“And I know just the man,” said Doyle smiling that manic smile of his.
“It’s the best idea I’ve heard today,” added Riley happily.
“You’re not the one who has to run this by Whitehall. The Treasury is going to love the expense,” said Murdoch, uncertainty creeping into his voice as he mentally totted up the costs.
“It’s money or lives, Murdoch,” Riley pointed out. “And there’s no guarantee that the Core will be destroyed if we try going down the mineshaft. No guarantee that we will get anywhere near the thing. If the newspapers get a whiff of large scale casualties then a lot of people with lose their jobs. Run that past Whitehall and see what that bunch of harumphers will say to that.”
Jane pored over the masses of books spread out over the mahogany desktop, scribbling notes in a notebook with her gold plated pen.
Most of the books were old, their pages dry and delicately thin, almost transparent in some cases. And if the books were new then they were copies of old books, transcribed to protect the originals from the greasy meddling hands of anyone who would want to read them. Jane had pulled a few strings to get her hands on these books as the British Library had objected most strenuously when Jane had not only requested permission to remove them from the Library but was also going to take them away to foreign parts as well! But she had persevered and arranged for the crate of books to be transported up from London to Edinburgh and then from Edinburgh to Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis. Finally a small transport plane flew out from Stornoway to land in the recesses of the aerial dreadnaught Eagle.
Even with the aid of the books Jane was finding things hard to follow. She had a slight concussion from banging her head after Doyle had blown up the Core’s Node. She couldn’t really complain especially after seeing the state of Nightshade. Captain Riley was like a piece of iron that wouldn’t bend or fall no matter how hard you battered it. Nonetheless it annoyed her that she had so much to do and study and that she wasn’t in the best of shape to do it in.
Jane sighed and slumped back into her comfortable admirals chair, notebook held in front of her, the light from the various electric lamps dotted around the comfortable room illuminating the cryptic hieroglyphics she had written down in the Node’s control room under the Nevada desert. Some of the glyphs looked Egyptian while some looked Sumerian. There were even one or two that looked similar to Aztec symbols. All were most definitely Atlantean. As for how to translate it properly…
She was certain that part of the script referred to something or someone called Thule and that it was on the rise. Another symbol implicated “us” or “we” in the rise which she thought referred to the Tuatha de Danaan. As for the rest, well she was quite stumped and definitely needed some help.
She picked up the receiver on her phone and was automatically put through to the dreadnaught’s switchboard.
“Good evening, Miss Archer,” said the pleasant voice of the operator at the other end of the line. “How may I help?”
“Good evening, I’d like to place a call to London please,” she asked crossing her fingers and hoping that the conditions were right for such a long distance call.
“One moment please,” said the operator and Jane could hear him flicking switches and plugging in cables.
“If you could give me a number I’ll endeavour to get you through Miss Archer. The signal is a bit weak to be honest but you should get something.”
Jane relaxed as she gave the number for Professor Miller-Hayre. She hadn’t been aware she was so tense but she felt her back and shoulder muscles ease into more comfortable positions. It would be good to talk to her mentor again especially to see what light he could throw on the hieroglyphics that were confounding her. The books she’d received from the British Library were of some use. They’d got her this far with her translation but now she was stumped. Who or what was Thule? And why was it on the rise? Maybe it was just propaganda as Murdoch had said at the time but she was still interested. Archaeology was always interesting. She’d considered studying it full time but life was more interesting in MI7. Professor Miller-Hayre was a most enthusiastic archaeologist though, especially when it came to palaeo archaeology and the study of Atlantis.
The phone pipped quietly in her ear, crackled briefly and then, very faintly, she heard the baritone voice of Professor Miller-Hayre saying, “Hello?”
Jane smiled before replying, “Hello, Professor. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you Jane. Delighted to hear from you. One was most concerned to hear you were off gallivanting again with Mr Murdoch and his pet soldiers. You really must take more care of yourself my dear. It wouldn’t do to lose you to some horror.”
