The Nexus Colony

by G. F. Schreader

  Abbott continued, “Then we have to go under the assumption that whoever is there when we arrive knows just about as much as we do.”

  “Correct,” Korbett replied.

  “Problem is,” Prall said, “is whether anybody else decides to stick their nose into it.”

  Korbett nodded. “We’re checking out all the personnel right now to see who might become a problem. You’ll be getting updated dossiers on everybody as soon as they’re fully compiled. Just there for your reference. Al will have the codes for security if you want to pull it out of the computer. The one at the Base Manager’s office.” Although I don’t know how in the hell you’re going to access it when you’re in the field, he thought.

  Prall nodded. Abbott said, “It isn’t going to matter much anyway, General.”

  Korbett looked at him. “Why not?”

  “Who in the hell is going to take a stroll out there to take a look? The brief says it’s three hundred miles out to the glacier.”

  Korbett pondered. “We’ve got the area secured. Secure, that is, from authorizing anybody out there. I guess somebody could get through that we couldn’t stop.”

  “I suggest,” Prall said, “that we get set up out there ASAP.”

  “Any bush pilots down there?” Lisk asked.

  “I presume,” Korbett responded. “Bush pilots are everywhere there’s a buck to be made. Even in Antarctica.”

  “Colonel Prall’s right,” Abbott replied. “Not much we’re going to do about it at the moment, though. We’ll have to contend with it when the time comes. In the meantime…”

  “…in the meantime,” Korbett broke in, “we’ll have to rely on hoping everybody is backing off until we settle this through diplomatic channels. The French and the Japanese for some reason at the moment are very interested.”

  “We’ll handle it,” Prall said.

  “I’ll handle it, if you please,” Korbett replied.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Korbett sighed. “The Base Manager—fellow named Jim Morrison—he seems to have a pretty good handle on those people. We’ll just have to move forward under the assumption that he’s got things under control for the moment. The real problem lies with the international issue.”

  “How much power does the Department wield to keep everyone out?” Almshouse asked, innocently.

  Korbett smiled, and replied, “We’ll all find out, Peter.”

  It at least brought a chuckle from everybody, including Prall.

  “Marsh…” Korbett continued, a serious expression on his face. “When you get down there, and things get out of control, you know what you have to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No compromises.”

  “No, sir.” Abbott had Prall along to see to that.

  “Communications,” Korbett said, leaning back in the chair. “We’ll utilize standard code ‘C’. Al can refresh your memories on the simple message content. I prefer it this way to secure code. Let ‘em read everything you send. They won’t understand what it means anyway. It might soften the appearance. You’ll have to radio everything back to McMurdo once a day. They’ll e-mail it back here. Communications won’t be instantaneous. We’ve only got satellite link-up for a few hours a day. We couldn’t be in a worse location on the goddamn planet to get intel out. Make every bit of information count.”

  Korbett was referring to simple coded text that appeared like general conversation but certain phrases had hidden meanings. Not very useful for military intelligence work, but quite sufficient and effective for an operation such as this. “Any questions?” Korbett asked.

  They all sat in silence.

  “Good,” Korbett responded. He dimmed the lights from a console that was out of sight under the table.

  The first slide on the screen was an aerial view of the Mulock Glacier from about 10,000 feet, as Korbett informed them. It was awesome, spreading out as far as the horizon. Even in photographs, Antarctica was powerful.

  The next photographs in the series were various views taken from different altitudes, followed by several taken from low level flybys along the glacial surface. The group silently studied the photographs, the ruggedness of the white terrain keeping them spellbound. The geography was compelling.

  The next series were graphic illustrations of the glacier’s movement through the Transantarctic Mountain Range. When the graphic slide appeared with the “AR” numbers marked in red, Korbett informed them that these were the approximate locations where the artifacts had been found. The pattern seemed random. The only apparent commonality that Abbott noticed instantly was that they were distributed along the directional flow of the glacier.

