by Jack Dey
Dysart was just about to launch into another chapter of impassioned thought on the childishness of supposed adult soldiers playing with their military toys, when a loud clank...! interrupted her mental diatribe and echoed tyrannically into the foyer.
The time lock had finally expired.
“It’s about time!” she sighed, not requiring a reply from her escorts.
An alarm sounded, interrupting her moan, forcing her to stare in surprise at the guard on her right. “Now what...?!”
He stepped forward and inserted a security card into a slot in the door, thus fully disarming the automatic lock function with a clunk and silencing the alarm. If an authorised card was not inserted within a short, set time, the door would not fully unlock and the time lock would once again reset, preventing entry into the impenetrable safe for another twenty four hours. Both escorts pulled on the heavy sixty centimetre thick obstacle, slowly drawing the large door aside and making entry into the repository possible. One soldier escorted Dysart into the crypt-like structure while the other stood across the doorway, his firearm drawn in a threatening pose with the safety disengaged.
Dysart followed her escort and walked down a voluminous hall, past many similar doors to the one she had just come through. The room appeared cool inside, obviously the contents protected by some form of air conditioning. Finally, they stopped outside one of the many identical doors along the passage and the soldier inserted his card again into the door’s slot, followed by another loud clank as the door gave way under the security confirmation. The soldier pulled the enormous door open and then checked a manifest he had removed from a pocket. He led Dysart into the dimly lit vault with rows of smaller, automated doors guarding classified files. Finding what he was looking for, he inserted the security card once again and a small door opened. The escort pushed the door fully ajar, giving access to a small, but solid chamber beyond and then stood aside for Dysart to retrieve the file.
She fidgeted gathering the document and almost dropped it in her excitement as she retrieved it. Once she had the information, she stepped aside for the soldier to lock up the small safe deposit box and then casually peered up at the ceiling of the fortified room. As she did, an insignificant red light blinked from a small dome mounted on the concrete roof, alerting her to the fact someone was watching every move. Nervously, she turned the file over in her hands. It was sealed with a thick, official wax emblem across the flap and had classified stamped across the front.
In a bizarre reversal of the entry procedure, the two soldiers saluted the secretive tomb, assuring an unseen authority figure that the maze-like crypt of Fort Knox had been secured according to strict military protocol.
Dysart once again felt the warm sunshine of the Kentucky afternoon full on her back as she was escorted to the security building. She had spent so much time during the morning, frustrated by the efforts of military security, trying to establish that she had a legitimate, bureaucratic right to the information. Now she wondered what other red tape they had devised to delay her mission. Upon entering the security building, the escorts left her side and were relieved from their duty. She handed the sealed file to the security liaison officer while he scrutinised the document pouch and checked it against a computer screen, deliberately turned away so Dysart couldn’t see it. The liaison officer grabbed up a desk phone and dialled a number and spoke softly into the receiver.
Dysart heard the man whisper, “Yes, sir,” then return the phone to its cradle.
A sharp envelope knife made quick work of destroying the seal across the file and the contents were emptied and quickly studied. The officer was apparently satisfied and stamped a new file with declassified across its front, then inserted the documents into their new home.
The officer glanced up Dysart as his temperament suddenly turned from stern and imposing, to sickly sweet. “Here’s your file, Miss Dysart, but I can assure you that there is little to interest congress. They have already seen the contents before. Have a pleasant flight back to D.C. – oh, and happy birthday for tomorrow.” A condescending smile stretched across the man’s face.
The deliberate disclosure of her personal information and her intentions revealed the military security had done a thorough study of her. Through her bureaucratic position in the government, she had seen firsthand the results of imposing military security checks, and had laughed along with her colleagues at the embarrassing revelations associated with the report on the people who had been victim to the prying process. They certainly were more invasive than name, rank and serial number. She swallowed hard and glared at the military man, wondering how much of her indiscriminate past he now knew. It was obvious by his behaviour, however, that he hadn’t uncovered her secret and with a smug snatch, she reefed the file from the officer’s hand and headed for the door, feeling his stare following her.
The journey back to the airport was a mixture of euphoria and perceived invasion of her privacy. The thrill of attaining once-classified documents had come at a personal price and she was feeling violated, but still convinced her somewhat mottled past was intact.
As she took her seat on a flight back to D.C., it took a while for Dysart to regain her composure, knowing the security officer, a stranger, would probably have a good picture of her life by now. It certainly was a belittling experience being on the receiving end of official government prying. She pushed the feelings of intrusion from her mind and tried to concentrate on the document in front of her.
Somewhere, buried in the unassuming file, lay the secret key to her powerful future and no one would dare pry into her personal life again.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 21
Annette Dysart balanced a bag of hot Chinese food and her briefcase in one hand, while she tried to locate and extricate her apartment keys from her shoulder bag with the other. Finding the troublesome conglomerate, she fidgeted one-handed with individual keys until the correct half-barrel shaped metal device finally settled in between her thumb and forefinger. Balancing her load, she awkwardly pointed the key at the top lock, found the latch opening and released the tumbler with a twist of her hand then repeated the process for the bottom lock. Turning the door knob, she pushed open the door to her apartment, flicked on a light switch and then dropped her load on a nearby table. Kicking off her shoes, she turned to face the open door, threw it shut and then relocked it.
