Read Online The Atlantis Legacy - A01-A02 by Thomas Greanias - Free Book Online

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 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-130 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 dangledweightlessly from their weblike seats. The tie-downs 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