before lighting up the biometric scanner with a pulsing green light, indicating that it was ready for him to present his finger for further corroboration. Security in the facility was second to none, Jack observed but remained silent.

The heavy glass doors sucked open and Jack noted that the doors, like the walls, were glass-clad polycarbonate, the most effective bullet resistant glass available. He couldn’t fathom why such precautions would be necessary in a top secret facility buried deep in the Central Australian desert. Some things were just not adding up the way they should. The covert operative senses in him became heightened when things didn’t feel right. Krupsky, he suspected, had the same misgivings.

As they entered the room, Daniels hit a button on a recessed wall panel and the clear glass of the fishbowl in which they found themselves instantly became opaque, giving them privacy from the eyes in the operations center. As the lights dimmed, a television screen that would leave even the best home theatre system green with envy lowered from the ceiling and the colonel gestured that they be seated.

“As you gentlemen are probably aware, the Antarctic, despite the sprinkling of research bases around its edges, is largely unexplored. The reasons for that are many, but suffice to say that it’s the harshest and most inhospitable place on earth.”

“Present location excepted,” Krupsky whispered to Jack.

Colonel Daniels trained his steely gaze on Sam. He was either not impressed by the interruption or with the reference to what amounted to his base. Most likely both.

Sam folded his arms and stared hard at the screen to avoid the colonel’s icy stare. He looked like a naughty schoolboy in spite of his stature and the fact that be barely fit in the boardroom chair he’d squeezed himself into.

“If I may continue… apart from being a scientific curiosity, there’s little of strategic value down there and the climate is so harsh it doesn’t even support permanent life, save for the odd penguin colony on the coast. No Polar Bears, no Orca’s. Nothing. It’s just too damn cold for anything to survive. That’s why we don’t waste expensive satellite resources monitoring what’s going on down there. Because nothing ever goes on down there.”

“Until now,” Jack politely interjected.

“Correct. Until now,” Daniels confirmed.

Sam glanced askance at Jack, showing his annoyance that he wasn’t given a reprimand for interrupting. But he figured that since the other two were both army and he was navy, he shouldn’t expect the same regard.

Palming a small remote, Colonel Daniels brought the big screen to life, displaying what was clearly a satellite image. As it progressed through a slide show, each image zoomed tighter and tighter as if the photographs were taken from a drone rather than a satellite in low earth orbit. The resolution was staggering in its detail. What was initially a small speck of black in a panoramic vista of white ice took shape as the images continued to zoom in.

“That’s not what I think it is?” Jack quizzed, leaning forward to get a closer look at the screen.

Jack turned to Sam who quirked a brow encouraging Jack to voice his opinion aloud.

“A sail. It’s a submarine sail, right?” Coulson looked from side to side seeking confirmation from either man.

“No,” Sam said as he leaned back in his chair as best he could, “it’s not a sail. Modern nuclear submarines have sails. What you’re looking at is something nobody has seen outside of a maritime museum in over 70 years.” Slapping Jack on the shoulder, he continued, “That, my friend is a conning tower from a Second World War submarine.”

Colonel Daniels nodded in agreement but remained silent to allow Sam to continue.

“And if I’m not mistaken,” Sam added, “judging by its size, shape and the rakish lines of the conning tower, it’s a Kriegsmarine Type XXI U-Boat. But that’s impossible—”

“Far from it, Mr. Krupsky. I’m pleased to see we didn’t waste a berth on the GITMO flight. You may yet live up to expectations.”

Jack raised his hand. Now it was his turn to play the schoolboy. “Am I the only one here who’s surprised that I’m being shown a photograph of what looks like a perfectly preserved Nazi submarine buried in the ice near the South Pole? Why has this just been discovered now?”

“I’m no oceanographer, Captain Coulson, but the squints out there have written some goddam report about thinning of the ice sheet and some kind of subglacial volcanic eruption forcing the sub up through the ice. Then again, the report suggests they don’t really know shit from clay about how it got there, but they need to come up with something, right?”

“Great,” Jack huffed.

“Something to contribute Captain?”

“Sorry sir. It’s just that the pocket protector patrol, the squints as you call them, aren’t my favorite people right now. It’s because of them that my last mission got so royally screwed.”

“Alright, so that explains why I’m here, I guess. You need a navy grunt on board whatever mission you’re planning, right?” Sam threw in, cutting off the discussion between Jack and the colonel.

“In part,” Daniels responded, “we need a navy man on this expedition with a particular skill set and your stock went up ten points thanks to the time you’ve spent volunteering at the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry restoring the U-505 submarine. That could prove useful. Plenty of navy men know their way around a nuclear attack submarine, but a Second World War German U-Boat, let’s just say that it proved challenging to say the least when we searched the personnel database.”

“Skill set? You have a skill set?” Jack looked Sam up and down as if to elicit what his special skill could be from his sheer size.

“Let’s not worry about that now. The colonel hasn’t finished his briefing.”

Now he wants to be quiet, Jack thought.

“Speaking of museums,” Jack turned to the colonel, “isn’t this more of a historical shipwreck recovery mission, better suited to a civilian group?”

Now it was the colonel and Krupsky exchanging a look of understanding.

“Ordinarily yes. Sam, do you want to bring the captain up to speed?”

A shit eating grin beamed from Krupsky’s face. “Gladly, sir.”

Sam awkwardly eased himself out of the undersized chair and stood opposite Jack before continuing. “After the Second World War, the Nazis, particularly the SS, reportedly commandeered every functioning submarine they could and loaded them with all the gold, diamonds and art work they could get their dirty little hands on.”

Jack nodded, so far, Sam hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know from watching History Channel. He was less than impressed with what Sam brought to the table from his work at the science museum.

“So, we know many of these subs surrendered. We also know some were torpedoed by Allied ships and submarines. Many more were scuttled by their own captains. The point is that we can account for, more or less, every such German sub. If there’s one thing the Nazi’s did well it was keep meticulous records. Between what we know from their accounts combined with the Allied forces accounts… well, let’s say that the notion of finding a mystery sub full of Nazi gold is highly unlikely, although it might make a good movie.”

“Okay, so there’s no gold. I still don’t see where we come into the equation.”

Krupsky turned to the colonel who nodded for him to take his seat.

“It’s not just gold and art those guys spirited away,” the colonel resumed the briefing, “there were many unconfirmed reports that some of Hitler’s most secret and highly advanced weapons were also bound for Argentina and other secret submarine bases.

“One of those bases was reportedly hidden under the Antarctic Ice Shelf, although that has never been proven. We need to get to that sub and see for ourselves what’s in there. It may be nothing, but we can’t afford to take that chance. If it is significant, we need to secure it before someone else does.

“We need to secure the area and that submarine as the primary objective. After that, we can worry about finding the missing nuclear sub. I’ve been running covert operations too long to believe in coincidences. There’s no such thing.

Jack paused for a moment to digest what the colonel was suggesting. His eyes narrowed as he spoke his mind to the colonel, “And who’s leading this Indiana Jones mission to the Antarctic, sir?”

The colonel pointed a stubby finger directly at Jack’s chest. “You are, captain.”

There was only one thing Jack hated more than the heat and dust.

And that was the cold and snow.

Chapter 3

November 8, 2017, 03:00 UTC

Joint Defence Facility

Pine Gap, Central Australia

23°47′ 56.4" S 133°44′ 13.2" W

Captain Jack Coulson, like Colonel Daniels, had also been around covert ops long enough to know when something wasn’t quite right. Need to know basis was all well and good but a mission this unique and in such unforgiving terrain and weather, with a missing nuclear submarine thrown into the mix was usually a mission that required all available intel to make it work. There was more to the mission than the colonel had shared at the briefing but Jack doubted even he knew the full story. Someone sure as hell knew what was going on and he hoped it wasn’t going to turn into a complete cluster like his last mission.

No such thoughts went through Sam Krupsky’s mind as he wolfed down mouthful after mouthful of Aussie party pies and sausage rolls piled high on two plates as the two men sat in the mess hall awaiting their equipment to be requisitioned and loaded for transport to the Antarctic.

“Did you leave any for the rest of the base?” Jack asked dryly. The way he devoured his food, barely chewing it at all, Jack was reminded of a county fair hot-dog eating contest.

Wiping a drizzle of ketchup from his chin then licking it from his finger, Sam responded with his mouth full, “These things are delicious. Think they’ll let me take some on the plane? It’s a long flight.”

It took a minute for it to dawn on Jack that he was actually serious. They were about to, quite literally, fly to the ass end of the earth, secure a Nazi U-Boat stuck in a polar ice pack, and then try to find a mislaid U.S. Navy nuclear attack submarine… and this guy was worried about how much food he could take on the flight. Shaking his head slowly, Jack felt the specter of that bad feeling wash over him again. He had no appetite at all.

Looking out the window at their next ride, a modified Airbus KC-30 aerial refueling tanker on loan from the Royal Australian Air Force, something bugged Jack but he couldn’t work out what it was. There were too many questions and he began to think he was worrying needlessly. Ground crews were busy loading skids of equipment into the cargo space below the belly of the aircraft which housed the passenger compartment and air-to-air refueling tanks.

Although a strange choice of transport for their mission, Colonel Daniels explained that it was the only aircraft available in the region that had the fuel capacity and range to make the 8,500 mile journey to the ice shelf. At the time, Jack was too preoccupied with mission logistics to question how the huge tactical airlift transport would land on a runway carved into the ice. The question and the solution would soon come together as his combat ready brain processed the information his senses took in, on a subconscious level.

* * *

Krupsky had finally stopped eating long enough for them to gear up, check each other’s equipment and make their way to the KC-30, which was loaded, fueled to the brim and undergoing pre-flight checks for an immediate departure. Jack checked his watch as they left the hanger, “Better pick up the pace, Bluey, wheels up in 5 minutes,” he called over his shoulder. Dust devils spiraled across the surrounding desert sands and the heat shimmer rising from the baking tarmac distorted the distance to the transport. He couldn’t wait to get airborne.

“Maybe they’ll go without me if I’m late,” replied Sam, short of breath as he struggled to keep up with his more athletic comrade. “I’m Navy and proud of it. My golf handicap wasn’t good enough to join the Chair Force. Besides, I don’t like heights.

“This ought to be interesting, then”, Jack murmured as he sprinted toward the waiting aircraft.

Jack stopped so suddenly that Sam almost slammed into the back of him. “I thought we were in some almighty rush?”

Raising his hand to silence Sam, Jack looked through the heat haze, toward the distant black specs in the distance.

“Helicopters at 3 o’clock. Six of them.” Jack pointed to the horizon for Sam’s benefit.

“So? We’re on a U.S. military base in the desert. I’d be more surprised if there weren’t any helicopters.”

Jack shielded his eyes from the glaring sun and tried to get a better view. “But these aren’t military choppers. They’re civilian and they shouldn’t be anywhere near our airspace.”

As the choppers got closer their identity became clearer to Jack, but Krupsky was still confused. As a keen mountain climber, Jack remembered vividly the Eurocopter AS350 B3 which landed on Everest in 2005 at an altitude of 29,029 feet. It had been unheard of for any rotary wing aircraft, least of all one in unmodified factory specification. The approaching formation had the same recognizable silhouette to Jack’s trained eye. He had an almost eidetic memory for such things, especially as his life usually depended on it.

“What color would you say they are, Sam?”

Sam squinted, “Maybe red, if I had to guess.”

“Like firefighting choppers, right?”

“I suppose. We don’t see too many of them in port.”

“So,” mused Jack to himself as much as Krupsky, “why are they in echelon formation?”

“What formation?” asked Sam.

“That’s a standard attack formation for Blackhawks and the like. Not firefighters.”

As he spoke, a trail of vapor corkscrewed from one of the inbound helicopters. Jack had seen enough Hellfire air-to-surface missiles in his day to recognize the distinctive vapor trail. As he sprinted toward the tanker transport he shouted to Krupsky, “Incoming. Move your ass.”

Sam didn’t wait for a second invitation. He, too, had seen his share of air-to-surface missiles and knew first-hand the destruction they could wreak. Suddenly, cured of his fear of flying Sam nearly overtook Jack as they both bolted to the stairs of the waiting aircraft. Jack took the steps two at a time, shouting to the ground crew to clear the portable stairs and take cover as he reached the top.

Without waiting for Sam, Jack surged past the loadmaster who had been waiting to brief them on arrival and made his way to the cockpit. Both pilots turned as he burst through the cockpit door, alarmed at the unexpected and unorthodox intrusion.

The pilot in command confronted Jack, “What’s the meaning—”

Jack pointed outside the flight deck window. Both pilots followed his gesture and their eyes widened in understanding as they saw the incoming missile. Dispensing with the usual protocol, they checked that the stairs were clear and began to taxi toward the runway.

“We’re out of here, go get strapped in,” the other pilot called over his shoulder.

Jack was already gone.

Looking out the windows, he could see more plumes of smoke as missile after missile was released from what he could now see were sidepods mounted to the former civilian helicopters. “Sneaky bastards.”

“You can say that again,” agreed Sam. “Is it a coincidence that this is happening just as we’re jetting to the South Pole?”

“You heard the colonel. There’s no such thing as coincidence in this game.”

“Game?” Sam asked.

“Welcome to covert ops, Bluey. You’re not in the Navy anymore.”

As if to punctuate his words, the first missiles hit their targets, turning the giant golf balls into flaming ruins, one by one.

“They’re knocking out our eyes and ears first. Very clever.” Jack had to admire their tactics. It’s exactly what he would have done in their place and after that, he’d —

“Oh, shit!” Again he sprinted toward the flight deck to warn the pilots that the runway would be the next target. As he approached, it became obvious that the Australian pilots were well aware of the next phase of the attack as they pushed the throttle levers all the way home and the ungainly aircraft began to pick up speed. There was nothing else Jack could do, so he made his way back to Sam who had already shoehorned himself into one of the passenger seats, across the aisle from the terrified loadmaster.

Jack cast a questioning glance at the loadmaster, then to Sam.

“He’s never been shot at before. Apparently, this is his first deployment.”

“Great. We get the work experience boy on this mission,” sighed Jack. “It just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?”

The jet engines screamed with a deafening roar and the entire airframe shuddered in protest, but within a few seconds the aircraft left the ground, its nose pointing skyward. Jack began to noticeably relax, confident that within minutes they would be out of range of the choppers, making a course to their mission objective.

“Well, if these guys get us out of this in one piece, I’ll never call them the Chair Force again and that’s a spit promise.” With that he spat in his hand and held it out for Jack to shake.

Screwing up his nose in revulsion, Jack fastened his belt and folded his arms.

Sam was not growing on him. Not one bit.

Jack let out a sigh and pulled a mini commando knife from his belt and began honing the blade with a small ceramic whetstone.

It was going to be one very long flight to the South Pole.

Chapter 4

November 8, 2017, 05:00 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

Depth 1500 feet

Tension in the confined hull of the Barracuda was palpable. Navy personnel and civilian scientists were an abrasive combination in even the most convivial environments, but in a tactical situation, enclosed in a steel tube below the ice pack and with an unseen enemy firing at them, it was fair to say that the atmosphere was at flashpoint. For two days they had played cat and mouse with their unidentified adversary with no chance of being able to return fire. Their only hope rested with their ability to remain silent and invisible. No longer the lethal attack sub it had once been, the Barracuda was now rendered impotent by the very scientists it was tasked with protecting.

“I can’t apologize for the order, the safety of the men and women aboard this boat depended on it, but I can empathize, Mr. Alvarez.” Again Captain Jameson tried to ease the tension. If they were going to survive this, they needed to work together, as unpleasant as that might be for all concerned.

Juan’s eyes blazed with anger. “Nellie took two years to develop and she cost over five million dollars.” Passion for the little sub laced his words.

“And I’m responsible for a two and a half billion dollar state-of-the-art submarine and the lives of those onboard.

Those damn fish were targeting the only thing on this vessel not rigged to avoid sonar detection. That pet of yours was painting a target on our backs. I had to jettison it. I’d do the same again if it meant saving your life and the other lives I’m ultimately responsible for. That’s my job. There’s only one captain on this boat, Mr. Alvarez and you’d better start getting used to that.”

The conversation wasn’t going quite the way Frank Jameson intended, but he was a submarine commander, not a politician.

Leah felt the need to defuse the unresolvable conflict and wanted to be the first to acknowledge the dangerous elephant in the room. “Now that the alarms have been turned off and we’re not being shot at, for the moment, would somebody care to tell me why the hell somebody is trying to blow up an oceanographic research sub? And just as important as the why is the who.”

Leah’s eyes flicked back and forth between Jameson and Durand. Both men shared a troubled glance before Captain Jameson explained, “We don’t know for sure. Whatever is down here with us is damn near as undetectable as we are. Our sonar detected nothing until it launched its fish.”

“Who else has a submarine as advanced as this?” quizzed Leah, “I thought the Barracuda was the most advanced submarine in the world.”

Jameson paused to consider how much to share with his civilian passengers before continuing, “Every new sub is the most advanced in the world, until someone builds a newer one. It can’t be the Chinese. As much as they might like to carve out a chunk of Antarctic real estate for themselves, they don’t have the sub technology to blindside us like that. So, that leaves only one possible option, but it makes no sense… no sense at all…”

“The Russians,” Durand finished the captain’s sentence for him, “only the Russians have a sub that can operate in full stealth mode and if the captain’s, right then God help us all if we have a Yasen class sub hunting us.”

“Why?” Leah’s voice wavered, unsure if she really wanted to hear the answer to her question.

Jameson answered, “Because the Yasen class is the deadliest nuclear attack sub to launch since the height of the Cold War. It’s silent, fast and just one of them is loaded with enough cruise missiles and torpedoes to start its own war.

“So what do we do now?” This time it was Dave Sutton who asked the question on everyone’s lips.

The captain held up a hand and began counting off his long, slender fingers, “One, we can’t outrun it. The second we power up and make speed, it will most likely get weapons lock on us again, now that their computers have identified our acoustic signature once already, it will be a snap second time around.

“Two, we can’t go toe to toe and trade punches like Ali and Foreman in Rumble in the Jungle… we have no weapons. Our entire weapons systems were stripped out to make way for your science toys. We don’t have dick to fire back at them and even less in the way of countermeasures.”

“We’re a sitting duck,” Durand added, as if they might have missed the take away lesson from the captain’s colorful metaphor.

Leah’s brow pinched. “Rumble in the where?”

All four men rolled eyes as they faced her.

Juan sat upright, leaning forward to join the discussion, the fire in his eyes had dulled and he looked to the captain with renewed respect. A man who liked his boxing couldn’t be all bad, even if he had murdered Nellie.

Again, Dave gave voice to a question on their minds, “Shouldn’t we be asking ourselves why, as Leah suggested earlier?”

The look they all shared suggested that Dave made a fair point. But nobody dared hazard a guess.

* * *

Alvarez had been pissed right from the moment he’d been ordered to release the docking clamps securing Nellie to the outer hull of the sub. The hatch to the pressure hull always remained sealed, so there was no risk of flooding by letting her go. It was the captain’s ulterior motive that made Juan bristle with anger each time he replayed the scenario in his mind.

Nellie had been sacrificed. She’d been cut loose and allowed to resume her pre-programmed grid pattern, sonar pings firing in a constant array as she went about her designated mission, oblivious to the fact that she had become a decoy. The shock waves from the torpedo explosions rocked the Barracuda violently, causing significant damage to the propulsion and communications systems. Luckily, the life support systems remained fully functional and the Evaporation Plant and Oxygen Generator were able to produce a continual flow of oxygen from distilled seawater. And seawater was the only thing they had in abundance right now.

As proud as Juan was that his pride and joy had saved them all by leading the deadly torpedoes away from the Barracuda, he was still overwhelmed at the loss of years of research and development. To occupy his time during their ‘silent running’ time while repairs were made, he’d worked with his sonar counterpart, Dave, to clean up the data brought back by Nellie on her maiden and final voyage.

With nothing else to occupy their time, the antisocial pair of science nerds stared for hours at their computer monitors as their fingers danced across their keyboards with lightning agility. Dr. Leah Anderson watched with interest from her own workstation as the two argued, shared information and raced to beat each other to various solutions, all at the same time. They were just competitive enough to spur each other on but not so much that they sabotaged their work by trying to beat each other unfairly. A friendly spirit of cooperative competition, that’s how she defined it. She knew she’d selected well when she chose them. She only wished she was as adept at choosing companions for herself.

“Okay, I think I’ve got it, this time.” The excitement raised the pitch in Juan’s voice an octave.

“He’s right.” Dave nodded to Leah. “It looks good.”

“You’ve been saying that for two days, now, guys,” groaned Leah as she leaned into their curved wall of monitors.

“No, seriously, I take back what I said about Juan’s code being buggy. It’s not. He’s cleaned up my sonar data and the resolution is amazing.” He pointed to the center screen where a detailed 3D vector graphic was building, line by line, pixel by pixel.

The 3D image Leah was looking at was similar but more detailed than they had worked with when their project was in the testing phase. It clearly showed the thickness and undulations of the ice shelf. The strata of the ice was more or less uniform but for an anomalous bulge in the middle of the graphic. “So there really is a gigantic iceberg encased in the ice shelf.”

“Technically it’s an ice mountain,” commented Captain Jameson who had quietly positioned himself behind Leah and leaned in to see what was getting the geeks so worked up.

His warm breath cascaded down the nape of Leah’s neck, causing goosebumps to erupt on her exposed flesh. As she inhaled, the subtle scent of his aftershave brought back memories. Highly inappropriate memories given the circumstances. She stood abruptly to shake off the unwelcome reminiscence.

“An ice mountain is a—”

“We know what an ice mountain is, thank you captain,” Leah broke in, immediately sorry she spoke so severely.

The three scientists knew full well that in this case what they were looking at was a massive chunk of glacial ice that had broken off at some point in the past 30,000 years and been refrozen inside the icepack as sea ice formed around it. The term ice mountain was somewhat misleading as the bulk of the mountain was actually under the ice, not above it as the term ‘mountain’ might suggest.

“It’s huge,” whispered Dave with a reverence that they all felt. “It’s like, the largest one I’ve ever heard of.”

“Roger that,” Jameson agreed.

“But this makes no sense.” Leah pointed to a dark void in the top third of the upside down mountain. Can’t the sonar or software make out what’s there?”

“That’s the point,” Dave spoke with confidence, “there’s nothing there. It’s an enormous cavern that begins below sea level and continues upward for many stories inside this mountain.” He prodded the image on the screen for emphasis.

Juan shoved a handful of pretzels into his mouth and smiled as he chomped, crumbs raining down the front of his ‘It’s a Browncoat Thing’ T-shirt. He’d told them his code was solid. But there was no need to rub their doubts in their faces.

Leah chewed her bottom lip, an expression of deep thought on her face. Before unexpectedly moving to La Jolla to join one of the most respected Oceanography Institutes in the world to pursue her childhood passion for marine life and the sea, Leah had been on a fast track to becoming one of the brightest Quantum Mechanics stars at Stanford. The Quantum Physics department was a second home to her and her professors were shocked and disappointed when she changed disciplines and cities so suddenly.

While the oceanographer in her marveled at the sight of the magnificent ice mountain and it’s inner void, the engineer in her couldn’t help but wonder if what they were looking at wasn’t a natural phenomenon at all. She was about voice her observation before her thoughts were interrupted.

“What’s that, over there?” Captain Jameson’s eye was drawn to an elongated shape in the ice a short distance from the void they’d been focused on.

All eyes were now on the mystery object.

“How long is it, Dave?” asked the captain.

Dave studied the 3D graphic and looked to Juan for guidance. “Maybe 250 feet long and, say, 20 feet high?”

Juan nodded in agreement, his mouth brimful with pretzels.

Jameson let out a quiet whistle as he exhaled.

* * *

Captain Frank Jameson was a career navy man a submariner, like his father and his grandfather. While other kids were playing Nintendo, Frank was watching The Enemy Below, Run Silent, Run Deep and Hunt for Red October. Over and over again. His grandfather, retired Admiral Hunter Jameson, often watch the movies with him and if he was lucky, young Frank might hear a story or two about grandpa’s service during the war.

One such story he’d almost forgotten because it wasn’t so memorable to a young boy as it didn’t involve a decisive victory or something blowing up. It was a chase grandpa had lost. The German U-Boat he’d been stalking off the coast of Argentina had got away. Grandpa joked that it had fled to a secret Nazi submarine base hidden deep in the Antarctic ice shelf rather than face his swift and deadly torpedoes.

He’d thought the whole story was made up because grandpa Hunter had run out of real ones. Then during his Naval Submarine School training, he’d read about the extraordinary post war mission led by the famous Admiral Byrd, who before the war had been an accomplished arctic and Antarctic explorer. During the substantial and highly unusual ‘Operation High Jump’ mission, Byrd had led a colossal expedition of some 4,700 men, an armada of ships, including one aircraft carrier and a fleet of aircraft to the Antarctic where they photographed and searched over half a million square miles of Antarctic ice. The U.S. government had called it a ‘training exercise’. Conspiracy theorists, in the wake of the much publicized Roswell UFO crash in 1947, claimed it was a search for another crashed UFO.

Captain Jameson wondered if they had unwittingly stumbled across what his grandfather had once chased and what Admiral Byrd had been searching for many years later.

“Christ on a bike,” he mouthed. When Leah, Dave and Juan turned to face him, he was aware that he’d spoken aloud.

Chapter 5

November 11, 1944

Gandau Airfield

Breslau (now known as Wroclaw)

Poland

Obergruppenführer Hans Kammler was arguably the most powerful general in the Third Reich. Some would say the most powerful figure in all of Nazi Germany, yet few knew anything about him and fewer still had ever seen him, as photographs of SS General Kammler were extremely rare. It would not be for some years before the true genius and abhorrently evil nature of Dr. Hans Kammler would be unveiled. By then, it would be too late.

Even U.S. General Dwight Eisenhower, himself the single most significant general of the second world war and future president of the United States of America, credited Kammler with being only months away from developing weapons that might have cost the Allies the war.

Coupled with his undeniable engineering brilliance, Dr. Kammler’s natural sociopathic tendencies accelerated his rise through the ranks of the Waffen-SS from the very early years of the war. Widely acknowledged as the chief architect of the death camps, Kammler’s most satisfying assignment was overseer of ‘Special Projects’, reporting directly to the Fuhrer himself. The task was well suited to his sociopathic personality and his engineering capabilities. Only after Hitler removed the Luftwaffe from the V1 rocket program and handed command of the program to Dr. Kammler did the German rocket program begin to reach its full potential.

Within months, Kammler’s rocket program produced what might have been the most deadly weapon ever devised — the V2 rocket. While the V1 struck terror throughout London as they rained down on the city with little warning, the Spitfire pilots and anti-aircraft gunners could still bring them down. It became a question of how many would reach their target.

Rocket scientist Werner von Braun proposed a bold and radical rocket design in which Kammler’s foresight and vision saw great destructive potential — a rocket that could touch the fringes of space on its pre-programmed trajectory before plummeting vertically at terrifying speed to its target. The V2 rocket was impossible to intercept and unleashed catastrophic destruction and unimaginable carnage due to its specially designed warhead payload. If he could overcome the crude sabotage attempts by the Jews and Polaks who worked in the highly toxic underground factories producing the unstable rocket fuels, Kammler might yet launch enough V2’s to turn the tide in Germany’s favor.

The V2 rocket was the first man made vehicle to reach space, an honor Kammler proudly shared with von Braun, but their collaboration had not yet reached its zenith. The next generation would fly through low earth orbit before re-entering the atmosphere, directly over the United States of America.

None of this was of any interest to the general as he stood at the edge of the muddy airfield dressed in his immaculate uniform and polished boots, awaiting the arrival of a cargo so critical to his research that he felt compelled to supervise the unloading himself. His commanding, black SS uniform was not the reason why most of the airfield personnel avoided him. None of them wanted the attention of the man who commanded the largest contingent of slave labor in all of Europe. There was no point in risking the displeasure of such an imposing and fearsome figure.

When the heavy transport plane came into view, Kammler marveled at the beauty of the engineering masterpiece. As a gifted engineer himself, the design of the twin tailed transport aircraft was not lost on him. The Junkers 390 was an awe inspiring aircraft that left those not well versed in the ways of aeronautical engineering amazed that something so enormous could take off and actually remain aloft. Just as unbelievable was its previously unheard of 6,000 mile range. With a wingspan of over 160 feet, the flying behemoth would become the first German aircraft to bomb New York City, when it had completed its development. In the meantime, it had more important work to do for the Reich.

The six powerful BMW radial engines produced a thunderous roar as the pilot expertly touched down on the extended runway. Kammler released a breath that he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding. At the end of the runway, the aircraft braked to a stop and soon the ear shattering exhaust of the engines was replaced by a symphony of pinging sounds as the engines and manifolds cooled. Kammler strode impatiently toward the rear cargo doors.

Inside the cavernous belly of the aircraft sat a wooden crate emblazoned with a stenciled Reichsadler or German Imperial Eagle. No other markings were visible. No other identification was necessary. It was the only piece of cargo in the hold of the aircraft and it was destined for one recipient only.

General Kammler ran his fingers over the top of the wooden crate. The contents were rare beyond measure and had taken years to manufacture and purify. The Wunderwaffe or Wonder Weapon being assembled in his highly classified laboratory beneath the airfield was totally reliant on the remarkably rare and extremely dangerous to produce metallic liquid cocooned inside the heavily lead-lined wooden crate.

The Fuhrer had classified this project ‘Kriegsentscheidend’, decisive to the outcome of the war. With the last component finally shipped from the uranium enrichment facility at Auschwitz, Kammler would not disappoint his leader. He would personally see to it that the Thousand Year Reich would, indeed, last at least a thousand years.

Chapter 6

November 8, 2017, 07:00 UTC

Sunny Ridge Drive

Odenton, Maryland

Assistant Director Henry Preston woke with a boner so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it. He couldn’t remember the last time he woke up with so much wood. Then again, it had been a while since someone thought it was so damn important to wake him at 3am.

The comfort from a night cap of single malt and the apparent euphoria of a horny dream quickly subsided when he saw that it wasn’t his cell ringing but the secure landline on the bedside table. Only a handful of people had that number and none of them ever called at this hour with good news. Or any other hour, for that matter.

“Preston,” he slurred.

Fumbling for his glasses, Henry knocked over the bedside lamp in the process.

Beside him, his wife stirred and mumbled, her sleep mask and the drool on the pillow from her night guard put an end to the passing thought he had of giving her a little surprise when he’d finished his call.

“Repeat that,” he blurted. Sitting bolt upright and turning on the fallen lamp he listened intently, eyes closed as if to visualize what he was being told.

“That’s impossible. What do you mean its gone dark? A few billion dollars’ worth of satellites and enough fiber optic cable to go to the moon and back are there to make sure we can’t ever lose contact. The only way we’d lose comms with Pine Gap is if one of us got a direct nuclear strike and I’m guessing that’s not happened here in Fort Meade, right?” Preston barked sarcastically to the shift commander who wished he was on day shift.

When he’d finished listening to the remainder of the report he was silent, processing the magnitude of the two seemingly unrelated pieces of information. Without a further word, he dropped the phone back in its cradle and steepled his fingers together, composing himself for the call he had to make.

The NSA Assistant Director of Signals Intelligence hit the first number on speed dial, the scrambler beeped to confirm it was activated. Within three rings it was answered.

“Director, sir, this is AD Preston, SIGINT. We have a Threat Level Orange situation — Pine Gap has gone off the air and Pacific Command reports that one of their nuclear subs in the Antarctic hasn’t reported in on schedule.”

Another brief response.

“That’s why I called, sir. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence and PACOM don’t think so, either.”

A terse command was issued.

“Yes, sir. I’ll call and brief him immediately.” But the line was already dead.

Scrolling through his mental rolodex, he started dialing a phone number he had committed to memory. A number that could never be written down or saved to speed dial.

He felt a warm breath in his ear as his wife’s hand slid inside the front of his shorts. Impatiently he pushed her hand away, “Not now Audrey,” he scolded, brushing her hand away as he furiously punched the numbers into the keypad of his secure phone.

Preston immediately regretted his harsh manner but there was something quite grave in the Directors tone that made him uneasy. That and the fact that he’d been asked to call one of the most powerful men in the nation’s intelligence network.