She sighed loudly; finally, she could relax. It had been a long day flying to Kentucky and back, then the runaround by military security and the unpleasant memory of being thoroughly checked out by the security officer made her frown.
The soft dancing lights of Manhattan beckoned her onto her seventeenth floor balcony to enjoy the city light spectacular, a sight she never tired of. She was a career girl and at thirty, success had danced to her tune but she had had to fight tooth and nail to get to where she was, and there was definitely no place for a man in her life just yet to complicate things. With her birthday looming in hours, she felt pensive and a slight stab of remorse at being alone on her special day. She silently chided herself: that’s the price of success and she just needed to get over it.
The warm city-night air caressed the hard lines on her face, a side effect of being an ambitious and young, high profile senator, clawing her way to the top. The journey had left many rivals bruised and bloodied in her wake, with her stilettoed shoe prints embedded in their skulls as she’d walked over them and kicked them off her ladder to the top.
The smell of hot Chinese food drifted from her apartment to meet her as she peered out at the night and it reminded her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Her stomach began to respond to the aroma and she quickly retraced her steps, relishing the thought of the refreshing meal.
As she reached for the brown paper bag, she noticed a red digital number twelve blinking on her home phone answering machine. She sighed again and reached for her ever-present mobile phone. Checking the screen, she noticed the device had shut down from a discharged ba
ttery. If her staff couldn’t reach her during the day, then they would bombard her home phone, leaving her impassioned messages and demanding decisions be made on pressing issues.
She hit the play button and turned up the volume while she emptied the food onto a plate, grabbed up a fork from the pile of dishes on the sink and headed for a chair on her balcony. She listened intently, forking food into her mouth and staring absentmindedly out at the twinkling lights of the city. The machine voice echoed out onto the balcony and went through each message, as each person identified themselves and the ensuing emergency they were facing. So far she wasn’t impressed by the long line of enquirers and their petty requests, until the final message grabbed her attention, almost choking her as she tried to swallow and breathe at the same time.
She jumped to her feet, returning to the answering machine, wondering whether she had heard correctly. Nervously she dropped the plate containing the half eaten meal onto her kitchen table with a hollow, porcelain clatter then selected the last message again and hit the play button.
“Annette, it’s Parlo. Call me as soon as you can.”
*~*~*~*
The lumbering Hercules C-130 made a sharp banking turn in the dark foggy approach to the makeshift airstrip of the National Science Foundation’s Summit Camp experimental facility, located in the isolated highlands of Central Greenland. When the fog lifted, the moonlight of the dark, late autumn day allowed a glimpse at the far frozen horizons in all directions. The barren landscape made it difficult to tell the difference between land and sky in the flat, snowy geography.
It was unusual to have visitors this close to the dead winter months, and even more unusual for a C-130 to make the journey during the unpredictable and dangerous weather leading up to the dark, Greenlandic winter. The current ambient temperature at 3,200 metres above sea level was verging on a balmy minus thirty-five degrees Celsius and the winds were calm, an unusual weather event on an unusually warm, late autumn day.
The C-130 made a low passover, allowing the pilot to orient himself with the flares burning along the length of the dark, snow-covered airstrip, marking out the intended landing position. It was imperative to get onto the ground, unload the cargo and get airborne again before the wind came up and the temperature plummeted to minus sixty, freezing the engines and stranding them where they stood, closing off their escape route until the relative calm and warmth of summer still many months away.
The aircraft banked again, lining itself up for a final approach and lowered the landing gear. As the cavernous C-130 came in closer to the ground, the wing lights illuminated the sleds surrounding the wheels and they could be clearly seen. The sleds allowed the hulking machine to glide on top of the snow, instead of burying its wheels and cartwheeling uncontrollably into a death roll. Even with the sleds, it was a perilous situation demanding the highest level of skill and minute orchestration of the controls from the air force pilot. One mistimed move would end in disaster.
Dale Koenig, a respected solar scientist, peered out of a tiny cargohold window at the clouded lights of the summit station, throwing an eerie glow in the dark, foggy conditions. It was a risky situation to visit the station so close to winter and even a bigger risk to try and land a C-130 in this isolated place. He tensed himself as the pilot prepared the aircraft for landing and felt the engines throttle back, followed by a bump as the aircraft made contact with the snow, jostling and scraping noisily along the makeshift runway. Then the four powerful engines roared with reverse thrust as the machine tried desperately to slow down on the icy surface.
Before long, the tail door opened and a biting chill entered the stationary aircraft. Personnel were donning extra clothing and Koenig followed their example, pilling on three extra layers in an attempt to fend off the extreme cold.
In this environment, an improperly dressed man could freeze and die in minutes.
