Lightfoot walked into the office which was abuzz with people, mostly computer activity. He had to get the message out post haste. Gittleman was over in the corner evidently engaged in a heated discussion with one of his subordinates, a man Lightfoot recognized but couldn’t remember his name. Arguments were not uncommon. It was February, near the close of the season, and cabin fever was beginning to affect everybody. Lightfoot was acquainted with the man whom Gittleman now seemed to be reprimanding. The name tag was too far away for Lightfoot to read. It didn’t matter anyway. Carpe diem! Seize the moment! Lightfoot thought, remembering the line from that damn movie he had seen countless times. The opening was there, and Lightfoot knew it was a good avenue to jump line. It wasn’t Gittleman he’d approach. It was this other guy.
Lightfoot went over to the counter along the wall where they kept all the mail paraphernalia and message pads, deciding to wait a few minutes until after Gittleman went back into his office and the other fellow calmed down. Lightfoot grabbed a pad and jotted down the message. It read:
TO: Adventure Network International, Puntas Arenas, Chile, S.A.
FROM: John Lightfoot, Asgn SN-US0149 c/o U. S. McMurdo Station
DATE: Feb07
MESSAGE: URGENT—Request charter flight, one passenger, McMurdo destination Mulock Glacier region, landing required, immediate return, on Feb07 NLT Feb08, will meet any payment demand, respond ASAP—URGENT.
Adventure Network International, ANI, was one of several private business companies that offered tourist packages to those who wanted the adventure of visiting Antarctica. In essence, they were glorified bush pilots running a legal business under Chilean law. It was a sore spot on the international scene, and it was estimated that three to five thousand tourists visited the continent each year, mostly by air, a few by sea. More than once over the past few years, environmental damage had occurred from ships running aground due to inaccurate navigational charts, or planes getting stranded in the remote regions never to be flown out again. Eternal metal monuments to enterprise, Lightfoot had jotted down in his journal for a caption. Overnight camping jaunts were commonplace along the Antarctic Peninsula, and like all human activity everywhere else on the planet, waste went unchecked. Even Lightfoot took offense at the way some of these companies conducted business. No respect for the planet’s final terrestrial frontier.
But it wasn’t Lightfoot’s primary concern at the moment. His article for National Geo would address all that and more. He hadn’t dealt with ANI before, because the Navy had accommodated all his requests to photograph the various regions of the continent from the air. Obviously, there was no way the Navy, and particularly not the Air Force, were going to accommodate him now by delivering him out to the Mulock Glacier where Ruger would be setting up camp with the federal boys from stateside. He had to connive his own way out there.
The plan was simple. Charter a bush pilot, have him take the short hop out to the glacier after Ruger has set up camp—easy to find by spotting the orange Scott tents—put down and get off, waving the pilot good-by before Ruger or anyone has the chance to react. The plane would be gone and Ruger wouldn’t have any choice. Even if they managed to send him back the next day after communications were passed along, at least he’d be able to find out what the hell was going on out there that was so important. Lightfoot only hoped the feds didn’t shoot him. What a ridiculous notion, he thought.
When Lightfoot finished jotting down his message, he turned around to see Gittleman disappearing into his office. Judging by the look of anger on the face of the other man, it hadn’t been an amiable exchange between the two. Who cares? Lightfoot said to himself. Beckoning, he managed to get the man’s attention. As he approached, Lightfoot read the man’s name tag.
“Morning, Ramstead,” Lightfoot said, smiling in a friendly tone.
Ramstead acknowledged with a grunt.
“I got an urgent message I need sent out right away. I mean, like right now,” Lightfoot said. “What can you do for me?”
“Put you in line,” Ramstead replied indifferently, and then said aside, “everybody’s got an urgent message…” He looked up at Lightfoot. “You know the rules, bud.”
“Better yet, Mr. Ramstead,” Lightfoot responded, leaning over the counter. “What can I do for you?”
Ramstead looked at him coldly. It was evident from the tone of his voice that he was an angry man and didn’t care who knew it. “What do you mean by that?”
Lightfoot, not backed off easily, replied, “Let me say it once, Ramstead. You send this message out for me right now…not later in the day, not tomorrow…but right now and I’ll make it worth your effort. You don’t have to question my making good on the offer.”
The man looked at Lightfoot. It was the moment of truth. Either the son-of-a-bitch is going to accept the offer, or come over the counter and beat the shit out of me, Lightfoot thought. He stood stern, staring Ramstead down.
There was a moment’s hesitation before Ramstead replied, softly, “It’s against the rules. You know that.”
I’ve got him. “Fuck the rules,” Lightfoot said softly.
“If Gittleman finds out…”
“Gittleman won’t find out if nobody tells him.”
Ramstead replied, “It ain’t going to be cheap.”
“I’ll pay it,” Lightfoot whispered, winking.
“It’s gonna cost you a ‘C’ note.”
“Deal.”
Ramstead lowered his head, keeping his eyes locked on Lightfoot’s. “You say anything, and I’ll break you’re fucking arm,” he said.
Lightfoot leaned forward again, not revealing his intimidation. “Don’t break mine, break his,” he responded, nodding toward Gittleman’s office.
Ramstead took the message from Lightfoot’s hand and read it. “You going out on The Ice by yourself?” he asked with disbelief.
Lightfoot placed his elbows on the counter. “You say anything to anybody about this message and I’ll break your fucking arm.”
Ramstead looked up at him. It took a moment for the man to smile, and Lightfoot was sure he’d gotten the message across.
“Deal,” the man said softly.
“I’ll catch you at the officer’s club around lunch,” Lightfoot said.
“Cash.”
“Of course,” Lightfoot responded. “Oh, by the way. That includes contacting me the minute any response comes in. I mean immediately.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Right. See ya,” Lightfoot said, clicking his fingers.