Chapter 7

November 8, 2017, 11:00 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

-77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

Altitude 1500 feet AGL

Sam Krupsky’s ears were assaulted by an almost inhuman, piercing scream of unrestrained terror. He’d never heard anything like it and it took a few seconds, which passed like minutes, before he realized the horrific sound was coming from his own mouth. By some strange logic, Sam figured screaming like a crazed animal was better than throwing up in his own oxygen mask. That bastard Coulson knew they’d be jumping. Now he knew what that smug little grin on his poster boy face was all about as they reached the destination. While Sam was tightening his straps for a rough landing on the pack ice, Jack bloody Coulson was releasing his harness and getting ready to gear up. Until fifteen minutes ago, Sam had never even heard of the Low Altitude Parachute-Extraction System that fly boys used to airdrop cargo. Now he knew that LAPES could just as easily be used to jettison terrified, screaming navy men.

With great clarity, Sam recalled the look of amusement on Jack’s face just before the tankers hastily modified cargo door opened, revealing a vast expanse of ice and snow as far as they could see.

Sam promised himself that if he survived, he’d smack the taste right out of Jack’s mouth. No matter what kind of Special Forces training Mr. Jack ‘Fancy-Pants’ Coulson had, Sam knew nothing came close to what kids like him learned growing up as they moved from one orphanage to another. He knew how to take care of himself, of that he was sure and he was going to enjoy slapping that hotshot smirk off Jack’s face. All he had to do was make it down onto the ice in one piece.

The rectangular canopy above him was the only thing that prevented him reaching terminal velocity and ending up as a wet, red smear on the Arctic ice. For that he was grateful as he yanked at the steering toggles and tried to follow the path of the equipment pallets that had been dropped first. His attention was equally divided between looking up to see if his canopy had become tangled and looking down to see where the hell he was heading.

Through eyes wide with terror, Sam watched Jack draw level with him, checking the altimeter on his wrist as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Jack pointed to his own eyes with two fingers then pointed down to the landing zone. His meaning, ‘watch and follow me’ was very clear.

Sam extended the middle finger of his right hand and gestured sharply upward. His meaning was equally clear.

* * *

The first equipment pallet hit the ice, its canopy snapping in the wind, unable to move the skids of the pallet across the sastrugi, the frozen wave like ridges carved into the surface of the ice pack by the incessant Antarctic winds. The second pallet hit the ice some 100 feet away from the first and it was that pallet which Sam had fixed his attention as he bobbled below his canopy, trying to maneuver as best he could with the toggles. The lesson given to him by the loadmaster in the final minutes of the fight, although rushed, had not been wasted.

Within seconds of Sam’s pallet hitting the ice, cracks and fissures began to appear in the ice, like a giant spider web before the pallet of survival equipment splashed through the ice. It’s colorful canopy remaining visible for a few seconds before that, too, vanished into the cold, dark depths below.

Almost too low to change direction, Sam wrenched one of the riser toggles in a frantic effort to avoid landing in the severely cracked surface of the ice and ending up in the frozen abyss, as their cargo had done. His direction was not altering anywhere near fast enough. With an almighty heave of the toggle, Sam saw his opportunity to beat the living daylights out of Jack slip away into oblivion when the toggle sheared from the riser, leaving him with no means to guide his descent. As a career sailor, Sam knew that the death that awaited him in the freezing waters below the ice would be swift and merciful.

As he hit the ice, the network of fissures flaring from the hole left by the pallet exploded and cracked with an ear-splitting boom. Sam felt the ice below him give way as he fumbled with the harness release pin. Without the parachute, he might have a fighting chance.

His feet hit the icy water but the frozen pin refused to budge. He was about to give it a final tug when the suspension lines attached to his harness snapped taught and he felt himself being dragged across the ice, away from the cold, watery grave that tried so hard to claim him.

Sliding across the rough ice, Sam angled his head in search of the heavy grunting sounds behind him and within moments was staring up at the reddened, sweat drenched face of Jack Coulson as he wound Sam’s parachute lines in arm-over-arm.

Maybe bitch slapping Jack could be put on the back burner for now, Sam thought as he held out his hand to be raised up from the painfully cold ice by the man who had saved his life.

“Bluey, I don’t know why you’re even on this mission, but if you can’t even pick your own ass up off the ice, then you’re not going to last long down here. I’ve got enough to worry about without saving your ass every five minutes.” Jack shook his head and stomped his way across the frozen surface toward the surviving pallet of equipment.

Then again, maybe not, thought Sam as he heaved himself and his 60 pound combat pack off the ice.

Chapter 8

November 8, 2017, 12:00 UTC

Westlake

Fort Worth, Texas

32°45′ 26.49"N 97°19′ 59.45" W

J. Clifford Barnes wasn’t envious that his famous and high profile neighbor Mark Cuban had made it, yet again, to another business magazine rich list as he folded the glossy periodical and returned to his morning espresso. Quite the contrary. J. Clifford Barnes, or J.C. as he preferred to be addressed, had access to a wealth that would eclipse that of all of the top 10 on any such list, U.S. or international. The fact that he wasn’t even on the radar of such people, who had so little to do with their time that they had to make up such lists, spoke volumes for the work done over the past half century to keep the immense wealth and the figurehead of The Brotherhood invisible and away from the media spotlight.

Clifford Barnes’ only overt display of wealth was his home. His pride and joy. Clifford Barnes had built a detailed ¾ scale replica of The White House as his domicile and he was damn proud of it. Every detail was perfect and faultlessly duplicated, right down to the location of the light switches.

The post-election media jokes about Trump and his team working in the dark because they couldn’t figure out the White House light switches validated his insistence that every detail be precise.

“When I’m President,” he’d instructed the architect, “I don’t want to be fumbling around for light switches when I take a piss in the middle of the night.” The architect had laughed but he would not have done so if he knew just how serious J. Clifford Barnes was. Of course he had used the word ‘president’ but that’s not what the world would know him as when his time came to take over.

Sipping his coffee, J.C. stared out the windows that had been designed to withstand the impact of armor piercing rounds, he marveled at the surrounding lawns and gardens, which were laid out exactly the same as the Washington D.C. originals. There was, however, one invisible and noteworthy exception — not even 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue had this much firepower and high tech security protecting its occupant.

With access to every facial recognition database in the world, military, law enforcement and civil, the arrays of hidden security cameras nested around the impressive self-styled presidential home ensured that only those properly matched to their database record could enter the perimeter. Once inside, the security became even more inescapable. Some might call it paranoia, but as Barnes always said, just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

Retinal scanners probed unsuspecting eyes, on the lookout for anyone who might try to slip through the security cordon relying on cosmetic surgery. Passive monitors outside of the building and scattered around the grounds also recorded the body temperature, heart rate and skin moisture levels of each visitor and employee during the length of their visit, alert for any changes to any of these parameters. Any changes would result in a swift response from the contingent of heavily armed security who remained ensconced in a below ground bunker, operating in rotating shifts 24/7.

Brightly colored and well-tended flower beds disguised a lethal series of M-134 Miniguns, each of which was capable of unleashing up to 6,000 rounds a minute. The interlocking arcs of fire from the strategically placed and heavily fortified gun emplacements would cut any ground assault force to mangled shreds before they got half way to the house itself.

And those that the guns didn’t cut to pieces would quickly fall foul of the remotely detonated XM-7 anti-personnel Spider Mines that carpeted the perfectly manicured lawns.

A series of outbuildings which appeared to the casual observer to serve as vehicle, garden or pool supply storage instead housed one of the best air defense systems ever devised. The Russians called it Triumf, but Barnes preferred its NATO reporting name, the SA-21 Growler missile system. He had enough of these “Growlers” hidden below and above ground to bring down a small air force. Perhaps even a large one.

J. Clifford Barnes was proud of his defense system and even prouder of the complete juxtaposition between the glorious and peaceful appearance of his prize winning garden and the devastating firepower that it concealed.

No expense had been spared to protect the man who was destined to become the most powerful and feared man in the entire world. For over 70 years, The Brotherhood had waited patiently for one of their leaders to ascend to a position even greater than that of their original Fuhrer. Only by some divine intervention that even Barnes himself couldn’t fathom was he the chosen one. Of the many before him who had occupied this seat of power since 1945, it was Barnes who now had the opportunity to use The Brotherhood’s immeasurable wealth and boundless scientific resources to unleash the Thousand Year Reich with a terrifying vengeance upon nations that had basked in victory for over half a century.

The most fearsome weapon imaginable had finally and quite literally surfaced after decades of searching.

* * *

The video conference link that beamed from the other side of the world was totally secure. Owning an aerospace company with satellite launch capability had its perks and secure, encrypted communications was one of many.

J.C. sat in his private conference room, soundproofed in case the help overheard anything they ought not, waiting for the static to clear and the video camera on the other end of the line to begin its feed. As soon as it did, he was face to face with his most senior operatives.

“Report,” instructed Barnes without greeting or preamble.

“We have confirmed that the U-Boat is a Kriegsmarine Type XXI and what we can see of it dates it to early 1945. It bears no identification markings at all, which also confirms that it is the one.” His English was faultless as was to be expected of a senior German diplomat.

“Radiation signature?” asked Barnes, fully aware that the unique and unmistakable radiation signature of the device could only be detected at close range. The lead lined compartment in the U-Boat could even render it impossible to detect even then.

“None detected, but that was always a longshot. If there was a detectable signature, we would have found it long before now.”

Barnes dragged an errant lock of jet black hair across his forehead as he digested the information. The ambassador made a good point, but it didn’t account for their failure to locate the U-Boat previously. After all, The Brotherhood knew the approximate region where the top secret German base known as Base 211 had been built. That part of the Antarctic continent had been searched many times over the years using the technology available at the time, yet no sign of the U-Boat was ever found, nor any trace of the former Antarctic base itself. If it wasn’t for the chatter intercepted from the CIA’s Pine Gap communications facility, they might have missed the inexplicable appearance of the missing U-Boat altogether.

Half a decade before Homeland Security began monitoring cell phone, email and online chat communications searching for key words that warranted further attention, The Brotherhood had built an entire data center filled with rows and rows of computer racks housing over a thousand of the most powerful computer servers available. This Server Farm was dedicated solely to monitoring the communications channels of every government agency of the major world powers.

The secluded, subterranean facility gave new meaning to the term ‘Dark Data Center’. Unmanned, the entire data center was managed using the tried and tested ‘follow the sun’ model from a series of monitoring stations around the world, all using cutting edge Lights-Out Management systems. As the sun set on one station, another would take over, monitoring the traffic designated by the Server Farm as being credible enough to be further investigated.

This facility alone put The Brotherhood in a class of its own, even when compared with the collective intelligence gathering resources of all U.S. law enforcement, military and intelligence agencies.

Barnes was not about to let the prize out of his sight now that it had been located

“Is it secure?”

The high definition video stream highlighted the beads of sweat pebbling his forehead and upper lip as if he were sitting in the same room. “Well…”

“Don’t tell me we don’t have the device secured!” Barnes stood as he screamed at his subordinate.

“One of the Russian Yasen class submarines, most likely the Kazan, has taken out the American research sub that was snooping around where we think Base 211 might be. We don’t believe they had the opportunity to send a distress signal. It could be days or even weeks before they are missed because of the nature of their mission.”

The Russian fools were only supposed to shadow the American submarine, not fire on it. Barnes seethed at his oversight but there was nothing he could do about it.

Barnes composed himself. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“Yes, our operatives were able to destroy the entire Pine Gap communications groundwork, as ordered, but it appears that one aircraft got away before the airfield was targeted.”

“And the range of this aircraft?”

“Ah… I see your point, sir,” the Ambassador thumbed through his notes, “it was a mid-air refueling tanker, so it would easily have enough fuel to reach the site, sir.”

Barnes stared hard at the incompetent man on the screen.

“But it couldn’t possibly land on the ice-shelf,” the diplomat added, hopefully.

“It doesn’t have to land, you idiot. I want an assault team at that base and I want them there yesterday. Is that understood?”

“What about the Russian attack sub? Should we encourage them to send their Naval Spetsnaz squad to secure the objective?”

Barnes had no desire to use the Russian navy any more than he had to. The Russians had only sent their latest Yasen attack sub after the Americans because The Brotherhood had fed false intelligence to the SVR, the Russian foreign intelligence service.

If they were to find out what was really trapped in the ice, the Antarctic would fast turn into a warzone with China, Russia and the Americans entering the fray and competing for the prize. And that, The Brotherhood couldn’t afford. For the moment, it was enough that the Russians believed the Americans were littering the ice shelf with counter intelligence monitoring devices.

Barnes was reluctant to reveal his hand so early in the operation, but he had no choice with the Russian submarine captain going rogue and firing live torpedoes. The Argentinians hadn’t established a ‘research’ on the edge of Ronne Ice Shelf by pure chance. It had been a strategic base of operations of the Brotherhood for decades. Now the foresight of his predecessors would give them a decisive tactical advantage.

“No. Send our own men. Issue orders to the team stationed at the Belgrano II base.” Barnes was about to terminate the conference when he was interrupted.

“Won’t the Argentinians have something to say once it’s discovered that we have used their base to launch an armed assault?”

“No,” Barnes smiled with deep satisfaction, “The Argentinians will remain silent and compliant, just as they’ve done since 1939. They need us and our gold far more than we need them. They’re not totally stupid. They must have suspected why we were keeping an armed force on the ice and a Hercules LC-130 fueled and ready to fly, even if they didn’t know for sure.”

“How many men do you want me to send?”

Barnes smiled. “All of them.”

J. Clifford Barnes ended the call. The prize The Brotherhood had been searching for, Dr. Kammler’s greatest weapon, his legacy was finally within reach. Very soon, the world would become a very different place and General Kammler will have kept his solemn promise to their Fuhrer.

Chapter 9

November 20, 1944

Gandau Airfield

Breslau (now known as Wroclaw)

Poland

Caged bunker lights cast a dim yellow glow along the length of the tunnel. Boot steps echoed against the walls hewn from solid rock. Hans Kammler had to stoop slightly as he walked the length of the underground shaft to his test chamber. He cursed himself, as he did each time he came here to conduct a test. With a brilliant mind and an inexhaustible slave labor force from the camps, Hans Kammler could build rockets capable of reaching space and huge underground factories to mass produce the world’s first jet fighter plane, the Messerschmitt ME 262. He even had a number of radioactive weapons in various stages of development, ready for his next generation of rockets. Yet he hadn’t been able to oversee the construction of a tunnel through which he could walk without hunching.

Perhaps the design flaw wasn’t his, he thought, but instead some pathetic attempt at rebellion or a foolish prank by the inmates responsible for chiseling the tunnel through solid rock. It can’t have been coincidence that they had built it just inches lower than the general’s height. Kammler would have punished them for their brazenness, but they were already dead. The testing of the device had seen to that. Which was a problem, not because of the fast rate at which the device annihilated inmates, after all, the camps swelled with test subjects and new arrivals were squeezed into the overcrowded camps each day, but because the device was not designed as a weapon. Word had quickly spread through the nearby camp as thousands of Polish Jews told of the horrors they had witnessed deep underground where the monster they knew as Waffen-SS General Kammler conducted his insidious experiments using the weapon they called The Bell.

Kammler laughed when he heard the stories about his weapon and the torturous, cruel death it was able to deliver. If they knew what it was really supposed to do, they would have been far more terrified. For the sake of maintaining a cloak of security around his project, he was pleased with the rumors that spread like wildfire. Kammler only wished he could take the credit for such misdirection. Unfortunately, it was his inability to harness the power of the device that resulted in so many accidents. Once he perfected the device, the results would be entirely different.

* * *

Through the foot thick glass window, the eerie blue haze increased in hue as the counter rotating hemispheres of the bell shaped device gained momentum. Half as tall again as Kammler himself, the mass of the object took time to reach operating revolutions and the lights in the bunker dimmed noticeably as the power from the generators was diverted to the experimental chamber.

A rail thin man with hollow cheeks was manacled to an iron ring embedded in the concrete floor beside the spinning device. He wore only his filthy, threadbare prison clothes. Despite the bluish reflection from the aura of the device, his eyes were haunted with fear. Behind the protective glass, Kammler wore a heavy lead lined apron and dark goggles. He looked more like a demonic blacksmith than an engineer as he watched the light begin to reach its peak, the high pitched whine of the machine penetrating the three feet of concrete wall separating him from the test chamber.

“Revolutions?” he asked a bespectacled prisoner at his side.

The prisoner, a physics professor a lifetime ago, wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his filthy prison uniform before glancing at the panel of instruments before him.

“One thousand, five hundred per minute, general.” The professor kept his eyes affixed to the instruments. Better that than seeing what was happening inside the chamber, of that he was sure.

If the latest consignment of Xerum 525 was as well refined as Kammler had been assured, at two thousand revolutions per minute the transfer rate of electrons through the spinning plates inside the machine would increase to the point that a nuclear fusion reaction would finally be achieved.

“Two thousand, general.” The professor didn’t wait to be asked this time, all the while his eyes remained glued to the instrument panel.

Kammler couldn’t resist a better view and pushed the dark goggles to his forehead and peered through the thick glass into the chamber. A shimmering blue haze blurred the image of the terrified man whose hands bled as sheets of skin peeled away from them as he tore frantically at his chains. In an instant the man vanished altogether and Kammler leaned closer still to the glass, his senses heightened in anticipation. Then just as suddenly, a bright red, jelly like mucus was slammed against the glass with a savage velocity. Both men could swear they heard the impact, which of course was impossible given the thickness of the radiation proof glass.

“Shut it down,” ordered Kammler. “We will try again this afternoon. Next time increase the Xerum 525 volume in the central chamber by twenty five percent.”

Throwing his apron and goggles onto a nearby bench, Kammler turned on his polished boots and made his way to the door. Without turning, he called over his shoulder, “And clean up that mess before this afternoon.”

Unfortunately for the professor, the general wasn’t talking about his abandoned protective clothing. Through squinted eyes he risked a glance at the red sludge on the glass. If his stomach wasn’t empty after three days without food, he would have vomited on the spot.

Chapter 10

November 9, 2017, 01:00 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

Depth 1500 feet

“Son-of-a-bitch.” Juan Alvarez hadn’t shoveled a pretzel into his mouth for over an hour. His fingers were too busy blurring across his keyboard to waste time dealing with low priority tasks like stuffing his face.

“What have you got Juan?” asked Leah who was massaging her temples and beginning to wonder when she had last slept. When any of them had last slept.

A faint snore came from Dave Sutton’s workstation. The man could sleep anywhere, through anything.

“No idea, but I’ve now got a much more detailed 3D image to work with if Dave wants to join the land of the living, again and take a look.” Juan hurled a pretzel at Dave, hitting him square in the face.

“I wasn’t asleep. I was… um… visualizing the last sonar scans,” he protested.

“I’m not going to say anything,” said Juan with an earnestness that surprised both Leah and Dave. He continued, “I want you to look at these renderings and tell me what you conclude for yourselves.”

Their interest stirred, both leaned into the console and digested the images Juan had been working on from the sonar data uploaded before they lost contact with Nellie.

Leah was the first to voice her opinion. “I’m going to say aloud what I was too afraid to say before. This structure isn’t natural, at least not in its present configuration. It’s man-made but it can’t be because it’s beyond a scale that’s even possible, at least in this hostile environment.”

“I agree,” were the only words Dave could find as he studied the images, mouth agape.

“With which part?” asked Leah.

“All of it.”

“I have one word that covers all of that and explains this weird cigar shaped object over here.” Juan’s finger stabbed at the section of the image containing the mystery object that seemed to cause the captain enough concern that he’d been quietly studying charts on his computer ever since.

With eyes ablaze with expectation, Leah and Dave stared at Juan, willing him to continue.

“Are you ready for it?” asked Juan, drawing the moment out.

“If you even think of making a drumroll sound, I’ll slap you,” warned Leah.

Instead, Juan mimed a drum roll with imaginary drumstick in his hands.

“One word — Extraterrestrial!”

Dave and Leah slumped visibly with disappointment and looked at each other as they rolled their eyes. How many times had Juan shared his UFO conspiracy theories with them during long nights at sea?

“I’ll see your UFO, Juan,” said the captain with a tone that suggested he was serious, “and raise you.”

“Raise what?” asked Leah, looking from the captain to Juan. It was clear that Juan had no idea what the captain was talking about, either.

“I’ll raise you one Type XXI Elektroboat.” The captain folded his arms.

“You’re not bluffing, are you?” Dave was making a statement, not asking a question.

Leah shook her head and her perky blonde ponytail swayed from side to side. “Does anyone want to tell me what an Elekro… thingy is?”

Juan took the bait, “He’s saying… we’ve found a World War II German submarine. A fricking Nazi U-Boat.”

There was a stunned silence as they digested what the captain was proposing.

“How do we know for sure it’s not a UFO?” Juan looked to Dave for support, “it still could be, right?”

Dave shrugged noncommittally. He’d never found either one before, so he wasn’t willing to stake his reputation by making a call.

“Look at the shape,” Jameson indicated to the long, smooth artifact on the screen, before continuing, “if it was meant to fly, it would be a lot more aerodynamic and we’d see some evidence of control surfaces. There are none, it’s sleek and streamlined, like it was designed to glide through water with minimal resistance. It’s a submarine, not a spacecraft and a very old one at that. The shape dates it to the Second World War and the dimensions are right on the money for a Type XXI U-Boat. I’d bet the farm on it.”

Leah drew a circle with her finger around the enormous void they’d found in the ice mountain, “This entire area is shaped like a giant ice cream cone. You can see the concentric striations, as if it were carved from the ice with a melon scoop, starting at the base, where the sea water enters through a tunnel in the ice, forming some kind of lake within the structure.”

She paused to see if they were following her. She took their silence as a cue to continue.

“Down here… and here,” she indicated two impressions in the graphic, “appear to be quite significant horizontal channels or tunnels bored through the ice linking this ‘lake’ with the open sea below the ice cap.”

“Where are you going with this, Dr. Anderson? I’m not sure I follow.” Captain Jameson looked Leah in the eyes, confusion on his face.

“Ocean here,” she stabbed at the monitor, earning a look of disdain from Juan. “Tunnel here.” She stabbed again. “Apparently a man-made lake, here.” She stabbed once more making the monitor shudder from the impact.

They still didn’t get it.

Leah let out a long sigh. “If this is a submarine, then how in the hell did it end up way over here, embedded in an ice mountain that’s been frozen above the water line for over a hundred thousand years?”

The silence was absolute.

Chapter 11

November 9, 2017, 01:00 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

-77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

Jack and Sam used harnesses and straps to haul the surviving pallet of equipment over the rough, wind torn ice to the protruding conning tower of the submarine. The bizarre nature of their mission and the fact that a World War II submarine should be embedded in the ice in the middle of an ice pack at the bottom of the world was not lost on either of the two men. However, in that moment, they were too busy trying to make survival plans to think too much about it. Incessant winds pinged snow and ice off their goggles and stung their exposed faces as they battled the elements, seeking shelter from the lee side of the submarine sail.

Exhausted and sweating profusely, despite the -50 degree temperature and the life threatening wind chill, both men dropped the haul straps and collapsed onto the hardened ice once they were out of direct line of the pummeling wind.

Shouting over the howling squall, Jack instructed Sam, “You see what needs to be done to access the sub and I’ll start an inventory of what weapons and survival gear we still have.”

“And food,” Sam added.

“You’ll be a frozen, wind chilled icicle long before you starve to death,” Jack assured him.

Sam looked to the sky but all he could see was a swirl of ice and snow, limiting visibility to no more than a few yards.

“What time does it get dark?” he asked, pointing overhead to where he thought the sun would be through the clouds and snow.

Jack ripped apart the Velcro on his expedition jacket sleeve and made a show of looking at his watch.

“Sunset will be around… March. So you’d better get moving while I sort through the equipment you didn’t manage to drop down the ice hole.” He slapped Sam on the back and proceeded to release the ratchets on the tie downs securing their gear to the pallet.

Shaking his head, unsure if Jack was yanking his chain or not, Sam trudged across the slippery ice and stopped at the base of the conning tower to marvel at its pristine condition. He had no idea that the frozen wasteland in which he now found himself preserved old boats so well. Still carrying his pack, Sam climbed the ice encrusted rugs hand-over-hand ensuring he always had a firm grip in case he lost his footing. He’d been around ships and subs long enough for that kind of caution to be second nature. They were in an environment where even a short fall from a ladder could get you killed.

Peeling back the tarps covering the equipment, Jack stole a glance at the conning tower, also. He’d seen a lot of high altitude helicopters wrecks in the Himalayas and quite a few ice bound ships in the Arctic during his time in the service, but he’d never seen anything in the condition of the conning tower trapped in the ice before him, like a giant fossil frozen in both ice and time. With the wind picking up there was no time to ponder the many mysteries of the Polar Regions. The mission and their very survival depended on the equipment that Sam hadn’t managed to lose to the frigid depths.

Reaching the top of the conning tower, Sam looked back down at Jack. The guy was really starting to get on his nerves and his comment about losing the equipment in the ice hole didn’t sit well with the career navy man who took great pride in his work and didn’t take criticism of his professionalism well.

“Ice hole,” Sam grumbled, “I know who the ice hole is on this mission, buddy.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth when he heard the distinctive pinging of live rounds against steel. Looking down at the ice shelf, he could see row after row of bullets strafing the ice, making a direct line to Jack’s position, some of them ricocheting off the base of the tower. With his hood covering his ears and the roar of the wind, Sam knew that Jack couldn’t hear the barrage of fire closing in on him. Sparks flew from around the conning tower ladder as rounds found a new target, perched high up and vulnerable.

Descending the ladder into the field of fire would be suicidal, so Sam continued up the ladder and dropped himself over the top and into the relative safety of the heavily armored conning tower. Just in time too as the ladder he had been standing on erupted in a hail of gunfire. Sam was getting a little tired of dodging death. He’d had enough of that for one day. Maybe even an entire lifetime.

Now he had to help Jack.

Removing his combat pack, Sam rummaged through the contents for something that he could use and came up empty. Then he looked down at the tactical vest he was wearing. Wearing a multitude of deadly weapons might have been second nature to a SEAL or Marine but was completely foreign to the navy man and it took a moment for a solution to register. His beefy hand wrapped around a fist sized canister hanging from the front of his vest, pulling it free before he pulled the pin out of it and tossed it down toward the pallet Jack was working on. Ducking for cover again, Sam hoped he’d chosen the right one.

* * *

Thick red smoke discharged from the smoke grenade that bounced across the ice toward Jack. Suddenly Jack’s senses became acutely aware of the approaching danger, although the source of the smoke grenade remained a mystery. With his combat instincts firing on all cylinders, Jack triangulated the path of the bullets chewing up the ice as they approached him, his position and the relative position of the conning tower ladder, which was his only option.

He’d never make it. Even on ideal terrain, he’d never cover that distance in time. On the slick ice? No way.

Cover fire spewed from the top of the conning tower. Sam had broken out the LWRC carbine that had been strapped to his pack and was giving the unseen enemy a taste of its own medicine. Jack could have kissed the big ginger headed brute. The line of fire across the ice stopped abruptly as the shooters broke for cover.

It was now or never.

With the grenade smoke shielding his movements and an interruption to the incoming fire, Jack made a dash to the tower as fast as the glassy ice would allow. Half way up the ladder, he heard Sam’s weapon fall silent.

Reload. Jack began counting off the seconds it should take Sam to slam home a fresh clip.

The shooters wasted no time and within seconds the side of the steel tower lit up with sparks from a volley of rounds only inches from where Jack clung to the icy ladder.

Scrambling up the slippery rungs, Jack was only a foot from the lip of the tower when his feet betrayed him and he started to fall toward the ice pack. And the waiting enemy.

Inexplicably, he remained suspended in mid-air. Looking up he saw that the grinning giant had leaned over the top of the ladder and managed to loop his big ham fist through one of the haul loops on Jacks pack, unmoved by the shower of bullets that sprayed around them.

With apparent ease, the big man hoisted Jack over the vertex of the conning tower structure and out of harm’s way. At least for the moment.

“Lucky that strap held or I could easily have dropped you in the ice hole.” Sam gave Jack a reassuring slap on the back.

Jack nodded. Now they were even. In one hell of a shitstorm, but even.

Risking a brief look over the edge of the conning tower, Jack could see, through the clearing smoke that they were surrounded on all sides by a heavily armed squad wearing NATO style snow camouflage. What he found most interesting was the fact that the crack team had adopted the exact same tactical approach to the submarine as he would have done if he were in their place.

He had no idea who the white suited enemy was, but he did know they were bloody good at their job. It was also becoming apparent, given all they had been through since arriving at Pine Gap, that the stakes were a lot higher than some old paintings or a few bars of gold. Someone was launching a serious and very deadly mission and sparing no expense in the process.

“Okay, covert ops boy, if you have a plan to get our asses out of this mess, I’m all ears.” Sam didn’t need to risk having his head blown off to see what was happening down on the ice. The look on Coulson’s face told him all he needed to know.

“I’ve got no idea what kind of goat rodeo we’ve been dropped into, but I’m betting some big chief at the Pentagon knows a lot more than we—” Jack’s words were cut off when a burst from a high-caliber machine gun hammered against the tower.

“Whatever it is that we’ve been sent to safeguard,” he continued when the thundering .50 caliber rounds paused for a beat, “it must be a lot more important than Colonel Daniels was told — he only sent the two of us. Whoever these other guys are, they’ve brought a whole fucking army!”

Chapter 12

November 9, 2017, 01:30 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

Depth 1500 feet

Captain Jameson knew it wouldn’t be long before alarms were raised at Pacific Command. There was no way a nuclear sub went off the grid without raising a stink. Operational protocol called for the Barracuda to go shallow at regular intervals and report via an VLF comms link to PACOM. All they had to do was wait it out and remain silent and deep and hope that someone at Pearl had the good sense to send help.

“Conn, Sonar,” the Barracuda’s sonar tech called, quick with urgency, “I’m, picking up gunfire and lots of it. Some of it heavy.”

Captain Jameson turned to the sonar operator, “Heavy?”

“Heavy caliber, sir,” Porter, the sonar operator explained.

“You can tell the caliber from this depth?” Jameson looked skeptical.

“Sir, I’ve got this gear so finely tuned if they drop a beer can in the water I can tell you if it’s Miller or Bud.” Porter was equal parts proud and defensive of his high tech baby.

“How are we even picking up surface small arms fire?” asked Durand.

Porter looked a little sheepish. “I’m not real sure, sir. It might sound weird, but I think someone is actually shooting at the UFO or sub or whatever it is up there and that’s what CAVES is picking up.” The young sonar tech was referring to the Barracuda’s state-of-the-art Conformal Aperture Velocity Sonar array.

“Why the hell would anyone be shooting at… whatever that is up there?” Leah chimed in.

“Probably the same reason that someone’s been hunting us. I think there’s a player in this game who knows something we don’t. There’s something serious going on here but we’re operating in the dark without comms.”

“So we just bob around under the ice and hope like hell the other sub doesn’t find us and finish us off for good?” Leah said aloud what the other Barracuda men had been thinking. “It sounds like whatever it is we’ve found ourselves in the middle of, it’s closing in fast. But what do I know? I’m only an oceanographer.”

That was it. Suddenly Jameson saw an idea that had been clawing at his subconscious snap into sharp focus. Of course…

He pointed to Sutton and Alvarez, “You two, work with Porter over there and plot us a course through that opening or tunnel or whatever you called it. Get us inside that structure and at least we have somewhere to hide while we figure this out.”

Dave and Juan looked to Leah for confirmation. She was their boss, after all.

“Do it,” she instructed the men. She looked the captain in the eye, “Maybe my science geeks will turn out to be useful after all.”

Jameson scanned the maps on his monitor, annoyed that she had to have the last word, like a typical woman.

“Let’s not forget,” he said to no one in particular, “It was this floating science fair that got us into this situation in the first place.”

* * *

“We think we’ve plotted a way through the ice mountain, Captain,” Porter announced an hour later.

“I should think so, too,” Captain Jameson snapped back, looking not at his own man but the two civilian sonar and computer experts. “If this… structure… is what I’m quite sure it is, then Nazi submarine captains were navigating through that tunnel, at a depth of 300 feet with no more than a map, compass and sonar equipment so old it had vacuum tubes in it.”

Silence filled the Command Center.

Previously, the talk of German U-Boats had been no more than an abstract historical concept, like finding any other submerged shipwreck, something Leah and her team had done their share of over the years.

But now, the captain was adding another hideous layer of reality to their reality. It looked like they’d stumbled upon a Second World War German submarine base. One that, in all likelihood, given its proximity to South America, had been used to aid the escape of high ranking Nazis and Waffen-SS officers when their monstrous crimes marked them as hunted war criminals.

