The Antarctic Forgery

by Kevin Tumlinson

  That didn’t mean, however, that Edison hadn’t made reference to something at these coordinates. The Nazis might have found their way here using some of the same sources Edison used—perhaps even one of Edison’s own journals—and set up operations here after the fact.

  Now, having taken a peek at the U-boat's cargo, Kotler knew precisely what had drawn the Nazis here, even if he couldn't say for sure how they'd learned of it.

  The substance in those crates was perhaps one of the most dangerous materials on earth. It would have tipped the balance of power firmly to the Nazis if they had managed to work out how to use it. Kotler knew that Hitler had scientists and mythologists and anthropologists working on some extreme forms of empowerment, based on ancient legends and rumors of forgotten technology. It was chilling to see how close he'd come to success.

  Kotler surmised that Van Burren and McCarthy had tracked down this secret facility using one of Edison's journals. Finding the Nazi base here may or may not have come as a surprise but given Van Burren's history of being innovative and resourceful, the next steps seemed pretty evident. They had set up the base and the U-boat as a backup, just in case things went south—literally, in the case of having to flee to Antarctica. McCarthy had likely come along for the ride but had clearly influenced things with his involvement, even insisting on naming the sub Abigail, in an attempt to soften all of this, to humanize it and maybe delete the stain of Nazi presence here.

  McCarthy, from Kotler's knowledge of the man, hadn't really wanted any of this. Naming the sub after his granddaughter may have been his way of reminding himself why he was doing it. His family and their well-being had been his motivation all along.

  Kotler started inspecting the radio and found he could easily work with this more modern technology, which was much closer to what he was used to.

  That was a relief. Now, all he needed was for the sub's transmitter to be powerful enough to broadcast through a mountain buried under the ice and put him in touch with the outside world. Easy-peasy.

  Here’s hoping, he thought.

  He flipped the switch, delighted that it powered everything up, and then started scanning through the digital dial, hoping to hear a transmission from the outside world. Maybe someone from the nearby base, where Kotler, Denzel, and Vicente had picked up the Cat. He'd listen to and then break in on any transmissions he found, to improve his odds of being heard, but also to reduce the chances of inadvertently communicating with Gail's team. He wanted to keep them out of the loop for as long as possible.

  It didn’t take long to hear a transmission.

  "Mayday, mayday," a familiar voice called over the static—though it took a moment to register who it was.

  "This is Agent Roland Denzel of the FBI. My team and I are currently under attack from an enemy force. We need immediate backup and rescue. Does anyone read?" He followed this with their coordinates and the ID of the Cat.

  Kotler couldn't help himself. He grinned and then laughed aloud, relieved to hear his partner's voice, and even more relieved to learn they'd had mostly the same plan—to make contact with someone outside and bring in backup. Kotler looked around and spotted a radio microphone. He picked this up and spoke.

  “Roland,” he said, “this is Dan. I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear your voice!”

  "Kotler?" Denzel replied. "Damn, it's good to hear from you! Where are you? Did you and Vicente make it back to the Cat?"

  Kotler felt a pang at the mention of their guide. "No, I'm in the sub. Vicente … Vicente is dead. He was hit while we were under fire. I was afraid I'd lost you, too." He paused, shook his head, and continued. "McCarthy and Van Burren upgraded the communications equipment on this U-boat, among other things."

  "Anyway to fire up the sub and get out of there?" Denzel asked.

  Kotler huffed, and as he shook his head, he keyed the mic and replied, “It’s complicated. I’m not sure what I’m looking at just yet, but I’ll work on it.”

  He didn't want to reveal that he had no idea how to start or operate the sub, just in case Gail's team was listening in on this transmission. He wanted all information played close to the vest. Anything could potentially provide an advantage they might need to survive.

  “Roland, I think we should assume that any transmission is being monitored.”

  There was a pause. “Roger that,” Denzel replied.