As Koenig exited the aircraft, he was met by the station manager, Willy Jantz. Icicles were hanging from his eyelashes and settling on his balaclava while clouds of humidity formed from his breath and hung in the frozen air around him. It wasn’t long before Koenig had been ushered away from the aircraft on the back of a snowmobile and delivered into the big house, a short distance away, the building where all business activities took place at the remote experimental outpost.
After entering the warmth of the station structure, both men brushed off forming icicles then Koenig and Jantz stripped off four layers of clothing, leaving a further two layers to make it comfortable inside the big house. Koenig glanced at a thermometer screwed to the inside wall and read ten degrees Celsius, still cold, but warm enough to function normally.
Jantz’s welcome was interrupted by the roar of the C-130’s engines, the roar gradually dying away as the aircraft safely gained altitude and disappeared over the horizon.
“Your equipment has been taken across to the maintenance shed, Doctor Koenig,” Jantz assured.
Koenig nodded and under Jantz’s direction, found his way into the kitchen of the big house and a steaming hot cup of coffee. Koenig heard another member of the staff talking to the pilot of the C-130 via radio from another room in the building and confirmed they had made a successful escape from the summit station.
Finally Koenig was settling in; the ordeal with the flight was behind him and everything had gone to plan. He tried to appear nonchalant in his attitude and then asked Jantz the question he had been longing to ask since he had heard about the incredible happenings here.
“Tell me about what you have seen, Mr Jantz.”
Jantz pulled out a chair opposite Koenig, folded his lanky frame into it and then ran his hands through his thick, black beard. His eyes met Koenig’s then he looked away, wondering how the respected scientist would react to his story. He breathed in noisily, held it for a few seconds and released it again, seemingly finding courage in his procrastination.
“Well, whatever it is seems to start around 4am. The aurora borealis flashes across the morning sky in waves of greens and reds.”
Koenig was staring at Jantz, waiting for something unusual other than normal light displays caused by solar winds from the sun, and the impatience was showing on his face. Had he risked his life landing at the station just to hear a description of normal phenomena?
Jantz stuttered, trying to bring himself to describe what they had all seen and heard. “Th..then soon after that, the sky explodes from horizon to horizon in violent emerald flashes and hues, accompanied by a screeching that hurts your ears and disrupts all the instruments we have running at the time. It goes for about an hour and then disappears. The power generators stop working and all our electrical devices drop out. It takes us a few hours to get everything working again.”
Jantz glanced across at Koenig to see how the scientist was coping with his description. Koenig’s stone face gave nothing away and Jantz had to ask whether he understood the phenomena.
“I will have to set up my instruments before I can comment, Mr Jantz. The emerald flashes may be synonymous with, and explained by, a strong solar storm emitted from the sun, more powerful than the usual storms that cause the northern lights. Although nothing has been observed from our normal facilities scattered all over the globe. As for the screeching... I have no idea.”
Jantz read the sceptical gaze in Koenig’s eyes, insinuating Jantz had spent one too many winters in the isolated environment, freezing his brain and wasting Koenig’s precious time with his fanciful children’s stories.
*~*~*~*
The atmosphere inside the green painted accommodation block, nicknamed the green house, had finally settled for the night. The green house was a brisk 200 metre walk across the open, barren icescape from the big house. The whole station complex relied on the generator shed, another two hundred metres further away still, to supply power and to heat all the buildings thus ensuing the survival of all crew members living there.
The appearance of such a distinguished scientist into the remote locat
ion unnerved the caretaker crew of five people and now Koenig had taken the only spare bed, stretching the limited resources of the winter base to breaking point. The crew had been spooked by the strange happenings and were suspicious whether the scientist would believe their account or be able to explain away what was going on, once he had experienced it.
The wind was picking up outside the building, as Koenig set his alarm clock for 3:30am and pulled the heavy thermal bedcovers over his body. Even though the green house was heated, it was still bitterly cold and the temperature was dropping quickly, driven down by the howling wind outside. It didn’t take long until Koenig warmed to the point where he dropped into an exhausted sleep.
It seemed like only minutes had passed when he was being shaken awake. Torches were flashing around inside the green house and a high pitched howling was screeching in his ears, distorting his eardrums.
“What’s going on?” he called above the noise to the panicked people aimlessly wandering around with torches.
A voice boomed across the dark room, “This is our phenomena, Doctor Koenig.” Jantz’s tone was just a little sarcastic.
Koenig pulled back the heavy drapes covering the foggy window by his bed. The snow was piled up against it and obscured half of the pane, but he could see enough to watch the screeching emerald thunderstorm, listening and observing something he had never heard or seen before.
“What is it?” Jantz almost demanded.
The look of bewilderment on Koenig’s face answered Jantz’s question.
He sighed, feeling exonerated by the strange activity going on outside and Koenig’s inability to give an answer. Jantz called to the rest of the crew members, “We will wait until the screeching stops and then get the electrical equipment and the generators going again before we freeze to death in here.”