It had been said aloud and there was no possibility of the genie being put back in the bottle. Neither the hardened military men nor the contingent of civilian scientists were prepared for such a revelation. To a man, and woman, they wished Juan had been right and that they had found a UFO in the ice.

“XO, take us in,” Jameson commanded before anyone had a chance to object.

Chapter 13

December 2, 1944

Gandau Airfield

Breslau (now known as Wroclaw)

Poland

Yet again the dull overhead lights dimmed further as the experimental chamber placed an impossible strain on the lab’s power grid. Bulbs exploded, fuse panels showered sparks and the tang of ozone filled the air as the circuits became increasingly over loaded.

“Dr… Kammler,” the former professor stammered as he watched the dials and gauges dance behind their glass binnacles, “a power surge could destroy the device.” And take us all with it, he failed to add. Maybe he should have remained silent, like the obedient prisoner that he was.

The familiar blue light glowed brighter than before, the extra Xerum 525 and additional power seemingly producing results.

The rail thin prisoner huddled in the corner of the chamber soiled himself as he began to illuminate with the same eerie radiance that blazed from the machine itself.

Kammler stood in front of the thick glass window, his hands clasped behind his back. He sensed something was different with this test. Somehow the piercing sound and the diffuse blue glow felt more stable. More controlled.

The General had taken an unprecedented risk in deceiving the Fuhrer. The financial backing had only been made available in such generous sums because of the promise to create a propulsion system that would win the war for the German military. A propulsion system so advanced that it defied the laws of physics as they were understood.

What Kammler had not told the Fuhrer, especially with his mental health deteriorating at an alarming rate, was how his new propulsion system worked. Better to let Hitler think it was a nuclear device rather than find out what it really was — a device that used what the Fuhrer called ‘Jew Physics’. Such a revelation would not have saved him from the firing squad, no matter how well the device worked.

“Dr. Kammler?” the prisoner at the control panel prompted again, disrupting Kammler’s reverie.

“Wait.” General Kammler’s tone was commanding and threatening at once.

The prisoner in the chamber shimmered like an apparition.

Then he was gone.

His chains. His uniform. Vanished.

“Shut it down!” Kammler shouted at the technician.

Immediately the two counter rotating hemispheres of the device slowed, the high pitched sound quieted and the glow faded.

The shimmer returned and the vanished prisoner began to take shape once again. Only this time, he was different. The grubby, emaciated prisoner was… smiling.

And he was on the wrong side of the room.

* * *

Hans Kammler threw open the door to the chamber as soon as the bell shaped machine stopped spinning.

“Where did you go?” The prisoner at the controls heard him shout with uncharacteristic emotion.

When the prisoner, still in his chains with a sneering smile on his lips, refused to answer, Kammler grabbed him by the front of his filthy, threadbare uniform and shook him violently. The former professor had never seen the pristine and meticulous general touch anything or anyone so repulsive.

“Where did you go?” he screamed again, spittle flying from his lips as he continued to shake the silent, smiling man like a rag doll.

Through his parched, smiling lips the man whispered so softly that the general was forced to ignore the foul fecal odor that rose form the man in order to bring his ear closer to the man’s mouth.

The prisoner whispered again, his smile growing more arrogant as he spoke.

Unable to hear what the man had whispered to Kammler, the professor could only surmise that it was not anything positive. The color drained from the general’s face as he stood and walked back into the laboratory, his face painted with a blank expression.

“General?” he asked as the Dr. Kammler entered the room, walking behind him.

“I did it,” the general said in total disbelief.

The scientist in him was elated that the experiment was successful, but he also knew what that success meant for the Third Reich and the barbarity that would be unleashed on his people, in turn. He opened his mouth to offer a word of congratulation to Hans Kammler on his scientific breakthrough, after all, collaborating with the Nazis was the only thing keeping his wife and six year old daughter alive. But the words never reached his lips.

The General had sliced the professor’s throat, severing his larynx and carotid artery in one swift stroke of a surgical scalpel. So fast and so clean that he was dead before he realized what had happened.

The general dropped the scalpel on the floor where it was slowly engulfed in a growing pool of blood. He turned on his heel and strode from the laboratory with renewed vigor in his step and only one irritating concern.

He would have to find someone new to clean up the mess in the lab.

Chapter 14

November 9, 2017, 01:30 UTC

National Security Agency

Fort Meade

Maryland

39°6′32″N 97° -76' 46 17" W

Assistant Director Henry Preston was accustomed to being seated at the head of the table and having his underlings report to him. Not this morning, though. It was 21:30 and he was bleary eyed from lack of sleep and seated half way down the table. He wondered what he was doing there at all.

His director, George Turner sat at the head of the table and looked like he’d just walked in off the golf course. His tanned face made him look younger, but Henry knew he’d turned 62 a few months ago. Casual pants, Ralph Lauren polo shirt and tasseled loafers were apparently acceptable meeting attire at the Director level. His silver hair was slicked back and still damp, somehow he’d had time for a shower before the crisis meeting. The room was heavy with notes of citrus and vanilla from his aftershave.

Preston barely had time to grab his jacket and tie before slamming his office door on an inbox full of unread emails and a bunch of phone messages he’d never likely have time to return. Things had gone crazy since the Pine Gap incident and he was putting out one fire after another. He looked at his reflection in the glass wall surrounding the boardroom table and saw that, in his haste he was wearing the same rumpled shirt he wore yesterday. He felt like a fish out of water in the director’s private meeting room.

Director Thomas Burgess of the Defense Intelligence Agency sat opposite Henry and despite the lack of uniform, his bearing was military through and through, even the creases in his chambray sport shirt were ironed to perfection. Preston guessed that at any other time of the working day he’d be in uniform with campaign ribbons on display across his broad chest. In his late fifties with a face lined with the stress of his position, Director Burgess was a no-nonsense man with a brusque way about him.

“Are you the one who woke me at 3am the other night?” Burgess grilled Henry without bothering with pleasantries or introduction.

Henry looked to his boss for explanation after all he was the one who instructed Henry to call the DIA director.

“Sorry, Tom, that was my call,” admitted George.

“I was on holiday, with my wife, damnit. She’s not going to let me forget this, you know. I promised her I’d actually stay the distance this time and not get called back to the office. This had better be important.” Burgess sat ramrod straight in his chair, hands splayed in front of him on the table.

“When I took this job three years ago,” George Turner explained, “I was read in on a few sensitive files and one of them had quite specific instructions with regard to calling you and you alone under certain circumstances,” Turner explained.

Director Burgess remained plain faced on the matter. Henry made a mental note never to play poker with the man. His eyes showed no flicker of interest as to what the ‘sensitive’ files might refer to. Henry was impressed.

Turner continued, “Actually there were two files that prompted the call. The first related to any incident that rendered the Pine Gap monitoring facility dark and the second related to any incident involving one of our submarines in the Antarctic. Congratulations Tom, you’ve rolled snake eyes.”

Henry watched the DIA Director’s face pale before his eyes. Not so much the poker player after all. But none of this explained why he’d been called into a high level meeting with two men from different intelligence agencies each of whom was way above his own paygrade.

Reaching to the center of the table, Henry slid a glass in front of Burgess and poured him some water. The man drank with a slightly trembling hand, not even acknowledging Henry or his polite gesture.

“We’re still waiting for news from Pine Gap but it appears that whatever happened there, it was catastrophic as our entire communication grid can’t raise them by any means,” Turner added.

“And the submarine?” Burgess spoke at last before taking another mouthful of water.

He was economical with his words Henry observed watching the exchange between the two senior directors.

“Missing. No distress call. Nothing. It failed to report in on schedule and hasn’t been heard from since. That’s all we know at this stage,” responded Turner.

Henry decided to ask what he thought was an obvious question in the circumstances, “Sir, why isn’t the Navy or the Army in on this meeting?”

Burgess and Turner paused for a moment before Turner gestured for the DIA Director to explain.

“Because if this is what we think it is, then it’s not something the Navy or any other military branch can ever know about. It’s classified above Top Secret even the President only gets read in should it be deemed necessary to deploy nuclear weapons to stop it getting out of control.”

Henry waited for Burgess to say more. Or laugh and say “Only joking”. But he just sat there with his palms face down on the table.

“Sir?” Henry looked to his boss for some kind of clarification.

“You heard right. This thing is even bigger than North Korea and their nuclear bullshit. If we get our military involved, it will escalate fast, spin out of control and the consequences could be apocalyptic. Under no circumstances are the military to be involved. That’s an order that has been documented and not rescinded since the file was opened.”

“And when was that, sir?”

“June 1945, son. Long before your time and some ways before mine.”

“I won’t even ask the obvious questions about the subject matter of the file, I know it’s above my clearance, but can I ask what I’m doing here?”

Again the two Directors shared a glance, confirming their tacit agreement.

“Henry Preston, you’ve just been promoted and your security clearance has just gone off the scale.” And with that, his boss slid an old, faded intelligence file across the table and into Henry’s waiting hands. “You have to read the file here. You can’t take it with you. No notes, either. Anything you write down has to be shredded as you leave.

What had he gotten himself involved with? He should have known that nothing good ever came from a phone call at 3am.

With a mix of trepidation and curiosity, Henry Preston opened the file and began reading the yellowed, typewritten pages.

Chapter 15

December 30, 1944

Bystrzyca Klodzka Airfield

Poland

The colossal aircraft dominated the runway, its 6 thunderous engines warming up, ready for its first long range flight. It was no ordinary Junkers JU-390, like the earlier variant General Hans Kammler had welcomed at Gandau Airfield over a month ago. This behemoth of an aircraft was one of only two prototypes built for extreme long range and high altitude missions. And unlike its almost defenseless predecessor, this one was crammed with five 20mm cannons. If attacked, it wouldn’t go down without a fight.

A total wingspan close to 170 feet and its three enormous engines mounted on each of the port and starboard wings made it a breathtaking sight, complemented by the ferocious roar as all six 18 cylinder, supercharged engines revved up in unison.

Although a covert evacuation of the device would have been preferred, the advancing allied forces had forced speed and distance to override stealth as the mission objectives. It was critical that the aircraft make the long flight to the Argentinian military base in Punta Indio if Germany was to have any chance of turning the tide of the war back in their favor. Kammler had been assured that refueling stops in Madrid and another at a secret location in the Western Sahara would ensure that the massive aircraft would have enough fuel to reach its destination.

Once safely on Argentinian soil, the cargo could be transferred to the waiting Elektroboat. Only the submarine commander knew the details of the final destination. Not even Kammler himself had been briefed on the exact location of the Antarctic submarine base, despite the fact that much of the design and engineering of the base was his handiwork. Even the slave labor shipped to the inhospitable location had been supplied by Kammler. When the Kriegsmarine did something in secret, they made sure it remained secret. Even from the SS with whom there had always been an uneasy and complex relationship, at best.

The cargo doors were finally sealed shut when Kammler ordered the half dozen men who had been responsible for the transport and loading of the device to the nearby hanger for a final debriefing. Carrying only a battered suitcase with him, the general followed the men and closed the door behind him.

Over the roar of the Junkers engines, none of the crew heard the folding stock of the MP-40 machine pistol locking into place or the bolt handle being released, ready to fire. By the time they heard the deadly rattle of the machine pistol, their bodies were already being torn apart by the brutal rounds before they crumpled to the cold dusty floor like broken marionettes, twitching horribly.

Hans Kammler threw the still smoking machine pistol back into the open suitcase and pulled a Vis 35 pistol from the leather holster slung from his belt and fired a final 9mm round into the head of each man. There could be no witnesses left alive to be interviewed by the invading Russian and American forces.

* * *

Kammler holstered his handgun, the barrel still hot as he closed the flap. Straightening the lapels of his coat, he walked briskly out of the hanger door. His Wonder Weapon was waiting for him on the runway. The story of its disappearance had died with the men in the hanger.

Chapter 16

November 9, 2017, 01:30 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

Depth 660 feet

Nellie’s self-diagnostic was complete. The torpedoes that had narrowly missed her sleek, elongated hull were designed with targeting parameters based around much larger vessels, usually battle cruisers or other submarines. The designers had never considered the possibility that their weapons might be locking on to the acoustic signature of a submersible the same size as the torpedo itself.

As they came about in an effort to reacquire their target, all four torpedoes hit the ice shelf, exploding on impact.

The intensity of the shockwave caused Nellie’s systems to power down instantly to avoid damage from power surges or short circuits. Juan’s programming called for her to remain in a state of stasis after a full system shutdown for up to 72 hours in case it took that long to be located by her host vessel. In the event that she wasn’t retrieved, her protocol was to attempt a reboot and continue her survey.

Each system came back online, one at a time, and only after a successful diagnostic did she attempt to initiate the next system startup. If any systems failed the diagnostic, Nellie would return to her stasis and await recovery.

With the final systems check complete, all systems were fully operational and in the green.

<Systems Check Complete>

As if she’d never had a high-tech Russian deep sea Futlyar torpedo fired at her, chasing her down at 50 knots, Nellie resumed her grid pattern, pinging the ice shelf above her. Just as she had been programmed to do.

What Nellie had no way of knowing was there above her, encased in the ice shelf itself, was the huge, steel hull of a submarine. Like the torpedo designers, Nellie’s creators had never envisaged what the effects might be if their depth probing pings should hit a large steel mass above the ice. After all, under what circumstances would there ever be a ship or submarine above sea level in the Antarctic?

Chapter 17

November 9, 2017, 01:30 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

-77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

Jack made the decision not to engage the snow camouflaged enemy in a stand up fight. Their equipment lay in cargo pods strapped to the one remaining pallet on the ice and the only ammunition available to them was what each man carried in his pack. In no time at all they would be dry firing and in all likelihood, they’d be lucky to hit anything, given the conditions and visibility.

Fighting wasn’t an option. For now.

Surrendering wasn’t in Jacks DNA.

They had a new mission. Survival. If they remained where they were, the severe wind chill would render them hypothermic in less than an hour. Their thermal tactical suits were designed to keep them alive under combat conditions when they’d either be moving to stay warm or huddled in one of the high-tech tents DARPA had equipped them with. The conning tower protected them from the worst of the biting Antarctic wind, but it was still open to the elements and they had no way to stave off hypothermia while pinned down there.

The snow suited force of their adversaries surrounded them and Jack sensed they were closing in, but interestingly, they were no longer firing weapons at the sub. Jack knew that an outfit professional enough to catch him off guard wouldn’t be the type to go on a mission with too little ammo. They had to have a reason for holding fire.

“I think it’s over to you, now that they’re taking a break from trying to blow us to bits.” Jack placed a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder. As he did, he noticed a trail of blood oozing from his cuff.

“You’ve been hit,” Sam observed.

Jack bit back a sarcastic retort. They need to work together right now. Survival. If they couldn’t do that, then there was no mission. Survive, and then worry about securing the sub.

“I’ve had worse. A lot worse. Right now, we need a plan. It won’t be the bullets that kill us, it’ll be the cold.”

“So why is it… over to me, all of a sudden?” asked Sam, his teeth chattering comically.

“Because,” Jack smiled, despite the grim situation, “we’re onboard a submarine and if I’m not mistaken, we’re on your turf, now.”

“You want to crack the hatch and hunker down in the sub until help arrives?” Disbelief showed on Sam’s face.

“Unless you have a better idea…”

“This thing has been exposed to the elements for over 70 years. The hatch is probably rusted and frozen solid. We’d need cutting equipment to get it open.” Sam shook his head as he brushed snow from the dog wheel used to open the hatch.

“This… ain’t right,” he stammered but only partially from the cold.

“You’re talking about this thing looking like it rolled out of dry dock six months ago, not half a century ago?” Jack had noticed it, too.

“Something like that,” Sam gasped as he heaved on the release wheel trying to unlock the hatch.

An intense crack of thunder filled the air, loud enough to be felt as well as heard over the howling wind that buffeted the conning tower.

“What did you just do?” Jack’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, his steely gaze fixed on Sam.

“What did I do? I did what you told me to do. I tried to open the friggin’ hatch,” he shouted. It wasn’t as if the enemy didn’t know exactly where they were, anyway, so low voices seemed kind of pointless.

Jack peered over the top of the tower, toward the surrounding force. As he expected, they were falling back and in quite a hurry about it, too, he noted.

Another crack of thunder filled the air, this time louder and closer than the last.

“Great, so a blizzard isn’t enough, we have to have a thunderstorm to top it off,” Sam moaned.

“That’s not thunder, you idiot!”

Jack knew the sound of breaking ice. He’d been caught in mountain avalanches at high altitude and he’d been on missions to the Arctic ice shelf. Nothing else sounded quite like a gigantic piece of ice cracking open for the first time in a million years.

The section of deck below them moved. A perfectly natural movement for a submarine in its natural ocean environment, but far from normal when they were fully ice bound and above the water.

An even louder crack echoed across the ice pack and both men scrambled over the icy steel to cling to the ladder as the deck below them fell away, their stomachs lurching as they plummeted with it, into a frozen abyss.

Chapter 18

November 9, 2017, 01:35 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

One second they were weightless and in freefall like skydivers, the next, they were slammed into the steel decking within the conning tower. With years of training and practice jumping from aircraft, Jack’s instincts took over and without conscious thought he tucked and rolled, absorbing the impact.

Navy man Sam wasn’t so well prepared. The big man had his knees driven up into his face, smashing him in the nose as he collapsed onto the deck. A spray of blood spattered the white snow that covered the conning tower. Through the tears that stung his eyes, Sam looked over to see that Jack was getting to his feet, unhurt and not bleeding.

A familiar feeling rushed through him as he wiped the blood from his face and stood up. A comfortable and familiar feeling. The deck was moving and this time, in a good way. The German U-Boat was back in the water, where it belonged. Soon it would be decks awash….

“Oh, shit,” cursed Sam.

“Don’t you ever stop complaining?” Jack rolled his eyes. “We’re out of the line of fire, at least and that buys us time to work on the hatch. And a plan for getting out of this mess. I thought you’d be happy on the water?”

“It’s not on the water that’s the issue. Pretty soon, we’re going to be in the water.”

Jack shook his head, brow pinched. He didn’t see the problem.

“We’re already low in the water and I can feel us getting lower. I don’t know how it’s possible, but this boat got iced in way up there,” Sam pointed up to the gaping chasm through which the sub had collapsed before hitting the water, “without blowing all of its tanks.”

Jack shrugged but said nothing.

“Do you army boys know nothing? It’s simple physics… positive buoyancy, submarine floats. Negative buoyancy, submarine sinks. These tanks were blown negative at some point underwater so the sub could hold its position. That’s neutral buoyancy. Now, the laws of physics are pulling her down to the depth she was at when the tanks were blown enough to level her off.” Panic was plastered all over Sam’s face.

“So we’re sinking?” Jack didn’t sound in the least bit alarmed.

“That’s another way of saying it, yeah.”

“You could have just said so without all the navy jargon and science. We don’t exactly have time for a physics lesson right now.”

“What do we do?” Sam’s eyes were wide with fear.

“Simple. If we go in the water we die within three minutes. The freezing water will kill us before we have a chance to drown. We can’t climb up the ice walls to the surface because our equipment fell through the ice when the sub collapsed the shelf, so we don’t have climbing gear. Our only chance to stay dry… and alive… is to get below before we submerge.”

Like a man possessed, Sam frantically kicked at the dog wheel, trying to loosen the grip of the ice on the mechanism.

He stopped quite suddenly and directed a cold stare to Jack.

“What?” Jack shrugged.

“Any chance you’d like to lend a hand? Or a boot?”

And with that, both men kicked at the hatch like men possessed.

* * *

Despite its robust and functional outward appearance, the pressure hatch of a submarine is a complex piece of machinery. Sandwiched between the thick, curved steel plates of the door are housed an intricate collection of pinions, gears, cams, levers, valves and seals, designed to seal the hatch against over a thousand pounds of pressure on the hatch when submerged.

When closed, evenly spaced steel latches or ‘dogs’ are thrown into recesses surrounding the hatch, locking it into position when the ‘dog wheel’ is turned. When the U-Boat submerged for the last time, the captain of the boat would have ensured one of the crew had been sent up the tower to ‘dog the hatch’, ensuring a watertight seal.

Of course, none of that mattered to either man as they sought to break the seal of ice which kept the dogs from retracting. After a full minute of kicking and stomping Sam again tried to turn the dog wheel.

It wouldn’t budge.

Jack had an idea. “Let me have a go,” he said as he shouldered his way past the big man.

Kneeling, brushed the snow from the hatch in widening circles until the entire surface was visible, not just the area under the wheel.

Gripping the wheel with both hands, he prepared to heave on it but instead found that with very little effort, it started to turn. The more he turned the wheel, the easier and faster it spun.

Jack looked up at Sam and wondered if his massive jaw could drop any lower. Despite the dire situation, Jack couldn’t help but take a moment to smile.

“Maybe you’re not as strong as you like, big guy.”

Words wouldn’t come to him. Sam was flabbergasted. He’d been outdone by an army brat on his boat.

Jack pulled open the hatch without so much as a rusty squeal of protest from the hinges and gestured for Sam to head down first. He hoped Sam wouldn’t notice the arrows and German instructions molded into the surface of the hatch. Sam had been turning the wheel the wrong way, the American way. Jack was happy to play the strength card for the moment. Score another point for the army.

Both men shouldered their packs, unholstered their sidearm and prepared to enter the dark void below the conning tower. Weapons were drawn, not for fear of encountering combatants below, but for the practicality of the tactical rail mounted flashlights slung below their barrel.

With a firm nod of agreement, Sam proceeded through the hatch. Words weren’t necessary. Neither man knew what to say in a situation in which they didn’t think any living person had ever found themselves.

With waves lapping at the sides of the tower, Jack knew their time was up and dogging the hatch once more was the only way to keep them alive. The hatch was barely secured when the roar of water spilling into the conning tower echoed through the hull of the boat.

Jack Coulson wasn’t a religious man, who could be after seeing the evil people were capable of during his missions, but as he descended the ladder into the inky bowels of the Nazi sub he prayed he’d made the right decision. Sometimes there was no right or wrong decision and survival simply meant moving. Moving forward. Never stopping. This sure as hell was one of those times.

Chapter 19

January 4, 1945

Off the coast of Islas Malvinas (Falkland Islands)

52°12′ 04.2" S 60°49′ 50.3" W

U-2532

Depth 200 feet

Kapitänleutnant Helmut Sohler had been a Kriegsmarine U-Boat officer from the beginning of the war. He was proud of his heritage and honored to carry on the family tradition of naval service. His father had served on U-Boats during the First World War and from the time he first heard the stories of his daring exploits, young Helmut dreamed of nothing more than following in his father’s footsteps. His childhood was spent playing in make believe submarines crudely constructed from old packing crates with pieces of lead pipe fashioned into make-believe periscopes.

With adolescence that dream faded to a distant memory. The Treaty of Versailles, something that meant nothing to a small boy playing U-Boat commander, had shaped the world in which he grew up. A world in which Germany’s military strength was severely restricted but most importantly for Helmut Sohler, a world in which German submarines were banned. Following the calamitous impact the Reichsmarine’s U-Boats had against both military and merchant shipping during the war, it was hardly surprising that the German U-Boat force were dismantled and the silent but fearsome Reichsmarine weapon that had come close to defeating Great Britain was strictly prohibited.

Kapitänleutnant Helmut Sohler was proud of his boat and its crew. He had sworn to serve the Reich, sinking as much enemy tonnage as his torpedo capacity would allow on each mission. That was his duty. The reason his boat patrolled silently beneath the waves.

All that came to an abrupt and unpleasant end when General Hans Kammler came aboard and began treating his beloved U-2532 as if it were his own. Being a proud German and being proud to serve his country didn’t mean Sohler had to answer to the Waffen-SS or condone the horrific means they so often used to achieve their ends.

Sohler despised Kammler. He and his kind were not fighting for national pride. They were striving to rebuild the world and make it a darker and more perverse place. Definitely not the kind world Kapitänleutnant Helmut Sohler wanted his children or grandchildren to grow up in.

Sohler wanted to sit his grandchildren on his knee and regale them with tales of bravery and cunning as he patrolled the oceans with his wolf pack, playing a deadly game of cat and mouse, not horrific stories of death camps and genocide. Sharing the confined space of his boat with a loathsome monster who boasted of his engineering feats and how they improved efficiency at the death camps repulsed Sohler. He could almost feel the very evil the general manifested permeating throughout the boat, turning his crew and beloved boat into something hideous and corrupt.

The Kapitänleutnant shivered at the thought of Kammler and tried to concentrate on the job at hand. Thankfully the general had been too busy tending his precious cargo to interfere with Sohler for the past two days. The Kapitänleutnant didn’t know what was inside the lead lined compartment that had been made off limits to all but the general for the entire voyage, but what he did know was that the hairs on the back of his neck bristled and an icy feeling of dread knotted his stomach each time he walked past the cargo hold, which he made a point of doing as little as possible.

Helmut Sohler had led countless raids against merchant convoys and survived many relentless pursuits by enemy ships pounding the sea with depth charges. He was a man who relied on his instincts and right now his gut was telling him that something terrible was being transported on his boat.

If that wasn’t enough to deal with, the crew was becoming restless and difficult to discipline. On patrol, they engaged in drills day and night when not actually hunting down targets. Drills kept them alert and alive. Drills sunk enemy ships.

But on this new mission to the Antarctic base, there was to be no engagement with enemy ships and the general had forbidden drills of any kind for fear that they might be detected by allied sonar. Silent and deep were his orders. They were to remain submerged at all times until their batteries required them to surface for recharging by the diesel engines. That was all well and good for a tried and tested U-Boat, but U-2532 hadn’t even completed sea trials. Hasty, last minute changes to her design had been pushed through the chain of command by Kammler himself before the boat was ordered to make way for South America.

Sohler pulled the cap from his head and ran his fingers through his greasy blond hair. The diesel fumes and battery gases were giving him a thumping headache. It never bothered him when he was the wolf chasing down a lone battle cruiser, but now that he was reduced to nothing but an underwater taxi service for SS, it bothered him like hell. Fatigue lined his face. He’d been forced to sail with a barely enough crew to operate the boat. Sohler hadn’t slept properly for days. He couldn’t remember the last time he smelled fresh air.

“Take us to periscope depth,” he ordered. His tone sharp.

The helmsmen and planesmen looked to the Kapitänleutnant with a fear in their eyes. They were well aware of the general’s orders not to surface for even the most extreme emergency. Under attack they were ordered to scuttle the boat to prevent the enemy ships boarding them. It was made very clear that the general did not want the cargo falling into enemy hands.

“This is still my boat and I’m still the Kapitänleutnant!” Sohler’s abrupt shout filled the cramped control room.

The Kapitänleutnant saw the look of indecision on the men’s faces. A bullet in the back of the head was a sure reward for ignoring the orders of a Waffen-SS general, even aboard a Kriegsmarine U-Boat.

“All ahead two-thirds. Take us to periscope depth and prepare to trim,” Sohler commanded calmly but sternly.

After a moment’s hesitation, the young submariners complied. Sohler could feel the deck shift beneath his feet slightly. He would have the snorkel raised and instruct the diesel officer to run the diesels for a while to power the screws and charge the batteries. The generals demanding timetable would remain on schedule. The men would also welcome the opportunity to enjoy the fresh sea air pumped through the stuffy hull as they made their way on the surface to refuel at Port Stephens.

Before he could make his way to the periscope platform, the lights dimmed for a few seconds and the drone of the electric engines tapered noticeably. Whatever Kammler had back there was draining the batteries again. Sohler shook his head. He didn’t want to go back there and warn Kammler about the batteries. That compartment gave him the creeps. And so did Kammler.

But Sohler had a duty to his boat and his men and an overwhelming desire to know exactly what kind of weapon Kammler had hidden on his U-Boat.

The Kapitänleutnant set his cap firmly on his head, adjusting the well-worn peak so that it sat straight on his brow and made his way toward the stern. Obergruppenführer Hans Kammler wasn’t going to take charge of his boat and keep him in the dark. Sohler was determined to find out what it was that was so important that he was forced to risk his crew in a brand new, untested boat. Whatever it was, there was no way it was more important than sinking enemy ships.

Chapter 20

November 9, 2017, 02:00 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

Depth 100 feet

An almost tangible stench of rotten egg gas greeted Jack as he reached the bottom of the ladder. Sam’s light was already scanning the ancient control room by the time Jack’s boots hit the deck plate. The stale odor of sweat, cigarette smoke and diesel fumes swirled with the hydrogen sulfide creating a gaseous cocktail that had Jack gagging. He tried breathing through his mouth to see if that helped.

It didn’t.

Both torches cast their beam across gauges, pipes, levers and valves that had not seen action for over seven decades. It was a surreal experience for both men but Sam seemed to be almost enjoying himself. Like a kid in a toy store, his eyes darted all over the confined space as if trying to take it all in at once.

This wasn’t Jack’s first time in a sub, he’d been fired out of a torpedo tube on many occasions to insert himself unseen on an enemy shore. The memory of a dark, claustrophobic torpedo tube made him shudder. A torpedo tube was no place for a man to be shut in. His first time gave him a whole new respect for the Navy SEALS who did it on a regular basis. Jack preferred covert ops and working solo any day.

Each man had completed a 360 degree inspection of the control room and as they finished they faced each other. They each thought it. Neither would say it. It was beyond unfathomable.

“I’m not going to say anything.” Sam was the first one to break the silence.

“Good.” Cold fingers raked Jack’s spine.

“But I’m about to do something and if we’re both thinking the same thing and if what I’m about to do works, then we can’t pretend it’s not true any longer.”

Before Jack could protest, Sam turned, reached up high on a bulkhead and wrapped his thick fingers around a large red circuit breaker.

“No—” Jack’s cry was cut off.

Cut off by the hum of electric circuits coming to life and incandescent lights flickering before lighting up the entire length of the German submarine.

“Impossible,” Jack whispered as he looked around at the gauges and dials dancing behind their glass binnacles, amazingly free of the dirt and grime that should have built up from years of idleness.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” Sam’s face was lit up with an ear-to-ear grin. He had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on some of the overhead pipes and conduits, but other than that, he looked for all the world like he belonged there and was having the time of his life.

“Bluey, let’s forget for a minute that we’re trapped in a metal coffin under the ice shelf. Let’s also forget that we’re in a Second World War Nazi U-Boat that should be a rusted ruin by now, but isn’t. And let’s conveniently move to the parking lot the issue of the army that’s topside and trying to blow our fucking heads off.”

“Okay,” Sam agreed.

“Where’s the crew? Shouldn’t there be dead mummified bodies or skeletons strewn around? There’s not even the smell of decomp and believe me, I know that smell all too well. This place even smells like they’re still here. Among the gagging stink of diesel and rotten eggs, it’s pretty plain that the whiff of BO and cigarettes is fresh and ripe in the air. And it shouldn’t be. Not if this sub has been abandoned since the war.”

“It’s the batteries,” was all Sam said in reply.

“What?” Jack shook his head at Sam. He’d been doing a lot of that, lately.

“The rotten egg smell… that’s the hydrogen sulfide from the boat’s batteries.”

“That’s your take-away from all that I just said?” Jack couldn’t believe that Sam was behaving like everything was so… normal.

“Bluey, have you not realized that when we dropped through that hatch into this sub, we actually dropped into the bloody Twilight Zone? None of this makes any sense.”

Jack rubbed his eyes as he paused to think for a moment.

“Actually,” he continued, “one thing makes sense. Whatever weird X-Files thing we’ve found ourselves in the middle of down here, someone else is mighty keen to get in on some of that action as well. I don’t know what this is, but it’s what mobilized the army up there and what we’ve been tasked with securing.”

“You’re very mission oriented, aren’t you?” Sam observed.

“What the hell do you—”

A violent shudder rumbled through the boat. Jack lost his footing and was hurled to the deck.

Sam wrapped his arms around the body of the periscope in the center of the control room to steady himself. They’d hit something. He knew that sensation. At least he couldn’t hear the sound of gushing water flooding the compartments from a hull breach. That had to be a good thing.

As if responding to that very thought, water jetted from one of the many pipes overhead, glass gauges shattered and the lights began to flicker.

“This isn’t good,” Sam stated matter-of-factly, as he waited for Jack to point the finger of blame at him, yet again.

Jack couldn’t say anything. His unconscious body lay on the deck with blood from a gash above his eye being washed away by the torrent of water cascading down on him.