“I’m fine but thanks for being concerned. I’ve got a puzzle for you…”
“You sound desperately tired my dear,” interrupted Miller Hayre. “I hope you’re not pushing yourself too hard again. You’re young and there’s plenty of time for you to do… erm… Whatever you’re doing while getting plenty of sleep. It’s only when you get to my age that you can get away with going days without sleep.”
“No really, I’m fine, honest!” Jane said not quite believing she was having this conversation. It was like having a mother hen clucking all over her but she didn’t resent it. It was nice to have someone fussing over her for a change. “I want to talk to you about something before the dreadnaught flies out of range of the radio signal.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Well my dear, fire away!” Miller Hayre’s voice cracked and popped down the bad line.
“I’ve come across a series of Atlantean hieroglyphics that are in a dialect I’ve never come across before. I’ve got Paige’s ‘Atlantean Hieroglyphics’ here and there’s no reference to these glyphs at all.”
Miller-Hayre did not respond immediately, no doubt absorbing the fact that the definitive guide to translating the Atlantean language had failed Jane. “Have you managed to translate anything at all?” he eventually asked.
“Something about the rise of Thule and the Tuatha de Danaan with it,” responded Jane, chewing her bottom lip as she mulled it over once again.
“Thule, did you say?” queried Miller-Hayre and Jane could easily hear the spark of interest even over the bad connection. “That’s interesting. The Occult Bureau in MI6 have been investigating some rather disturbing links between the Nazis and the occult and the name ‘Thule’ has been mentioned a few times. I myself have done some research and found that Thule is mentioned in many old Scandinavian legends as well as some Germanic tales. In all cases Thule was a land in the far north where all was beauty and peace before it was destroyed. A land of blonde giants.”
“Sounds suspiciously like Atlantis to me,” said Jane.
“Exactly what I thought too except that the legends are firm in their belief that the land was in the north. The legends emphasise the racial purity of these giants as well as their skill as warriors. One legend even says Thule was Heaven on earth and that angels lived there. Given what we know about Atlantis I do suspect that Thule was perhaps a colony of Atlantis or even a refuge from the floodings. We can't be more specific as there are no dates to work from.”
“I don’t understand. If I’m correct in my translation and I certainly don’t think I’m wrong, then what’s the connection between Thule and the Core? Or even the Tuatha de Danaan and the Nazis?”
“Very good question my dear. Very good question. As I said before the Thule legends certainly emphasise the racial purity of Thule’s inhabitants which may link in with the Tuatha de Danaan principles of Atlantean supremacy over the inferior species that now own this planet. Thule may even have been a colony of the Tuatha de Danaan. Some scholars have come across the legends before and have put Thule in the Scandinavian region. And of course, Scandinavians are very well known for having blonde hair and blue eyes.”
“I wonder if the Nucleus knows anything about this Thule,” pondered Jane half to herself.
“Just about to push you in that direction,” Mil
ler-Hayre’s voice almost faded away to nothing as the distance increased between them, the atmospherics worsened or any other number of variables conspired against them. “The Azores have been cleared of the Khadrae did you hear?” Miller Hayre continued his voice once more at an audible level. “Most of the populace was dead so the Air Arm carpet bombed the place. Then the battle group of the His Majesty’s favourite Dreadnaught Ark Royal, pounded every single island into smithereens just to make sure no Khadrae survived. And then the Royal Marines went in and finished off any survivors. Surprised there are any dashed islands left to land on after that initial bashing! The Spanish were most grateful for the assistance.”
Jane hadn’t known the Azores were back in Spanish hands. Two hundred thousand people lived and worked across the islands of the Azores plus the thousands of people that holidayed there. Or rather had. Jane struggled to grasp the enormity of the casualties. There was no way the Khadrae would leave anyone alive and if anyone had survived then the bombing raid and subsequent naval bombardment would have taken care of them. Jane hated war. It was always the innocents that suffered the most.
“So Sao Miguel is safe?” she asked.