  “Are you in a secure position?” Kotler asked.

  “Affirmative,” Denzel said. “For now. I’m running through the dial, trying to find anyone who can send help.”

  "Let's split that. We have fifty channels to scan. Let's split the spectrum. I'll start with fifty, you start with one, and we'll alternate back and forth with channel 25, to see if either of us has made contact."

  “Sounds like a plan,” Denzel agreed.

  Kotler again huffed, then nodded before switching his set to channel fifty and starting what would be a long series of mayday messages, in the hopes of reaching someone outside of the submarine docked in a secret Nazis base, buried under a mountain in the middle of Antarctica.

  No sweat.

  He also decided to let the weirdness of the situation be something he would concentrate on later.

  It was going to be a long night, and Kotler left his post just long enough to find some coffee and get a pot brewing in the galley. The grounds were vacuum sealed, and when he tore open one of the pre-measured packets, he nearly wept at the aroma.

  He might be trapped in an oversized steel coffin built by Nazis, but at least he had decent coffee.

  Chapter 18

  Blocking and locking the three remaining doors to the cargo area had been simple enough. Gail's team hadn't yet penetrated this far into the base, and so they weren't an immediate threat. Though by the time Denzel had blocked the last door, he was already hearing pounding on two of the others.

  He couldn’t count on those doors holding them off forever.

  He made his way to the communications room, upstairs from the cargo floor. It was built as an observation platform—a glassed-off room that overlooked everything in the cargo bay. The floor of the bay, beneath his feet, was steel with long, straight seams, almost like inverted rails.

  It took a moment to realize what that meant.

  The floor could open, splitting down the middle with two large segments sliding away to either side. Denzel checked the layout map and saw that this cavernous room was in a direct line from where the sub was docked. The underground river must run through here, allowing the sub, or another like it, to emerge to take on or unload cargo. The dock beyond would allow for multiple subs to use the base, with one U-boat on hand.

  Denzel decided this was useful information and filed it away for later. For now, he focused on getting into the control room.

  Out of every door he'd passed through since arriving at this base, the control room door was the least secure. It was closed but unlocked. Denzel sauntered in unchallenged.

  To his surprise, the room was filled with a combination of ancient and more modern equipment. Older radio gear had been moved aside, replaced by a radio set that looked like military issue, circa 1990. Digital displays and push-button controls, all dead as a doornail.

  As he inspected the rest of the room, he was shocked to find a laptop among the equipment here. It was definitely dated but had the markings and rugged casing of military-issue.

  It had to have been Van Burren and his people upgrading this place at some point. But why? What was here, in the middle of the Antarctic, that could possibly be worth all of this trouble?

  For that matter, what had drawn the Nazis here in the first place?

  It was a mystery that would have to wait for later.

  Denzel spent the next hour going through every crevice of the radio room, looking for anything he could use. There was no power, so none of the equipment was functional. That was disappointing, but not unexpected. He had hoped he might find some way to get everything up and running, and perhaps he st
ill could. After all, Van Burren’s people would have to run this equipment somehow.

  Of course, they could bring their own generators.

  Denzel decided to put a pin in that, in the hopes that there was an alternative he hadn't yet considered.

  As he rifled through drawers and cabinets, he stopped short and felt his heart start pounding. There, on one of the metal shelves of a storage cabinet, were four battery-powered flashlights. They were the metal Maglite models that had been standard issue for military and law enforcement for years, though these days most leaned towards more tactical versions. Still, these were a welcome sight, and Denzel prayed they were still functional.

  He picked one up and noted that it felt light. He felt his heart sink.

  He tried the others and got the same result. All four flashlights were missing their batteries.

  As he placed the last one back on the shelf, he noticed that on the shelf above him were some vacuum sealed boxes—the waterproof sort used to carry moisture-sensitive odds and ends. He reached up and pulled one of these down and opened it. Inside were dozens of D-cell batteries.

