Free Beneath the Ice by Alton Gansky Page A

“Not a one. They all looked
eager to get back to the home fires, snuggle with their wives, and
play with their kids.”
    “You’re just trying to bring a tear to me
eye,” Jack said with a wink.
    “And then there were eight,” Larimore said.
“Our number has been cut by more than half.”
    “They did their jobs,” Perry said. “Your
Seabees broke a sweat even down here.”
    “They’re good men,” Larimore said. “Every
last one of them.”
    Perry watched the large plane taxi away and
then turn toward the wind. This had been part of the plan.
Resources had been allotted for the work crew, but only for a few
days, just long enough to set up the chamber, move cargo, help with
equipment, and unload the three aircraft that delivered crew and
freight. After that, the men weren’t needed; everything that
remained could be done by the remaining eight. Fewer people meant
fewer resources spent providing food and water and better use of
the shelter. It also meant increased security and preserved
secrecy.
    Perry gave a brief wave even though the
aircraft was now too far away for anyone on board to see. Still,
the gesture made him feel better. He glanced at the seven others
around him. Even Griffin James had come out to say farewell. It was
a gesture borne not of civility but of shared understanding that
leaving was just as dangerous as arriving.
    The roar of the engines filled the frigid
air and soon the plane was sprinting along the ice. Several long
moments later it lifted into the air, its nose pointed at the
cobalt sky.
    “ How’s it feel to be the only military man this far south?”
Griffin asked. “You have no underlings to
order about.”
    Perry watched Larimore
turn to face Griffin and prepared himself
for more verbal fireworks. The passing days had done nothing to
alleviate the stress that had been sparked the moment the two
met.
    “There are always underlings, Dr. James,”
Larimore replied. “Always.”
    “Don’t look at me, Commander,” Griffin shot
back. “I’m no one’s inferior.”
    “Shut up,” Gwen snapped at her brother.
“That was uncalled for. You’re even starting to get on my
nerves.”
    Larimore shifted his eyes from Griffin to
Gwen. He nodded politely. “It’s my turn to cook,” he said and began
to walk away, then stopped. “Hey, Griffy, what kinda poison do you
want in your stew?”
    Perry shook his head. They needed Larimore
because he was the on-site military liaison. Since the Pentagon had
funded the project, they wanted someone on the scene who could give
direct, eyewitness reports. For a moment, despite his admiration
for Larimore, Perry began to wish the commander had been on the
plane.
    “My shift’s over,” Jack said. “I’ll help
peel potatoes.”
    Perry turned to Gleason. “Let’s finish the
electrical hookup.”
    “Right,” Gleason replied. “Sarah wants to do
a sensor check as soon as possible. If things go well, we can start
descent a little after dinner. If you’re ready, I mean.”
    “I’m more than ready,” Perry replied,
slapping Gleason on the shoulder. “My curiosity is killing me—”
    The ice shuddered.
    A second later a boom rolled over the
camp.
    Perry spun. It was a
sensation he had felt before. Henry Sachs had taken Perry, then
just twelve years old, to San Diego. Henry was there for meetings,
but he saw it as an opportunity for father-son bonding. Perry
waited by the hotel pool for his father to return from a meeting at
the Naval Training Center in the heart of San Diego. As Perry
hovered just above sleep, the lounge chair he sat in moved with a jolt. His first thought was
earthquake, but nothing followed. Others around the pool murmured
and looked around in bewilderment. Then Perry saw it: a short
distance away, a rising plume of dense, obsidian black
smoke.
    His father arrived at the hotel an hour
later than expected, and he brought with him the horrific story of
a Boeing B-727 that had crashed not far away. That September day
was