Chapter 21

November 9, 2017, 02:00 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

Depth 100 feet

“Conn, Sonar. I’ve got a contact bearing one-eight-zero. Range 300 yards.”

“Is it the Russian Yasen?” asked Jameson

“Negative captain. It’s your U-Boat. The shockwaves from the torpedo impact must have breached the ice. I think the sub has broken through the ice and crashed down into the water.”

“Are you sure?”

“Can’t be sure of much captain. Sonar was deluged by so much acoustic data all at once that it couldn’t make out the individual signatures. There must be one hell of a hole in the ice above us.”

“Depth?”

“Same as us, sir. 100 feet. It levelled off, got hit by a big chunk ice that broke off after the U-Boat was dislodged and now it’s just… well… sitting there.”

“Let’s get back to the task at hand.” Jameson directed their attention to the sonar display that plotted their path through the ice mountain. The sea lake within the inverted mountain was their only safe haven until help arrived to escort them past the Russian hunter.

Submarines of old maneuvered by way of manually controlled bow planes and rudders steered by dedicated crew. Engine speed was relayed to the engine room from the conn and actioned by the engineers manning the propulsion systems.

The Virginia Class was an entirely new breed of submarine, the first fly-by-wire or ‘hands off’ submarines. Bow and stern planesmen and rudder helmsmen had been replaced by a pilot who simply entered the captain’s desired course and speed into the ship’s computer and the computer would set the rudder, bow and stern planes to the necessary positions to achieve the heading. Likewise with the engine speed.

“Pilot, ahead one-third, 5 degrees right rudder.” Jameson issued the commands in an even voice, not sounding like he was about to thread a three hundred and eighty foot needle through a narrow tunnel in the ice.

“Nice work,” he encouraged. “Just a little more, okay rudder amidships and maintain course.”

Their sonar gave them precise bearings of their position within the tunnel and the graphic display cobbled together by Dave and Juan plotted their progress for all to see. So far the system was working perfectly.

“200 yards and we’re in the clear,” whispered Dave. All three civilians had their eyes glued to the monitor.

Leah patted the two men on the back, “Great work boys. I knew I picked the best when I picked you two.” She looked around, “Where’s Durand? Shouldn’t he be here?”

“He said he felt ill. I told him to catch some bunk time. That’s the downside of operating with only one crew rotation — no sleep. This was supposed to be a peaceful science mission.” His voice sounded weary, like he wished he was getting some much needed sleep.

Jameson’s face was pale with fatigue but they all knew he was the only one who could get them through the passage. Sleep would come later, once they were all safe. His boat. His crew. His responsibility. That was the job.

Leah thought it strange that the XO should report in sick at this crucial time but didn’t say anything. Who could sleep at a time like this?

“Come on…” Juan said to himself as he clenched his fist and brought his knuckle to his mouth.

Leah could see they were almost through. A few seconds later the tiny blip on the screen was in open water, inside the ice mountain. For better or for worse. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she exhaled heavily, drawing Juan and Dave’s attention to her.

“Don’t look at me like I’m the only one here who was a little anxious.” She playfully knocked their heads together. Dave’s face was glistening with sweat and Juan had teeth marks on his knuckles, despite their attempt to look cool and unfazed by their journey into the underwater cavern.

“Pilot, take us up to periscope depth. Let’s have a look at where we are before we get too excited.”

“I don’t think you’re going to see much up there, captain. Light won’t be able to penetrate through the ice or rock of the ice mountain,” Leah suggested.

“We don’t need light. This baby doesn’t use the old fashioned lens and mirror periscope, like in the movies. She’s equipped with the very latest, cutting edge photonics mast. The electro-optical sensors and infrared sensors on the mast above the sail will capture razor sharp images and project them on this screen over here, even if it’s pitch black up there.” Jameson gestured toward the photonic mast display screen.

“We’re at periscope depth, captain. Ready when you are.” Technically, the Barracuda didn’t have a periscope and was at photonics depth, but some traditions are hard to let go.

“Okay, let’s see where we are.” Jameson used the touchscreen of the photonics control to program it for a ‘quick-look’ deployment. The mast would break the surface of the water momentarily before capturing a 360 degree view of the surrounding cavern in both low light and infra-red data streams before retracting, minimizing the possibility of detection. It didn’t hurt to be careful given the bizarre events that had unfolded of late.

Jameson then initiated the ‘quick-look’ viewer program and waited for the incoming data to be overlaid on the big screen.

The sonar map had been forgotten for the moment and all eyes were locked on the photonics display monitor. It would be the first time any of them, perhaps any one at all, had ever seen the inside of an Antarctic ice mountain.

Within a beat the image appeared on the screen, slightly grainy and with the unusual bloom of a night vision image, but there was no mistaking what they were seeing as they image traversed the full 360 degrees of the chamber above them.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Jameson whispered as he leaned in closer to be sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

Chapter 22

November 9, 2017, 03:00 UTC

Westlake

Fort Worth, Texas

32°45′ 26.49"N 97°19′ 59.45" W

J. Clifford Barnes watched the entire debacle unfold from the safety and warmth of his study. Who needed to launch their own satellites when you had hackers who could re-task and intercept images from any US Defense SATCOM satellite in orbit? Barnes liked to think of it has his own private cable network, but one that offered far better entertainment than anything HBO had to offer.

Static hissed through the video conference speaker on his desk. The team leader’s audio link via satellite phone was patchy and fragmented due to atmospheric interference but Barnes got the gist of what had happened. The live satellite feed and the team leaders disjointed transmission told him all he needed to know.

His crack team of mercenaries had lost the U-Boat. They’d snatched defeat right out from the jaws of victory. Karl Muller was supposed to be the best, that’s why he’d been handpicked to lead the elite team on the ice. Barnes wondered if he’d chosen the right man for the job. Perhaps choosing one of their own had been a mistake, after all. Would the outcome have been any different if the mission had been led by someone without so much at stake? Would a team leader in it just for the money have made better tactical decisions?

“What do you mean it fell through the ice? How is that even possible?” Rage laced his words.

“It just cracked…. then… collapsed… we lost… men…”

“I don’t give a damn about the men. I want that submarine!”

Static hissed and crackled with a few words making it through to Barnes’ anxious ears. “… Ice Station… two-eleven… in case… drifts…”

Barnes pieced together what he thought Muller was trying to say. Of course! The man wasn’t a fool after all.

“I don’t care what it takes. Get down there and find me that U-Boat. And when you’re done, make sure you take care of your men. Leave nobody alive down there. I’ll transmit the coordinates you will need in a few minutes.”

J. Clifford Barnes ended the call and reflected on what was at stake.

For decades The Brotherhood had been waiting for Kammler’s device to reappear. The time had been put to good use. Vast fortunes had been amassed from the gold that had been shipped from the death camps and underground vaults before Berlin collapsed.

Infiltration of governments and strategic corporations around the world by Brotherhood members had been carefully orchestrated from the beginning and with each passing decade they rose to higher echelons of power and influence. Today, there was hardly a significant government agency or major finance or defense corporation that didn’t have Brotherhood members entrenched in decisive and high level assignments.

All of that was the backup plan. Possibly the biggest, most expensive and most assuredly the boldest backup plan in history. A plan that assured The Brotherhood some level of control in the world and unlimited wealth for the indefinite future.

But that was never the primary plan. With Kammler’s device back in Brotherhood hands, the real operation could begin, making Plan B look paltry and amateur.

With Kammler’s Bell, they wouldn’t be working within the confines of the world as it was shaped after the war, but they would re-create the world as it should have been in the wake of a resounding Nazi victory.

Barnes clenched his fist, his knuckles whitening as his nails dug into his flesh. He wanted it all. He wanted to be the next Fuhrer, the leader of the Thousand Year Reich and he’d watched his chance slip into a gigantic watery grave.

Failure was not an option. He would secure the Bell no matter what the cost, even if it meant risking exposure of The Brotherhood in the process. If he succeeded, that wouldn’t matter anyway. Nothing would matter.

Blood oozed from J. Clifford Barnes fists, rivulets of crimson trailed across his polished desk. He stared at his own blood.

At any cost.

Chapter 23

November 9, 2017, 03:30 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

Depth 100 feet

The many hours Sam Krupsky had spent freezing his ass off in the ‘get wet’ training simulator at Ballast Point when he first enlisted came back to him in a heartbeat. A navy man’s worst nightmare was to be trapped in a flooded compartment with burst high pressure pipes jetting cold seawater into the hull at a prodigious rate. But this was no simulation. The gushing water was colder than anything Sam had ever experienced and this time he was all alone. Jack was still out cold.

Find the patch repair kit. Locate the split in the pipe. Bypass the cutout-valve. Slide the steel patch sleeves into place and bolt them down with clamps. Easy enough in a simulator with two sets of hands to do the job and everything labelled in English, Sam thought as the icy water sprayed him in the face.

He spotted a large metal box mounted on a bulkhead with the word Reparieren stenciled in red on the lid. That had to be worth a try. Popping it open, he saw that it was a vintage wartime version of the kit he’d trained with as a young sailor in San Diego. It wasn’t the U.S. Navy issued Band-It kit that he was used to, but there seemed to be enough sleeves, clamps, bolts and nuts to make do. Clipped into the lid of the rudimentary tool box was a solid looking wrench. Perfect.

There was no time to waste looking for the cutout-valve. The entire bulkhead was a confusing maze of pipes and conduits. His first priority was to patch the rupture, and then he’d have time to deal with bypassing the flow to take pressure off the patch.

His hands shook in equal parts from the adrenaline that coursed through him and the bitter cold of the near freezing water that spurted from the pipe. If he didn’t fix it fast, the numbing cold of the water would freeze his hands and they’d be useless for the dexterous job at hand. Grabbing the box, he tore it from its mountings and removed the wrench, which he slotted into his jacket pocket for fast access. Overturning the box, he emptied the assorted hardware onto a narrow shelf behind the jetting water, sorting the items into some kind of order that allowed him to identify them by feel. Sleeves. Clamps. Bolts. Nuts. His damage control training in the simulator served him well. He remained level headed and methodical. This was no time to panic.

There were two ruptures that he could identity through the cascade that almost blinded him. Time was running out. The water level in the compartment was already above his ankles. As the boat got lower in the water from the flooding, the pressure would increase exponentially and the pipes would split even further. If that happened, the water would be at head height within a few minutes and they’d be sinking to a watery grave.

Head height…

“Oh shit…” Sam had forgotten that Jack was lying on the deck. He quickly checked and his face was above water. For the moment.

Every second he delayed, the greater the flow rate of the incoming water. Jack would have to wait or they’d both die a cruel and terrifying death. The decision made, Sam began to position the sleeves over the first rupture. It took all of his considerable strength to keep in in place. The force was almost impossible and he needed his other hand to locate and fit the clamp, which he was holding ready. He had no idea how he was going to hold the whole mechanism in place, insert the bolts and attach the nuts to secure it. It was hopeless.

Suddenly the pressure eased enough for Sam to shimmy the clamp into place and hold both the sleeve and clamp in place. Now he only had to deal with the nut and bolt one handed. Still a challenge, but maybe possible.

The pressure dropped further.

Sam took a moment to check on Jack’s status. He was gone.

Looking around, he saw Jack standing in front of a series of regulating valves and stop-cocks. Jack was behaving like a frenzied mad man turning every valve and shutting off every stop-cock he could reach in a crazed attempt to stem the flow of water.

It seemed to be working.

Jack turned in Sam’s direction. There was no point trying to shout above the roar of the incoming water. Sam pointed to the patch kit he’d partially put in place, hoping that Jack would understand. He did.

Wading through the frigid bilge water, Jack positioned himself to help bolt the patch in place. After tightening the nut by hand, Sam took over with the wrench and a few minutes later, one patch was secured.

Sam pointed to the next breach and the two men, like a well-oiled machine repeated the process until the spray of water was reduced to a mere trickle.

“Good work, Jack. How did you know which valves to shut off?”

“I didn’t,” replied Jack. “I figured I couldn’t make things any worse, so I just went at all of them —”

“Like a dog with two dicks, from what I could see,” Sam finished.

“Guess I got lucky,” added Jack.

“I thought you were out cold.” Sam had an apologetic look in his eyes. He’d made a call to fix the leak instead of getting Jack out of harm’s way. He hoped Jack understood.

“The water brought me around. Don’t worry I would have done the same if I were you.”

Sam nodded his thanks for the understanding.

“What do we do now, kapitänleutnant?” Jack smiled, but his voice was tempered with tension.

“It’s funny you should ask. While I was busy trying to save the boat and our lives, I had a few ideas, just in case we managed to scrape through. But first, I have a question for you…”

Jack raised a brow, prompting Sam to continue.

“Does this kind of shitstorm happen for you on a daily basis?”

Jack shrugged and sighed. “Pretty much.”

Chapter 24

November 9, 2017, 04:00 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

Depth 50 feet

“Nice of you to join us, XO,” Captain Jameson greeted Durand as he entered the Control Room. “Nice nap?”

“Sorry sir, I’m feeling okay now and ready for duty.” Peter Durand avoided eye contact with the captain and the civilian scientists. He did look deathly pale, Jameson noted.

“Glad to hear it. Take us up.”

“Sir?” Durand hadn’t yet seen the photonics display. Now he noticed that Leah, Dave and Juan still had their eyes glued to the monitor and came in for a look.

“Holy…” He looked at the captain and swallowed hard. “Is this for real?”

“We’ll know for sure XO, if you ever get around to blowing the tanks and get us to the surface.”

“Aye sir,” Durand snapped with a sense of renewed urgency and proceeded to order the pilots to blow the tanks take them to the surface.

“XO, we’re going to need some floodlights so see what you can round up from engineering.”

“Aye sir,” Durand responded as he dashed through the hatch at the rear of the Control Room on his way to Engineering.

Jameson stared hard at the civilians. “You three are staying here until I take a good look around.”

All three shook their heads. There was no way they were staying below decks at a time like this. As scientists, they all had a profound sense of the historical moment at hand. Juan already had his camera strapped over his neck, looking more like a tourist than a computer expert.

“This is my boat and you’re my responsibility.” His tone was firm and not negotiable.

But Leah, Dave and Juan weren’t in the navy and they weren’t accustomed to the chain of command. They all stood and made their way toward the deck hatch behind the Control Room and the former Attack Center.

Frank Jameson didn’t feel like the captain of a multi-billion dollar killing machine right now. Like the civilians, he felt like he was part of something else that he couldn’t quite describe as he led the way to the hatch without a word of reprimand for the mutinous geeks.

Durand had unfurled a collection of electrical cables which snaked over the curved hull of the sub to provide power to the floodlights he’d had engineering throw together in double quick time. After plugging in the last of the connectors, he used his two-way radio to give the engineer below decks the order to power up.

Instantly the cavern in which they’d surfaced was lit up in all directions.

Nobody spoke. Jameson, Durand and the scientists were wide eyed and dumfounded. The only things to escape their mouths were the clouds of mist as they breathed through their open mouths.

The cavernous space defied description and would have been a feat of engineering had it been built in an industrialized country within the past decade. But the gigantic bronze eagle with the Nazi emblem clutched in its claws clearly dated the structure to a time long since passed. And they were in one of the most inhospitable regions on the entire planet. It was no wonder they were agog at the sight before them. It almost seemed beyond impossible.

They had surfaced in what, at one time, had plainly been a U-Boat pen with individual concrete wet docks to hold multiple boats at one time. The domed concrete structure that enclosed it was easily as long as two football fields and almost as wide as it was long. There was no way to judge the height of the curved roof as the lights, powerful as they were, didn’t penetrate all the way to the top.

“These walls must be three feet thick or more of solid, reinforced concrete. How did they build this? I doubt we’d be able to do this today, even with an unlimited budget.” Dave was the first to break the silence. “There’d have to be more than half a million cubic yards of concrete here.”

“How is one question that comes to mind. For me, a better question is why they built it,” Jameson pondered. “Seems like it would have taken years and this is hardly the most strategic place they could have built a submarine base,” he added.

“Maybe strategy wasn’t the objective,” Juan offered. “Given how long this place has remained undiscovered maybe secrecy was what it was all about.”

“But why all the way down here?” asked Jameson, not expecting a reply.

“Can we get off the boat and take a look around?” Leah asked with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

Juan and Dave looked surprised. After all, a Second World War Nazi U-Boat base was surely more of a ‘guy thing’.

“Well we’ve got nothing much else to do while we wait for PACOM to mobilize some help, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt for you to explore a just a little?”

Juan was already strobing the bleak concrete interior with his camera flash like a snap happy tourist. Dave also looked like he was ready to jump ashore.

“Captain,” Durand broke their festive spirit with his authoritative tone, “is that such a good idea?”

“I’m going exploring, Durand,” Leah interjected forcefully, although she had wished they were better dressed for a polar excursion.

“After you secure us to the dock Mr. Durand, you have the boat. I’ll be ashore with these three.” He gestured to the smiling trio as they hopped from one foot to the other and rubbed their hands to keep warm.

“Aye sir,” Durand responded but he looked far from happy about it. At least he’d be warm in the boat while the other guys went off with Dora the Explorer.

The XO keyed his mic to order engineering to send up a couple of men to help him secure the boat when he felt the deck move below his feet as if they were in open water. The water in the center of the U-Boat pen roiled and churned before forming into a powerful wave that surged across the water and slammed broadside into the Barracuda, knocking it into a nearby concrete berth. The sound of thousands of tons of steel colliding with the reinforced concrete berth produced a torturous groan that echoed throughout the enormous chamber. The reverberation was so loud and so prolonged that it drowned out the sound of the submarine erupting to the surface, like a leviathan from the depths, following an emergency blow of its tanks.

Nor did anyone hear the cry for help as one of their own fell overboard into the bitterly cold, inky black water.

Chapter 25

November 9, 2017, 04:00 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

Sam had explained to Jack that he didn’t know how to blow the ballast tanks any other way than with a full emergency blow. One of the salty old German sailors he’d worked with on the U-505 restoration project at the Science and Industry Museum had proudly demonstrated the procedure on the inoperable submarine many times. He’d served aboard a U-Boat during the final months of the war, having been conscripted as a fifteen year old boy. Germany had been desperate for men having lost many millions of them at the brutal Russian Front. Nobody had cared about his age, he said, U-Boat crews had a short life expectancy, anyway. The one thing he’d learned during his short service before Germany surrendered was the emergency blow and he’d been telling anyone who would listen all about it ever since.

Jack had no choice but to trust Sam, after all, he was the one who had got the screws turning so they could navigate to safety using the extraordinarily detailed charts that were still on the chart table as if the navigator had stepped away only moments ago. The state of the U-Boat greatly unnerved Jack and something about the whole situation made his battle hardened survival instincts bristle. There was a darkness with them in the boat that even the emergency lights Sam had lit up couldn’t chase away. The sooner they got out of the stale air of the claustrophobic boat, the happier Jack would be. He wasn’t afraid of a fire fight, he’d survived plenty of those in his time, but he’d always known exactly who he was up against. This mission was different and he felt like he was clawing at the darkness unable to see what he was really up against.

And now he was in a World War Two U-Boat heading toward what the charts indicated was described as a ‘bunker’ under the ice.

Nothing in his training or field experience had prepared him for anything like this. And he didn’t even know what this was. It was damn spooky, to say the least.

“We’re almost there, according to the chart,” Sam called through the engine room voice tube to the conn where Jack was manning the rudder.

It became clear very soon after damage control was squared away that they wouldn’t survive if they just bobbed aimlessly under the ice like a cork. With limited weapons and ammunition, surfacing and facing the army that awaited them wasn’t a very good plan. They needed a new plan. Any plan. It didn’t even have to be a good plan.

On the navigation chart spread out on the table, they noted a thick grease-pencil line showing the last course the sub had sailed… into the heart of an ice mountain. No explanation as to how the sub ended up where they’d found it, but answering that question didn’t help their chances of survival. That could wait.

The plan was far from ideal, but then again so were the circumstances. Sam would man propulsion in the engine room, with the chart in hand and Jack would man the rudder as instructed by Sam through the voice tube. As far as plans went, it was, like their vintage U-Boat, full of holes, but it was the only one they could come up with.

“Hold the rudder steady and I’ll reverse a third to bring us to a stop.” Sam’s voice sounded remarkably free of tension, Jack thought. That man was having way too much fun playing submarines. Jack never wanted to see another submarine as long as he lived.

* * *

The compartment hatch leading to the conn filled with Sam’s oversized frame as he squeezed sideways through it. “Ready?” he asked.

If the cramped sub didn’t already feel like the bulkheads were crushing in on him, having the big ginger headed giant fill what was left of the space really made Jack feel like he was suffocating.

“No,” Jack replied but squeezed his way to the confusing jumble of pipes and levers on the other side of the conn, regardless.

“I checked the compressed air tanks and we’ve got enough pressure for one emergency blow.”

“That’s all we need, then we’re out of here?” Hope hung in his words.

“Alright, you pull these four levers on my mark, right?” Sam indicated the four levers again, although they’d rehearsed the procedure before navigating their way to through the tunnel to the base.

“I’ve got these four, but we have to pull them at the same time so we surface bow first and don’t roll over on our back because we’ve lost trim,” the big man continued.

“You didn’t mention that before,” protested Jack.

“Didn’t want to scare your jarhead ass.”

“I’m not a marine—”

Sam cut him off with his countdown, “Three, two, one…”

That’s when Jack’s world went ass up. Again.

* * *

With speed and agility Jack thought wasn’t possible for such a huge vessel, the U-Boat changed attitude by at least twenty degrees and began to shoot to the surface.

“Hey, navy, what if we hit something up there?” Jack called over the riotous roar of the compressed air and seawater through the tanks on either side of the pressure hull.

“At this rate of ascent, you and I would end up a gooey smear on the upper bulkhead. At least I won’t have to listen to you whining after that.”

Before Jack could reply, the boat righted itself to what Sam had referred to during his explanation of the maneuver as ‘zero bubble’, but not before an almighty boom rang through the entire submarine as the bow fell down through the air and pounded back into the water.

Sam raised his hand to high five Jack, but Jack was already half way up the conning tower ladder, making a dash for the hatch. He hadn’t even bothered to grab his pack. Getting out of the sub was his new mission.

The hatch opened easily now that it was no longer frozen solid and Jack threw it back, scrabbling his way into the conning tower before his brain had time to register that he was seeing something he shouldn’t be seeing.

Light.

That was impossible.

Unless…

The thought that they’d escaped into the hands of a waiting enemy crushed Jack’s spirit, after all they’d bene through.

There was no way in hell he was going back into that submarine.

He didn’t want to die in a hail of gunfire in a battle he didn’t even understand, either.

There was only one choice left open to him.

Jack stood up in the conning tower with both hands raised as far above his head as he could manage. Surrender might not be in his DNA but survival surely was. That’s what he was trained to do — survive. If he could do that, then he could live to fight another day.

* * *

Not a single round was fired as he stood. That was a good start. Then he saw why.

Instead of being surrounded by commandoes in winter camouflage pointing submachine guns at him, an even more surprising sight greeted him.

A U.S. Navy submarine, a bunch of drenched sailors on the foredeck and a pair of young civilians near the sail. Not a single gun anywhere to be seen.

“Who’s the U-Boat commander?” he heard one of the civilians ask, a heavyset man wearing a T-Shirt two sizes too small.

The other, fitter looking civilian rolled his eyes.

Heavyset just shrugged. “Can you blame me? That’s one movie line I won’t get another chance to say for the rest of my life.”

Jack was surveying the entire cavern, subconsciously processing the input from his eyes and ears. The wheels inside his head were turning at lightning speed, an invaluable skill in his line of work and one that had been highly refined during a career making instantaneous life and death decisions. Sometimes saving your life or someone else’s came down to only a few seconds and the ability to assimilate information fast was mission critical.

The two civilians weren’t a threat.

The sailors weren’t armed.

The captain and the other officer each wore a sidearm but hadn’t drawn them, although their hands looked ready to do so at any time.

He was inside a mammoth concrete bunker of some kind. That’s what the chart had told them already, but the scale of what he was seeing was phenomenal.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw something that didn’t belong. Something inconsistent with all the other signals his senses were compiling. An anomaly. An object bobbing around in the water between the two subs. The others couldn’t see it as it was out of their line of sight. The elevation of the conning tower gave Jack a clear view. As his eyes adjusted to the blazing floodlights on the other submarine, he saw what it was.

The woman’s blonde hair fanned in the dark water like a halo, catching the light and Jack’s attention. Her arms and legs were spread eagle. She was face down, unconscious and beginning to slowly sink. Jack instinctively calculated how long before she’d sink below the surface, the distance between himself and the woman and the time it would take to reach her to keep her afloat. There was absolutely no way he’d get to her in time. She was probably dead already.

Chapter 26

November 9, 2017, 04:30 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

She might also still be alive. Jack remembered his mission in Pavlovsk Bay. The Russian Admiral he’d kidnapped tried to escape and had thrown himself into the sea rather than be taken. Jack fished his lifeless body from the waves and was surprised to learn the man was still alive. He learned later that hypothermia actually preserves brain function, even when deprived of oxygen for short periods of time.

He had to try.

He kicked off his heavy combat boots, shrugged out of his tactical vest and let his belt fall at his feet. Like an Olympic gymnast, Jack grabbed the top edge of the sail and in a blur of speed hoisted himself up and over, landing on the top rung of the outer ladder. He gripped the dripping wet handrails and found himself face-to-face with scars from bullets fired to kill. It wasn’t lost on him that he was on the very same ladder from which Sam had saved him from a fatal fall. There was something almost karmic about that, but he didn’t waste time thinking about it. He needed to move!

Gripping the side rails, he pushed his feet out so they, too, were resting on the handrails and he let himself slide all the way to the deck using his gloved hands to control the speed of his plunge. If he rolled an ankle when he hit the deck he’d not have a chance at saving the woman.

As soon as his bare feet hit the steel plate, he sprinted to the edge of the hull and without breaking stride, made a perfect shallow dive off the edge, arcing through the air with effortless grace before spearing into the water like a dart, barely making a splash.

With a half dozen powerful strokes from his muscular arms and broad shoulders, he intercepted the submerged woman just before she was out of reach and wrapped an arm around her, bringing her to the surface. Rolling her on her back, Jack kicked and stroked his way toward one of the low concrete fingers that bordered the nearest U-Boat pens. As he reached the dock a flurry of hands grabbed him and the woman and heaved them out of the bitterly cold water.

Jack was numb and shaking uncontrollably. He heard someone call out for thermal blankets. One of the officers was trying to revive the woman but she was already gone. He’d seen too much death not to be able to recognize it up close.

At least I tried, he thought as his body began to shut down and he slipped into hypothermia. One final thought clawed at his semi-conscious state before everything went black. He hadn’t seen the big man since they surfaced. What the hell was Sam doing?

* * *

Warmth. That was the first thing Jack noticed as he regained consciousness. Something he hadn’t felt since Pine Gap, which seemed like another lifetime ago. He opened his eyes and harsh lights forced him to squint. The room was so bright. After a few moments, he opened his eyes slowly and saw that he was in some kind of sick bay, but it was cramped. Maybe six feet across and barely fifteen feet in length. That was another thing he’d seen too many of in his career. Sick bays, medivac choppers, hospitals and rehab. Rinse and repeat. He wasn’t surprised that he made it to an infirmary on this mission as well. There’d be something wrong if he hadn’t. It would have meant he wasn’t trying hard enough.

Then he remembered the woman in the water. His stomach turned at the thought of his failure. So many missions, so much killing, he’d blown an opportunity to actually save a life for a change. He knew it was too late even before he threw himself into the water. But some small part of him hoped for a better result.

“Thank you,” a soft voice filtered through the hum of equipment in the sick bay. The narrow bunk in which he’d been shoehorned and wrapped in heated blankets made it difficult for him to move without rolling out of the bunk, but he managed to crane his neck around to see an attractive and familiar face poking out of cocoon of heated blankets.

She was alive. He hadn’t failed after all.

“I thought you were… you know… ” he replied.

“Dead? Apparently it was touch and go but here I am. They told me I’d be dead for sure if you hadn’t grabbed me when you did. I might be an oceanographer, but I’d prefer to study the sea than freeze to death or drown in it.”

“Jack Coulson.” He held out a calloused hand.

“Leah Anderson.” She stretched her hand across the narrow space and shook Jack’s.

Her hands were soft and warm and felt comforting. Jack held on for a moment longer than etiquette would normally allow.

“What do you do when you’re not sightseeing in Nazi submarines?” Leah asked to cover the awkward moment. She felt it, too.

“If I tell you that…”

Leah held up a palm, “Please don’t say you’ll have to kill me. I’ve been cooped up with navy guys, tech nerds and conspiracy theorists for so long I’m ready to slap someone.”

He awkwardly withdrew his hand and tried to reposition himself on the bunk. As he sat up, the blankets pooled to the floor, leaving him naked apart from his shorts. Of course, they’d removed his wet clothing. He should have thought of that.

“Then I won’t say anything,” promised Jack.

He bent down to pick up the blankets so he could at least make himself decent. But it was too late. Her steel-blue eyes were already raking over his well-muscled torso and powerful shoulders before widening at the sight of the collection of ropey knife scars and puckered bullet wounds that formed a graphic representation of his life as a covert ops soldier. She wouldn’t be the first woman to sight his battle scars and make a run for it.

But she surprised him.

“Geez, what happened to the other guy?” she asked, tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

Despite being half naked and in a closed in space with a woman who’d just had a near death experience, Jack Coulson laughed. It felt good, too. He couldn’t remember the last time something actually made him laugh.

“Glad we got that out of the way,” he said as he wrapped the blanket around himself. “Speaking of other guys, has anyone mentioned the guy I was on the sub with?” he asked.

“U-Boat. We are on a sub. You were on a U-Boat and that’s all anyone is talking about right now. Quite the grand entrance from what I saw before your U-Boat threw me into the water.”

“Sorry about that. We had no idea…” Jack looked sheepishly at Leah.

“Anyway, if that’s not enough of a talking point, apparently your buddy Sam discovered something on board the U-Boat while you were playing Baywatch.”

“Found something?” Jack sat bolt upright.

“I’ve no idea what, but it’s given my two scientists a hard-on like I never thought possible. They haven’t even been in to see how I’m doing. So whatever it is you two guys have in that U-Boat, it must be absolutely mind blowing.”

A pair of coveralls had been left on the end of the bunk for Jack, as he threaded his limbs through them he noticed an evacuation diagram on the wall opposite. He took a moment to commit the sub layout to memory, an instinctive impulse for a man in Jack’s profession. He wasn’t even fully conscious that he’d done it, the habit was so in-built.

Jack shook his head in disbelief. He couldn’t imagine the ham-fisted, red headed giant finding his own ass without a map, least of all something that got a couple of nerdy looking scientists all worked up.

Chapter 27

November 9, 2017, 05:00 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S 61°17′ 34.20" W

Karl Muller was built like a Russian war monument. He had a head like a cinder block mounted atop impossibly broad shoulders and crowned with a purposeful blonde buzz cut. He cut a fearful and imposing figure, even in the vastness of the Antarctic ice shelf. In fact, Muller made a hell of an impression wherever he found himself deployed. While the men he served with used their downtime to Skype with family or girlfriends back home, or just watch online porn, Muller spent his time in the gym, pumping iron. Lots of iron, in his case, and beating sparring partners to the canvas in brutal and bloody bouts of hand-to-hand combat. At 6 feet 5 inches tall and a well-muscled 230 pounds, he’d yet to find a sparring partner who could last a single round.

Muller had been born into The Brotherhood. He wasn’t a paid mercenary like many of the other soldiers who served the cause. Money didn’t mean much to Muller. All he wanted was to serve the Reich and see the pathetic, liberal world he despised bow before the new order. Standartenführer Muller, they would call him and that would be just the start of his rise through the ranks of the new Reich.

For ten years, at The Brotherhood’s behest, he’d served in the German army to learn the skills and tactics of a Special Forces soldier in the Kommando Spezialkräfte or KSK. Having spent much of his time in Afghanistan and Iraq with the KSK before being given his own command within The Brotherhood, Muller was struggling to come to terms with the cold, harsh environment of the Antarctic. There was a time when he thought the scorching and barren deserts were hell on earth. Now he was finding out what hell was really like.

Weapons seized and became inoperable. Batteries barely functioned out in the open, so radio communications were unreliable. Aircraft couldn’t fly most of the time and even if they were able to de-ice their wings for take-off, the grease that coated vital mechanicals like landing gear and flaps would freeze solid, leaving the aircraft icebound. Their flight from Belgrano II to the drop zone had been delayed due to the blizzard, compromising the mission. But he’d known better than to try to tell Barnes about the unique dangers of Antarctic flight. That man was focused on one thing only and that was the U-Boat.

