The Atlantis Legacy - A01-A02

by Greanias, Thomas

  Then Conrad noted the NASA markings all around and suddenly realized that Ice Base Orion was never intended for use on Earth. It must have been designed to be an orbiting space station or a colony on one of the polar caps of Mars, where the ice would be tapped for water and life support.

  “What the hell is this place you’ve built down here?” Conrad asked.

  “Welcome to the most inaccessible human settlement on the planet, son.”

  They turned a corner, and Conrad followed Yeats down another long corridor. Conrad could hear a low hum beneath the music as they walked. And every now and then, a shudder seemed to pass through the entire base like a train had just rumbled by.

  “We’ve got a command center, biodome, mobile servicing center, an astrophysics lab, an observatory, and modules for materials processing, remote sensing, and medical research,” Yeats said.

  “You forgot the drill rig,” Conrad said. “That would explain the shaking.”

  Yeats pretended he hadn’t heard him and pointed in the opposite direction. “The brig is that way.”

  This whole base is a brig, thought Conrad as he looked down a tunnel toward a sealed-off air lock. “Where is anybody going to go that you need to lock him up?”

  “The harsh conditions here are known to send men over the edge,” Yeats said.

  Conrad looked at his father. “Is that what happened to you?”

  Yeats stopped and turned around abruptly in front of a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. As if anybody else was around to violate security procedures.

  “Follow me through this door, son,” said Yeats, his hand resting on the release bar, “and you just might go over the edge yourself.”

  Standing on a platform inside the cavernous laboratory was a pyramid about ten feet tall. A solid piece of rock with an almost reddish glow, it was marked by four grooves or rings around its sides. The rings began halfway up the slopes and grew closer together toward the top.

  Conrad let out a low whistle.

  “Pentagon satellites picked up a dark anomaly beneath the ice shortly after the last big quake some weeks ago,” Yeats said. “We put a survey team on the ground, but they couldn’t pick up anything solid. The anomaly appeared to be invisible to radio-echo surveys. That’s when we started drilling. We hit the stone a mile beneath the ice cap. Clearly it’s not a natural rock formation.”

  No it wasn’t, Conrad thought with growing excitement as he studied the stone. The U.S. State Department’s official position was that no human had set foot on Antarctica before the nineteenth century. Yet this rock was at least as old as the ice that covered it—twelve thousand years. That strongly suggested the remains of a civilization twice as old as Sumer, the oldest known on Earth.

  Conrad ran his hand across the smooth face of the stone and inserted a finger into one of the strange grooves. This find could be it, he thought, nearly trembling now, the first evidence of the Mother Culture he had been seeking his entire life.

  “So where’s the rest of it?” he asked.

  Yeats seemed to be holding back. “Rest of what?”

  “The pyramid,” Conrad said. “This is a benben stone.”

  “Benben?”

  Now Yeats was just playing dumb, clearly eager to see if his investment in him was worth the cost. Conrad didn’t mind singing for his supper, but he wasn’t going to settle for crumbs.

  “An ancient Egyptian symbol of the bennu bird—the phoenix,” Conrad said. “It represents rebirth and immortality. It’s the capstone or pyramidion placed on top of a pyramid.”

  “So you’ve seen it before?”

  “No,” Conrad said. “They’re missing from all the great pyramids of the world. We know them mostly through ancient texts. They were replicas of the long-lost original benben stone, which was said to have fallen from heaven.”

  “Like a meteorite,” finished Yeats, staring at the rock.

  Conrad nodded. “But a benben this size means the pyramid beneath it would have to be enormous.”

  “A mile high and almost two miles wide.”

  Conrad stared at Yeats. “That’s more than ten times the size of the Great Pyramid in Giza.”

  “Eleven point one times exactly,” said Yeats. So his father had indeed done his homework. “Bigger than the Pentagon. And more advanced. Its exterior is smoother than a stealth bomber, which may explain why it’s been invisible to radio-echo surveys. These grooves on this capstone are P4’s only distinguishing exterior characteristic. Beyond its sheer size, of course.”