“Yes. I’ll meet you there in two days time. The Spanish are falling over themselves to assist the Empire in its war mongering. Probably still annoyed at America taking Mexico. Anyway, I digress. You need to ask the Nucleus about Thule and I’ve a few odds and ends I need to sort out on New Atlantis myself.”
Working out distances and modes of transport in her mind, Jane thought two days was pushing it but simply said, “I’ll be there.”
With that the line cut out descending into a series of staccato crackles and pops.
Jane wasn’t looking forward to meeting that giant shining blue figure again.
19 The Search for the Core
Greenland was not a warm country by anyone’s standards, least of all Murdoch's. The last time he’d visited the place he’d been frozen and dreamt of warm baths, fires, a beach in Bermuda. Nothing had changed. By God he hated this place. It was even worse second time round. To think it was late summer back home, a wonderful warm August full of cricket, beer, rowing and polo. Away up, high above the mining operation on the Skybase Morrigan, the winds howled and snowflakes skirled around the four towers that stood at each corner of the castle-like structure, pounding unceasingly against the unaerodynamic edifice, like the sea against a cliff face. The vibrations thrummed throughout the base, through the floors, ceilings and walls in an unending song of nature. It was cold, ever so cold. Murdoch had heard the external temperature hovered about minus four Fahrenheit which made the thirty two degrees on the ground seem positively tropical. Ice was a permanent fixture in the rooms that backed on to the walls of the Skybase even with the fires that burned in the many grates.
Jack Frost spread his fingers across the thickened glass that surrounded the observation deck, drawing pretty patterns that amazed with their delicateness. Murdoch wished Jack Frost would bugger off and give him a clear view of the operation below. It had been barely two weeks since Doyle had suggested digging the Core out of its underground base and in those two weeks, Murdoch had seen the might and resources of the British Empire swing into action in a way he had never thought possible.
Whitehall had, amazingly enough, waved through Doyle’s plan with barely a murmur. The Skybase Morrigan had been diverted from defence duties over Ireland to provide a base of operations over this remote point of Greenland. Within days, a seemingly unceasing train of dreadnaughts brought in supplies and manpower. Most importantly of all they came with huge digging machines, blasting equipment, trucks, even steel for a rail line along with a steam engine to help haul the debris out of the hole. Doyle’s contact was a rough, tough, foul mouthed Aberdonian called Michael Buchanan. He was not happy at being commandeered to desert his gold mining operation in deepest Kenya for these icy wastes. The local governor had been most offended at Buchanan’s suggestion he shove his official summons where the sun didn’t shine. Even the suggestion of payment hadn’t gone down well. The governor had then attempted to arrest the burly miner and four policemen had ended up in the local hospital. It was only when Doyle himself had flown down to see his old friend that Buchanan had finally conceded defeat. The fact that Doyle had drunk him under the table and then carried the comatose miner aboard the waiting plane meant that Buchanan was too embarrassed to make too much of an issue of it.
Buchanan was good though. Very, very good. He gained instant respect from all the other civilian miners by telling the military overseer that he was a damn fool and kicking him off the site. Buchanan had then commandeered a digger and put in an eighteen hour shift himself. In order to speed up the excavation Buchanan had requested the dreadnaughts floating overhead make themselves useful. The man was like a runaway bulldozer, totally utterly unstoppable. When he wanted something he got it, usually by haranguing, bullying and being generally loud. His ideas were astonishing, sometimes slightly mad, but always with a solid chunk of sound reasoning behind them. Buchanan had asked for the dreadnaughts to blast away the ice and rock rather than having to rely on the long process of drilling holes and placing explosives within the holes.
Murdoch readily agreed as the whole operation was running behind schedule and the Airship Minotaur was on its way with an entire battalion of the Black Watch onboard along with necessary supplies. The last thing Murdoch needed was a thousand Scotsmen cooped up in the Morrigan. Doyle and Buchanan were bad enough and they were on the ground. Why was he in charge of this operation anyway? He was a spy not a bureaucrat! Murdoch would bet his right arm that someone in Whitehall was having a good belly laugh at him.