His years in the stinking desert fighting a bunch of camel humpers hadn’t prepared him for this glacial mission. And who knew the sub was going to be where it was, in full view of their enemy’s snooping satellites. They’d been waiting for 70 years for it to reappear, he’d been told and they’d expected it to return to the U-Boat bunker where they knew it had docked after the long and silent journey from Argentina. Something had gone wrong, but it wasn’t his job to work out what that might have been. His mission was to find and secure the sub at any cost. And then make sure the contents of the sub remained secret. No survivors. No witnesses.

As he and his team trudged through the crisp, powdered snow that covered the ice, a hellish wind tore at them like an invisible fist trying to drive them back. Progress was slow but they were making ground toward where he hoped to find the entrance to the bunker he’d circled on the map after receiving the coordinates from Barnes. Compasses were useless so close to the magnetic South Pole, so Muller was forced to rely on a GPS to navigate through the near zero visibility of the blizzard. He hoped like hell the damned batteries handled the cold better than he did.

Chapter 28

November 9, 2017, 05:30 UTC

National Security Agency

Fort Meade

Maryland

39°6′32″N 97° -76' 46 17" W

“What do you mean the navy doesn’t know where their subs are?” Preston was horrorstruck at the idea that the navy had nuclear weapons scattered around the globe like forgotten toys and nobody knew where they were. Not even Naval Command.

“Our subs run silent and deep during their patrols. Only the captains of these boats know their patrol area, which is highly classified. The Ohio class subs deployed with ballistic missile launch capability but the attack subs are deployed with Tomahawk cruise missiles and have both conventional and nuclear warheads,” DIA Director George Turner explained. “And one surgical strike with a nuclear tipped Tomahawk is all we need.”

Preston was only an Assistant Director and, worse, An AD in charge of SIGINT or Signals Intelligence. Turner didn’t think he had a right to know about the nation’s nuclear weapons capability in any detail, but the scenario unfolding before them called for extraordinary measures. The fact that The President had authorized a nuclear strike only served to confirm the true horror of the consequences should they fail.

“If PACOM don’t know where they are and if they are undetectable below the surface, then the enemy can’t know where they are, not even if they have a mole inside Pacific Command or any of the other navy command areas,” Turner continued.

“There must be another way,” said Preston. “We haven’t used nuclear weapons since 1945 and there’s a good reason for that.”

“Satellite communications are still patchy since Pine Gap got hit. We have no military to speak of anywhere near the Antarctic. The whole Antarctic continent was declared a military free zone since the 1960’s for God’s sake. McMurdo Station, even if we could even reach them, is full of meteorologists, glaciologists, geologists, oceanologists and about every other ‘ologist’ you could think of, but no military and no weapons. Besides, they’d never be able to fly to the Ronne Ice Shelf with the weather as it is.”

“But a nuclear strike? Seriously?” Preston pressed the point that he wasn’t on board with the nuclear weapon launch.

Finally Preston’s boss chimed in, “Henry, there’s no other way. We had a research sub down there — they went dark. We’ve had confirmation that the covert ops guy and one other we deployed from Pine Gap were dropped over the area, but they’ve gone dark, too. We have to assume we have no assets in the region.”

“But are we even sure this… this thing is even on board the U-Boat?” implored Preston.

“Son, we’re not sure of anything but the fact remains that this device can never fall into enemy hands, it can’t even fall into our hands. It’s just too dangerous and the consequences are beyond horrific. We’ve even had unconfirmed chatter regarding a neo Nazi organization that have been looking for it for decades. Can you imagine what would happen if they found it? My God, if that happened then you’d be begging me to send in the nukes.” Turner jabbed a finger at Preston, his cheeks flushed with anger.

“It’s a done deal,” Turner commanded. “As soon as a sub with nuclear warheads on board makes contact, they will be given the coordinates and nuclear strike orders.” He continued, “You’re only job is to manage the communications and see that everyone else stays the hell out of that hot zone. Have I made myself clear, Preston?”

With a barely perceptible nod, Preston capitulated. But that didn’t mean he had to like the idea.

Chapter 29

November 9, 2017, 06:00 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

The crew mess aboard the Barracuda was more spacious than Jack was expecting. Suited up in the pair of borrowed engineer’s coveralls, he’d made his way to the mess with Leah in tow to find out what had everyone excited. Loudly animated voices could be heard all the way to the sick bay.

As they entered the mess, Leah maneuvered her way past Jack to introduce her team, Dave and Juan and the two submarine officers, Captain Frank Jameson and the Executive Office, Peter Durand. All four men leaned forward and shook hands with Coulson before taking their seats and scooching over to make way for Leah in the booth.

Sam sat alone in his own booth. He’d managed to dry his clothes. Jack suspected they didn’t have anything to spare that would fit him, anyway.

“Leah, this is Sam Krupsky, my U-Boat expert.” After Jack made introductions he sat next to Sam. “I suppose you’ve told them the story of how we came to be here, not that I’d expect anyone to believe it.”

Sam nodded.

Jack sensed something was off. Sam wasn’t himself.

“What’s all the excitement about? Tell me you didn’t find a hoard of Nazi gold on the U-Boat, Sam?”

An awkward silence fell over the small group.

“I wish I did,” said Sam. His expression was grave. “I found the U-Boat commanders log book on one of the bunks and there’s a non-standard compartment on the boat that’s been welded shut.”

“That’s not unusual, is it?” asked Jack.

“From the inside.” Sam’s face darkened further.

“And then there’s this.” Jameson held up the leather bound log, its dog eared pages filled with a neat and very precise script and passed it to Jack.

“I speak enough Arabic and Farsi to get by in the Middle East, but my training didn’t include any German, I’m afraid. They’re on our side, after all.” Jack flipped through the log, regardless.

“That’s alright, I took enough German in college to make out most of what’s in there,” Durand offered. “Up until a few days before the log finishes abruptly,” he went on, “it’s a boring narration of life aboard a U-Boat. Navigational data, weather, crew issues, damage reports. Boring as bat shit. Until…”

Jack waited for him to continue. The man clearly had a sense for the dramatic.

“Until?”

“Until some kind of experiment with what they refer to as a Wunderwaffe… that’s Wonder Weapon,” he explained.

“Yeah, I kind of worked that out.” Jack didn’t really care for Durand. His instincts were rarely wrong and they were on full alert with this guy.

“Anyway,” Durand continued, unfazed, “it seems the captain, Helmut Sohler wasn’t too happy with having the weapon on his boat or he had some other beef with the guy that built it Kam—”

“Kammler,” Juan broke in, “the guy who built the weapon was Dr. Hans Kammler, a real nasty piece of work, even by SS standards…”

All eyes were now on Juan who realized that he’d interrupted the XO.

“Don’t stop now,” Leah encouraged, “you’ve got us hooked.”

“The name didn’t mean anything when you first said it,” Juan acknowledged Durand, “but it came to me just now. He was a top ranking Nazi General, reporting directly to Hitler. Those gas chambers disguised as showers in the concentration camps… they were Kammler’s brainchild. He did a bunch of other stuff, too, like the V2 rockets. He was supposed to be a hot shot engineer.”

“And he came here? On the U-Boat?” asked Sam.

“That’s the thing, he disappeared after the war. The Russians claimed the Americans had him as part of Operation Paperclip and the Americans thought the Russians had captured him and were using him to develop their own nuclear weapons program.”

“Operation Paperclip?” Leah raised her palms, not having a clue what Juan was talking about.

“That’s what the U.S. government called it. They scooped up a couple of thousand super smart Nazi scientists brought them to America and gave them and their families new identities and jobs in our own top secret military programs.”

“No way,” Leah objected.

“Yeah, way,” Dave cut in. “When I was studying the history of sonar technology, we learned a lot from research done by some of those guys. Their work was way ahead of anything we’d come up with during the war.”

“And who do you think put us on the moon?” asked Juan.

“Kennedy?” Leah suggested.

“Werner Von Braun. The same Nazi rocket scientist who developed the V2 rocket to destroy entire cities came over to our side and became the designer of the Saturn V rocket that put the first man on the moon.”

“Is this another one of your tinfoil hat conspiracies?” Leah arched a skeptical brow at Juan.

“I can vouch he’s telling it as it is,” said Durand. “The military history courses I took when I did my training at Groton lines up with what Juan’s saying, for sure.”

Sam’s angry baritone voice boomed through the crowded space, “So one of Hitler’s Nazi scientists actually put the first man, an American, on the moon?”

Juan responded, “Well, I doubt it actually says that on the About Us page on NASA’s website, but that’s more or less how it happened. It was literally a space race. We were racing the Russians, the communists, for the high ground. Space.”

Jack had a question for Juan. “Okay, so getting back to Kammler, you’re saying that he basically went missing, vanished without a trace after the war and each side thought the other had him, but he fled here, on the U-Boat and with this secret weapon?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds a bit thin,” Juan responded, “but the diary and the sealed compartment support the proposition. We’re scientists… we just follow the evidence. The question I’m asking is why they built this place. It must have been a mammoth undertaking, even by Third Reich standards and they were known for doing things in a big way.”

Coulson stroked his chin in thought. “I was thinking the same thing. This place has virtually zero strategic value from a military perspective. Could it have been for scientific or engineering reasons?” he asked Juan and Dave.

“We’ve only had a quick look around, but there’s no evidence of laboratories, manufacturing facilities or anything much of anything really, other than some decrepit generators and a few crates of ammunition of some sort,” replied Dave with a shrug.

“That only leaves one possible explanation,” Jack said, shaking his head as he said it. That couldn’t be right. His eyes tracked to the ceiling of the pokey mess room. Impossible.

But the heavily armed force up there on the ice suggested Jack was right.

He wished he wasn’t, but he kept his thoughts to himself, for the moment.

Chapter 30

November 9, 2017, 06:30 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

“I think the U-Boat commander wanted someone to find this.” Durand held up the old log. “He’s documented a lot more than just operational notes. He seems fixated on something he calls ‘Die Glocke’, The Bell.”

They were all enthralled by Kapitänleutnant Sohler’s handwritten account by now and waited eagerly for Durand to read and translate each page at a painfully slow pace. Sam had even stopped wolfing down the boats rations as he listened raptly to the story as it unfolded.

“It’s not clear how he knows this, but Sohler claims the device, The Bell, was designed as a propulsion system to be used on aircraft to deliver speed and maneuverability beyond anything possible with the jet engines of the day.” Durand paused and looked around the room, “How does a propulsion system become weaponized? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe we’ll all find out if you get back to the log entries,” Sam suggested.

Durand’s finger traced each word in German across the page and his lips moved as he read to himself in a whisper, like a preschooler. Other than that, the room was silent. Even Captain Jameson remained silent, his mind preoccupied with the crazy events of the past 24 hours.

Finally Durand’s finger stopped tracing the lines on the page and his face paled noticeably.

“If this is true, then God help us.” The hands of the man who made a career of patrolling the depths in a steel tube with a nuclear reactor trembled as he lowered the wartime log.

“What is it, XO?” Jameson asked. He hadn’t known the man long enough to have the measure of him, but you didn’t get to be the XO of an attack submarine by being a pussy. Jameson wanted to know what had his officer so spooked.

“I don’t understand some of the jargon, but he’s suggesting that Kammler revealed to him how the thing works…”

“And?” Jameson prompted.

“Well, it sounds like it works by bending space and time, somehow, so it can move from one place to another, well… in an instant. He talks about Jew physics, Einstein’s theory of relativity and about…”

His words caught in his throat.

“For God’s sake, man, out with it,” Jameson commanded impatiently.

“Time travel, sir. He says that the device had been re-engineered to move through time.”

Jack noticed that for the last minute or so, Juan and Dave had been looking directly at Leah. Not in that way, either. There was something they knew that the others didn’t. But Leah remained tight lipped and avoided eye contact with her two prodigies.

The room fell silent, yet again.

Juan’s excited outburst punctuated the stunned silence. “He’s talking about Einstein’s theory of relativity. Hitler debunked it because Einstein was a Jew, I think that’s why Sohler mentions ‘Jew Physics’. Leah? Want to help me out here?”

Shaking her head, Leah waved her hand for Juan to continue his physics tutorial.

“Okay, so a few years before the Second World War, Albert Einstein and Nathan Rosen, also a Jew, published a paper detailing what they called their general theory of relativity. In it, they hypothesized the existence of wormholes and suggested that these ‘bridges’ or wormholes connected different points in space and time.

These wormholes or bridges were naturally occurring but short-lived and highly unstable, so they were of no practical value. It was purely conjecture that they could be used to travel vast distances in a short space of time, yet that’s exactly what Star Trek and Dr. Who have built their franchises on — travelling through the galaxy or through time using wormholes.”

“So where does this ‘Bell’ come into it?” Jameson asked.

Durand had composed himself and resumed his explanation, “It seems this Kammler fellow had tried to develop a propulsion system using this bridge theory so that aircraft could move from one place to another in an instant using a bridge or wormhole created artificially by the Bell.”

“Which is how we speculate that UFO’s are able to maneuver in three dimensional space as fast as witnesses report they do. Way faster and more agile than any jet fighter,” Juan added.

“Yeah, during The Second World War pilots reported seeing spherical ‘bogies’ darting around the sky. They couldn’t explain what they were or how they moved like lightning, so they just called them Foo Fighters.”

“I’m still not seeing how this propulsion system is a weapon. If the Nazi’s had this technology earlier, then maybe they could have won the war, but even though a lot of their tech was superior to what the Allies had, it was developed too late in the war and in not in enough volume to make much of a difference,” suggested Dave Sutton.

Jack Coulson’s analytical mind had been churning and processing the data that he’d been absorbing since the mission began. A picture was beginning to emerge from the murky collection of facts and speculation that he’d gathered.

Jack decided to take the floor and share what had been going through his mind. “I’m no scientist I’m a black ops soldier, for those who hadn’t figured that out already.” He paused and looked them all in the eye. Juan and Dave looked almost impressed, but the others gave nothing away in their expressions.

“The hostile force we encountered on the ice was extremely well armed, highly motivated and extremely well trained. Men like that aren’t easy to find. The fact that they seemed hell bent on capturing that U-Boat,” he gestured to the where the German boat lay alongside the Barracuda, “suggests that there’s something on board that is of extremely high value to whoever is overseeing the hostiles.

Now, given what you’ve been saying about this device, is it possible that this base was built for a single purpose — to hide and safeguard the U-Boat and the weapon or wormhole machine or whatever it is?”

Durand and Jameson both nodded.

“It certainly explains the location and the rudimentary facilities,” Jameson added.

“I know this sounds way out there,” Coulson continued hesitantly, “but is it possible that the U-Boat looks like it’s fresh out of dry dock because… well, it is? Like it was transported from 1945 to now using whatever that Bell thing does to make that happen?”

Juan looked enquiringly at Leah. For a former quantum physicist she wasn’t participating as much in the discussion as he would have expected.

“Anything’s possible, I guess. But time travel? Really? That’s quite a leap,” said Leah.

“You haven’t seen inside that boat,” Jack replied, “it’s uncanny. Everything works. The batteries are charged. The electric engines got us in here, didn’t they? If anyone else can tell me how a 1945 U-Boat can do that, I’m all ears.”

Nobody offered an explanation.

“How did it end up in the ice shelf, above sea level?” Sam asked the question before Jack had time to ask it himself.

Leah nodded her head slightly and raised her hand to quiet the debate while she thought through what Sam had just said. “Sam might be on to something,” she said.

Sam grinned like he’d just made a scientific breakthrough himself.

“Time, speed and space,” Leah proffered. She’d tried not to buy into the argument, but like the genie the former quantum physicist in her wouldn’t be put back in the bottle.

“I didn’t even make it through college. You’re going to have to fill in some blanks,” Sam admitted.

“Did you ever see the original Planet of the Apes movie? Charlton Heston comes back to earth from a space mission and the planet is being run by apes, right? Well that is a Hollywood take on the Einstein’s theory. Time passes slower the faster you travel toward the speed of light. So for an astronaut travelling in space at the speed of light time will pass slower than it will on earth. When he returns to Earth it could, in theory be years or even hundreds of years in the future in earth time, depending how long he’s travelled at the speed of light.”

“But that’s just a theory. Nobody’s ever travelled at the speed of light,” Jack challenged.

“True,” Leah agreed, “but it’s more than a theory. The GPS satellites that orbit the earth rely on precise synchronization between their onboard clocks and clocks on the ground to provide accurate navigation data. The speed at which they travel in orbit and the effect of gravity on the satellite mean that the clocks onboard the satellite have to be calibrated to ‘tick’ at a different rate in order to sync with earth based clocks. Relativity isn’t a theory, it’s a real thing,” Leah concluded.

“And that explains the U-Boat in the ice pack, how exactly?” asked Sam, his eyes glazing over in confusion.

Leah’s eyes blazed with enthusiasm as she continued her lecture, “NASA’s Cosmic Background Explorer satellite was launched in the 1980’s to measure the speed at which we were hurtling through space as a result of the big bang theory.”

“Like the TV show?” Sam asked excitedly.

Jack leaned over and cuffed him on the back of his oversized ginger head.

“Over eight hundred and seventy thousand miles an hour.” Leah paused to let that sink in. That’s how fast we are travelling, in addition to the speed we travel around the sun on our annual orbit plus the speed the earth rotates on its axis every 24 hours.”

Blank stares greeted her as she surveyed her audience.

“Don’t you get it?”

Plainly nobody got it.

“If that U-Boat went into the future back in 1945 and if the other end of the wormhole spat it out in 2017, then the earth would not be in the same place that it was when the U-Boat went into the wormhole, so it’s not surprising that it ended up where it did. In fact, where it ended up more or less proves that it actually did travel through time.”

The faces surrounding her looked totally confounded.

“The Nazi’s actually created a machine capable of time travel and they sent the device and the U-Boat it was housed in, into the future which is right now, and they did it way back in 1945!”

Jack had only one question.

“Why?”

But nobody heard him over the screams that echoed through the ice fortress and the sound of automatic gunfire hitting the hull of the Barracuda.

Chapter 31

January 10, 1945

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

A worm of blood escaped Kapitänleutnant Helmut Sohler’s nose, falling onto a faded black and white photograph with well-worn edges. The small wedding photograph was all he had to remind him of his beautiful bride, Helene who he had married in a rushed ceremony the night before receiving his orders to report to the U-2532.

With a baby on the way, Sohler insisted on doing the proper thing by both of them but now he was seeing the chances of holding his son or daughter in his arms slipping away by the hour.

He wiped away the blood with the back of his hand and spat the foul taste of copper from his mouth. Whatever that thing was discharging, the lead walls the shipyard had been ordered to fit to the compartment weren’t enough to stop it. Half the crewmen were dead already and the other half not too far behind.

Yet Kammler appeared totally immune to the device. The man wasn’t human. Day after day he worked on his machine in the lead box. Every so often he’d order all of the generators to be started and he’d man the control station on the dock which was tethered to the device with a myriad of thick electrical cables.

Nothing seemed to happen but they were all too sick to care one way or another. Hair fell out in clumps, blood hemorrhaged from every orifice and flesh sloughed from their bodies at the slightest touch, leaving gaping, oozy wounds that refused to heal. For many, death didn’t come soon enough.

Sohler felt blessed to have stayed away from the compartment as much as he was able. That probably bought him some time. Time enough to finish his log entries before trying to stop the madness.

No, Kammler wasn’t human at all. He was a monster, the manifestation of the vilest evil. The madman beamed with pride when he’d explained his grand plan to restore Germany to its rightful place on the world stage. His death camps were no more than a small scale experiment. A few million prisoners were nothing compared to the scale he envisaged with his huge ethnic ‘cleansing’ factories.

If the general’s madness went unchecked and if his hideous plan were allowed to succeed, the world would plunge into blackness and never recover. The Thousand Year Reich they had all proudly dreamed of at the start of the war would be defiled and corrupted. If Kammler had his way, it would become a thousand year pandemic, destroying the world as he knew it. His wife and child…

The lunatic had to be stopped.

Of course, like so many others, Sohler was convinced that Kammler intended to turn the tables on their enemies with the use of a weapon everyone thought couldn’t be built — an atomic bomb.

What he didn’t know was that the truth was even more chilling and horrific than that.

Chapter 32

November 9, 2017, 07:00 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

“How many men up top?” Jack yelled to Captain Jameson over the cacophony of shouts and screams of the three terrified civilians.

“Six,” he replied sharply, one military man to another.

Jack turned to the XO, “Weapons?”

“A few SIG-Sauer handguns and some ammunition. We weren’t planning on being attacked on a scientific voyage.”

Jack pointed at the captain and the XO, “You two break out the weps locker. Take the civilians with you and get them armed.”

Leah and Jack caught each other’s gaze for a moment. Jack gave her his best impression of his you’ll be fine face. But his eyes said otherwise.

Durand snatched the U-Boat captain’s log and shoved it into his waistband, then made his way to the corridor leading to the weapons locker. The three civilians trailed in his wake and Captain Jameson brought up the rear. Jameson wanted to ask Jack what his plan was but thought better of it. It might be his boat, but right now, he was out of his depth with a team of land based armed hostiles closing in on them.

Jack stabbed a finger in Sam’s direction, “Combat packs and weapons?”

Sam reached under the table with both hands and pulled out a 60 pound combat pack in each, like they weighed nothing at all. To each pack was secured a short barreled LWRC ‘stow and go’ Individual Carbine Personal Defense Weapon or IC-PDW as it was known.

Jack’s face lit up. He’d left his pack and weapon behind in his haste to get out of the U-Boat but Sam had come through for him, again.

“Good man, Bluey. These’ll stop those bastards farting in church,” said Jack as he unclipped his ultra-compact, automatic weapon and tested that the unique collapsible stock had survived the rough treatment they’d been dealt.

“You couldn’t find us anything smaller?” Sam had wrapped thick, sausage like fingers around his weapon and it looked ridiculous given his proportions.

“Body armor penetrating 5.6mm NATO rounds that’ll punch holes through steel, eight and a half inch barrel, weighing in at less than six pounds.” Jack’s eyes blazed with delight. “These bad boys are the weapon of choice for confined environments and if that’s not where we are now—”

“Alright, enough of the sales pitch, let’s go help those unarmed navy boys up there.” Sam blustered his way past Jack toward the ladder, slapping a full magazine home with his huge palm as he did. He’d emptied one mag trying to save Jacks ass up on the ice. “Come on army boy, you look like you don’t know whether to shit or go blind! It’s time to saddle up, lock and load.”

Jack would have preferred to talk tactics before they stuck their heads out of the hatch and into the line of fire, but Sam clearly had other ideas.

Sam had already begun climbing the ladder when a metallic, almost bell like sound dinged its way rhythmically down the companionway.

“Oh, shit,” Jack yelled and not for the first time this mission.

“What, now?” Sam misunderstood Jack’s reaction and assumed he was sand bagging to avoid the firefight.

Jack said one word, “Grenade.”

At that, Sam practically threw himself off the ladder, nearly concussing Jack in the process. As the two men regained their footing, a metal cylinder landed at their feet and rolled across the deck.

“Block your ears and close your eyes,” Jack shouted as he picked up the grenade and hurled it like a baseball along the length of the narrow corridor. As soon as he’d released the grenade he turned his back and covered his ears.

A blinding flash blazed through their closed eyelids and the concussive blast of the ‘flashbang’ grenade had the desired effect — it disoriented and dazed both men.

At least they still want to take us alive thought Jack. They didn’t have to use non-lethal stun grenades. Strange. Even with the effects of a flashbang in a cramped space, Jack still had enough capacity to realize that this mission was raising more questions than answers.

Through the thick haze of smoke, Jack closed in on Sam. He’d started up the ladder again. The man didn’t know how, or when, to quit.

He grabbed Sam’s belt and pulled with enough force to get his attention.

“Stay down,” he mouthed as he pointed to the deck at the base of the ladder. He knew Sam wouldn’t be able to hear him after the blast.

Sam shook his head.

If he couldn’t work alone as usual, why couldn’t they at least pair him up with a real professional?

Jack yanked on Sam’s belt more forcefully and reluctantly Sam dropped down. Using a combination of hand signals and mouthing like a mime artist, Jack managed to convey his plan to Sam who quickly got on board with it and took his place as instructed.

To climb up the ladder now would have been suicide. The enemy would have shot them like fish in a barrel and they’d have no cover in the narrow tunnel.

* * *

It didn’t take long before two of the combatants from the outside dared to descend through the companionway. As Jack suspected, they were waiting for them to climb up and when they didn’t, they must have assumed the men below were unconscious. Mistake.

As the men swept their weapons from side to side, Jack and Sam lay on the deck face down toward the ladder. Both men had their weapons inches from their fingertips but because they weren’t holding them, the two soldiers dismissed them as a threat. Another mistake.

At the same time, both Sam and Jack reached out, slid their fingers through the trigger guard of their PDW carbine’s and fired a couple of short busts. The two snow suited soldiers had their guns up, ready to engage a standing enemy. Before they could lower their sights to the prone figures on the deck, they both toppled like puppets with their strings cut, legs turned to bloody stumps as the vicious armor penetrating rounds tore them apart.

Jack sprang to his feet and in one smooth motion, drew a bead on each man in turn and put one round in each of their heads.

Sam lumbered to his feet and looked at the dead men. As a navy man, he wasn’t accustomed to seeing death up close and personal.

“Now can we go topside?” he asked, deferring to Jack’s authority now that he’d seen the man in action.

“No. We’re going to the weps locker. We need handguns and radios. Ours were lost with the other equipment.”

“But the men…”

“Sam, they’re already dead. They were probably dead before we even got to the ladder. There was nothing we could have done. These guys got the jump on us, so let’s try to make sure that doesn’t happen again. We need to tool up.”

Sam nodded. He looked up through the hatch and knew he’d hear the shouts of the sailors if they were still alive.

“Come on Bluey, let’s get this done. As soon as the others have finished poking around the U-Boat, they’ll be coming over here to find out what happened to these two.” He waved the barrel of his carbine across the lifeless bodies of the dead men.

As he did so, he noticed that they were equipped with Heckler & Koch MP7 machine pistols. Something seemed odd about the choice of weapon given the environment, but he couldn’t piece it together. The concussion from the grenade was blurring his memory.

“We’ll take these,” he said pulling a pair of H&K USP handguns from the dead men’s tactical vests. “They won’t be needing them.” It looked like someone was getting a bulk discount from their friendly H&K supplier. Something told him, though, that brand allegiance could get someone killed in this case, but still the memory was fuzzy and tantalizingly out of reach. Jack hoped the recollection would come to him in time to do him some good. He needed all the help he could get.

He tucked one of the semi-automatics in his own vest and handed the other one to Sam. As an afterthought, he grabbed a few spare magazines for good measure.

Something else caught Coulson’s attention. Night Vision goggles. They both had them raised up on their helmets, giving the dead men an almost insect like appearance. They weren’t expecting the place to be lit up. That meant they hadn’t expected the Navy sub to be there. Interesting.

Jack grabbed a pair of night vision goggles from one of the dead men and slid them over his head. It never hurt to be prepared.

“Let’s go find the others.” With a slap on Sam’s back, Jack shouldered his pack and took off in the opposite direction to where he’d thrown the grenade, leading the way for Sam to follow.

Sam took another look up the companionway, and then looked at Jack’s back growing smaller as he sped down the length of the sub.

“Fuck it.”

Hand over hand, his huge feet clanging against the steel rungs, Sam climbed the ladder with amazing speed for someone his size. Then again, he’d been climbing ladders between decks his entire navy career.

Nearing the top he slowed, favoring stealth over speed. Very slowly and without a sound he reached up through the opening, expecting to have his hand shot off at any moment.

Chapter 33

November 9, 2017, 07:30 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

Muller sent two men to deal with the personnel in the American sub, thirty to search the cavernous base and with the remaining eight he proceeded to the wet dock alongside which the U-Boat had been so thoughtfully tied up by the American sailors, right before he emptied an entire clip of his machine pistol into them. To him, they weren’t sailors, unarmed or otherwise. They were simply witnesses and his orders had been very clear.

The sound of the exploding grenade and the ensuing bursts of automatic gunfire brought a smile to his thin lips as he climbed the conning tower of the U-Boat. He would be the first German aboard the boat in over 70 years. He could almost feel the spirit of the founder of The Brotherhood he served. He was climbing the very same ladder General Kammler would have climbed when he began his journey to the Antarctic.

When he climbed into the conning tower, he waved his men to hold position. He wanted to savor this moment alone. From a pocket in his snow camouflaged parka he removed a small handheld device no larger than a smartphone. Only this was more like a Geiger counter than a smartphone, one calibrated to detect the emissions of a substance not detected by any instrument on earth for decades — Xerum 525. The last quantity in existence and manufactured during the final months of the war before the camp that had enriched it was liberated by the enemy.

Removing his glove, Muller swiped the screen to activate the small detector. A graphic wheel began to spin on the screen, like a snake chasing its tail. Seconds later the graphic changed from red to green and formed a solid circle. A reading of ‘100 %’ appeared inside the circle.

They’d found it. The weapon was theirs once again.

His cold blue eyes fell to the screen once more to verify the reading. It remained the same.

Muller’s orders were to report the success immediately to Barnes, a man not known for his patience. A quick look around at the immeasurably thick concrete that covered every surface put an end to the idea of using the satellite phone. He could barely hear half a dozen words from Barnes when he was using the phone out on the ice shelf. In the bunker, he wouldn’t have a chance in hell.

“Fuck him, he can wait,” Muller assured himself as he made his way down the ladder into the U-Boat.

Unlike Jack and Sam, Muller had fully expected to find the U-Boat in operational, seaworthy condition when his men breached the bunker. What he hadn’t expected to find was the Virginia Class nuclear attack sub. Barnes had told him it had been destroyed. Now he would have two prizes for The Brotherhood — the weapon and a nuclear sub. His place in the new Reich was assured.

Chapter 34

November 9, 2017, 07:30 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

Jack raced the length of the passageway, hurtling through open hatches as he sought out the weapons locker in the forward section of the boat. It was only when he saw the crew bunks did he realize something wasn’t right.

Wrong deck.

He recalled a mental image of the evacuation diagram in the sick bay. It wasn’t the first time Jack’s almost eidetic memory had come in handy. Now he knew exactly where to go.

Another companionway and ladder lay ahead, leading to the upper level where the weapons loading hatch was located. That’s where he’d find them. He hoped he was the first to find them, but shook the thought away. All he could do was keep them safe until they could work out a plan. Having civilians in the mix changed things, though. His mission was to secure the U-Boat. But one of his duties as a soldier was to protect the civilians.

At least he wasn’t alone. Turning his head, he expected to see Sam trying to fit through the last of the hatches leading to the crew quarters. The entire length of the narrow passageway was empty. Not only did the man not have his back, he was nowhere in sight.

What was the deal with the guy? Guys like him were the reason Jack worked alone. Nobody to let you down. Nobody to be looking out for.

“Goddamn it,” Jack mumbled under his breath. There was no time to turn back to help one man. There were five people up on the next deck that needed him. He climbed into the companionway.

* * *

Sam finished spinning the wheel, dogging the hatch closed before inserting a locking pin through the mechanism so it couldn’t be opened from the outside. The last thing he wanted was more party favors being dropped down the hatch. His head was still thumping like a blender full of rocks and fire alarm was still ringing in his ears, but he had to keep going. He needed to catch up with Jack. Fortunately, Sam knew exactly where to go. If there was one place aboard a submarine that he could find with his eyes closed, it was weps. Mission accomplished, Sam bolted aft along the passageway toward the crew quarters.

* * *

Finally urgent whispers could be heard from an adjacent compartment. Jack recognized Jameson’s voice and he didn’t sound too happy, either. Tension filled the air as Jack entered.

“Tell him I need a gun,” Leah demanded of Jack before he was even through the hatch.

“I’m not giving her a weapon. She’s more likely to kill one of us with it than the enemy,” Jameson said adamantly.

“Because I’m a woman?”

“No,” the captain responded, “because you’re a civilian oceanographer, that’s why.”

Leah waved at Dave and Juan who were each holding a handgun. “You gave them guns.” She planted her hands firmly on her curvaceous hips.

“We don’t have time for that, we need to Hotel Alpha out of here. The bastards dropped a grenade down the hatch. They mean business.”