  Conrad touched the benben stone again, still incredulous that civilization existed on Earth at an earlier date and at a more advanced level than even he previously imagined.

  “P4,” Conrad repeated. So that’s what they were calling it. Shorthand for the Pyramid of the Four Rings. It made sense. “And it’s at least twelve thousand years old.”

  Yeats said, “If it’s as old as this benben stone, then P4 is at least six billion years old, son.”

  “Six billion?” Conrad repeated. “That’s impossible. Earth is only four and a half billion years old. You’re telling me that P4 could be older than the planet?”

  “That’s correct,” Yeats said. “And it’s right under our feet.”

  7

  DISCOVERY PLUS TWENTY-FOUR DAYS, FIFTEEN HOURS

  YEATS COULD HEAR THE FAINT STRAINS of Mozart beneath the drone of two ventilation fans pumping air inside his compartment as he watched Conrad analyze the data from P4 on his laptop.

  Cupping a mug of hot coffee in his bandaged hand, Conrad shook his head. “Nothing ever changes with you, Dad, does it?”

  Yeats stiffened. “Meaning?”

  “You never taught me how to fly a kite or how to throw a split-fingered fastball when I was growing up,” Conrad said. “No, I had to learn that kind of stuff on my own. With you it was always, ‘What do you think of this weapons system design, son?’ or ‘How’d you like to watch the launch of my new spy satellite?’ And whenever I see you on this stinking planet, the scenery is always the same. It’s always some military base. Always dark. Always cold. Always snowing.”

  Yeats glanced out the picture window at the storm raging outside. The whiteout was so bad he couldn’t even see the ice gorge anymore. What was left of the C-130 was long buried by now. He was relieved Conrad had survived the crash, and he was happy to see him. But it was clear Conrad didn’t feel the same way, and that hurt.

  “Maybe I bring it with me.” Yeats poured himself a third shot of whiskey and nodded to the laptop data. “Anyway, the analysis dating appears conclusive.”

  “For the benben stone only,” Conrad began as another wave of those trainlike shudders passed through the room.

  “That was ours,” Yeats said, referring to the drilling being done to clear the ice around the top of P4 at the bottom of the abyss. “You’ll know the real jolt when you feel it.”

  “And you think P4 is causing the earthquakes?”

  “You’re the genius, son. You tell me.”

  Conrad sipped his coffee and grimaced. “What the hell is this? Diesel sludge?”

  “It’s the water. The station’s supply comes from melted snow. The soy-based food is even worse.”

  Conrad pushed the coffee away. “Just because P4’s benben stone is allegedly six billion years old doesn’t mean the rest of the pyramid is that old or that aliens built it.”

  “Who said anything about aliens?” Yeats tried to maintain a blank expression, but Conrad was way ahead of him.

  “Meteorites have been bombarding the earth since the planet was first formed—like that four-and-a-half-billion-year-old Martian rock they found here in Antarctica a few years back,” Conrad said. “Humans could have found a meteorite billions of years later and carved it into a benben stone.”

  Yeats downed his Jack Daniel’s. “If that makes you feel better.”

  “Well, somebody built P4,” Conrad said. “And they built it long before ice covered Antarctica or any human civilizati
on was thought to exist. Whatever else the builders of P4 were, they were advanced, possibly more advanced than present-day human civilization.”

  Yeats nodded. “Which means whoever gains access to their technology theoretically could alter the world’s balance of power.”

  “Still paranoid about asymmetrical force?” Conrad said. “No wonder you’re willing to risk lives and break international law by fielding a military presence in Antarctica.”

  Yeats paused. “You mean Atlantis.”

  “Atlantis? You think there’s a city down there?”

  Yeats nodded. “For all we know P4 is only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.”

  “Atlantis is just a name, a myth,” Conrad said. “Maybe that myth is based on what you think you’ve found. Maybe not. Maybe it’s our long-lost Mother Culture. Maybe not. A proper excavation of P4 alone would require decades of research.”

  That was just like Conrad, Yeats thought. It wasn’t enough to find the greatest discovery since the New World. No, Conrad had to be “right” about it, lest he be another Columbus who had discovered what had always been there.

