Murdoch checked his Webley revolver was loaded and oiled before sliding it back into its hip holster. He checked his watch, confirmed the time against the position of the pale watery imitation of a sun and sighed. It would be a good couple of hours before sunset and only then would he be able to risk sneaking down to investigate the diggings. Murdoch sighed and hunkered down into his parka desperately trying to find some warmth. It would be a long two hours….
The camp was lit in a blaze of white arc lights making the night as bright as day but making the shadows seem darker. Murdoch easily slipped past the pathetic sentries and then he stuck to the sharply defined shadows cast by the many wooden huts and tents. Once past the guards the camp was quiet. Smoke was trickling out of the many tin chimneys and light glowed warmly from the many windows. Animated chatter leaked out from inside the buildings but Murdoch wasn’t interested in what they had to say. His orders were to close down the excavation before the US uncovered anything they could use to threaten King and Empire. The dynamite was ready and waiting in his rucksack. Murdoch rushed silently from building to building, sticking closely to the shadows, eyes and ears alert for any sign of danger. Security was lax though as the Americans weren’t expecting any visitors and were confident that their “archaeological” dig wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention. Within minutes, Murdoch was a darker shadow hiding in the shadow of a pile of steel girders scant feet from the bottom of the derrick that loomed high above.
There was nobody working tonight and the area surrounding the derrick was eerily silent. A series of arc lights attached to the metal structure harshly lit the ground with their unnaturally bright beams exposing frozen mounds of excavated earth, further piles of steel girders, some wooden crates and numerous tracks leading back to the surrounding campsite.
Double checking that no one was around to interfere with his mission, Murdoch pulled off his rucksack and carefully extracted the dynamite. This dynamite wasn’t the normal stuff though. The boffins at Bletchley Park had done them proud with this improved explosive which was double the power of normal TNT. It was a tad unstable though so it paid to be careful. They’d also come up with an improved acid based timer much like that used in a grenade but more stable and allowing more precise timings to be set. Murdoch set the timers to ten minutes which he calculated would be more than enough time to allow him to get away.
Somewhere in the camp the coarse note of a truck’s diesel engine starting up destroyed the cold silence. Murdoch paused, waiting to see where the truck went. Hopefully it was going on an expedition somewhere but night time was a funny time to have an expedition into the frozen wastes of Greenland. Maybe the driver was just turning it over to stop the engine freezing. Both hopes died as Murdoch heard the truck slip into gear and the engine get louder as it made its way towards the derrick. Murdoch heard voices from his left and he cursed silently as he saw a line of men walking towards the derrick flapping their arms to keep out the deep chill and complaining about the beer they’d had to leave behind. He shrank deeper into the shadow he was crouched in knowing that it was unlikely he would be spotted unless someone stumbled right into him.
The man in the lead turned round and whistled.
“Right! Listen up!” he yelled over the constant complaining.
“OK boys, Hank is bringing the truck up and I want all these crates loaded up in the next half hour.”
The men groaned loudly and started complaining again.
“Hold on! That’s the bad news. The good news is that we’re going home tomorrow.”
It took a second for the announcement to sink in before a cheer resounded into the air.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. We’re going back home! But until tomorrow we’ve got to work our butts off clearing the site. So as I said, crates on the truck for the Iceberg and be goddamn careful with them. Dr Knight will have our hides if we break anything that’s in them. Come on! Let’s go!”
And with that, he clapped his hands and the navvies went to work. The truck had appeared by now, one of the big ten tonne Fords the Americans favoured and the men began to load it up with the crates. The crates didn’t appear to be heavy but the navvies handled them gingerly, almost as if they were scared by the contents.
Murdoch huddled in the precious darkness. Thankfully the truck was parked some distance away and the various stacks of crates weren’t situated anywhere nearby so he wasn’t likely to be discovered. He loosened the strap holding his serrated dagger in place on his belt. It never caused any harm to be prepared for all possibilities. Old Baden Powell had it right there Murdoch reflected.
