Chapter 12 - Echoes on the Frozen Frequency
The name hit Mason’s chest like a physical blow.
Architect. Avery Sloan.
"Is the transponder pinging an automated Mayday or an active manual beacon?" Mason demanded, stepping toward the comms console.
Master Sergeant O'Connell turned to snap at the unranked specialist for speaking out of turn, but the fierce, razor-sharp focus in Mason’s gray eyes stopped him cold. There was no insolence in Mason's posture; there was only the unmistakable command instincts of an officer who knew exactly what was at stake.
"It’s an analog pulse," O'Connell reported, tapping the green radar sweep. "Modulated at seven-point-two megahertz. It isn't a flight recorder. Someone survived the impact and manually bypassed the blown transponder using a low-frequency radio relay."
Mason stepped closer to the phosphor screen, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm. He remembered the flooding waters of Miller's Creek in Texas. He remembered the calm, indestructible voice on his headset that had guided him through the torrent: The vehicle alternator produces a specific electromagnetic resonance... filter for micro-frequency interference.
"She’s pulsing an analog carrier wave," Mason said, pointing a grease-stained finger at the ragged sawtooth wave oscillating on the lower monitor. "She isn't just screaming for help. She’s broadcasting coordinates in binary bursts using the aircraft's surviving emergency battery. Give me the audio feed."
O'Connell flipped the toggle. Through the hiss of atmospheric static and polar geomagnetic howling, a rhythmic tapping filled the room: Dot-dot-dash... dash-dot-dot...
"Sector Juliet-Three," Mason translated aloud, his voice dropping into the steady, authoritative cadence he had forgotten he possessed. "She's down on the eastern ridge of the glacier tongue. If she’s in the ice wash, the storm winds will pack snow over the fuselage within two hours. If the snow covers the air intake vents, whoever is inside will suffocate on carbon monoxide before the cold gets them."
"The regular rescue bird from Thule main base is grounded," Diaz said grimly, looking out the snow-smeared viewport where the visibility was down to less than fifty feet. "The pilots say the crosswinds on the runway exceed sixty-five knots. Nothing with wings or rotors can launch until morning."
"Then we don't use wings," Mason said instantly, turning toward the vehicle bay. "Outpost Bravo has two heavy Hägglunds BV206 articulated all-terrain tracked transports in the motor pool. They distribute weight evenly over five square feet of track. They can crawl across snow bridges that would swallow a truck."
"Are you out of your mind, Kincaid?" O'Connell roared, rising from his chair. "Those tracks top out at twenty-five miles per hour! Driving into a Category 4 polar blizzard across an uncharted glacier field without air cover is a suicide run! Base regulations explicitly prohibit surface dispatch during a whiteout!"
"Then charge me under Article 92 when we get back," Mason snapped, grabbing his heavy insulated outer gear from the wall locker with violent efficiency. "Six months ago, Doctor Sloan stood between me and a dishonorable discharge because she believed there was a soldier buried under my arrogance. Right now, she’s freezing to death on a glacier because no one else has the guts to drive through a storm. I am taking Track One. If anyone wants to file a report with the Pentagon, make sure you spell my name right."
Diaz watched the young man zip his heavy balaclava and latch his thermal goggles. The veteran combat engineer slowly reached for his own heavy parka and caught his helmet off the peg.
"Hey, specialist," Diaz muttered, strapping on his survival knife. "You can't drive that twin-cab tracked beast and operate the sonar ground-penetrating radar at the same time. Move your ass. I’m driving."
May you like
Mason paused, catching the older engineer's gaze. A silent understanding passed between them—the unspoken bond of soldiers who knew that when human lives hung by a thread, the rulebook burned to ashes.
"Let's move," Mason said.