  “If AR-1 is the box…” Abbott said, thinking out loud, leaning forward and contemplating.

  Korbett nodded. “That’s right. The first one to your left. You on to something?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “It is strange, though,” Korbett said. “AR-2 through AR-4, the I-beams, are all in a line. Then the panel pieces come next. The only exception is the tool. It’s in the middle of the panels.”

  “It may look random, but they’re grouped,” Monroe said. It was the first time Abbott had heard his voice. It had a deep, resonating tone, and it took Abbott by surprise. Monroe was a small man, probably no more than 150 pounds, but Abbott knew this type of individual didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. Just his simple observation told Abbott everything about Major Monroe. He had a keen sense of intuitiveness and was highly analytical. This guy was all business. And Abbott was sure, no doubt, blindly devoted to Prall.

  “That’s correct,” Korbett replied, not turning around. “I wouldn’t be surprised that if more artifacts were found, they would fall into the same general pattern.”

  “Any theories?” Lisk asked.

  Korbett answered, “One of my colleagues thinks it’s simply that—random. Nothing more.”

  “It’s not a downed craft,” Abbott said.

  Korbett looked at him. “Why not?”

  “Debris would be scattered even more randomly. Anyway, there would probably be some evidence of an explosion or some other indication of trouble.”

  “Not if there was an implosion,” Lisk said. “It wouldn’t show any evidence on the outer shell.”

  “It still could have exploded,” Prall said. “We’re just seeing the debris from the end away from the blast.”

  “Possibly,” Korbett said. A moment passed. “What do you think it is, Marsh?”

  “A stationary structure,” he replied. And then added, “…buried under the ice.”

  “Well no shit it’s buried under the ice,” Prall said, but the comment didn’t even phase Abbott.

  “Think about the pattern,” Abbott said. “Assume it’s not random. Assume it’s stationary—a craft, a shelter maybe—the ice gets inside and breaks it apart. What’s the first thing that happens? The pieces inside are pushed up to the surface—the box and the tool, for instance. Then the ice pulls the structure beam next, breaking it apart, followed by the panel pieces that have folded under. They all rise up through the ice just like rocky debris. The glacier moves the pieces along. Look at the trail.”

  Korbett contemplated.

  Abbott continued, “There are probably hundreds, maybe even thousands of more pieces scattered all along the glacier. We’ve only found a few of them.”

  Korbett contemplated for a moment, then replied, “I like that. That’s good, Marsh.”

  “Christ,” Lisk said, “if that’s the case, then whatever is down there must have been there for a long time.”

  The prospect kept everyone silent for a moment.

  “Depends how deep it’s down,” Abbott said. “It might just be below the surface.”

  “If it’s just below the surface,” Korbett observed, “it wouldn’t have been broken apart by the ice to this extent. This stuff is incredibly durable.”

  “Did we get any radiometric dating?” Lisk asked.

  “Not yet,” Ko
rbett answered. “We should have that data this afternoon.”

  Prall said, “It might give us an indication of how deep down it is.”

  “More than likely not,” Almshouse said. “How deep is the ice?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Korbett replied. “We’re waiting for the satellite imaging. We can get a ballpark figure when we get the data.”

  “Otherwise,” Abbott said, “we’ll have to drill down to find out.”

  “Screw the drilling,” Prall said. “If there’s something under the ice, how in the hell are we going to dig it out?”

  They all looked at Korbett who met their gaze with an expressionless face. “With great difficulty,” he replied.

  After a moment, Abbott asked, “Can the satellite imaging get us a picture of what’s under the ice?”

  “Maybe,” Korbett replied. “I won’t know until the data is down-linked and my people get a chance to analyze it.”

  “How long will it take?” Prall asked.

  Korbett shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know, but it probably won’t be before you all arrive there.”