  He very nearly wept at the sight of them.

  One by one, Denzel loaded batteries into each flashlight, clicking them on to test them. He was relieved to see that everything was working. He opted to use one flashlight as a lamp, widening the beam to full and standing it on end, letting it shine and bounce light from the ceiling above. He tucked a second flashlight into his makeshift rucksack and left the other two in the cabinet. He knew where they were if he needed them.

  The light helped bolster both his mood and his productivity. It also illuminated, literally, a solution to his problem.

  One of the work surfaces, where the bulk of modern radio equipment was assembled, had a control panel dotted with hundreds of switches, each neatly labeled with what had to have been a modern thermal-print label maker.

  One switch was labeled MAIN POWER.

  It was an impressive switch, resembling the type used in aircraft, designated for "did you really mean to do that?" tasks such as dumping fuel or firing a missile. There was a switch guard that could be flipped up to allow access and a solid-looking toggle switch hidden below that.

  Denzel flipped up the switch guard, said a silent prayer, and pushed the switch to the ON position with a very satisfying click.

  Several things happened.

  From some distant corner, Denzel could hear a pulsing, buzzing sound, like an alarm. This repeated four times before there was the sound of a large motor starting. The hum from the motor went on for a moment, and then … light.

  Not only did every panel and instrument in the control room light up, but the overhead lights snapped on, as well as the larger lights hanging above the cargo bay floor. The whole world was filled with light. Denzel saw it, from his high perch, and it was good. God, it was good.

  He'd spent so much time in darkness at this point that the sudden brightness of the space made him sneeze. Upon recovering, he turned off the flashlight and put it back with the other two. It might still come in handy, and he wanted to preserve battery life as long as possible. He briefly considered removing all the batteries and placing them back into storage but decided that could wait. If he found himself stuck here for weeks …

  He chose not to give any thought to that.

  Now that he had power and light, things moved quickly. He found the radio, and turned it on, listening to the static and pop of an empty frequency. He picked up the mic and was about to call out, to see if anyone was around who could send help.

  He paused.

  What if Gail McCarthy’s team was listening, on the other side of this thing?

  He weighed the risk of this in his mind and decided there was nothing to be done for it. If her team had ears on whatever frequency he used, they could potentially use misinformation, or otherwise just listen in to track his progress. But if he didn't transmit, he and Kotler and Vicente might be trapped here for good. This was the only way.

  He started calling mayday, channel by channel, punching the button to move up the dial one frequency at a time.

  There were some moments when he thought he might have made contact. There were pops and clicks and whines that might have been distant radio chatter coming through. Denzel lingered on these for a time, repeating his call and hoping someone would hear it and send help.

  This went on for the better part of two hours, with no real luck.

  And then, a familiar voice.

  "Roland, this is Dan. I can't tell you how happy I am to hear your voice!"

  "Kotler?" Denzel replied, blinking. "Damn, it's good to hear you, too! Where are you? Did you and Vicente make it back to the Cat?"

  Kotler broke the news about Vicente, and about his current predicament. It seemed they had both latched on to the same idea, to find a way to call for help. Denzel was relieved to hear that Kotler was alright, but he worried that their transmissions might go no further than this facility.

  Kotler's plan to tag-team, each scanning for transmissions in their own band of frequencies, was a good one. Denzel kicked himself for not thinking to merely listen through the dial, to break into a conversation if he heard one, to keep Gail's people from learning anything. It made sense, and it should have been the first thing he thought of himself.

  It was done, though. All he could do now was get back to it. He and Kotler signed off, agreeing to check back to channel 25 periodically to see if either of them made any progress.

  Denzel took a moment to reflect on the loss of Vicente, saying a silent little prayer for the man. He hadn't known him well, but he'd been a good guy—someone Denzel could respect. Crazy, in some ways, but solid and capable. When this was over, Denzel would make sure that Vicente's family knew exactly how brave and courageous and honorable the man was.

