Read Online Raising Atlantis by Thomas Greanias - Free Book Online Page A

Lundstrom pointing a shiny Glock 9 mm automatic pistol at his head. Conrad recognized it as his own, which he was relieved of upon boarding the chopper back in Peru. “Get your ass back in your seat, Doctor Conrad.”
    “I’m in my seat.” Conrad flicked on the radio switch. A low hum crackled. “You can’t kill me. You need me, Lundstrom.
    God knows why, but you do. And you better put my gun away.
    It’s been known to go off accidentally. If this ride gets any bumpier you might miss my head and put a hole through the windshield.”
    Lundstrom looked outside at the raging skies. “Damn you, Conrad.”
    Conrad leaned over the radio microphone, aware of the barrel of the pistol wavering behind his head as he adjusted the frequency. “What’s our call sign and frequency?”
    Lundstrom hesitated. Then a huge jolt almost ejected him out of his seat. Lundstrom lowered the pistol as the turbulence rocked the cockpit. “We’re six-nine-six, Conrad,”
    Lundstrom shouted, reaching over to adjust the frequency.
    Conrad clicked on the radio microphone. “This is six-nine-sixer. Requesting emergency assistance.”
    There was no response.
    “This is six-nine-sixer,” Conrad repeated. “Requesting emergency assistance.”
    Again, no response.
    “Look!” shouted the navigator. “Ice Base Orion.”
    “Ice Base Orion?” Conrad repeated.
    The mist parted for a moment, opening a window onto the wasteland below. A panorama of mountains poked up out of the ice, filling the entire horizon as far as Conrad could see.
    The flanks of jagged peaks dribbled whipped-cream snow into the bottom of a great valley marked by a black crescent-shaped crack in the ice. Perched on the concave side of the crack was a human settlement of domes, sheds, and towers. Conrad saw it flash by before they were swallowed up by the mist again.
    “This is it?” Conrad asked.
    Lundstrom nodded. “If only we can find the strip.”
    “The strip?” asked Conrad when a thunderous bolt of turbulence almost knocked him out of his chair. If he hadn’t strapped himself in, he realized, his head would now be part of the instrument panel.
    “The runway,” Lundstrom explained. “Bulldozed out of the ice.”
    “We’re making a white-on-white approach?” Conrad stared at the swirling snow outside the flight deck windshield.
    Strobe lights and boundary flares were useless against the glare of a whiteout. With the sky overcast, there were no shadows and no horizons. And flying over a uniformly white surface makes it impossible to judge height or distance. Even birds crash into the snow. “You guys are borderline lunatic.”
    The radio crackled.
    “Six-nine-sixer, this is Tower.” A gruff, monotone voice came in. “Repeat. This is Tower calling six-nine-sixer.”
    “This is six-nine-sixer,” said Lundstrom, grabbing the microphone. “Go ahead, Tower.”
    The controller on the other end said, “Winds fifteen cross and gusting to forty knots, visibility zero-zero.”
    Conrad could tell Lundstrom was doing the math, wondering whether to go for it or go into holding and pray for a miracle.
    “Winds shifting to dead cross, gusting to sixty knots, sir,” shouted the navigator.
    Conrad grabbed the microphone back. “Trying to land this tin crate on a giant ice cube is suicide and you know it.”
    “Search-and-rescue teams standing by,” the controller said. “Over.”
    Conrad looked hard into the mist as Lundstrom brought them in. Visibility was nil in the fog and blowing snow.
    Suddenly the curtain parted again and a row of black steel drums appeared on approach dead ahead. The strip itself was marked in Day-Glo signboards.
    “We’re coming in too low,” he said.
    “Commence letdown,” Lundstrom ordered.
    The copilot gently throttled back, working to keep the props in sync.
    The radio popped. “Begin your final descent at the word
    ‘now,’ ” the controller instructed.
    “Copy.”
    “You are right on the glide slope.”
    “Copy,” said