  It was all beginning to sink in that they were going to an area where even the latest technology and advances of modern civilization were at bay from the elements and geography. Like Dante’s concept of a frozen hell, the very thought of what they were about to confront was enough to send a shiver down Abbott’s spine. He had been there in the polar regions near the Arctic Circle. He didn’t think any place could be worse than that. He found himself blurting out, “What about logistical support?”

  It aggravated General Korbett that he didn’t have a concrete answer to give to Abbott. He stroked his mustache again, and Abbott sensed his frustration. Bill Korbett always stroked his mustache when he had a problem. Abbott realized, though the others didn’t, that the General was formulating an answer to a compromising question.

  “Logistical support,” Korbett answered, “will depend upon what you find.” He breathed a sign of disgust. “Gentlemen, I’ll be up front with you on this. We have our logistical problems with this project.”

  For a moment, no one said anything. Lisk finally asked, “Do we have a contingency statement?”

  Korbett smiled. “For what it’s worth, you’ll be out there looking for debris from a communications satellite.”

  Even though the whole population of the continent knows what we’re doing, Abbott thought. Nobody had to say it. This was going to be a difficult operation. The only redeeming factor was the inaccessibility and remoteness of the region. Abbott just hoped that nobody got a real wild inclination to go out there on their own.

  For the next hour, Korbett went over more data, including the itinerary, which would include a non-stop flight to New Zealand—aerial refueling included—on a C-5 Galaxy. Then an LC-130 Hercules flight—about 850 miles—right into McMurdo Station where they would pick up the mountaineering guide. Total flight time would be about 20 hours. Sleep would be minimal, as a team of survival school instructors from stateside would accompany them for a “crash course” on polar survival.

  Before the group left, Korbett informed Abbott privately that the Department was getting pressure from NSF, which wanted to assign a few of their own people to go out on the glacier with them. Abbott said absolutely not. Korbett told him he’d take along whom he was ordered to take along. And if that meant NSF people, that’s what it meant. Korbett was fighting it, but at the moment it looked like a losing battle.

  Abbott was curious as to who was on Korbett’s Washington team, but it was curiosity only. Like all intelligence projects, if you didn’t have the need to know, you were just one more link in the chain. And somebody else was always calling the shots. It didn’t matter how far up the chain of command you seemed to be.

  Korbett’s other team had been watching the briefing in another room from a hidden video camera. That room was located underground, and it was equipped as a mini-communications center. Korbett had utilized this location numerous times in the past. They already had a link-up timeframe with McMurdo Station via satellite. When Abbott’s team radioed any information back to McMurdo, it would be e-mailed directly back to the command center here in Maryland during the window period when the satellite could make the link, which was only a few hours per day. Abbott was right. Even the best technology on the planet was at the mercy of the polar regions.

  The decision-making process was set in place. That process would take only minutes when set in motion. The decisions themselves, however, would take a little longer. Few humans, including General William Korbett, have ever been confronted with what was to come. There are things that the human mind encounters that are so unbelievable that the human mind doesn’t know what to do.

  Chapter 4

  FEBRUARY 7, 20--

  U. S. McMURDO STATION

  ANTARCTICA

  9:55 A.M. GMT

  As much as he had been looking forward to going home for a few months, Mike Ruger was more intrigued by what was going on with the discovery of the alien artifacts. That’s what they were alleged to be around the base only days after they had brought in the strange objects from out there on The Ice. Like all human communities, big and small, everybody wants to know everybody else’s business.

  McMurdo Station is the largest city on the continent. Large, that is, by comparison to all the other hundred some odd bases on the international scene. A city, but more appropriately a structured settlement of human habitation. The summer population at McMurdo numbers about twelve hundred. During the winter months, only a tenth of that. In the summer, approximately a hundred scientists conduct research at the base, mostly marine biologists because the base is located in the coastal area. McMurdo is one of three U. S. bases open year round.