Murdoch’s mission had changed. He was too late to scupper the dig. The Americans had found whatever they were looking for and were now preparing to leave by the sound of things. What was the Iceberg though? Murdoch was fully briefed on US military vehicles and the ridiculous names they called them. Iceberg wasn’t one he was familiar one. Maybe it was an icebreaking ship moored off the coast nearby. He was going to have to find out what was in the crates before he destroyed them. If the Americans had got their hands on Atlantean technology then MI6 needed to know.
Once again Murdoch cursed. The roaring fire and hot bath had just receded further into the distance.
The nights were long in Greenland but Murdoch gave up a silent prayer of thanks that the navvies finished their job quickly. He obviously wasn’t the only one feeling the cold. One by one all the men including the truck driver walked back to their warm and cosy wooden huts and their beers leaving Murdoch alone.
He shivered violently. The cold was intense and he hadn’t been able to move for nearly an hour. His thighs ached as blood started to flow properly through the cramped muscles but his feet and fingers had nothing to give him but a painful numbness. Murdoch hoped he wasn’t going to get frostbite. Once he’d investigated the truck and planted his dynamite he was going to have to evacuate quickly.
Quickly scanning for any patrolling soldiers, Murdoch hoisted his rucksack onto his shoulder and ran across the frozen ground towards the silent truck. The crates were stacked three high in two rows with a canvas tarpaulin pulled tight over them. Murdoch pulled himself over the tailgate of the truck and in between the tight gap between the rows of crates. He groped through his rucksack for his flashlight and, covering it with his gloved hand, he turned it on filtering out just enough light to examine the crates by. There was nothing special about them, being normal wooden cargo crates. As far as he could see they were all stamped 'US Army' in large black capital letters. One crate was stamped '143 of 150'. Murdoch quickly counted the crates on the truck. There were only thirty crates there.
Using his dagger Murdoch prised out one of the panels on the side of the crate nearest to him. The crate was filled with straw which almost hid the multi coloured glows from within. Murdoch reached inside and felt the sharp edges of a crystal. Pulling his hand out he tapped the panel back into place and checked out another crate. More soft pastel glows, more sharp edged crystals
Damn them. They’d found power crystals. Lots of them. MI6’s worse fears had been realised. There was no way that he could blow up the truck and its cargo now. Apart from the resulting explosion being a tad larger than what would be deemed safe it would still leave over a hundred crates of God knows what in the hands of the enemy. Murdoch sighed. This mission was going from bad to worse. Time to field test his thermal sleeping bag. The space between the crates was small and cramped but tucked up right at the back he should be able to hide from unkind eyes. Murdoch spread out the black sleeping bag and climbed in feeling warmth return to his limbs as it heated up with his own body heat. It wasn’t a roaring fire but it would do. He hunkered down for the night.
Murdoch was jolted awake by the sound and vibration of the truck starting up. It was broad daylight and Murdoch castigated himself for sleeping as heavily and as long as he did. Luckily the truck hadn’t been searched otherwise he would’ve been a dead man by now. He grimaced as the truck bounced along the rutted track a
nd out of the camp. He caught glimpses of frantic activity taking place as the entire camp was dismantled. Trucks were everywhere with tents, cabins, drums, cookers, everything being loaded up onto them. Murdoch wondered how a camp this size was going to be transported back to the United States. His question was soon answered as the truck jolted up a slope and into a huge cavernous opening. For a few seconds Murdoch thought he’d entered a cave but then he saw the metal beams arcing overhead forming a lattice structure. Artificial lights shone everywhere from the ceiling all the way down the sides. Lamps had been set up at ground level to guide the truck and its fellows safely into the depths of an airship. At least that’s what Murdoch hoped he was in. The Americans couldn’t have acquired the expertise to build an craft the size of an air dreadnaught. Not this soon. Could they?
