Polar Quest. Tom Grace

MARCH 12 Langley, Virginia

       37 MARCH 14 New York City

       38 Ann Arbor, Michigan

       39

       40

       41 MARCH 16 New York

       42 MARCH 17 Bridgewater, New Jersey 12:30 AM

       43

       44

       45 MARCH 17 3:45 AM New York City

       46 MARCH 17 6:20 AM Bridgewater, New Jersey

       47 MARCH 17 9:00 PM Ann Arbor, Michigan

       48 MARCH 18

       49

       50 MARCH 19 Paris

       51 MARCH 20 Evry, France

       52 Paris

       53 MARCH 21 Paris

       54 MARCH 22 Paris

       55 Evry, France

       56

       57

       58

       59

       60

       61

       62

       63

       64

       65 Paris

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       By the same author

       About the Publisher

       1 JANUARY 22 Tucson, Arizona

      The Ice Queen – a sexy Nordic blonde with pouty lips and ice blue eyes – gazed down at Kuhn. Her lusty smile and the mink bikini that barely contained her physical charms were warm reminders of his past. Like a Vargas pinup girl, she sat atop a globe that displayed her frozen domain: Antarctica.

      Kuhn ran his hand over the aircraft’s smooth aluminum skin, paying his respects. The patches on Kuhn’s weathered aviator jacket matched those on the aircraft: US NAVY VXE-6 SQUADRON. Beneath the side cockpit window, just above the rendered image of the Ice Queen, stenciled letters read:

      CDR GREGORY KUHN

       COMMANDING OFFICER

      For almost a quarter century, Kuhn had piloted XD-10, the Ice Queen. She was a Lockheed LC-130R, a variant of the venerable C-130 Hercules transport equipped with skis mounted to her fuselage so she could land on ice.

      As ungainly as she looked, the Hercules could actually fly and was designed to do one thing: lift heavy loads. Except for the cockpit, the fuselage of the Ice Queen was a cavern of empty space big enough to accommodate several large trucks. Ninety-eight feet in length, she sat low to the ground, like a cylindrical railroad car with a ramp in her tapered tail that folded down like a drawbridge. Her wings spanned 132 feet, and the Ice Queen used every inch of her lifting surface and every ounce of power from the four Allison T56 prop engines to propel her into the sky.

      The Ice Queen and her sisters once formed the backbone of the VXE-6 Squadron. Since the mid-fifties, the squadron had fulfilled the mission objectives of the ongoing Operation Deep Freeze, providing logistical support to research stations in the Antarctic. It was a tough job that earned the unit the unofficial nickname Ice Pirates. VXE-6 had owned the skies over the frozen southern continent until the end of the 1999 season, when the squadron returned to its home base at Point Mugu Naval Air Station and was disestablished.

      Like many veterans of VXE-6, Kuhn felt anger and a sense of loss when the squadron was phased out, its planes mothballed and its mission reassigned to a National Guard air wing. He’d flown over Antarctica for twenty-four years and had fallen in love with the icy untamed wilderness.

      In the years since, the Ice Queen sat tightly wrapped in a plastic cocoon in the high desert air of Arizona.She was one of the hundreds of military and commercial aircraft that sat row upon row in the Boneyard, as the Aircraft Storage and Reclamation Facility was known.

      ‘The old bitch looks pretty good, eh, Greg?’

      Kuhn turned as Len Holland walked up.

      ‘Is that any way to talk about a lady?’ Kuhn asked.

      Holland shook Kuhn’s hand, then looked over at the Ice Queen. ‘Hard to believe our planes have been sitting in the desert all these years.’

      ‘No different than the day we left them here.’ Kuhn nodded down the flight line at another LC-130R. ‘Polar Pete came out of hibernation just fine, too. Where’s the rest of the guys?’

      ‘Right behind me.’

      Ten men emerged from the flight operations building, all sporting aviator jackets similar to Kuhn’s. Each plane flew with a crew of six men – a pilot, a copilot, a navigator, a flight engineer, and two cargo handlers. Escorting the flight crews was a man in a button-down shirt with a bolo tie and a clipboard.

      ‘Commander Kuhn,’ the escort said warmly. ‘I’m Jim Evers, the manager here at ASRF.’ Evers pronounced the facility acronym ay-surf. ‘Both XD-10 and XD-11 have been checked out, and all systems are flight ready.’

      Kuhn pulled a thick envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to Evers. ‘Here’s our flight plan for this short hop to Waco.’

      Evers pocketed the envelope. ‘Your planes are fueled, so once you finish your preflight you can get out of here.’

      ‘Thanks.’ As Evers walked away, Kuhn turned to the two flight crews. ‘You guys know the drill. Let’s get these old