  “We don’t have decades, son,” Yeats explained. “We have days. I saw one of your TV specials and you said flat out that Antarctica was Atlantis.”

  Yeats clicked on his computer and an Ancient Riddles promo popped up. Yeats glanced at Conrad, who grimaced in embarrassment.

  “Atlantis,” boomed the baritone announcer. “The ancient city of fantastic wealth and military power described by the ancient Greek philosopher Plato in his Dialogues in the fourth century B.C. An entire civilization swallowed up by the sea in a single day. Its survivors sought refuge all over the world and built the pyramids of Egypt, the ziggurats of South America, and other ruins of unexplained origins. Come explore the unexplained with astro-archaeologist Doctor Conrad Yeats.”

  Yeats turned it off. “Well?”

  “What I said is that Antarctica is the only place on Earth that literally fits Plato’s description of Atlantis,” Conrad explained. “I never said I actually believed Plato’s account was true. Remember, it’s a publish-or-perish world in academia, Dad, and only the wildest ideas garner attention.”

  Yeats frowned. “You’re saying Plato is a liar?”

  Conrad shrugged. “Plato was simply an idealist who dreamed up a perfect paradise, Atlantis, to express his yearnings.”

  Yeats was disappointed in Conrad’s flippant response and narrowed his eyes. “Whereas you have no ideals.”

  “Every archaeologist has his favorite address for Atlantis,” Conrad said. “Most think it’s the island of Thíra in the Mediterranean, which sank into the sea after its volcano exploded. That was nine hundred years before Plato penned his account of Atlantis. Others favor the North Atlantic or Troy in Turkey, a city which itself was considered a myth until its ruins were recently discovered. Still others suggest that Atlantis was really the Americas and that the lost city could well lie beneath Lake Titicaca, or Los Angeles for that matter.”

  Yeats said, “But none of these were anything like the high-tech civilization Plato insisted was destroyed almost twelve thousand years ago.”

  “True.”

  “So this could be Atlantis.”

  “It could be.” Conrad shrugged. “Look, all I’m saying is that if you throw a dart at a world map you’ll find somebody’s idea of Atlantis,” Conrad said. “Or, if you’re like my show’s producer, you could throw darts at solar systems on celestial charts. The possibilities are infinite. I can’t draw any conclusions until I get inside P4.”

  “I can’t promise you’ll get inside, son,” Yeats said. “Not yet. This is a military operation. So if you’ve got a theory about P4, put up or shut up.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll take my frequent flier miles and go home.”

  “Goddamn it, Conrad.” Yeats smashed his fist into the tabletop. “You’re not going anywhere. And if you want to get inside P4, you better tell me something I don’t already know.”

  Conrad stood up and walked over to the window. For a wild moment Yeats worried that Conrad would pick up a metal chair and try to shatter the reinforced glass. But he simply stared outside as the wind howled. The man had learned to master the rage that had consumed him as a boy.

  “OK then,” Conrad finally said without turning around. “My best guess is that P4 may well be the original on which the Great Pyramid in Giza was modeled, except on a much grander scale. In other words, P4 is the real deal and the Great Pyramid that Khufu built is an inferior clay replica.”

  “Your best guess?” Yeats repeated. “I can’t work off hunches, son.”

  “It’s more than that,” Conrad said. “Your own data says the base is aligned at the cardinal points—north, south, east, and west. It’s also sloped at an angle of fifty-one degrees, fifty-two minutes—just like the Great Pyramid. And knowing what I do about the Great Pyramid, up close and personal, I can make some educated guesses about P4.”

  Yeats exhaled. “Like what?”

  “Like the probability that P4 is a representation of the Southern Hemisphere of Earth.”

  “Whereas the Great Pyramid in Egypt is a representation of the Northern Hemisphere of Earth,” Yeats said. “I get it. So what?”