“Hotel Alpha?” Leah stopped being a pro-gun advocate momentarily.

“Haul Ass,” Juan explained proudly.

“Where’s the big guy with the flattop haircut?” Durand asked, handing a fully loaded Sig-Sauer P226 to Jack by the barrel.

“If I had a dollar for every time I’ve wondered that,” was Jacks only reply. “Spare mags?”

Durand snatched a handful of spare magazines and handed them to Jack who shoved them into his pockets, regretting he hadn’t taken the time to find his tactical vest. Pockets would have to do.

“Do we have comms?” Jack directed his question to the captain.

“No. We were running silent and deep after engaging the Russian Yasen, so we had no contact with PACOM or we would have given away our position. And in here, there’s no way we’d get a signal through the concrete and ice. We’re on our own. Well… until PACOM figure out we’re MIA and send help.”

“Yasen? Those guys a up there aren’t Spetsnaz, that’s for sure. They look more like hired guns… I’ve come up against a few of them in my time. Nobody mentioned Russians…”

“We weren’t even sure they were Russians, but they got the drop on us and nearly took us out. The Yasen class is the only sub that can do that.”

“No, not you. I meant my people never mentioned Russians. What are they even doing way down here? They couldn’t be any further from Russia if they tried.”

“The Russians have an Antarctic base,” Leah offered.

“But they shouldn’t have any military firepower down here. This is a demilitarized area,” said Jack.

“Clearly.” Dave’s tone dripped with sarcasm.

“I don’t have any more idea what’s going on here than you do, my mission was to secure the U-Boat and whatever was on it. If we’re going to survive until the cavalry come and save our asses, then we’d better figure what’s going on here. If we don’t, then this Charlie Foxtrot is going to have a very bad ending.”

“Charlie Foxtrot?” asked Leah. “Can you guys not use actual words people understand?

Juan started to answer, “Clusterfu—”

Then Sam burst into the already crowded compartment, red faced and breathless.

“Miss me?” He slapped Jack on the back.

Chapter 35

November 9, 2017, 08:00 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

K-561 Kazan

Depth 100 feet

“These Americans are fools”, Captain Vasili Ketov whispered to himself. There was nobody nearby to hear them, but silent running meant running silent. Why take chances? One didn’t last as long as he had in the Russian fleet by taking foolish risks.

Ketov knew his torpedoes had been lured of course by whatever decoys or countermeasures deployed by the American submarine. But that was almost expected in an age in which defense technology was constantly evolving in response to the weapons being produced by the major powers. That didn’t bother him. What did pique his curiosity was the response of the foolish Americans. Not only did they not return fire, the Kazan’s computers showed that the American submarine didn’t even lock a firing solution onto them. They simply went silent, turned and ran. Sonar hadn’t even detected the sound of their torpedo doors opening in anticipation of an engagement.

Hardly the response of an enemy planting intelligence gathering technology all over the Antarctic. The entire exchange was not aligning with the intelligence or the orders that had been transmitted to him.

Submarine commanders were granted considerably more operational latitude than their land or air counterparts simply because they were out of radio contact with their admirals during their patrols. Ketov chose to follow his instincts the minute his deadly Futlyar torpedoes were lured off target by the countermeasures. He resolved to find out what the American submarine was really doing in the region and why it had disappeared into the ice mountain.

“Fools,” he muttered again, shaking his head. They had no idea the Kazan had been following in their baffles, silently shadowing them. Patiently waiting.

If the report he had received from his sonar officer was to be trusted, things could start getting very interesting.

Gunfire and explosions.

Again, not activities suggesting the stealthy and underhanded planting of spy equipment.

What were those American cowboys doing up there?

Chapter 36

November 9, 2017, 08:30 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

“You can stay here, but I can’t. My mission is to secure that U-Boat.” Jack addressed the others then turned to Sam, “You’re with me, like it or not.”

“Not,” Sam countered.

Jack shot him a look that made it clear now wasn’t the best time to argue.

“The rest of you are probably better off in here, waiting for PACOM to send help.”

Jameson looked concerned. “You don’t even know what the layout is out there. We barely had time for a quick reconnaissance when you, well… arrived on the scene so explosively. You don’t know how many men they have or how well armed they are.”

“Lots and very,” Jack quipped.

Jameson’s eyes pinched at the corners in confusion.

“Lots of men and very well armed.”

A puzzled look came over Leah’s face. “I’m confused.”

“About which part? Staying here in the sub out of the line of fire, or going out there to face automatic weapons or the fact that he just seems to attract gunfire wherever he goes or the fact that we’ve been ordered to protect a Nazi U-Boat,” Sam scoffed.

“No, about you. Isn’t your name Sam?”

Sam nodded.

“So why do you call him ‘Bluey’?”

Jack thought he saw Leah’s icy exterior thaw a little. She’d seemed a bit cold ever since the time machine discussion and more so after the shooting started, which was understandable. Perhaps her attempt at humor was a way of dealing with the stress.

“Don’t get him started,” Sam snapped harshly.

“You couldn’t wait to get topside a few minutes ago,” Jack pointed out to Sam.

“That’s when I thought our guys were still alive up there.”

“Wait… are you saying they’re not?” Jameson looked gravely between Jack and Sam.

“It’s highly likely they were taken out with that first round of automatic fire we heard. They weren’t warning shots, that’s for sure. It went on for too long.”

“But they weren’t even armed…” Jameson was too distressed to continue.

“These guys aren’t playing fair. Not by a long shot.” Jack placed a reassuring hand on the captain’s shoulder. “But I can tell you this, I’ll make sure they pay. That’s what I do and I’m damn good at it.” An ominous and forbidding tone fortified his words.

Chapter 37

November 9, 2017, 09:00 UTC

South Pacific Ocean

2,000 miles from target

Location: Classified

USS Indiana (SSN 789)

“Alert One!”

“Alert One!”

“Alert One!”

The message blasted through the entire submarine over the 1MC address circuit, buzzing with urgency. Although the crew of the USS Indiana were certain that this Emergency Action Message would be just another update on the situation in North Korea, pulses quickened at the EAM announcement. That was what life aboard a submarine primed to launch nuclear missiles at a moment’s notice was all about.

Until the message was decoded, adrenaline would run high, but each crew member would continue to maintain their watch station. Only a confirmed strike order would escalate the condition to Battle Stations Missile and then all hell would break loose as the missile launch crew prepared for launch. Even if it was only a WSRT.

Sometimes a surprise Weapons System Readiness Test was a welcome break from the monotony of months at sea, but that was as real as it ever got aboard the Indiana.

Commander Tom Ryan stood silently and waited for his officers, working as a pair, to retrieve, decode and authenticate the message without any outward show of emotion.

The Executive Office, Jackson Merrill, a silent, pensive man with a world weary face entered the control room bearing the code book he’d taken from the safe in the comms room. Lieutenant Walsh, a younger and less cynical officer, trailed behind brandishing the EAM he’d torn from the radio room printer as he passed. The pair would use the code book to decrypt the message.

The eyes of all watchstanders in the control room were fixed on the pair as they poured over the code book and EAM, translating it character by character, with Walsh writing the decoded message below the encryption.

The Lieutenant’s hands trembled uncontrollably as he read the transmission. The XO snatched it testily from the hands of the young officer, his only reaction, a sharp intake of breath as he absorbed the contents and implication of the Strike Order he held in his hands.

Now he too was trembling.

The EAM would put the boat into Battle Stations Missile and could thrust them in the center of an all-out nuclear conflict.

The message had to be authenticated before handing it to the commander.

The XO moved to the Control Room safe, spun the tumblers and opened the outer door. Lieutenant Walsh then proceeded to dial in the combination of the inner door and unlocked it before moving aside so that the XO, Merrill could extract the small plastic authenticator packet.

Snapping open the brittle plastic case of the packet, the XO ripped out the laminated authenticator card and began to read aloud the authentication sequence.

“Whisky-Tango-Juliet-Delta-Six-Zulu-Alpha-Bravo.”

“Sir, I concur. Whisky-Tango-Juliet-Delta-Six-Zulu-Alpha-Bravo” repeated the Lieutenant.

The XO turned to the commander. “Sir, we have properly formatted and authenticated EAM. It’s a Nuclear Strike Order, sir. No additional information.”

The silence that filled the confines of the crowded Control Room was like a weight crushing down on all of them. So quiet that even the normally inaudible whir of the many electronics systems cooling fans in the compartment could now be heard quite clearly.

Without a trace of fear registering in his voice or on his face, the commander faced his XO.

“What are the launch orders?”

* * *

Commander Ryan punched the coordinates into the computer and watched as the screen generated a map showing the projected missile trajectory on the display. The target was 2,000 miles away. At a maximum cruising speed of 500 miles per hour, the single nuclear tipped Tomahawk cruise missile would destroy its target in 4 hours, vaporizing everything within the warheads blast zone.

It was Commander Ryan’s job to be prepared to launch his nuclear and conventional Tomahawks. That, he understood. He was always prepared to execute a properly formatted and authenticated Strike Order. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he wasn’t prepared for this particular target.

Ryan stared at the screen, his mind spinning its wheels trying to gain traction and make sense of what he was seeing on the display.

“Sir? What is it? What’s the target?” the XO asked.

Commander Ryan shook his head slowly. “Nowhere. That’s the problem. They want us to launch a nuclear warhead on a target that’s in the middle of absolutely nowhere.”

Chapter 38

November 9, 2017, 09:00 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

Wave after wave of automatic gunfire raked the concrete at their heels as they ran the length of the dock. As far as plans went it was a bad one. Jack wondered if it even deserved to be called a plan.

Run like hell. Don’t get shot. Try to find cover.

He’d worked with less well thought out plans before. And survived.

Both men dove onto their bellies and rolled into a channel that seemed to have served as some kind of drainage in the past.

“What’s the next stage in your big plan, Hoss?” Sam grunted over the hail of enemy fire.

“We’re kind of winging it. We need to get a better idea of the layout of this place…”

He was drowned out by another spray of bullets kicking up concrete dust 6 inches from their heads.

“From what I’ve seen so far,” he continued over the sound of magazines being ejected and fresh clips being slammed home, “I’m thinking this place wasn’t built as a Nazi holiday resort. It’s just a one big concrete bunker. No accommodation. No facilities. There’s nothing here but U-Boat pens and enough concrete to stop a nuclear blast.”

“Yeah, even by German standards, this place is mighty ‘functional’. Not a creature comfort anywhere,” agreed Sam.

Lifting his head enough to see the perimeter, Jack noted that they were surrounded by the troops wearing the same white snow uniforms they’d seen surrounding the U-Boat. At least they only had to deal with one opposing force. That was the good news.

The bad news was that he counted at least ten on one side and figured there’d be as many again on the other side of the cavern. They stayed just out of range of the floodlights so they didn’t present a target but close enough to do some deadly accurate shooting. But not accurate enough. Neither Jack nor Sam had taken a hit. Yet.

Floodlights. Maybe…

Jack started to piece together a plan.

“Bluey, I’ll lay down cover fire. I want you to make a run back to the sub and pull the plug on those floodlights.”

“But then we won’t be able to see shit,” Sam protested.

Jack tapped the night vision goggles on the crown of his head and smiled.

Sam looked Jack up and down and around either side. “Where’s mine?” he asked with a hurt look on his face.

Jack shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry. They were an impulse buy. I couldn’t help myself.”

“You’re not much of a team player, are you?”

“Never said I was, Bluey.”

Keeping his voice low to prevent his words echoing throughout the cavernous chamber, Jack explained his idea to Sam with whispers and urgent hand gestures. Hoping he’d been understood, Jack rolled over and fired short, controlled bursts from his weapon to give Sam a chance to make it back to the Barracuda. “Go! Go! Go!” he yelled, no longer caring if he was overheard and turned to urge Sam on.

Sam was already gone. For such a large man, he could be quite agile when the situation called for it and being used as live fire target practice was one of those situations. Sam ran like his life depended on it and reaching the edge of the Barracuda’s dock, threw himself over the gap between the concrete landing and the subs hull.

Bullets pinged off the sub and chased him across the deck to the sail where he found a blind spot from the shooters. It was too small for him, but he’d take it. He continued the agreed countdown in his head. Jack’s life depended on him being able to get the timing right. And if Jack’s life depended on it, then so did everyone else’s.

As he counted silently to himself he followed the length of electrical cable from the lights and traced it to its power source. The thick cable looped its way up the sail and over the top. There was no way he’d make it up the sail without taking a bullet. Or three. He’d have to unplug it at the other end, which meant covering the open deck between the cover of the sail and the light array.

Still he maintained the count in his head. Time was running short. It was now or never.

Launching himself in to the open, he had faith that Jack would see him and try to cover him as he dove for the power cable. He heard Coulson’s return fire. The man had his back.

Sparks flew in every direction as the deck came alive with automatic rounds hitting the steel. Still he powered on, keeping low and zig zagging to avoid becoming an easy target for the unseen shooters in the shadows.

With a final turn of speed, he reached the light assembly, grabbed the power cable and yanked it with all his might.

The entire bunker was instantly plunged into darkness.

Still Sam continued to count, his lips moving silently as he did so.

* * *

Jack’s lips weren’t moving. His mental clock kept time like a metronome. Tick tock… tick tock. Without even thinking about it, he knew how many seconds had elapsed and how long before Sam would trigger the next part of the plan. Jack pulled the night vision goggles over his eyes and powered them up.

Smoothly and quietly, he swapped out his near empty magazine for a fresh thirty round mag and flicked the fire mode selector from automatic to semi-automatic, allowing him one shot per trigger pull.

All around, he could see the others slipping their night vision into place. He knew they could see him, but for the moment that didn’t matter. All he had to do was commit the locations of the other shooters to memory, which he did before lowering himself back down into the drain channel. Jack slowly pushed the night vision rig up on top of his head again and closed his eyes for a moment.

Three.

Two.

One.

He stood, in full view of the entire contingent of armed soldiers and presented himself as a perfect target. They thought he couldn’t see them. They were wrong.

The lights blazed to full brightness as Sam, right on cue, plugged the power back on and lit them up.

Screams of agony erupted from all around the cavern. The shooters were being painfully blinded by the powerful floodlights that were magnified a thousand times by their night vision equipment. They tore the goggles from their head, but it was too late to do them any good. The effect would only last a short while, but that’s all the time Jack needed.

One by one Jack started to pick them off. Not in a Hollywood movie style blaze of gunfire that would have emptied his clip in seconds.

Just one round per man fired with near surgical precision at the positions he locked away in his memory.

With each shot, one man went down and Jack’s spent brass kicked out of the ejection port, ringing as it hit the cold concrete floor.

Chapter 39

January 12, 1945

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

The pounding against the lead lined bulkhead hatch continued relentlessly. Sohler imagined the two grease covered, stockily built engineers working in tandem with sledgehammers like railway men hammering spikes in a practiced cadence. They would have used the boats one and only cutting torch to cut through the hatch if Sohler hadn’t commandeered it and locked it, along with himself, inside The Bell’s compartment.

Sohler was a sailor. A U-Boot Kapitänleutnant and a damned good one. He knew the sea, he knew submarines and he knew how to sink enemy ships with his torpedoes.

He wasn’t an atomic scientist but he’d heard enough rumors about the work of Werner Heisenberg to be afraid. Nobody should possess a weapon of such devastating destructive power, especially one that even the scientists who built it couldn’t predict its true power or the lasting effects of an atomic detonation. If the stories he’d heard about the atomic weapons tests were only half true, these weapons had the potential to turn Europe into a nightmarish wasteland. He wouldn’t let his family live or die like that.

The Allied and Norwegian resistance operation in Telemark and the subsequent sabotage of the ‘SF Hydro’, the Norwegian ferry transporting the last of Germany’s heavy water supply and manufacturing equipment, was a grim reminder for Sohler. It wasn’t just about building a better bomb. There was more to the atomic weapon project than that, and it made Sohler uneasy. His moral compass faltered between his patriotic duty as a Nazi U-Boot Kapitänleutnant and his moral objection to the use of these terrible atomic weapons that had been designed to destroy entire cities inhabited by innocent people.

If the Norwegian resistance were willing to undertake such a daring raid and sacrifice the lives of their own civilians to sink the heavy water consignment, thwarting one of Germany’s most promising atomic programs, then perhaps preventing this Bell weapon from being used was worth his own personal sacrifice. He only hoped his wife and son would one day understand that he wasn’t a traitor, no matter how history portrayed him.

These thoughts fueled his frantic efforts to weld shut the hatch before he set the timers on the scuttling charges he had strategically placed around the compartment. Even if they weren’t enough to destroy the device, they would surely breach the pressure hull and flood the compartment. Although sealed, the compartment would hold enough water to take the boat all the way to the bottom of the sea under the Antarctic ice shelf where it would never be found.

There was no way they could stop him.

Kammler would either go down with the boat and die quickly in the frigid depths or he would die slowly, trapped in an ice bound concrete bunker. Either way, Sohler didn’t care, so long as Kammler and his hideous ideas died.

Before he could finish welding the hatch, the two halves of the machine began to rotate in opposite directions on their axis and the entire room filled with an unnatural and eerie blue light.

“Nein!” Sohler screamed, scrambling to set the timers on the explosives.

He was too late.

Chapter 40

November 9, 2017, 09:00 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

“The shooting’s stopped,” Juan whispered weakly. When he’d signed up for adventures in the Antarctic, he had something else in mind. Spectacular scenery, uncharted subpolar oceans, days that lasted months.

Grenades exploding and being shot at with automatic weapons wasn’t featured in the recruitment brochure.

They’d all regrouped in the control room for no other reason that they felt more at home there and it was the compartment that could be most easily sealed off from outside forces if the need arose.

To keep his mind off the sound of bullets ricocheting off the hull, the XO, Durand had resumed reading the former U-Boat captain’s log.

“He thinks it’s an atomic bomb,” he blurted out as soon as he’d translated another page of the U-Boat log.

“I thought the Nazi’s never developed an atomic bomb,” said Dave.

“Of course they did!” shrieked Juan, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Haven’t you ever wondered why the American Manhattan project wasn’t able to deliver its so called ‘gadget’ on Hiroshima until after the German surrender? The Germans already had the technology. Our guys had been working for years to find the right way to detonate the bomb, but they never figured it out. We captured the top Nazi atomic guys in Europe after the surrender and secretly brought them back to the States to finish off the Manhattan project.”

Leah, Dave, Durand and Captain Jameson all rolled their eyes at Juan’s crackpot theory.

“What about the German U-Boat full of enriched uranium we captured after Germany fell. What do you think happened to that? I’ll tell you — it ended up in the ‘Little Boy’ and ‘Fat Man’ bombs they dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, that’s what happened to it. Enriched uranium was as rare as rocking horse shit back in those days. Mock me if you want, but I’m telling you—”

“You’re telling us what you’ve been reading in those stupid conspiracy theory blogs you’re so addicted to,” Dave broke in.

“Well, let’s see what Herr Sohler has to say about it, shall we?” Juan turned to Durand and signaled for him to continue.

“In his final entries, it looks like they made it here to this base and that’s where he starts not making much sense. Sohler claims The Bell is in a lead lined compartment on board our U-Boat over there. He’s positive it’s an atomic bomb and he doesn’t want German, or anyone else, by the sound of his ramblings, to have atomic weapons. He keeps mentioning his wife and child and how he doesn’t want them involved in an atomic war.

Then he goes off the rails and documents his plan to seal up the compartment containing this ‘atomic weapon’ and scuttle the boat so it never gets found.”

“He clearly didn’t get around to doing that did he?” Juan suggested.

“The only way we’re ever going to know for sure is if we get a look inside that compartment,” Captain Jameson spoke up, having stayed out of the conspiracy theory argument.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. What if there’s a dead U-Boat captain in there? Eeew!” Leah screwed up her nose and shivered.

“From a tactical point of view, I think we need to take a look. It’s becoming obvious that there’s a lot going on here we don’t understand and that U-Boat and its cargo, whatever it is, seems to be the center of attention. The more we can find out about what’s going on here, the better our chances of making it through this debacle.”

“The Captain’s right,” Durand agreed.

Juan rubbed his hands together. Finding the answer to one of the greatest mysteries of the Second World War might almost be worth getting shot at. Almost.

Chapter 41

November 9, 2017, 09:15 UTC

South Pacific Ocean

2,000 miles from target

Location: Classified

USS Indiana (SSN 789)

“Man battle stations missile.”

“Man battle stations missile.”

A raucous alarm whoop whooped throughout the boat causing a frenzy of organized chaos from aft to stern.

‘This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill.”

Following an unspoken convention that could only ever be understood by experienced submariners who had earned their ‘Dolphins’, sailors hugged bulkheads to let others pass in both directions, men slid down companionways, others climbed up. The whole boat moved to a hectic choreography of men moving in all directions at once without ever colliding or causing bottlenecks and it was all performed to a blaring cacophony of alarm bells.

“This is the Executive Officer. The launch of nuclear weapons has been authorized and verified. This is not a drill.” The XO cradled the mic solemnly and turned to the commander.

“Thank you Mr. Merrill. You have the Conn — take us to launch depth and enter the target package for tube one.”

“Aye, sir. I have the Conn.”

The commander made his way to his stateroom where the missile keys were housed in a locked safe. Only he knew the combination.

“Take us to launch depth,” the XO ordered as he punched the target package into the missile control system console. Beads of sweat crowded his brow.

What felt like an hour later, but in reality had only been a few minutes, Commander Ryan returned with a launch key swinging from his neck by a red lanyard.

Merrill had seen the launch keys a hundred times before during missile drills but only now in this grim scenario did he note, ironically, that the keys that fired a missile bearing a nuclear payload was almost indistinguishable from his own gym locker key. He wondered why they made them look so bland and innocent.

The Launch Control Officer had retrieved his key from his own safe the minute the XO had called battle stations missile. Only he had the combination. Manning his station at the Attack Center, he verified the target package and waited for the commander to give the order to initiate the firing sequence. Both the Launch Control Officer and the commander had to insert and turn their keys at the same time before the missile could be launched.

As soon as the target package had been entered by the XO and confirmed by the Launch Control Officer, the missile in Vertical Launch Tube one began to spin up its gyro and initialize its onboard GPS to lock in its exact launch position. With that information and the target package successfully uploaded, the nuclear tipped Tomahawk would fly undeterred to the target area and deliver its warhead to devastating effect.

The ready light on the indicator screen turned green.

The Commander and the Launch Control Officer inserted their keys and on the Commander’s count of three, turned them clockwise a quarter turn.

The LCO flipped up the bright red safety cover guard exposing the missile launch switch.

Commander Ryan gave the command, “Fire missile one.”

The LCO pushed the fire control, his nerves strong and his fingers steady. This is what he’d been trained to do.

The missile, one of six clustered in the latest Virginia Payload Module, was propelled from the submarine. Initially launched with a fiery and spectacular solid-fuel rocket booster, once airborne and clear of the water it appeared to hover in space for a moment, then it deployed its stubby wings, whirred up a powerful turbo-fan engine and accelerated toward its cruising speed.

This particular missile was programmed to use its jam resistant GPS to navigate to target in sea-skim mode at subsonic speed just above the waves until it hit its target with pinpoint accuracy.

The 2,000 mile, 4 hour countdown had begun.

The men aboard the USS Indiana didn’t see the spectacular launch of the missile or hear the boom as its solid booster lit up and spewed flames and white smoke from its tail. They remained in the silent, dark depths of the South Pacific and would do so until ordered to stand down or launch another missile. In the meantime, they would have time to reflect on being the first submarine to launch a nuclear missile with hostile intent.

Chapter 42

November 9, 2017, 09:30 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

“Peterson, SITREP,” Muller said quietly into his throat mic. He’d heard a hell of a lot of shooting from the docks and needed a situation report ASAP.

No response.

“Peterson. Respond.”

Still no response. Losing his second in command wasn’t something he’d factored into his action plan. Muller needed to check the status out in the bunker first hand.

There was nothing more they could do in the U-Boat, anyway. The compartment hatch was welded shut. They’d need to blast it open to get to the device and the explosives had been left up on the ice, along with the rest of their equipment. The reconnaissance into the bunker was only supposed to be a search and recovery mission, securing the U-Boat against minimal resistance. They’d expected to encounter the two crazy men on the U-Boat but they hadn’t expected to come face to face with an attack submarine when they penetrated the concrete bunker.

Circling his hand anticlockwise and gesturing upward, Muller signaled his men to rally at his position then climb the ladder to the conning tower. There was no point risking radio communication if things hadn’t gone to plan up above. He’d follow right behind them, allowing them to draw any enemy fire on their position first, of course.

As the last man paused at the top of the ladder, Muller paused, too. So far silence.

He gave three sharp taps on the man’s leg, signaling for him to continue up.

Reaching the inside of the conning tower, it took Muller only a few seconds to assess the damage. Not a single man remained on post at the perimeter he’d ordered them to establish after disposing of the sailors on the American sub.

Someone had taken his men out. They were handpicked, elite soldiers and getting the better of them wouldn’t have been easy. Muller would not underestimate the Americans again.

Muller felt two taps on his shoulder and turned to the man next to him. Pointing to his own eyes, then to the sail of the American sub, Muller looked but couldn’t see anything. Then there was a slight movement. At least one man was sheltered behind the sail. But one man couldn’t take out thirty of his. There had to be others.

Another series of taps on his shoulder and he followed the raised hand of another of his men. An irregular shape against the hard and uniform edge of the concrete revealed another man, lying flat, sheltered behind some kind of depression or step in the concrete floor.

Muller didn’t want to risk damaging the American sub, so the man cowering there would live a little longer. The man on the ground wouldn’t be so lucky.

Muller unclipped something from one of the loops on his body armor. It looked small in his oversized palm and more like a piece of exotic tropical fruit than a weapon. But it was, indeed, a weapon and an extremely potent one at that.

Hand grenades haven’t evolved much since the First World War. They’re simple weapons. Pull the pin, then throw it and wait for it to explode. If the concussion wave doesn’t kill you, the shrapnel will, cutting both friend and foe to ribbons as it flies in all directions. A traditional grenade is as likely to kill your own men as it is the enemy. That’s what Muller loved so much about his Swedish designed and German built Rheinmetall SHGR07 Airburst grenades. Only the enemy was cut to pieces by the shrapnel or killed by the concussive blast. And it did the enemy no good to hide behind cover. The SHGR07 was purpose built to deal with that.

Vertical spring-loaded metal prongs running from top to bottom of the small grenade gave it an innocent look, but that was far from the case. Like a deadly spider with its legs curled into a ball, as soon as the 07 grenade hit the ground, the prongs or ‘legs’ would spring from the sides of the casing causing the grenade to stand up like a macabre robot spider. A small charge would then fire from the base of the grenade, shooting it six feet into the air where it would perform a neat crowd pleaser trick and explode, shooting a cone of lethal shrapnel directly below the grenade with no collateral damage. The target, even if shielded by low lying cover, like the man Muller could see below, and anything in a six foot radius, would be blasted to a bloody ruin by the most advanced hand grenade ever devised.

Muller pulled the pin and threw the grenade with uncanny accuracy to Jack’s position in the concrete drain. Muller didn’t even duck for cover behind the conning tower. Neither did his men. They had all seen the Airburst grenade in action. It was a devastating and focused weapon. As soon as it hit the ground, they all silently counted in their heads the five seconds until detonation.

Chapter 43

November 9, 2017, 09:30 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

“Oh shit!”

Jack saw what was coming even before it hit the ground. His battle sharpened senses recognized the avocado colored grenade as it arced through its trajectory. He was toast. He’d seriously underestimated their firepower. All of it German. That couldn’t be a coincidence, but there would be time to analyze that later. Right now, he had no more than 5 seconds to live.

Jack calculated the distance from the nearest dead soldier to his position. The man had fallen in the shadows and having done so, rolled a few yards on the sloping concrete toward Jack. He crunched the numbers and angles and worked out that it was his only chance. The odds of success weren’t good, though. But what the hell…

Like a coiled spring, Jack leapt to his feet and made a furious dash toward the dead man.

Two seconds until detonation.

He threw himself down and slid the last couple of feet, outstretched like he was making a desperate attempt to slide into the home plate.

As soon as he slid into the fallen mercenary, Jack rolled the man over him until he was lying directly beneath, using the man’s dead body, Kevlar helmet and Schutzklasse IV tactical body armor as a makeshift shield.

The grenade exploded.

The blast was ear-popping and the shock wave brain jarring.

Jack was stunned and badly concussed, but alive.

Barely.

It hadn’t done him much good, though. He was still in the sights of the man who threw the grenade and the others with him in the U-Boat conning tower. They had the high ground and now Jack was pinned down by the deadweight of one of their men and his heavy gear.

“It’s time to give up, Rambo,” a voice shouted from the U-Boat. His English was clipped and precise, but he had a heavy accent nonetheless.

Jack pushed his weapon out of arms reach and raised his hands above his head as best he could. New mission — stay alive.

“Very wise choice,” the man commended him. “Tell your friend on the submarine to do the same.”

“It’s over Sam. Let’s focus on keeping the others alive,” Jack shouted in the hope that Sam would hear him and not play he hero.

“How do we know that they’re not going to murder us like the rest of the crew?” Sam’s booming voice echoed off the concrete walls and over the water.

Jack couldn’t argue with the man’s logic.

“By the way, my name’s Jack, not Rambo.”

“Alright, Jack and Sam, my name is Muller. Standartenführer Karl Muller. You are both clearly skilled and very resourceful, but the time for games is over. We have a mission to complete and we don’t have time for your American heroics right now. So, here’s what’s going to happen…”

Muller paused.

One his men unshouldered his pack and produced something that looked like an overgrown pistol whose oversized barrel was on a steady diet of steroids. He then pulled out a skeletal looking buttstock and rammed it home into the pistol. Now Jack recognized it, even in the less than ideal lighting conditions. He’d seen plenty of under barrel slung grenade launchers, but this was a H&K AG36 with its own buttstock. The man was holding a standalone compact grenade launcher.

But what in the hell did he intend to do with it?

“Your silence tells me you know what that is.” Muller seemed to read Jack’s mind. “We’re carrying HE rounds, in case you’re wondering.”

“It’s a one shot breech loader. Even with High Explosive rounds, you can’t take us both out with that,” Jack retorted. You might blow one of us into a shower of body parts, but before your man reloads, whichever of us survives will take him out.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. But neither of you two are the target.”

The man swiveled and turned his grenade launcher to the Barracuda.

“You’re not going to make much of a dent with that,” Jack sneered.

“One HE grenade in the main ballast tank and it will take in enough water to begin submerging the sub. Even if they blow the other tanks, just one filled with seawater will take her down. Whoever is still on board will die in a steel coffin. Eventually.”

“Sam?” Jack thought Muller was bluffing.

Sam emerged from behind the sail with his hands raised. “He might be right. I’m not going to chance it.”

Jack managed to slither his way out from under his human shield and stood with hands raised.

Muller led his men down on to the deck of the U-Boat and across the dock to where Jack stood. Two of them broke formation to keep weapons on Sam.

Karl Muller towered over Jack and he got right in his face to intimidate him. Jack showed not the slightest concern at the man’s size or the raw power he seemed to exude. He was one tough unit, that was for sure.

But Jack had come up against his kind before. He suspected this time would be no different, in the end.

Looking around at his fallen team, Muller stuck his finger in Jack’s face, “You? You did all this?”

Jack shrugged. “It was fun while it lasted.”

He never saw the punch coming. That was a first for Jack. He always saw it coming. His combat ready eyes would pick up anything from a slight shift in balance or the lowering of one shoulder ready to pop an uppercut. But this time, he was completely blindsided by the gigantic man who moved with unparalleled speed.

Everything went dark and Jack hit the ground before he knew what, or who, hit him.

Chapter 44

November 9, 2017, 10:00 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

Snakes of flexible linear demolition charge entwined with ‘det-cord’ formed a silhouette charge on the oversized bulkhead hatch designed to blow the welded seam of the door without damaging the contents of the compartment.

Muller handled the demolition charges himself, not trusting the work to anyone else, given the stakes. He considered himself something of an expert when it came to breach charges using C4 and detonation cord. He hoped he had the combination right this time, not wanting to risk damage to the contents of the chamber.

Blasting caps and time fuses were pushed into both ends of the linear charge, ready to be initiated. Muller would have just enough time to take cover behind one of the many flood compartment hatches before the door blew.

Once the main hatch was blown, his men would be able to unload The Bell through the angled torpedo loading hatch in the deck. After all, that’s how they got it in there in the first place, over 70 years ago.

