Read Online Raising Atlantis by Thomas Greanias - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas Greanias
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Lundstrom when a nerve-wracking dip shook the plane from front to back. Conrad tightened the straps of his seat harness and held his breath.
“You are now below the glide slope,” the controller warned. “Decrease your rate of descent and steer two degrees left.”
“Copy.” Lundstrom gently tugged the steering column and Conrad could feel the C-141 level off.
“You are now back on the glide slope,” the controller said. “Coming right down the pike at two miles to touchdown…”
Conrad could still see nothing out the windshield but a white wall.
“…right on at one mile to touchdown…
“…right on at one-half mile…
“…one-quarter mile…
“…touchdown.”
Conrad and Lundstrom stared at each other. They were still floating.
“Tower?” repeated Lundstrom.
An eternity of silence followed, then a slamming crunch.
The commandos toppled like dominos over one another and then dangled weightlessly from their web-like seats. The tiedowns in the rear snapped apart and the cargo shifted forward.
Conrad heard the crack and looked back to see several metal containers fly through the main cabin toward the cockpit. He ducked as something whizzed past his ear and struck Lundstrom in the head, driving the pilot’s skull into the controls.
Conrad reached for the steering column just as the ice pack smashed through the windshield and everything collapsed into darkness.
6
Discovery
Plus Twenty-Three Days,
Seven Hours
IT WAS THE BLEEPING SOUNDof the C-141’s homing beacon that finally brought Conrad back to consciousness. He blinked his eyes open to a flurry of snow. Slowly the picture came into focus. Through the broken fuselage he could see pieces of the transport scattered across the ice sheet.
He glanced at Lundstrom. The pilot’s eyes were frozen open in terror, his mouth gaping in a fixed scream. Then Conrad saw a metal shard protruding from Lundstrom’s skull.
He must have died on impact.
Conrad swallowed hard and gasped for breath. The Antarctic air seemed to rush inside and freeze his lungs. He felt punchy, light-headed. This is no good, he told himself, no good at all. His internal, core temperature was dropping.
Hypothermia was setting in. Soon he’d lose consciousness and his heart would stop unless he took action.
He fumbled for his seat buckle, but his fingers wouldn’t move. He glanced down. His right hand was frozen to the seat.
His fingertips were white with frostbite. He knew that meant the blood vessels had contracted and the tissue was slowly dying.
Conrad surveyed the cockpit, trying not to panic. Using his numb but gloved left hand, he grasped a thermos from behind Lundstrom’s corpse. He worked it until the top popped open. Then he poured the hot coffee over his right hand, watching a cloud of steam rise over his sizzling hand as he peeled it away from the chair. He looked at his seared palm.
It was bloody red and blistered, but he was too numb with cold to feel any pain.
He dragged himself over to the copilot and put an ear to his lips. He was breathing, just barely. So was the navigator. Conrad could hear a few low groans from the commandos in back.
Conrad reached for the transmitter. “This is six-nine-sixer,” Conrad said breathlessly, leaning over the microphone. “Requesting emergency assistance.”
There was no answer. He adjusted the frequency.
“This is six-nine-sixer, you bastards,” he repeated.
But no matter which frequency he dialed, he was unable to break through. After several minutes of empty hissing, the transmitter finally went dead.
Nobody could hear him, he realized.
Conrad worked his way through the cockpit debris, searching for a backup radio. But he couldn’t find one.
Surely they had to have a beacon, an EPIRB signal at the least. But perhaps Lundstrom and his team didn’t want to be found in a case like this.
The only thing he discovered was a single flare, and that from his own pack. A lot of good it would do him.
What a
“You are now below the glide slope,” the controller warned. “Decrease your rate of descent and steer two degrees left.”
“Copy.” Lundstrom gently tugged the steering column and Conrad could feel the C-141 level off.
“You are now back on the glide slope,” the controller said. “Coming right down the pike at two miles to touchdown…”
Conrad could still see nothing out the windshield but a white wall.
“…right on at one mile to touchdown…
“…right on at one-half mile…
“…one-quarter mile…
“…touchdown.”
Conrad and Lundstrom stared at each other. They were still floating.
“Tower?” repeated Lundstrom.
An eternity of silence followed, then a slamming crunch.
The commandos toppled like dominos over one another and then dangled weightlessly from their web-like seats. The tiedowns in the rear snapped apart and the cargo shifted forward.
Conrad heard the crack and looked back to see several metal containers fly through the main cabin toward the cockpit. He ducked as something whizzed past his ear and struck Lundstrom in the head, driving the pilot’s skull into the controls.
Conrad reached for the steering column just as the ice pack smashed through the windshield and everything collapsed into darkness.
6
Discovery
Plus Twenty-Three Days,
Seven Hours
IT WAS THE BLEEPING SOUNDof the C-141’s homing beacon that finally brought Conrad back to consciousness. He blinked his eyes open to a flurry of snow. Slowly the picture came into focus. Through the broken fuselage he could see pieces of the transport scattered across the ice sheet.
He glanced at Lundstrom. The pilot’s eyes were frozen open in terror, his mouth gaping in a fixed scream. Then Conrad saw a metal shard protruding from Lundstrom’s skull.
He must have died on impact.
Conrad swallowed hard and gasped for breath. The Antarctic air seemed to rush inside and freeze his lungs. He felt punchy, light-headed. This is no good, he told himself, no good at all. His internal, core temperature was dropping.
Hypothermia was setting in. Soon he’d lose consciousness and his heart would stop unless he took action.
He fumbled for his seat buckle, but his fingers wouldn’t move. He glanced down. His right hand was frozen to the seat.
His fingertips were white with frostbite. He knew that meant the blood vessels had contracted and the tissue was slowly dying.
Conrad surveyed the cockpit, trying not to panic. Using his numb but gloved left hand, he grasped a thermos from behind Lundstrom’s corpse. He worked it until the top popped open. Then he poured the hot coffee over his right hand, watching a cloud of steam rise over his sizzling hand as he peeled it away from the chair. He looked at his seared palm.
It was bloody red and blistered, but he was too numb with cold to feel any pain.
He dragged himself over to the copilot and put an ear to his lips. He was breathing, just barely. So was the navigator. Conrad could hear a few low groans from the commandos in back.
Conrad reached for the transmitter. “This is six-nine-sixer,” Conrad said breathlessly, leaning over the microphone. “Requesting emergency assistance.”
There was no answer. He adjusted the frequency.
“This is six-nine-sixer, you bastards,” he repeated.
But no matter which frequency he dialed, he was unable to break through. After several minutes of empty hissing, the transmitter finally went dead.
Nobody could hear him, he realized.
Conrad worked his way through the cockpit debris, searching for a backup radio. But he couldn’t find one.
Surely they had to have a beacon, an EPIRB signal at the least. But perhaps Lundstrom and his team didn’t want to be found in a case like this.
The only thing he discovered was a single flare, and that from his own pack. A lot of good it would do him.
What a
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