The truck continued to travel further and further into the giant craft until the entrance was a white speck in the gloom. Murdoch hazarded a look over the tailgate of the truck. The craft was truly gigantic. He could barely see the sides of it. There was no doubt that this was a dreadnaught class aircraft and one at the upper end of the size scale as well.
Murdoch jerked back into the safety of his hiding place between the packed crates as the truck ground to a halt. He heard the driver jump out and slam shut the door behind him. Chains clinked heavily and Murdoch assumed that the truck was being secured for the flight. He couldn’t see the driver but he could hear heavy tacked boots sounding off the metal surface of the floor which then receded into the distance as the driver left his truck firmly secured.
Murdoch crept to the tailgate and was about to jump out when he smelt cigarette smoke and held back. It was just as well he did as seconds later two American GIs appeared cigarettes flaring in the half dark as they drew longs drags of smoke deep into their lungs. They carried Thompson submachine guns under their right arms ready for use. Despite their cigarettes Murdoch got a sense that these two men were a tougher proposition than the lax camp guards. And despite Murdoch’s best wishes they stayed in front of the truck obviously guarding it especially because of its precious cargo.
Now would probably be a good time to let MI6 know where he was. Working carefully to avoid making any noise and alerting the guards, Murdoch unlaced his left hiking boot and took it off. He struggled to rotate the heel which was caked in ice and hard black muck. Once the heel was rotated he examined the tiny short wave radio transmitter set into the tough rubber. There were no loose connections so he pushed a tiny bare metal wire down into a connector with his fingernail which would complete the circuit and start broadcasting his location to the waiting 'fishing boats' which would be able to triangulate his position. It was a crafty thing. The aerial was a wire in the shoelaces.
Still it wasn’t going to do him any good if all MI6 would find was a dead body. He weighed up his options as he fixed the heel back in place and put his boot back on. He could wait here in the truck until the airship landed, wherever it was going. The chances he would be discovered then were pretty high because the truck would be under guard from now on. The only other option was to escape from his hiding place out into the airship. It would be jolly good if he could escape before it took off and save him a lot of bother…. The light at the end of the cargo hold closed up and Murdoch could feel the vibrations from the engines as they stepped up a gear. He felt a slight but tangible lurch which told him he was now airborne. Bloody fantastic. He only hoped he wasn’t going to America.
Time to escape though. The guards had relaxed visibly once the cargo hold had been sealed and were swapping small talk while leaning against the tail gate of the truck they were guarding. Murdoch unsheathed his knife, the long serrated blade glistening evilly in the half light available. Slowly straightening up to a standing position he reached up to the canvas covering the crates and cut a large ‘X’ with his knife. Four flaps of canvas fell down quietly and Murdoch carefully climbed up the side of two crates and pulled himself out on to the top of the truck.
It was difficult to see anything in the gloom of the hold. It wasn’t that there wasn’t a lot of light. There was, as arc lights shone everywhere, with lamps blazing all the way down the sides of the hold to the entrance, high overhead and even shining up from the metal floor. It was just that the hold was so enormous that it seemed to swallow up whatever light was present.
Murdoch could see about six or seven more trucks parked in a row nearby. He couldn’t see what was in them as they all had canvas covers but there were no guards. The trucks were all parked neatly in a row in front of a huge metal wall that divided the cargo hold from whatever lay beyond. If the Americans had based their dreadnaughts on the British ones then Murdoch reckoned that the arsenal for the main gun batteries lay beyond. Shame he wouldn't be able to lob a stick of dynamite in there. That would wake them up!
Murdoch had half an ear on the two sentries’ conversation when he heard something that made his breath catch in his throat almost choking him.
"I heard that the Limeys are blaming Germany for the attack on the Scotch city. Hell! I heard that they're so goddamn riled up that they're going to attack the Nazis!" said a voice with a Southern redneck accent. The same voice hooted with laughter.