When it finally saw the light of day, he could contact Barnes and have him organize the next phase of the operation. From what he’d been told, the device wouldn’t leave this facility. Generators, habitat pods and laboratory equipment would be shipped to the base. Once recommissioned as the original engineers intended during the final days of the war, quantum physicists and an assortment of other scientists would descend on the base and begin working on The Bell, fine tuning its operation to produce more stable and accurate results than had been achieved with the limited technology available during the war years and their limited understanding of quantum mechanics at the time.

They were so close.

It was time to blast the hatch. What had possessed someone to weld it closed in the first place? It didn’t matter now. Soon nothing would matter but a victorious Third Reich at the end of the war. The British, Americans and Russians would be crushed by the superiority of the German forces once The Bell was operational.

“Heil Hitler,” he said proudly as he initiated the time fuses and dashed to the nearest bulkhead for shelter from the blast.

Chapter 45

November 9, 2017, 10:15 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

The sound of voices slowly penetrated through the fog swirling in Jack’s head. That had to mean he was still alive. As he opened his eyes, he became aware of his surroundings. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he was lying on a dining table in the crew’s mess. He tried to move but couldn’t. Sharp plastic cuffs cut into his flesh when he tried to sit up. They’d cuffed him. Good and tight, too. He could feel his flesh swelling in his hands and feet. They were taking no chances. Who could blame them. He’d do the same in their position.

As his eyes adjusted to the harsh light, he could see Captain Jameson, the XO, Durand, the two nerdy scientists and the very pleasant face of Leah, the Oceanographer all sitting at an adjacent table. None of them were cuffed, he noticed.

“Where’s Sam?” he rasped, his throat so dry it hurt to swallow.

Captain Jameson answered him, “They’ve taken him to the U-Boat. Apparently, thanks to you, Muller’s found himself somewhat shorthanded when it comes to men to do the heavy lifting.”

The effects of the knockout punch began to fade and Jack noticed there were two guards in the room with them, guns trained on him. Like the professionals they were, they had positioned themselves at 12 o’clock and 7 o’clock so they wouldn’t shoot each other in the crossfire should they need to open fire on the prisoners.

Yet again, Jack had to give kudos to the skill of these men and the thorough training they’d obviously received. They were as good as any he’d encountered, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have weaknesses. The turkey shoot out in the bunker proved that quite convincingly when Jack took down most of Muller’s men.

A soft hand brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead. Leah’s face hovered over him.

“You must have really pissed their boss off,” she observed, indicating the two sentries.

“Yeah, he’s built like a tank. And damn fast for his size, too.” Jack winced. It hurt to talk.

She brought a tumbler of water from the other table to where Jack lay.

Click.

One of their guards thumbed his safety off and brought his sight to bear on Leah.

She held up the glass. “It’s just water.”

The man nodded but his unwavering gaze followed Leah’s every movement.

“Were you able to make contact with anyone while you were out there?”

“We didn’t make it very far. Besides, we need to get to the ice with a radio or sat phone before we can raise an alert,” Jack explained.

Leah looked wide eyed and alarmed. “So nobody knows we’re here? Nobody is coming to help?” Her hand trembled, puddling water all over Jack’s chest.

“Jameson says PACOM will raise an alarm soon. That’s the best we can hope for, I’m afraid.”

“I hope they do. I’m not sure these guys have a game plan that includes keeping prisoners,” Leah ventured to say aloud what she’d heard Jameson and Durand whispering to each other while Jack was unconscious. “Besides, even if the navy raised the alarm, they have no idea where we are. It was only my experimental sonar tech that found this base and the access tunnel in the first place. I doubt they’ll ever find us.”

Leah studied Jack’s face for a moment. He couldn’t hide the fact that he agreed with her logic.

Before he had a chance to make up something encouraging to say, both armed mercenaries held their hands to their earpieces, plainly listening intently to orders as they raised their guns and brought them to bear on their prisoners.

This was it. Jack knew what was coming as he found himself staring into the business end of gun. After all, you didn’t aim a gun at someone you didn’t want to shoot. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, trussed up like a Thanksgiving Turkey on a mess hall dining table.

Chapter 46

November 9, 2017, 10:15 UTC

South Pacific Ocean

Location: Classified

Tomahawk Land Attack Missile — Nuclear Variant (TLAM-N)

Skimming above the waves, the Tomahawk missile cruises at 500 miles per hour. Its target is locked but constant adjustments are being made by the Inertial Guidance and Terrain Contour Matching systems to account for wind speed and wave height to keep it on target and on schedule. Unerringly.

Inside the payload section is housed a titanium encased W80-2 nuclear warhead, ready to be armed for a tactical strike as it closes in on its target coordinates.

Countdown to impact: 3 hours

Chapter 47

November 9, 2017, 10:30 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

USS Barracuda

“Move!” barked one of the guards. The man had a bullet-shaped head and almost no neck. He looked like he had better places to be, too, from the impatient look on his face. Jack knew exactly how he felt.

A pair of cutters appeared in the other man’s hands as he moved toward Jack.

“Try anything and I’ll put one in your girlfriend’s head,” he threatened, pointing his gun directly at Leah’s head.

Snip.

The plastic cuffs binding Jack’s ankles fell to the floor. At least he could walk, that was a good start.

“Move.” He prodded Jack in the ribs with his gun barrel.

“Where are you and bullet-head taking us? If you’re going to shoot us anyway, might as well do it here and save us the bother of moving.”

That earned Jack a crack in the snout with the butt of bullet-head’s H&K. He felt the warm blood smeared across his face from his bleeding nose and split lip. It was worth it. Jack made note of the fact that bullet-head riled easily. That might come in handy.

“Move,” the man ordered with his gun raised to smash Jack in the face again if he didn’t comply.

Jack slipped off the table and stood with the others. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, now get moving,” the other guard poked the captain in the ribs with his gun, urging him toward the control room.

* * *

A large acorn shaped object sat on the dock alongside the U-Boat. The black plastic that shrouded the 9 foot tall cargo clung tightly enough for the underlying shape to be unmistakable.

“Well fuck me sideways,” Jack whispered to himself as they were herded past the veiled bell shape. “That’s what they sent me here to snatch.” Pity they didn’t send a few more men, he thought to himself.

All six of them were shepherded onto the low concrete wet-dock to which the German U-Boat was tied.

Jack saw Sam standing on the deck of the U-Boat, near the open torpedo loading hatch. One eye was swollen and he looked spent but other than that he appeared unharmed as he moved over to join them. As he jumped from the deck to the dock, Jack noticed that his hands too had been cuffed, his sheer size and strength had painted him as a threat.

“This isn’t good, Jack,” he said quietly so only Jack could hear him. “I’ve heard them talking. These wackjobs are fucking Nazis. Can you believe that?” he hissed.

“Actually, now you mention it, that kind of makes perfect sense in a weird way.” Jack nodded slowly as his covert op wheels began to turn and he started to put things together. The accents, the weapons, the U-Boat, the U-Boat captain’s log, that bell thing. Not to mention their time travel discussion.

“It’s worse than that, Bluey. Way worse than that.” Jack shook his head solemnly.

“What do we do?” Sam pleaded for guidance.

“If this is all heading to where I think it is, we have to save the world, Bluey. We don’t have any choice. It’s up to us to save the world.”

Chapter 48

November 9, 2017, 10:45 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

“Hey, bullet-head, how about doing something about these cuffs? I’m gonna get gangrene like this.” Jack held up his swollen, discolored hands for the man to see.

Bullet-head came at him, his face a mask of anger and brutality, buttstock raised to strike. Jack bent at the knees, shifted his weight slightly and launched himself low and hard at the bullet-headed prick. With an oomph the man collapsed on the deck the wind knocked out of him by a well-placed shoulder to the solar plexus.

The second guard came in fast, gun up and shoved Jack out of the way. But Jack didn’t budge and the guard ended up locked in a tackle until finally Jack moved back to Sam’s position and let the two guards regroup.

“I ought to put a bullet in you right now for that little stunt… but I won’t.” The tight lipped smile on his face told Jack that something far worse than a bullet in the brain was on the cards.

“That worked really well. Thanks Jack, we’re so much better off now,” Sam sassed.

Jack opened his hands surreptitiously, revealing the cutters the guard used to snip his ankle restraints a short while ago.

Sam’s brows arched. “I think we’re gonna need more than a pair of pliers to get out of this one, MacGyver.”

“One thing at a time, Bluey. One thing at a time.”

“If we’re gonna end up dead in the next few hours, could you at least try calling me by my real name? My Mom made a real effort to choose it for me, the least you could do is try using it, just once in a while.”

“I thought you were an orphan? Didn’t some government pencil pusher pluck your name out of a hat or something?”

“Nice, Jack. That’s real nice. You ought to ask for a refund if we survive this.”

“What refund?” Jack quizzed.

“For that ‘How to Win Friends and Influence People’ seminar. Get your money back. It’s not work—”

A giant shadow cast over them.

Muller.

Jack didn’t even need to turn to see the hulk of a man. He could feel him.

“Enough talk,” Muller directed from behind them. His bulk blocked out much of the light from the Barracuda, casting a shadow that left Jack feeling unsettled. “You have the rest of your lives to chat among yourselves,” he sniggered. His peculiar accent unnerved Jack even more. He really didn’t like this guy.

“Where are the other six hostiles?” hissed Jack to Sam.

“Below decks in the U-Boat, like I told you, it’s not good. I think they’re…”

Jack didn’t let him continue. “I couldn’t care less what they’re doing. I just need to know where they are.”

Jack edged his way toward Jameson, whose hands remained unrestrained. The German militia didn’t seem to rate a nuclear submarine captain as much of a threat. Or he was one of them? Jack didn’t even want to think about that. He had his suspicions about Durand, too.

“Got a plan Coulson?” The captain knew Jack well enough to guess that he did.

Turning his back to Muller and the other guards, Jack palmed the cutters to Jameson. “Cut me loose.”

Snip.

“Cut Sam free as soon as it starts.”

“As soon as what starts?” asked Jameson.

“Don’t worry, you’ll know.”

* * *

Muller slowly made his way toward the group, staying clear of the line of fire between them and his men. Jack kept his hands together, holding the cuffs in place and appearing to still be in discomfort. Every detail had to be just right.

Bullet-head still looked pissed at having been taken down by an unarmed man. A handcuffed one at that.

Perfect.

“How’re you feeling bullet-head? Want to get crash tackled again for old times’ sake?”

“Scheisse!” Bullet-head’s face turned red as he pushed his way through the group to where Jack stood. His gun was raised, not as a club this time, but ready to shoot. Jack heard the safety click off.

When he was a few feet away, Jack let go of the cuffs and moved to intercept, closing the gap between them before the guard could draw a bead on him and fire.

The man’s finger was already on the trigger and ready to fire. But the trigger guard was oversized to accommodate gloves, which the guards had taken off in the warmth of the submarine. Jack slid his finger inside the guard, piggy backing the soldier’s finger and aimed the gun at the other guard. A body shot would be a waste of time. They were all still wearing body armor.

A three round burst from the H&K turned the guards head into an explosive mist of blood and skull fragments. The bullets tore his head off before the sound waves from the gun even reached his ears. The man was dead before he knew he was even in danger.

Leah was the nearest to the fallen guard. Her hair a gruesome sight, matted with clotted blood and chunks of brain matter.

Jack turned the struggling bullet-headed guard to bring Muller into his sights. In his peripheral vision he could see Durand shuffling slowly toward the dead guard, his eyes locked on the nearest weapon — a holstered semi-automatic pistol. Jack knew there was something not quite right about that guy.

Breaking ranks, Leah swooped down and grabbed the man’s weapon before Durand could make his move. That was unexpected. Backup from cute Oceanographer. She had his six.

Muller’s arms were raised. His H&K clattered loudly on the hard concrete. Also unexpected. He was sure this monster of a man would have gone down with guns blazing.

“Nazi pussies,” he murmured.

Then he heard the slide of a H&K USP pull back, chambering a round.

Click.

Safety off.

For a lab rat, she knew her way around guns.

“It’s okay Leah. I’ve got this under control,” said Jack without taking his eyes off Muller.

“I’m sorry Jack, but I’m afraid you really don’t.”

The cold steel of the barrel pressed against Jack’s neck.

That was most definitely unexpected.

Chapter 49

November 9, 2017, 11:15 UTC

South Pacific Ocean

Location: Classified

Tomahawk Land Attack Missile — Nuclear Variant (TLAM-N)

Countdown to impact: 2 hours.

Chapter 50

November 9, 2017, 11:15 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

Bullet-head hit Jack in the gut with the buttstock of his machine pistol, hard, doubling him over in pain.

Leah aimed her newly acquired handgun at the man’s temple and pulled the trigger. He dropped like a brick with a horrendous exit wound on the other side of his head. The sharp report of the gun made them all jump. The heat of the bullet had sizzled past Jack’s ear.

“Sorry about that, Jack. That little shit had it coming for threatening to shoot me if you tried to escape.” Leah’s voice was calm and devoid of all emotion.

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you, little sis?” Muller snatched his weapon from the ground, walked over to Leah and gave her a bear hug that made her look like a doll cradled in his enormous arms. “You still have that temper.” He smiled and wagged a finger at her like she was a naughty child. “You know I’m already desperately short of manpower, thanks to your boyfriend over there.” He pointed at Jack. “Now I’m another man down.”

“The man was too volatile. Besides, he started it. And for the record, Jack is not my boyfriend.”

Sam and Jack gave each other a ‘what the fuck?’ look. Until now, neither man thought that their day could get any stranger.

“You did well finding this place. I wasn’t expecting you to actually be here, though. What happened?”

“In a word? Russians. There’s a Russian sub down there. It fired on us and we came here to stay clear of it.”

“Why didn’t you blow it the hell up?” Muller spread his hands wide in a gesture of mock despair.

“No weapons. They stripped this thing,” she looked toward the Barracuda, “bare to the bone to fit in all the equipment we needed to find the bunker.”

Muller roared with laughter so loud Jack swore he felt the air vibrate.

“They took a perfectly good nuclear attack submarine, stripped it of its weapons systems, renamed it ‘Barracuda’ and turned it into a floating sonar buoy. All because I told them I had a new technology that had strategic military applications.” Her voice bubbled with pride.

“You were right about that, sis.” Muller clapped her on the back and broke out a hearty belly laughed again.

“How did you get the coordinates to Barnes without them finding out?”

“Easy, I hid a subroutine in the sonar drone’s systems and it’s been zipping around out there transmitting to Barnes’ secure satellite network. Even these two clowns had no idea. Like programming a drone is complicated.” She rolled her eyes.

Juan and Dave turned pale.

“You bitch!” Juan spat. “You used us for… for… this?” He pointed to the bell shaped object only feet away from where they stood before taking a step toward Leah.

Muller and the remaining guard trained their weapons on the group. Their intention to fire made clear.

Juan balled his fists in frustration and glared at her, pure hatred burning in his eyes.

Boots clanging against steel on the nearby U-Boat deck drew their attention. The soldiers who had been working below had emerged, one of them nodded wordlessly to Muller.

Job done, thought Jack. But what job exactly?

“Kurt,” Muller called out to the other guard, “cuff the rest of them but cut the big one free. We need him.”

Sam raised his cuffed wrists and gave Muller a one finger salute.

Muller instinctively aimed his weapon at Sam, then thought better of it. “There’s no point killing you. I need you to help move the device into the other sub.” He paused. “But we don’t need a chubby Hispanic to do that, do we?”

He swung his machine pistol around onto Juan.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll help. Just don’t shoot him. Alright?” Sam pleaded.

“That’s better.” Muller lowered his barrel.

Chapter 51

November 9, 2017, 11:30 UTC

Signals Intelligence (SIGINT)

Fort Meade

Maryland

39°6′32″N 97° -76' 46 17" W

The door to Assistant Director Henry Preston’s office burst open.

“What the—”

“Sorry, sir, but you said you wanted to know as soon as we had some comms links operational,” the harried assistant blurted before Preston could yell at him. Again. The kid looked like he should be at a Justin Bieber concert, not acting as a liaison between the National Security Agency and the other military branches. Then again, everyone looked young to Preston these days.

“Well?”

“They’ve rerouted a lot of the satellite traffic through other stations that were on ‘hot standby’ but still nothing from the Barracuda or from Jack Coulson.”

“Who the hell is Jack Coulson?”

“They haven’t told you?” The assistant was unsure how to proceed. Maybe he’d said too much?

“Son, this is the military. Nobody tells anybody squat. Now who the hell is Coulson?”

“He’s a covert operative. He was at Pine Gap to be briefed when it got hit. They managed to escape and were air-dropped onto the Ronne Ice Shelf.”

“They?”

“There were two of them. The other guy is a navy enlisted man. They were sent on a search, find and secure mission after the U-Boat showed up on the surveillance images. Are you sure they didn’t tell you, sir?”

Preston’s cheeks flamed red.

“I think I’d remember if they told me Jason fucking Bourne and a deck ape were air-dropped onto the goddamn ice pack!”

Henry Preston took a deep lungful of air and counted to ten. He felt calmer straight away. That anger management therapy really did work, although Preston had a sneaking suspicion he was supposed to do his breathing exercises before screaming his head off.

“What do you want me to do, sir?” the confused assistant asked timidly.

“Get me everything you can on this… this Coulson and the navy guy.”

“Krupsky, sir. His name is Sam Krupsky.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck at a rolling donut what his name is. Just get me everything you can find and keep monitoring the entire region for traffic.”

“What kind of traffic, sir?”

“All of it! If two whales start humping and we pick it up on sonar, I want to know about it. Got it?”

“Sir.” The door slammed shut again.

Preston massaged his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. “The government’s got your back Coulson.”

An image of the Tomahawk missile cruising over the sea bound for the ice pack with an armed nuclear warhead flashed through his mind.

“Or not.”

Chapter 52

November 9, 2017, 11:45 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

“We have a new mission,” Jack quietly addressed the four surviving crew of the Barracuda. Captain Jameson, the XO, Durand and the two civilian scientists — Juan and Dave, all looked to Jack as their leader.

Even Sam listened intently as Coulson spoke.

They were all still assembled on the wet-dock while Muller and Leah argued. They couldn’t hear what the argument was about and they were speaking German anyway, but the word Glocke kept coming up. They appeared to be arguing about what to do with the bell shaped device they’d earlier unloaded from the U-Boat.

“We have to destroy that thing. No matter what the cost. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

They all nodded solemnly.

“If we take what I read in the U-2532 log, factor in these neo Nazi commandoes and consider where you found the U-Boat and its condition, then we have to assume, as crazy as it sounds, that this thing really does work and can, somehow, move through time,” Durand concluded.

He continued, “And if there’s only a small chance they could use it to go back in time and change the outcome of the war, then we have no option but to stop them, right here and right now. If they succeed, a Nazi ruled world would be…” He couldn’t find the words.

“Unthinkable.” Sam summed it up in just one.

“Could they really win, though?” asked Jameson.

“They were already so close,” Durand explained, “that it wouldn’t take much, in time travel terms, to change the world as we know it.”

“Man, there was a time I would have thought it was cool to hear those words in the same sentence,” Juan lamented. After being so close to so much death and mayhem, Juan wasn’t as enthusiastic about the theory of time travel as he once had been.

“Seriously,” Durand went on, “all they would have to do is start building these Type XXI U-Boats earlier and they would control the seas for one thing. Imagine if they produced more V2 rockets or even larger ballistic missiles to strike New York or Moscow. I don’t even want to think about how quickly a Nazi atomic bomb on one of those things might have turned the tide against us.”

Silence.

“Okay, everyone understand what’s at stake here?” Jack asked all five of them.

To a man, they nodded gravely.

“But how?” Dave spoke up at last and asked the obvious question.

“Bluey, are you ready to share your special skills with the rest of the class?”

“I think it’s time. You two,” he directed his attention to Durand and Jameson, “you said you found some crates of munitions. What were they and more importantly, where were they?”

“Over there, in some kind of grotto at the end of the dock. You can’t see it from here because the generators are in front of the entrance.” Durand pointed past the rusted shells of the disused generators. “I can read German but the stenciling on the crates has deteriorated pretty badly. I couldn’t really read much of it.”

“Well, what could you read,” asked Sam impatiently.

Jameson and Durand shared a look and shrugged.

“Panz… something or other, I think it might have said,” Jameson offered, “but I don’t think that’s right. Even I know Panzer is a tank and there sure as hell aren’t any tanks down here.”

“Panzerfaust? Could that have said Panzerfaust?”

Both men shrugged uncertainly. Durand stroked his chin, “Maybe.”

“Is that good?” Jack asked Sam. He had no idea what the big man had in mind.

“Good if they still work. We’re all dead if they don’t.”

“Captain, do you still have the cutters?” Sam asked Jameson. He nodded.

“Okay, I need to be cut loose so I can run like hell to the generators. To do that, I need a diversion. The kind of trouble only you can make, Jack. You haven’t pissed anyone off badly for, what, twenty minutes? You must be going stir crazy by now, right?”

“It’s like you read my mind, Bluey.”

Jack turned to face Muller and Leah.

“Hey Muller, are you telling your sister how you took me down with one punch? Did you happen to mention I was at gunpoint and you sucker punched me?”

“Why don’t you shut-the-fuck-up?”

“You’re right. I’ll shut up now. Unarmed and toe to toe, you wouldn’t last two rounds with me, anyway. You’re just a big kraut cheater. If you were as good as you thought you were, you might win in a fair fight.”

Muller’s chest puffed out and his eyes narrowed. Jack had read him right. The man’s ego wouldn’t let those words pass unchallenged. Especially not in front of his little sister.

Handing his machine pistol to Leah, he stomped toward Jack, tearing open the Velcro fasteners of his tactical vest as he walked. Jack wanted hand to hand and it looked like he was going to get it.

“You asked for a diversion, you got it,” he whispered.

“Geez, I said diversion, Jack. Not suicide.”

Chapter 53

November 9, 2017, 12:00 UTC

South Pacific Ocean

Location: Classified

Tomahawk Land Attack Missile — Nuclear Variant (TLAM-N)

Countdown to impact: 1.25 hours.

Chapter 54

November 9, 2017, 12:00 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

The cold hard concrete floor rushed at Jack like a runaway freight train before it collided head on, jarring every bone in Jack’s already traumatized body.

All eyes were on the two men fighting dockside like a couple of ancient gladiators. None of them could see how Jack was going to be able to stop Muller tearing him apart. That hulk of a man seemed almost invincible.

Jack spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. The stark white of a broken tooth stood out in the sea of red. So far, it was all going perfectly Jack thought as he pushed himself to his knees and closed his eyes to plan his next move. As far as diversions went, he felt the audience was getting their money’s worth.

Years of unarmed combat training had taught him many things that he now tried to recall, because his life depended on it. Quarter of the bones in the human body are in the feet which are a fragile collection of bones, delicate muscles and a bundle of soft tissue and ligaments. Kicking someone in the head Chuck Norris style is more likely to break a dozen bones in the foot than a do the other guy’s head any significant damage. If you can’t stand, you can’t fight. Which is why Kickboxers kick with their shins — one big piece of near indestructible bone that could be swung like a club at an opponent’s thigh or ribcage.

Same deal with hands, Jack recalled. 27 delicate bones in each. Boxers wear boxing gloves to protect the bones in their hands from breaking, more than to protect the other guy’s face. And that was a reason nightclub bouncers stood with arms folded. At the first sign of trouble, they’d have elbows ready to land a knockout strike. Again, the elbow was a very solid piece of bone that could dish out and take a lot of punishment.

But Muller was setting a new benchmark, even for Jack. The man was built like a nuclear fallout shelter, absorbing blows to his face and gut from Jack’s elbows and seemingly unharmed by Jack’s most brutal roundhouse kicks to the giant man’s thigh. Those kicks should have damaged his sciatic nerve to the point where he shouldn’t still be standing.

Yet he was.

Towering above him, the herculean figure simply smiled at Jack’s feeble attempts to bring him down.

Tensing his muscles, Jack prepared to launch himself up off the ground. As he sprang, he dropped his shoulder and clenched his fist, ready to deliver a brutal uppercut. Not to Muller’s granite like jaw, though.

Thump!

Jack buried his fist, with all the power of his body channeled through his legs and into his arm, right into Muller’s balls. This was a street fight, there were no rules. Nothing was barred. It was life or death.

But when his knuckles hit something solid, Jack realized his mistake. The guy was prepared. He should have known that about him by now.

Muller was wearing a box. The cheating bastard had a groin guard in his pants.

Reaching down, Muller wrapped his thick arms around Jack’s torso. The muscles in his forearms bulged and rippled like steel cables as they lifted Jack off the ground like a doll and started to crush the life out of him.

Flashes of light passed across Jack’s eyes like dust motes. Oxygen deprivation. The man was suffocating him to death. Jack didn’t want this giant’s ugly face to be the last thing he saw before he died.

Think Jack. Think.

He’d never tried it before, but he remembered something he’d been taught long ago. His asphyxiated brain scratched away the edges of the memory… something about the arch being one of the strongest engineering structures. That was it!

With the last glimmer of strength, Jack stretched his neck and upper back, angling his head away from Muller’s face. Through his blurred vision, he tried to focus on the little vertical cleft on Muller’s top lip, just below his nose — the philtrum.

Then, like a whip, he cracked his head forward explosively, the arched crown of his skull colliding with the desired target — the sensitive cluster of nerves under Muller’s nose. The satisfying crunch as the nose shattered was a bonus, one Jack gladly accepted.

Muller bellowed like a wounded beast and released his grip enough for Jack to wriggle free and catch some much needed air.

Blood spurted from Muller’s broken nose and his eyes watered profusely, but the fight wasn’t anywhere near over.

As big and well-muscled as Muller was, Jack knew that there were a couple of places a man, no matter how many pounds he could bench press, would always be vulnerable. Now it was time to seize the advantage.

Jack slid his hand over Muller’s wrist and executed a perfect and very painful wrist lock. Even a man Muller’s size couldn’t handle the pain of having a joint twisted cruelly beyond its normal range of rotation and he quickly dropped to his knees to relieve the force on his wrist joint.

Jack applied more pressure.

Muller screamed.

But still he struggled. He wasn’t broken yet, but his wrist almost was.

Lining up for a strike to the wailing man’s throat, another area that remained vulnerable no matter how many hours spent in the gym, Jack prepared to finish him off once and for all. He’d choke on his own crushed larynx, slowly enough that Jack’s smiling face would be the last thing he’d see before the lights went out.

Schlick. Schlick.

The smooth metal on metal sound of an automatic weapon chambering a round rang out.

Leah didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Jack lowered his hand and stepped back from Muller.

“Lucky you’ve got your sister to stand up for you in the playground, tough guy.”

Muller’s face was etched with pain and unbridled hatred as he began to stand, ready to launch himself at Coulson.

A booming voice from behind caught their attention, including Muller’s.

“I know this isn’t exactly a who’s-got-the-biggest-dick contest, but if it was, I think I’d win, don’t you?”

They all turned.

He’d done it.

Sam stood astride two of the old generators, looking almost like a statue of some kind of Roman war god. Over his massive shoulder rested a long metal pipe with, from what Jack could see, looked like an overinflated football stuck on the end of it. The football-like warhead was aimed directly at The Bell. At that distance, Sam couldn’t miss.

So that’s a Panzerfaust, Jack thought.

Chapter 55

November 9, 2017, 12:15 UTC

South Pacific Ocean

Location: Classified

Tomahawk Land Attack Missile — Nuclear Variant (TLAM-N)

Countdown to impact: 1.00 hour.

Chapter 56

November 9, 2017, 12:15 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

Sam’s special skillset was anything to do with demolition and munitions or “blowing shit up,” as Sam usually described it.

He’d scuttled ships, destroyed bridges, deployed sea-mines and generally had a field day with every type of munition there was. But one thing had always eluded him — the Panzerfaust or ‘tank fist’ as it translated in English. Another groundbreaking design from the Germans during the Second World War, the one shot, recoilless ‘tank destroyer’ was light, easy to shoot and cheap to manufacture. The design principles of the Panzerfaust influence similar RPG weapons to the present day.

During the war, the Panzerfaust proved highly effective against even the most heavily armored Allied tanks. It was one of the first weapons to use a ‘shaped charge’ in the warhead, which would detonate on impact, concentrating the blast in the direction of travel and punching a hole in armor up to 2 inches thick with a plasma jet that would kill the tank crew.

Today, Sam hoped it would prove just as effective against the device on the dock.

“You won’t fire that,” Leah challenged. “If you don’t blow yourself up with that antique, you’ll kill all your friends.”

Muller herded the submariners, scientists and Jack closer to the shrouded bell at gunpoint.

“We all know the score,” Sam countered. “We’d rather die than let you Nazi nutjobs use that… monstrosity.”

“I’ll give you three seconds to lower that weapon,” Muller called to Sam.

Sam remained unmoved by the threat. He had the Panzerfaust. What did they have?

But Muller didn’t look as fazed as Sam had expected, given the threat he posed to what he’d been treating as a holy relic.

He felt it before he heard it.

The bullet tore through his shoulder, shattering bone and slicing through muscle and sinew before he heard the shot ring out.

The Panzerfaust clattered to the ground and Sam watched the bloom of crimson spread across his chest before he followed the Panzerfaust down to the concrete floor.

Chapter 57

November 9, 2017, 12:30 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

“I’ve stopped the bleeding but he’s lost a lot of blood,” Jameson said, his voice betraying that he didn’t think Sam would make it. “I might have done more aboard the Barracuda, but here, the medical supplies are rudimentary and that’s putting it politely.”

“They want the Barracuda for themselves. That I get, but why have they locked us up in here?” Jack pondered.

Coulson was still beating himself up over being outflanked by Leah. Again. The cunning bitch had a sniper hidden in the conning tower of the U-Boat the whole time. She always seemed to be one step ahead.

Juan and Dave sat at the two planesman stations, the only place they could sit without getting in the way of Jameson’s first aid efforts. Krupsky was laid out on the floor so they could work on him before moving him to a bunk in the crew quarters. There was no sick bay aboard the U-2532.

Durand and Jack stood by the periscope.

“Hey Coulson, do you think this still works?” Durand asked rubbing his hand over the well-worn periscope handles.

Jack shrugged, not caring one way or another. He’d blown the mission. “I guess so. Everything else seems to be in working order.”

“Except the ventilation.” Durand screwed up his nose. “Cigarette smoke, diesel fumes and hydrogen sulfide. Nice combination.”

Durand flipped a small lever and the hydraulics pumped to life, raising the periscope.

“How did you…”

Then Jack remembered that Peter Durand spoke and read German.

“I haven’t used one of these since training. It’s kind of cool. Makes you think of how they did things before we went all high tech and electronic,” he mused as he turned the periscope through a full rotation.

“See anything?” asked Jack.

“Yeah,” Durand laughed, “a bunch of guys trying to get that bell into the Barracuda. Bet they wish they hadn’t shot Krupsky, now.”

Jack looked down at Sam. He was pale but at least he was alive. “I bet he wished they hadn’t shot him, either.”

“I think they’re going to try to shoehorn that thing into the empty VPT,” Durand observed as he zeroed in on something that caught his attention.

“VPT?” quizzed Jack.

“Vertical Payload Tube. It’s a big module that holds 6 Tomahawk missiles for vertical launch. But ours is empty and full of sonar gear for the survey. They’ve cracked the hatch and are stripping it bare to hold that thing.”

Juan and Dave heard that their gear was being dumped, but neither man reacted. They were beyond caring. They’d given up.

“They can’t get away, can they? I can’t see Muller as a submarine school graduate, can you?”

“They have something better than that.” Jameson joined the conversation.

Jack and Durand both stared at him. Jack with a look of confusion. Durand with a look of total shock.

“Shit,” said Durand as he slammed his hand on the periscope.

“What?” Jack turned from one man to the other.

“They’ve got Leah. She’s been in the control room day in day out, watching every move.” Jameson explained.

“And now we know she’s a computer expert,” Durand added.

“How does that help?” Jack didn’t understand.

“Every system on that boat is computer controlled. It’s literally a fly by wire nuclear submarine. She could almost take the damn thing anywhere she wants single handed. Punch in the GPS coordinates and the boat practically sails itself,” Durand explained. “She’s got more than enough manpower onboard to get underway.”

“We can’t just sit here with our thumbs up our asses while they disappear with that bell thing. We have to come up with another plan!” Jack ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to come up with something.