  First, he had to get himself and Kotler out of this alive.

  He had already covered much of the spectrum for radio chatter, between channels 1 and 25, so it didn't take long to get to the middle of the dial. He opted to leave it tuned there, and to turn up the volume so he could hear Kotler call if he found anything. Denzel intended to go through the rest of the dial at any rate, eventually. It was possible his transmitter was more powerful than the one in the sub, and it would be a good double check.

  He stepped away from the radio and started pilfering through shelves and drawers once again, hoping to find something to eat. It had been a while, and the MREs they'd discovered in storage had all ended up in the sub, with Kotler. Denzel searched but found nothing. That might be a problem if they found themselves here long term.

  He'd have to deal with it later. For now, he needed to catalog the resources he did have.

  He moved to one of the larger cabinets on the far wall of the room, opening it and then standing back, slack-jawed.

  Inside was a row of automatic rifles. Below these were six ammo boxes, lined side by side. That was discovery enough, but it was the grenades that really got his heart pumping. That, and the tactical vest.

  It wasn't bulletproof, but it did have pockets galore. Denzel shed his rucksack and the Nazi military coat and pulled on the vest. As he clipped the buckles and adjusted the straps, he felt comforted, almost empowered, by the snug fit. This was much more his speed.

  Among the automatic rifles, on a shelf above, he found a gun case containing a Glock .45 ACP. There were two clips in the case, both loaded with ten rounds each. Denzel popped one into the pistol, chambered a round, and put the second clip in a small pocket on the vest, within easy and quick reach. He slid the gun into the holster attached to the side of the vest.

  "Now we're talkin'," he said, all confidence.

  He still had the Luger and the ammunition for it. He decided it could be a decent backup, and so he stowed it in a large pocket on the vest, held closed by Velcro. He included some of the ammunition he'd picked up for it, just in case.

  The thing was practically a pea shooter, but it had been his lifeline for a
while now. Maybe it would be a good luck charm.

  He now reached for one of the rifles, hefting it and feeling very good about his day.

  The weapon was a Bushmaster M4, just like the rifle he'd been issued during his tour in Afghanistan. Modeled on the AR-15, the M4 had a flash suppressor, known as an "Izzy," which made it handy for infiltrations, though it did lengthen the barrel somewhat. It was a smart and dependable weapon, and one Denzel was very familiar with. He gripped it like it was the hand of an old friend.

  In the ammo boxes, he found dozens of loaded magazines. He pushed one into the M4 and shoved four more into pockets on the tactical vest.

  Thinking about it for a moment, he went ahead and loaded the rest of the rifles. He then took each and placed them in various hidden tactical points around the room.

  The rest of the contents of his makeshift rucksack—mostly the floorplan of the base and the map of Antarctica—he shoved into the water-tight zippered pocket just inside the vest. This was meant to keep documents like maps or notes dry, in case one found himself sloshing through rivers and streams or navigating the muck of a muddy paddock. There was little danger of Denzel ending up in the water here. Unless he decided to open the floor and go for another swim.

  He shivered just thinking about it.

  Glancing down at the cargo floor, he decided to take a couple and stash them down there as well, just in case.

  He eyed the radio as he stood in the doorway. There hadn't been a peep from Kotler yet, and Denzel worried he might miss a call if he left the room. He compromised by turning the volume up to full and propping the door open as he bounced down the stairs with rifles slung over his shoulders and one at the ready.

  Now that he was out of the room, he could once again hear pounding and other noises coming from the doors. Gail’s crew was working hard to get into this place, and it would only be a matter of time before they managed it.

  Denzel stopped in the middle of the floor, his feet straddling the large seam in the steel, and turned slowly. He saw several spots that would make good cover if he needed to hunker down. He went to these, one by one, and hid three rifles total. Keeping his own rifle with him would be the rule, but if he found himself in a bad spot, he could make a break for any of these points and hold that position for a good while.