  The National Science Foundation is headquartered at McMurdo. The NSF runs the U. S. Antarctic Research Program, which utilizes about 2,500 people to operate programs dealing with upper atmosphere, physics, astronomy, chemistry, biology, and a number of other scientific areas. The U. S. Navy for years operated all the aviation activity coordinated for the NSF, which included helicopters and fixed wing aircraft. Now the Air Force was jointly involved. All marine activity is handled directly by the NSF, which operates its own specialized research vessels.

  Not only the NSF, but Ruger’s interest as well was piqued, because McMurdo was abuzz with all kinds of rumors about the discovered pieces. There had to be some validity to it, everybody assumed, or else Mike Ruger wouldn’t have been rumored to be commissioned to go back out on The Ice. And he wouldn’t have canceled his seat on the plane just to stick around for the fun of it. Everybody knew the government liaison officer had held a private meeting with Ruger right before his seat was canceled.

  “What are they paying you to do, Mike?” John Lightfoot had inquired shortly after Ruger came out of the liaison office, the innocent tone of his voice so faked that Ruger almost laughed in his face. Ruger was sitting in the officer’s club lounge drinking a cup of coffee, still mulling over the hard to believe generous offer he had just accepted from the Americans to stay around for a few extra weeks, or however much time it took. They wanted him to take a team of “researchers” back out to the Mulock Glacier. The team would arrive sometime late in the day on the 7th. That was this afternoon. Everything was packed, ready to go.

  What the hell, Ruger thought. Another couple of weeks out on The Ice was nothing. Three quarters as much of what I make for the entire season.

  “None of your business, John,” Ruger had responded to Lightfoot’s inquiry. Ruger’s tone was always non-threatening, but people sensed you didn’t push this man too far.

  “Mind if I join you, Mike?” Lightfoot said, pulling up a chair across the table from Ruger. He was still wearing his outerwear parka, and Ruger figured he’d just come from Morrison’s office. John Lightfoot was not a likable individual. He might have been a hotshot photo journalist with international credentials up the kazoo, but not many people liked him. He was tolerated. Light
foot was pushy, always sticking his nose into other people’s business, even when it didn’t involve business. Always pissing somebody off, Ruger thought, as he looked across the table at the man.

  “Be my guest, John,” Ruger replied, sloughing off the annoyance, which he knew wasn’t going to go away anyway.

  “Temperature’s really dropping,” Lightfoot said, referring to the sudden change in the weather pattern.

  “Coming down off the glaciers,” Ruger replied, his tone indicating disinterest. Lightfoot had been here all summer working on an assignment for National Geographic Magazine. He had seen Lightfoot’s work. It was excellent. This guy was as good as they came, but pompous asses like Lightfoot couldn’t be praised. “Thought you were all done, John,” Ruger said. “Going back?”

  A gust of wind outside rattled the aluminum sheets of the Quonset hut covering, and the echo chimed its subtle familiar tone throughout the structure. “Nope,” Lightfoot replied, looking up at the ceiling. “I love it here.”

  Ruger thought that one of these days the wind is going to tear apart one of these older buildings.

  “Thought I’d stick around a few more days,” Lightfoot said. “Wanted to get a few more shots. You know…beginning of winter in Antarctica? storms? etceteras.”

  “Sure,” Ruger responded. “Why not? Watch you don’t get lost.”

  “Don’t intend to. No, not at all,” Lightfoot replied. But what he really wanted to say was, because I’m going back out on The Ice with you.

  Ruger could sense the frontal attack about to come. He sat back, saying nothing.

  After a few moments of silence, Lightfoot asked, “Know anybody going back out on The Ice, Mike?” It was more blatant than Ruger anticipated, and it brought a smile to his face. There are no secrets in Antarctica. Everybody who was still left on base knew damn well Ruger was going back out.

  “Nope,” Ruger replied, simply to antagonize Lightfoot.

  Lightfoot leaned forward. “Look, Mike,” he said. “Let’s be right up front with each other. If we’ve got the chance to photograph whatever it is out there you’re looking for, you’re crazy not to take advantage of it.”