From the observation deck Murdoch looked over the aerial dreadnaughts Eagle and Merlin as they lined themselves up to deliver a broadside to the gaping scar of a hole in the ice sheet before them. Flurries of snow gusted over the scene, hiding the massed rows of mining equipment on the ground from view. Murdoch felt a pang of sympathy for the miners on ground. The cold seeped through the thick glass into the bare room. Breath crystallised and rose in a steam. God knows what it was like on the unprotected ground.
Murdoch radioed Captain Parks onboard the Merlin and ordered him to fire two shots. The Merlin shook slightly as a cannon on its central battery spewed flame and smoke producing a mirror effect almost instantly as the giant shell burrowed deep into the ice before the timer fuse burnt away and its cache of high explosive detonated. Grey blue ice and snow spewed up into the air before raining back down again, cratering the pristine snowfields far around. The Merlin fired again producing a similar effect. Captain George, on the Eagle, took his cue and the Eagle fired further down the line of the mining operation. Within a minute the two warships had laid down more explosive fire than the entire mining operation had been able to utilise in the past few days and a pile of broken rubble and ice required hauling out to expose what would hopefully be rock. Buchanan had expected the clearance to take a good day or two. Normally it would take several months but the sheer amount of machinery and manpower present meant it could be done much faster. Buchanan already had the crane-like draglines crawling forward, their huge buckets gaping greedily. Murdoch twitched impatiently as he watched the seemingly insect small diggers and dumper trucks rush to the newly opened face. He hated sitting up here above the organised chaos twiddling his thumbs as the mining machine worked its way slowly but surely down into the Core’s lair. He needed action not more bloody paperwork. Riley had agreed with him, saying that Murdoch was turning into a moaning old git. Riley was in perfect shape though what with Nightshade Division down on the ground undertaking acclimatisation exercises. The power armour suits were proving difficult to maintain with grease and oil freezing in the joints but Murdoch could tell Riley was enjoying the challenge. Jammy bugger.
Murdoch was at his desk pondering over another pile of useless garbage from Whitehall when a pounding on the door roused him from his bleary eyed perusals. He checked the clock on the man
telpiece which showed twenty four minutes past midnight. He should be in bed by now. Murdoch rubbed his eyes before saying “Enter.”
Airman Michaels came in, woollen hat askew and red in the face as if he had run all the way from the control room. Murdoch made a mental note to recommend phones be installed. It was the 1930s after all.
“Yes?” Murdoch barked out, far more harshly than he had intended.
Michaels blanched but saluted smartly before rushing out the details.
“Sir, we’ve received an SOS from the Airship Minotaur. It’s under attack from an unidentified enemy.”
“Oh marvellous. Absolutely bloody marvellous. Where is it?”
“The Minotaur is only forty miles south east. The Merlin is responding to the SOS.”
Booted feet pounded down the corridor outside and Airman Allison burst through the doorway bouncing off the doorframe as he did so.
Allison didn’t even attempt a salute as he announced that the mining camp was under attack from an unknown enemy.
Murdoch rubbed his eyes before rising from his desk and sprinting the hundred or so yards of corridor and staircase up to the top of the nearest turret. The wind nearly blew him off his feet and he flapped ineffectually for a restraint, a harness that clipped round his waist and onto a rail running round the circumference of the ramparts. Murdoch was already blue with cold by the time he looked over the ramparts at the ground below. Tiny flashes of machine gun fire flickered and flashed. Bright arc lights lit up a broad swathe of ground showing insect sized men ganging together to fight off…. Khadrae. Bastard. Bugger. Thank God Riley was down there.
Murdoch yelled over the howling wind into the speaker tube which had a direct link to the communications room. “Red alert! All hands to battle stations! Take us down to attack height! Immediately! Fire at will when in range.”
An Atlantean Triumvirate Page 24