In between guffaws, the redneck voice explained to his companion the great joke the US was playing on the Empire. By attacking "the Scotch city", as the ignorant Yank called it, and then beating a fast retreat, the US had got away scot free. The Limeys had seized on the fact that a German fleet was in the area and immediately added two and two together to make a whole mess of it.
"How'd you know all this?" a second voice asked dubiously. "I reckon the Germans have been gagging for a fight for ages and grabbed the chance when they could."
"A pal of mine is in some intelligence group. Me and him got our hands on some good ol' Kentucky bourbon two nights ago and he told me the whole story. I think it's true but I don't know how a whole fleet sailed up to England, blew the place up and then got away. Still reckon it's true though."
Ye Gods! If it was true then the Grand Fleets were on their way to attack an innocent country! Inasmuch as Germany could be called innocent. Murdoch strained to hear more of the conversation but redneck was now boring his companion with a tale of a cock fight he had been to.
Murdoch could feel his heart beating loudly against his chest. He had to stop the British attack on Germany. Despite the machinations of Hitler, Germany was still an old ally, the royal families once connected by blood. It wouldn't do to have the country attacked needlessly.
Taking slow deep breaths, Murdoch calmed himself, quietening his thudding heart and clearing his head. He slipped quietly down the side of truck landing lightly on his toes with only a whisper of a thud that was easily drowned out by the distant rumble of the dreadnaught's engines.
Murdoch straightened up from his controlled fall and looked straight into the eyes of a shocked sentry who had just walked round from the back of the truck.
"Shit!" the GI swore fumbling with his Thompson sub machine gun. "Jarv! Intruder!"
Recovering from his own shock and embarrassment at such an elementary error, Murdoch leapt forward in a catlike manoeuvre and swing his dagger in an arc. The sentry collapsed with a gurgle of blood as the razor sharp blade sliced through his jugular and windpipe in one fluid movement. His gun clattered to the ground.
"Pete! You OK boy?" asked the second sentry, the one with the Southern good ol' boy accent.
Murdoch saw the shadow of the second sentry edge closer, Tommy gun held high. Murdoch launched himself round the corner and flung his dagger with unerring accuracy straight into the GI's heart. Not missing a step Murdoch cleared the remaining six feet and punched the GI hard in the face while snatching the Tommy gun with his left hand. It wouldn't do to have the dying GI fire off a few shots and alerting the entire ship.
Murdoch retrieved his dagger, wiping it clean on the dead redneck’s jacket before hiding the two bodies under the truck deep in the shadows. With any luck by the time t
hey were discovered he would be well on his way out of here.
Murdoch picked up the redneck's Tommy gun. It was well oiled and the bolt action was smooth. He stuffed some clips of ammo into the pockets of his jacket and stashed two grenades into his belt before running lightly to the far wall avoiding the lights set into the floor. Despite the number of lights, the side of the cargo hold was in deep shade. Murdoch made good time as he sprinted down towards the cargo bay doors. There were numerous hatches leading outwith the hold illuminated by red lamps but they were all locked.
Upon reaching the massive doors Murdoch gave a sigh of relief. They seemed to be an exact copy of those that were on British dreadnaughts. MI5 was going to have to do something about industrial espionage especially on this scale. The doors were attached at floor level by massive hinges on the port and starboard sides of the dreadnaught. Two sticks should do it he calculated as he carefully placed his dynamite on either side of one hinge. Oh, sod it. Just make it five. And he packed another three sticks around the hinge making sure the red tubes couldn't roll out. He quickly arranged another five dynamite sticks on the second hinge before returning to the shelter of the shadows on the port side and sprinting back down to the trucks.
The dreadnaught's engines changed in tone powering down ever so slightly. Just in the nick of time Murdoch thought. I really hope they haven't brought me to America! He laughed silently to himself. If the dreadnaught was preparing to land then he doubted it very much. At maximum speed they couldn't have travelled more than three hundred miles - barely enough to reach the coast of Greenland.
An Atlantean Triumvirate Page 6