  Conrad crossed the floor to the desk and tapped a few keys on his laptop. “The hemisphere is projected on flat surfaces as is done in mapmaking.” He turned his laptop around so Yeats could see the graphic on his screen. It looked like a German cross. “This is the pyramid if we flattened it out. The apex represents the South Pole, and the perimeter represents the equator.”

  “Go on.”

  “This is the reason why the perimeter is in relation two pi to the height,” Conrad explained. “P4 thus represents the Southern Hemisphere on a scale of one to forty-three thousand two hundred.”

  “Represents the Southern Hemisphere in relationship to what?” Yeats asked.

  “The heavens,” said Conrad. “The ancients associated certain meanings with various constellations. Once I determine this pyramid’s celestial counterpart in the skies we’ll have a better idea of its function.”

  “Function?” Yeats repeated. “It’s a tomb, right?”

  “Pyramids themselves were never designed to serve as burial places, although they were used that way in some cases,” Conrad said. “Their higher purpose was connected to the ancient king’s quest for eternal life. To attain it he would have to participate in the discovery of a revelation that would unveil the mystery of ‘First Time.’”

  “First Time?” Yeats stared hard at him. “What’s that?”

  “It’s the secret of Creation,” Conrad said. “How the universe was formed, how we got here, where we’re going.”

  “Where we’re going? Now how the hell would the builders of P4 know that?”

  “The ancients believed that the cosmic calendar resets itself every twenty-six thousand years or so,” Conrad said. “Each epoch of time ends in some cataclysm leading to a new creation or age. Survivors of such global extinction events would naturally want to warn future generations.”

  “So this secret goes all the way back to Genesis?”

  “Earlier than that,” Conrad said. “According to Aztec and Mayan myths, there have been at least five Suns or Creations. This is allegedly the Fifth Sun we’re living in.”

  “What happened to the Fourth Sun?” Yeats demanded.

  “Well, according to the ancients, it was destroyed by the Great Flood,” Conrad said. “Based on the four rings we found on the benben stone, my guess is that P4 was built at the very dawn of the Fourth Sun, just after the destruction of the Third Sun, right around the time the biblical story of Genesis says God created the heavens and the earth.”

  “You just told me P4 goes further back than that.”

  “That’s because inside the pyramid I expect to find a repository of knowledge from the previous three Suns,” Conrad said. “It might even contain the secret of First Time itself, something older than the kn
own universe.”

  Yeats started pacing back and forth, unable to contain his excitement. His bum leg was killing him, but he didn’t care. “You sure about all this?”

  “Won’t be until I get inside.” Conrad’s face darkened. “But it’s fair to assume that, whatever else is down there, P4 holds a legacy of knowledge at least as great as our own.”

  “Which is why we have to get inside first,” Yeats concluded. “Because it won’t be long before we have company.”

  Conrad asked, “You find the entrance yet?”

  “I’ve got a drill crew working out of a rig we’ve set up on P4’s summit,” Yeats said. “The top of the pyramid, about fifty feet of it, sticks out of the bottom of the abyss like the tip of an iceberg. The crew has been drilling a hole down the east face toward the base. That’s where the computer models say we’ll find the entrance. We’re about halfway there.”

  Conrad said, “You’re drilling in the wrong place.”

  Yeats took a deep breath. “OK, then. Where should I be drilling?”

  “The north or south face, although with P4 I’d favor the north face,” Conrad said. “Less than a half mile down the drill crew will most likely find the entrance to a large shaft that will take us into the heart of P4.”

  “Most likely?” Yeats huffed. “You want me to pull my team off mission just to follow your instinct?”

  “Look, if P4 is indeed the original on which the Great Pyramid was modeled, then I suspect we’ll find two shafts radiating from the center of the pyramid out the south and north faces of the exterior. If the similarities I’m seeing continue to play out, then we can use these shafts to get inside P4 in half the time it’s going to take you right now.”

  “And what exactly is the function of these shafts? If they exist.”

  “I have an idea,” Conrad said. “But I’d have to get inside P4 to be certain.”

  “Naturally,” Yeats grumbled.

  “I thought the price of admission to P4 was to tell you something you didn’t already know,” said Conrad when the intercom buzzed. “I just did.”