“Scuttle—”

It was Sam. He was trying to tell them something. Jack knelt down alongside him.

“What do you mean scuttle? Scuttle them? How?”

Sam shook his head and coughed. Droplets of blood shone on his lips.

“Scuttle charges. They’ve set scuttle charges. You need the rat—”

Sam’s head fell back on the deck plating. He was unconscious again.

“Scuttle charges? What’s he talking about?” Juan squawked, his voice an octave higher with the stress.

Jack remembered Sam trying to tell him something earlier, but he shut him down. Now he wished he’d listened. And what was that about rats?

“Those Nazi bastards have set scuttle charges on this boat. They’re going to send us to a watery grave after they set sail out of the bunker.”

Jack didn’t think Juan or Dave could get any paler.

He was wrong.

Chapter 58

November 9, 2017, 12:45 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

“Instead of sitting there sucking up oxygen, why don’t you two start looking for these charges?”

Juan and Dave looked clueless. They were techno geeks, not bomb disposal experts.

“Now,” Jack bellowed at them. “Go!”

“Captain, what was Sam trying to tell us about the rats?”

“No idea, Coulson. Not a goddamn clue.”

“Durand?” Jack turned to the XO, their last shot at solving the puzzle.

“When I was doing nuke training at Goose Creek, I heard some of the old timers working there talking about how they used to kill rats aboard a submarine, but that’s all I can think of.”

“How?” asked Jack.

“How what?”

“How did they kill the rats?”

“Fire extinguishers. They’d freeze the little fuckers to death with a blast of a CO2. If one of them needed a fire extinguisher, he’d say ‘hand me that rat killer over there’ or something like that”

“That’s it!” Jack’s face lit up. “Okay, Durand, you’re with me. We’re going to round up as many extinguishers as we can get our hands on.”

“I’ll go help the nerd brigade find the explosives,” Jameson called over his shoulder as he ran after the two scientists.

Durand started unclipping the control room fire extinguishers from the bulkheads, piling them up below the periscope.

“Mind telling me what we’re doing exactly?” Durand asked.

But Jack had already run through the aft hatch on his way to find more extinguishers.

If this didn’t work, the world could be swallowed up by the darkness of another Reich.

But they wouldn’t live to see it.

Failure is not an option, Jack kept telling himself as he ran the length of the boat.

* * *

“We’ve found them,” Jameson reported entering the control room. “What now?”

“How many are there and can we move them?” asked Jack.

Jameson shook his head. “Half a dozen, small but well placed to sink us fast. I wouldn’t be trying to move them, though. They’re all wired to some pretty high tech looking touch screen timers. If they have inertial sensors, we’re screwed.”

Jack considered that for a moment. “Here’s the plan — Juan and Dave, grab as many of those extinguishers as you can and follow me. The rest of us,” he looked to Durand and Jameson, “will carry what these guys can’t and head to the first charge.”

“What happens then?” Durand looked perplexed.

“You’ll see. If it works, that is.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Durand already knew the answer. They all did.

Chapter 59

November 9, 2017, 12:50 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

Depth 10 feet

AUV Nellie

Nellie was home.

Her battery packs had run down to their minimum safe operating levels, initiating a ‘limp home’ subroutine in her programming. Nellie had followed the homing signal continuously broadcast from the Barracuda and was preparing to be retrieved and recharged before resuming her survey mission.

<Initiating search and recovery lighting protocols>

Chapter 60

November 9, 2017, 12:50 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

The timer on the cell phone sized touch screen counted down to detonation. If they were all set to blow at the same time, and Jack was working on the assumption that they were, there wouldn’t be enough time to deal with all six charges. The timer showed 3 minutes until detonation.

Unless…

“I’m going to do this one with Durand, so watch closely. Then, Durand, Juan and I will keep working toward the bow and do the other two charges.” Jack spoke urgently and paused to catch a breath. “Captain, you and Dave will work aft and do the remaining three charges. Right?”

They all nodded but clearly had no idea what they were supposed to do.

“Durand, get ready to pass another extinguisher when I say.” Jack then began blasting the C4 charge with a jet of CO2 from the extinguisher. As soon as it began to spurt empty, he threw it aside.

“Now!”

Durand pulled the safety pin from an extinguisher and handed it to Jack who continued to blast the scuttle charge until it was white and crystalline.

The timer kept counting down.

“It didn’t work,” squeaked Juan. Sweat dripped from his face.

“OK, you three go.” Jameson and Dave scurried aft cradling arms full of fire extinguishers.

“Durand, Juan, with me, let’s go.” Together the three made their way toward the bow.

“Where is it?” Jack asked Juan.

The man was trembling like a schoolboy after his first kiss and stared blankly at Jack as if he didn’t understand the question.

Jack placed both hands on Juan’s shoulders. “Son, I know this has been a real shitty day for you but it’s not been all that much fun for me, either, but trust me, if you don’t show me where those fucking explosives are, it’s gonna get a whole lot worse. I need you to stay with me and stay focused. Are you with me?”

Juan’s eyes began to focus on Jack. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve and pointed to a rack full of torpedoes in the next compartment.

“Good man, come on, let’s go,” Jack spoke as reassuringly as he could.

The next explosive responded to the CO2 treatment the same as the first. The C4 charge turned white and frosty but the timer continued to count down.

Juan didn’t need to be coaxed, he was already lugging the remaining extinguishers to the third charge by the time they’d finished emptying a second one on the second explosive.

Jack and Durand caught up with him near the torpedo tubes where he stood pointing at a charge stuck to the bulkhead.

The counter counted down.

00:09.

Jack snatched a fire extinguisher from Juan and directed a blast at the final explosive.

00:06

It ran dry.

00:05

Juan shouldered Jack out of the way and began to empty the contents of their last extinguisher at the C4 charge. His knuckles turned white he squeezed the handle so hard.

00:02

The last extinguisher sputtered.

Empty.

00:01

The three men stared wide eyed at the explosive package, waiting for it to detonate.

A second later, it did.

Chapter 61

November 9, 2017, 12:55 UTC

South Pacific Ocean

Location: Classified

Tomahawk Land Attack Missile — Nuclear Variant (TLAM-N)

Countdown to impact: 0.20 minutes.

Chapter 62

November 9, 2017, 12:55 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

00:00

The detonator exploded.

The sharp crack and fizzle as the small detonation charge blew sounded ear shattering in the confined space of the torpedo room, but nowhere near as loud as it would have been had the C4 Block Demolition charge not been frozen solid and rendered inert and totally harmless.

“You did it,” Juan slapped Jack on the back.

“No, you did it. Good work,” Jack commended Juan.

Suddenly the deck moved beneath them.

“Did the others not make it?” Juan thought of Dave being blown up and water rushing through a gaping hole in the submarine.

“Relax,” Jack spoke quietly as he listened for the sound of gushing water. “We would have heard the blast. This thing is like a steel drum.”

“It’s the Barracuda. She’s submerging before making way for the tunnel,” Durand clarified.

“Once she hits the open water, the show’s over.” Jack slumped against a torpedo slung in a block and tackle, ready to be loaded and fired at an enemy that hadn’t existed for over 70 years.

There was a beat of resigned silence.

Then Durand’s eyes blazed with excitement and at the same time were met by a similar gleam from Jack eyes.

Juan looked from one man to the other and saw the eagerness on their faces.

Then it also came to Juan in a flash of inspiration.

All three men came to the same absurd and totally boneheaded idea at exactly the same time.

Chapter 63

November 9, 2017, 13:00 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

The torpedo slid into the empty torpedo tube with little effort. The entire loading mechanism had been designed for quick reloads in cramped quarters with minimal manpower. German efficiency at its best.

Closing and locking the hatch, Durand wiped his hands on an oily cloth the previous torpedo crew had used many years ago. In different circumstances he might have felt almost nostalgic, but right now there wasn’t time for that.

“Do you know how to fire it?” Jack asked.

“Oh yeah. We studied these in training. The Germans built crap torpedoes but the Siemens torpedo fire control system they developed was real smart. A lot of modern day firing systems are based on these principles. They had what they called the TDC or Torpedo Data Computer to handle the gyro settings, torpedo spread and depth. All good stuff but half their torpedoes didn’t blow when they hit their target. Accurate but not very deadly.”

“Another lesson for those Nazi bastards to take back with them and make good,” Jack hissed.

“Is this one going to work?” asked Juan.

“We’ll soon find out. I just need to figure out the settings and get them dialed into the fire control system.”

“Shouldn’t we ask the captain first?” Juan suggested.

Jack responded, “Son, sometimes it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

Durand scanned the dials and gauges clustered around the torpedo tube.

“I think I’ve figured out what we need to do. Lucky we’re berthed bow toward the tunnel. Other way around and we’d be screwed. These boats don’t have torpedo tubes aft.”

Durand turned a valve to open the outer torpedo doors.

“Yeah, well ‘lucky’ isn’t a word that’s on the tip of my tongue today.” Sarcasm laced Jack’s response.

But Durand didn’t hear him, he was too busy turning dials and flipping switches on the fire control panel.

“How do you know where to fire it?” asked Jack.

“I’m guessing, but if we can get it running down that tunnel, it will either hit the sub or the walls. Either way, the shockwave should cripple her at best. At worst, she’ll be sunk.”

“Let’s do it.” Jack’s voice was firm and confident.

Durand slammed the heel of his palm on the fire control and with a hiss of compressed air the torpedo was blasted from the tube and into the water where its electric motors propelled it toward the tunnel.

“How long until it explodes?” asked Juan.

“You ask a lot of questions. You know that, right?” Jack patted the rotund man on the back of the head, like he was rubbing a Buddha for good fortune.

Chapter 64

November 9, 2017, 13:00 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

K-561 Kazan

“Captain, incoming Tomahawk. Bearing three-one-five degrees. Range two-zero-zero kilometers.”

“Verify and confirm that,” Captain Vasili Ketov snapped at the radar operator.

They’d been surfaced for the past hour trying to raise Novolazarevskaya. The Russian Antarctic base had yet to respond but given the weather conditions and the pitiful annual budget allocated to the base for equipment maintenance, he wasn’t surprised.

“Confirmed sir, it’s an American Tomahawk. It must have been launched from an American submarine. We’ve had no reports of U.S. Navy ships in the area.”

“Damn them! This is retaliation for shooting at their spy sub.” Ketov sighed. It did no good to berate Yuri. The poor radar operator was only the messenger. It was a shame he hadn’t spotted it earlier, though.

“It’s skimming the waves, Captain, coming in low and fast. That’s why it’s only now showing on the screen.” It was as if Yuri had read Ketov’s thoughts.

“Do we have time to launch a Triumf counter strike?” demanded the captain of the launch officer who was already busy plotting a firing solution on his computer.

“Yes sir, if we launch within the next 3 minutes.”

Ketov needed time to think. He didn’t have time. Should he risk exposing their secret to save the lives of his crew and his submarine?

The S-400 Triumf surface-to-air missile system itself wasn’t a secret. NATO had even given it a reporting name — SA-21 “Growler”. The advanced anti-aircraft missile system had been deployed in Syria and was a major arms export for its Russian manufacturer. Even the Chinese were lining up to buy them by the truckload.

The Americans feared the Triumf and for good reason. It was the deadliest air defense weapon ever devised.

What was a secret, however, was the fact that the Russian Yasen class submarines all carried a number of these missiles amidships in vertical launch cells, alongside their strategic arsenal of Sizzler and Strobile cruise missiles.

The Americans already knew too much about the superiority of the S-400 Triumf system and the stealth of the Yasen class submarines. The fact that Russia’s most dangerous submarine could also launch their most deadly anti-aircraft missiles from below the waves needed to remain top secret, according to the Admirals and Generals back in Moscow, safe in their luxurious offices with their cute blonde secretaries.

“Arm a Triumf and plot a solution to intercept the Tomahawk,” ordered the captain without further discussion. He was a long way from his Russian masters and on his submarine, he made the final decisions.

Chapter 65

November 9, 2017, 13:05 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

“It should have hit something by now.” Durand hammered his fist on the side of the torpedo tube.

“Dud?” asked Jack.

“Maybe they all are,” Juan chipped in.

“Thanks for blowing that little ray of sunshine up our ass, Juan. Real helpful, captain positive.” Durand glared at him.

“Well, then, we fire them all.” Jack slapped the next torpedo in line with his hand. “And we keep firing until we either hit something or run out of torpedoes. We’re not quitting!”

Jack was right. Durand and Juan leaped into action and within half a minute they had the next torpedo loaded and ready to fire.

“Fingers crossed it runs hot, straight and normal,” Durand ventured as he fired the second torpedo.

“And it actually blows up, this time,” Juan threw in for good measure.

Chapter 66

November 9, 2017, 13:05 UTC

South Pacific Ocean

Location: Classified

Tomahawk Land Attack Missile — Nuclear Variant (TLAM-N)

Countdown to impact: 0.10 minutes.

Chapter 67

November 9, 2017, 13:05 UTC

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

K-561 Kazan

“Fire missile!” Ketov commanded.

The roar of the Triumf launch could be heard throughout the Kazan. To a man, the crew knew it had earned its NATO reporting name. It was indeed a Growler and now their lives were in the hands of one anti-aircraft missile bristling with sensors and guidance systems linked together in one Integrated Air Defense System or IADS.

The Triumf IADS was capable of detecting and painting a target on stealth aircraft that would normally not be visible to conventional radar. It would use its long range scanners to build a picture of the target and its track its flightpath, calculating the most ‘survivable’ route to intercept.

Once it engaged its target, the Russian Triumf was deadly accurate.

It would need to be.

Chapter 68

November 9, 2017, 13:08 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

The shockwave slammed the three men into the bulkhead. Hard.

Water jetted from the maze of exposed pipes attached to the torpedo compartment bulkhead and the U-Boat shuddered violently as it smashed into the wet-dock.

Captain Jameson and Dave stumbled through the listing torpedo room hatch, both bleeding profusely from head wounds. Neither man had been prepared for the explosion.

Looking around the compartment, it quickly became obvious that the damage hadn’t been caused by the scuttle charges, which then prompted the question… what did cause the explosion and shock wave?

Jameson wiped the blood from his face and drew a bead on Durand and Coulson.

“What did you do?”

Jack shuffled away from Durand slightly and showed his palms to the captain. “It wasn’t me,” he declared.

Chapter 69

November 9, 2017, 13:09 UTC

South Pacific Ocean

Location: Classified

Tomahawk Land Attack Missile — Nuclear Variant (TLAM-N)

At a combined closing speed of over 1,000 miles per hour, the Tomahawk and the Growler erupted in a fireball that lit up the sky for miles.

The warhead had not yet armed itself and even its titanium casing could protect it from being totally destroyed and vaporized in the mid-air blast.

Chapter 70

November 9, 2017, 13:10 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

U-2532

Jameson’s face darkened. “You sank a two and a half billion dollar nuclear attack submarine with a Nazi torpedo from the Second World War? Have I got that right?”

“It was his idea, sir.” Durand pointed at Coulson.

“Coulson?”

“I like to think of it as a team decision, sir,” answered Jack.

“Oh, yeah, and you’re such a team player aren’t you, Jack.” A familiar voice echoed behind them.

They all turned to the flood compartment hatch where Sam was crouching to get through.

“Tell me you didn’t blow the shit out of something while I was out of it?” Sam pleaded.

“Sorry Sam. We could have used some help, but we got by,” said Jack.

“What did you say?”

“I said we managed without you,” Jack repeated.

“Not that… you called me Sam.”

“So I did, Sam. So I did.” Jack walked over to Sam and offered his arm for Sam to lean on as he started to lose his balance with the movement of the deck.

“We’re going to end up scuttling before long, so we’d better make a move before the water gets any deeper,” Sam suggested.

“Okay, let’s grab all the blankets, warm clothing and flashlights we can round up and meet in the control room. I doubt they’ve sealed us in as they weren’t expecting us to live long enough to try to get out of here,” Jack said as he guided Sam back through the hatch. “It’s going to be cold and dark up there.”

“If this is a typical day at the office for you, Coulson, I’m glad we won’t be working together any more. I’m getting too old for this shit.”

Chapter 71

November 9, 2017, 13:10 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

“What’s that?” Jack pointed to the empty U-Boat pen where the Barracuda had been berthed. His view was unobstructed from the conning tower as he climbed through the hatch ready to give Sam a hoist by his good arm.

Something yellow with bright running lights all around it broke through the surface of the water and lit up the bunker.

“It’s Nellie!” cried Juan and Dave in unison.

“Nellie?”

“The AUV. We thought the Russian torpedo had nailed it. Apparently not. Like her 007 namesake, she’s full of surprises,” Jameson explained.

Juan and Dave looked at each other excitedly. Juan’s negativity seemed to slide off him like he was wearing a Teflon suit.

“Okay, let’s hear it.” Jameson rolled his eyes.

“We can use her to get a signal to PACOM.” Juan’s voice was squeaking with excitement. “The subroutine little miss back-stabber embedded in her code can be modified to send a signal to PACOM if you give me the frequencies and authentication codes we need for them to pay attention.”

“Don’t you need computers and cables and stuff to do that?” Jameson asked.

Dave pointed to the dock where Muller’s men had dumped the equipment they’d ripped out of the Barracuda to make way for the bell. “All we need should be right there. We just need to plug a console into one of Nellie’s uplink ports and we’re good to go. She’s got enough power in reserve to get out into open water and transmit for hours.”

Jack was impressed. “Maybe you science guys are good for something after all.”

Chapter 72

November 9, 2017, 13:30 UTC

Signals Intelligence (SIGINT)

Fort Meade

Maryland

39°6′32″N 97° -76' 46 17" W

AD Preston’s door burst open but before he could yell at the young man waving a printout in his hand, he was interrupted.

“They’re alive!”

“Who’s alive?”

“Coulson and a few survivors from the Barracuda,” the young man clarified.

“But that’s just not possible…” Preston let his words hang in the air. Of course, no one else knew about the Tomahawk and its nuclear warhead.

Nobody could survive that.

“Has it been verified?” Preston enquired, hoping it was all a mistake.

“Yes, sir. It’s an authenticated message from the Barracuda’s captain. Only he has that authentication code.”

“And there’s been no… other report from down there?”

“No sir. Should there have been?”

“That’ll be all.” Preston waved his hand absently dismissing the man.

Chapter 73

November 9, 2017, 13:45 UTC

U-Boot-Bunker (Submarine Pen)

Kriegsmarine Base 211

Ronne Ice Shelf (Antarctica)

77°51′ 19.79" S -61°17′ 34.20" W

Jack had left the science brigade and the two Barracuda officers alongside the generators with Sam. It was the warmest place for them to hunker down until help arrived. They had blankets and Sam was cocooned in a bundle of old German pea coats to keep him warm. He’d lost a lot of blood but seemed to be stable, for the moment.

Jack closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers over his stubble. He couldn’t remember when he’d last shaved. Or slept. Or eaten. The concrete of the bunker was cold and hard against his back, but he was too fatigued to move, opting instead to enjoy a moments peace and look down at the nearby U-Boat getting lower in the water my the minute.

His body ached all over and the head-butt he’d given Muller had come up in a nasty lump on his scalp. Maybe that accounted for the cracking headache he was trying to deal with.

As a soldier, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the field without a weapon. Muller had stripped him of his LWRC and his handguns. All he had was the vintage mini Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger he’d been given as a gift by a British agent he’d once saved from beheading by extremists in Syria. The man was an ex SAS commando and an avid collector old militaria. The dagger might be old, but the 2 inch blade had been honed to a fine edge by Jack during the long flight from Pine Gap.

His hand felt for the slim and unobtrusive handle tucked inside a concealed belt sheath and he felt strangely comforted. There was no reason to not feel comfortable, the enemy had been dealt a savage blow by, ironically, their own torpedo.

Schlick. Schlick.

Fuck, not again.

That was Jack’s only thought as he turned to look over his shoulder. He half expected to see Leah with her gun bearing down on him. Again. Maybe she’d had a change of heart and didn’t get aboard the Barracuda.

He was even more surprised when he saw it was Muller. The man was like The Terminator. Indestructible.

Well, almost. Half an ear had been torn away and a flap of scalp hung over the wound like a grotesque comb over. There wasn’t time to figure out how he’d escaped the crippled sub.

Jack’s hand went intuitively to his empty holster.

“No point reaching for your weapon, Jack.” Muller sounded cocky.

Muller was soaking wet. Jack assumed he’d survived the sub implosion somehow and slithered out of the water onto the dock behind Jack.

Coulson kicked himself in the butt for letting his guard down. He should have known better.

“Lights out Jack.” Muller smiled a cruel smile that never touched his cold, hateful eyes.

Click.

That’s when Jack remembered what was clawing at his subconscious when he first saw they were using H&K MP7 machine pistols. They weren’t used in polar climates for a reason — they froze up if they got too cold. Or too wet. Muller’s weapon had now been exposed to both conditions.

If Muller had done his homework and read the LWRC brochure, he would have known that their nickel-boron coated bolts resisted corrosion and had permanent lubricity. They fired without fail even under the most extreme conditions.

“Should have bought American made, you Nazi son-of-a-bitch.”

With blinding speed and the advantage of Muller being caught unprepared, Jack whipped out the tiny commando blade from his belt and jammed it with all his strength into Muller’s inner thigh.

Muller stood, unmoved and began to smile at Jack’s wasted opportunity.

“That’ll leave a scar,” Muller sniggered. “Ouch,” he mocked.

Now it was Jack’s turn to smile.

He pulled the knife out of the wound in a slicing motion, severing Muller’s femoral artery.

Muller collapsed and bled out in less than a minute, staring at Jack in utter disbelief until his eyes closed for the last time.

Jack wiped the knife clean on Muller’s soaking wet tunic and placed it back in the sheath before limping his way back to the rest of the survivors.

Chapter 74

November 12, 2017, 07:00 UTC

Undisclosed location.

A rich smell of old leather and polished mahogany filled the dimly lit room giving it a somber atmosphere.

J. Clifford Barnes stood at one end of the room while the other occupants sat around the long table, comfortable in their aged-leather chairs. His eyes were averted respectfully. Or perhaps fearfully.

“You have failed us.” The tone of the heavily accented voice at the head of the table suggested it was a statement of fact and not a matter for debate.

Barnes remained silent.

“I want every effort made, regardless of cost, to recover the Xerum 525 canister from the wreck. Die Glocke we can rebuild, but the Xerum is irreplaceable. I will not tolerate another failure.”

The general’s hand rested threateningly on the Vis 35 pistol holstered on his belt, the only weapon he’d brought back with him.

“Yes, Herr General.”

“We are about to continue the war on a new front. In the meantime, you have your orders.”

Barnes knew he was being dismissed and spun on his heel to exit the gloomy room as quickly as he was able.

“Barnes!” The general snapped, bringing Barnes’ speedy exit to a halt.

“Yes, Herr General?” he asked meekly, not wanting to incur the wrath of the old man at the head of the table.

“Heil Hitler.” The man’s arm extended in a crisp salute the rest of the world had not seen in a very long time.

Chapter 75

November 12, 2017, 15:00 UTC

Cheyenne Mountain Complex

Colorado Springs

Colorado

38°44′ 32.91" N -104°50′ 54.40" W

North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD)

United States Northern Command (USNORTHCOM)

The Cheyenne Mountain Complex is an astonishing feat of engineering by present day standards, but more so considering that it was built during the height of the Cold War in the 1960’s.

More than a mile inside a solid granite mountain, protected from the effects of a direct nuclear strike and EMP pulses by a series of 23 ton blast doors, the U.S. military’s ‘doomsday’ nuclear bunker is a hollowed out granite mountain housing multi-story buildings mounted on earthquake resistant springs, lakes filled with fresh drinking water and diesel fuel and all the systems needed to independently command America’s defense networks.

The entrance to the complex has gained Hollywood star status through Terminator, Stargate, Independence Day and a host of other movies and TV series. And it was that fame, above all, that captured Juan’s imagination as the matt black armored personnel carrier rounded the final bend in the high altitude crawl up the winding mountain road.

“This is where they keep the Stargate!” Juan squealed with excitement as the iconic entrance came into view.

“There is no Stargate, you crazy geek,” Dave Sutton punched his buddy in the arm.

“Oh yeah, you keep telling yourself that, then.”

Jack Coulson and Sam Krupsky sat quietly on the fold out bench opposite the two civilian scientists. After all they’d seen and been through, nothing would surprise them ever again.

Captain Jameson and Durand sat alongside. Neither had spoken for a while. There was still a lot of unresolved tension over the whole torpedo incident, as Durand referred to it.

“How’s the shoulder?” Jack tilted his head toward Sam’s bandaged and slung arm.

“Hurts like a bitch, but they tell me there’s no significant bone damage and I should regain most of my mobility.”

“Enough to stay in the service?”

Sam shook his head. “Medical discharge is in the works for me. Sucks, though. This is all I know.”

“I’m real sorry, Sam. But like you said, you were getting too old for that shit, anyway.”

“I meant too old for your shit, Jack. I was doing fine before I got sucked into your black hole of death, destruction and mayhem.”

Jack arched a brow, “Mayhem? That’s a good word, Sam. Did you manage to get some reading done on the flight to Peterson?”

The long flight to Peterson Air Force Base, the nearest AFB to Cheyenne Mountain, was a tedious flight and came on the back of a medivac flight to a Black Site where Sam was treated for his gunshot wound and the others for a variety of lacerations and abrasions.

Sam had moaned the entire flight. More than anything, he wanted to go home.

“Bite me. You don’t look so hot yourself, Jack,” Sam observed, looking over the cuts to Jack’s head that had been expertly stitched and butterflied. “Did you know they were bringing us here?”

“I had a suspicion. They don’t want us telling anyone what happened down there, that’s for sure.” Jack looked over at Juan and Dave who were goggle eyed at the sight of the Cheyenne Mountain entrance filling the windscreen. “They wouldn’t even let these two clowns call their family or friends to say they were alright.”

“Do you think they’re gonna kill us?” Sam asked calmly.

“Our government doesn’t kill its own. Besides, would they patch us up if they were going to do that?”

Sam shrugged his good shoulder in response. He wasn’t convinced and had a bad feeling about their future.

* * *

The security guard waved them through after inspecting the driver’s papers. They were clearly expected.

Continuing through the arched tunnel into the heart of the complex, Jack felt the weight of the thousand foot granite mountain above him crushing down on him like an invisible force. He didn’t like the feeling.

Eventually the armored transport stopped and they were ushered through a series of passageways and then into an enclosed walkway that took them to a freestanding three-story building. The windowless building had been built inside a hollowed out section of the mountain and looked incongruous against the hewn granite that surrounded it on all sides.

“Great,” mumbled Jack as he took in the claustrophobic atmosphere.

“Yeah, I know, right,” Juan pipped like a teenage girl.

Finally they were steered into a sterile, lifeless conference room where they were directed to be seated.

A door to one side opened and the familiar fireplug like figure of Colonel Chuck Daniels marched into the room. Only he wasn’t wearing an army uniform. Today he was dressed in a crisp Air Force uniform but other than that, he looked almost exactly the same as he had when Jack and Coulson had last seen him in Pine Gap.

Almost.

The cuff of the Colonel’s right jacket sleeve had been neatly pressed and pinned to the elbow. He noticed Coulson and Krupsky trying not to stare.

“I was lucky to get away with just losing an arm in that fracas. Bastards. We got caught with our zippers down but that won’t happen again.”

“Can I ask why we’re here, Colonel?”

“You’re a trouble maker, Coulson. You’re like a magnet for havoc and destruction, it follows you wherever you go and it sticks like shit to a blanket to anyone around you.” He scanned the two civilians, Durand and Sam.

“That’s a little exager—”

“You blew up a two and a half billion dollar submarine for chrissake, Coulson! How do we explain that to the Auditor General?”

“Actually, sir, it was…” Jack pointed in Durand’s direction.

“It doesn’t matter who actually pushed the button, Coulson, my point is that you attract trouble.”

“Yes sir. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, we could use a man like you Coulson,” Daniels said sincerely as he pulled out a chair and plopped himself down. He was plainly in pain as he placed his left hand on what remained of his right arm.

“Sir?” Jack quizzed.

“You kicked the hornets’ nest and exposed an enemy we didn’t even know we were fighting. You also uncovered The Bell. By the way, trying to cover that up has been like herding cats — damn near impossible.”

“You knew about The Bell?” Jack’s jaw dropped as the implications raced through his mind.

“Of course we knew, Coulson. How do you think we won the war against those Nazi fuckers?”

The silence in the room was palpable.

“Let me clue you in,” Daniels leaned in and began to explain.

The men sat silent and engrossed as the colonel shared one of the greatest secrets of the Second World War with them. The Allies were on the verge of surrendering to the Germans. The technological superiority of the Reich had outpaced the most exhaustive efforts of the Allied researchers and whiz kids.

“The German atomic program was the turning point,” Daniels continued, “the Manhattan project was years behind and it looked like the Germans were on the verge of testing a successful weapon. That would have ensured a Nazi victory for sure. We’d all be speaking German right now if they’d been allowed to complete their atomic tests.”

“But how does The Bell fit into all this?” asked Jack.

“The Nazis liked to compartmentalize their projects. One hand never knew what the other was doing. Kammler didn’t know or care about the atomic bomb. He started off developing a propulsion system that used an extremely rare atomic byproduct, Xerum 525. Then he discovered that his device had the potential to move through time. When we found out about his experimental device, we saw it as the only way to turn the tide against the Nazis.”

“By going back in time and sabotaging the German’s weapons development projects,” Dave Sutton marveled as the pieces fell into place.

Juan rubbed his head. “This whole time travel paradox is making my brain hurt. I’ve got a million questions, but here’s one for starters… how did we even find out about this Bell device?”

“Ironically, that was Kammler’s own doing. One of his own test subjects went back in time and appeared in Poland just after the German invasion. He tried to warn them about Hitler’s genocide program but they all thought he was mad. A British spy, a Commander Fleming, filed a report and mentioned that the man claimed to have been sent back in some kind of German time machine. Fleming had quite a vivid imagination, according to his superiors, so not much attention was paid to the report until it was almost too late.”

* * *

After Colonel Daniel’s astonishing revelations had been absorbed by the small group, Sam asked the question that had been bugging him the whole time.

“Colonel, what the hell are we doing here and why are you telling us all this?”

“Because, gentlemen, you can’t go back to the lives you lived before all this happened. We can’t let that happen. The security risk is unacceptable.”

“So you’re going to kill us?” Juan’s voice tremored fearfully.

“Kill you? No, I’m not going to kill you,” Daniel’s laughed, “I’m going to offer you a chance to become a part of the most covert, well-funded, technologically advanced and dangerous intelligence organization in the United States.”

“And that would be…?” ventured Jack.

“We don’t even have a fancy acronym. That would mean a paper trail and government employees nosing around with budget spreadsheets and lots of questions. No, we can do without all that.”

“Who runs this nameless outfit, then?” asked Sam.

“I do. You’d report to me. That’s why I was in Pine Gap. I was there to vet you, Jack. Sorry Sam, you were just collateral damage on this mission.”

“Nice. Real nice.” Sam folded his arms, wincing as the stiches in his shoulder pulled against the wound.

“What about the Security and Intelligence Directorate? Won’t they have something to say when I don’t report in?” Jack queried.

The Colonel smiled, “Jack, you were never there. We’ve erased all trace of your service record. You’re now a ghost.”

The Colonel pointed to Juan and Dave, “You two are on board whether you like it or not. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. We can’t have civilians running around out there telling the media we lost the war.”

Neither man responded. Their faces were a mask of shock and disbelief.

“Any questions?” the colonel finally asked.

Juan’s hand went up nervously, “Do we get to see the Stargate?”

Dave moaned and cradled his head in his hands.

Jack rolled his eyes and waited for Colonel Daniels to tell Juan to stop asking stupid questions.

But the Colonel merely glanced at the clock on the wall and shook his head, “Not today, son, we’ve got far more important things to be getting on with.”

THE END

Thank you for reading Ice Fortress. I hope you had as much fun reading the story as I did researching and writing it.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robert B. Williams is an award winning freelance journalist who has specialized in military technology, Formula 1 motor racing and finance writing for the past 20 years. He is also the bestselling author of over 15 novels written under a pen name.

Williams now writes full-time, pursuing a lifelong passion to write adventure stories that set a cracking pace from page one and keep the reader turning pages and guessing, right through to the unexpected ending.

Content

Robert B. Williams
Ice Fortress

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

ABOUT THE AUTHOR