Lightfoot left the communications center and headed back down the long hallway that led to outside. There wasn’t much else he could do at the moment until Ramstead sent out the message and got back the response from ANI. So Lightfoot thought he’d snoop around some more to see if he could find out anything else about this mysterious journey out to The Ice.
Before opening the door, he pondered his next move. The Quartermaster’s supply depot. Lightfoot stepped into the frigid wind, the iciness shocking him back into the reality of the Antarctic landscape. He scurried along the path that led to the Navy logistical complex. For sure he’d get some information there. After all, if Ruger was headed out this afternoon, and he’d just talked to Ruger in the club lounge, then all the gear must already be packed ready to go. Besides, he was probably waiting to bang Bryson before he went back out on The Ice anyway.
The wind blew Lightfoot along the path. If ANI didn’t respond, he’d have to come up with a plan ‘B’, although at the moment he hadn’t the slightest inkling what that plan would be.
In the days to come, John Lightfoot would question his own motives for wanting to even try and find out what was going on out there. Some things are better off not investigating, even if the story proves to be too extraordinary for anyone to even want to believe.
Chapter 5
FEBRUARY 7, 20--
ROSS SEA, ANTARCTICA
NATIONAL SCIENCE FOUNDATION
RESEARCH VESS
EL PENGUIN PRINCESS
8:47 P.M. GMT
It was not the only encounter that was going to be reported in the month of February, but it was the one that was going to have the greatest significance. And controversy. Oddly enough, the strange events following the discovery of the alien artifacts would not start in the sky.
It was evening, and most of the on-deck activities had ceased for the day waiting to be resumed the following morning. The United States National Science Foundation Research Vessel Penguin Princess was floating listlessly in the bitterly cold windblown fog of the Ross Sea, far out from the icy escarpments of the mainland where most of the fishing trawlers sat wallowing in the swells to wait out the fog. It was safer out here, away from the fishing activities.
Captain Gamage, too, had opted to wait out the fog, which hopefully by morning would be dissipated enough for the ship to move off to the next pre-scheduled location in the study program itinerary. The next trawling area for the Penguin Princess was only a short nautical distance away. The big icebergs were mostly dissipated by this time of year, having long been captured by the currents and moved farther out to sea. But still, there was always the chance a late season rogue iceberg would be lurking in the density of the fog despite the sensitive radar detection that the ship carried. There was no reason to take the chance and sail tonight. But what was about to emerge from the fog, however, would make any iceberg a welcome accompanist.
The ship was assigned to the NSF Division of Polar Programs, sailing out of the U.S. Palmer Station, a major research facility specializing in the study of Antarctic marine biology. Krill—small shrimp like crustaceans—were the primary life forms studied at Palmer, since krill was the primary food source for a great preponderance of sea life in the frigid waters of the south polar region. The marine ecosystems were bountiful, and they were as diversified as any on the planet.
The Penguin Princess would trawl with her nets for thirty minutes at a time, then haul in, dropping the contents onto the open deck area where the team of research marine biologists would sort through the plethora of marine life deposited there. It was a veritable underwater neighborhood—jellyfish, spiked sponges, corals, starfish, octopuses, strange invertebrates that resembled human intestines, fish of exotic appearance having savage teeth and exuding an offensive slime. Catches that were bountiful were then sorted and shoveled through the open hatchway for further arrangement and cataloging. The remainder was shoveled back into the sea. Many of the creatures were unique to this part of the world, existing nowhere else. The last haul of the day that was deposited on deck was when the strangeness began.
When Dr. Coughenour was first summoned to come take a look at the pile of slimy marine life that had just been shoveled below deck into the holding tank, he thought he was seeing things. When he pulled out one of the creatures to inspect it more closely, his colleagues, equally speechless, gathered around. They had all collectively come to the same conclusion that Dr. Coughenour was about to conclude. Impossible as it may have been, Coughenour was holding up a tropical Angelfish.
“Dr. Coughenour,” one of the researchers called from the other side of the tank. “I think you’d better come take a look at this, too.”
In the holding tank, there came the unmistakable snapping hiss of a young crocodile whose head was peering out of the water.
“This is some kind of a joke,” Coughenour replied angrily, out of character from his usual lethargic demeanor. But no one responded. No one spoke for several more minutes while the whole team began sorting through the tank, which suddenly had become like a tropical aquarium filled with familiar easily identifiable warm water creatures—all of which should have been dead, not able to survive in the frigid waters of the Ross Sea. More accurately, shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
Yet they were there, flopping and splashing in the shallow steel holding tank. It took that long for Dr. Coughenour to recover from his initial shock that the impossible had really happened. “Water! Get some sea water into this tank! Now! Warm it! Get warm sea water.”
The crew and researchers alike jumped at Coughenour’s command, trying to keep the fragile creatures alive. In the course of the next half hour, they were able to save about half of the more hearty ones. The Angelfish all died off, but many of the other identified species, by all indications, looked like they were going to survive, at least for a short while. After an hour had passed, they were able to positively identify twenty three different creature varieties, including the lone baby crocodile, several banded sea snakes—extremely venomous—and twenty one other species of tropical fishes.
It took a while before the team could narrow it down as to where on the planet Earth a trawling ship could cast its net and come up with this very conglomeration of creatures that the Penguin Princess had pulled from the frigid waters of Antarctica. There were several potential locations, most likely the Indian Ocean since the reptile was a saltwater croc, except that the Angelfish were still out of place. But it was immaterial which one was right. All the potential locations were within fifteen degrees of the equator. The Penguin Princess was at seventy six degrees latitude.
When the initial shock and excitement of the strange discovery began to ebb, the scientific minds commenced to find a plausible explanation for the strange phenomena. Everything from the rain of frogs on Egypt to Edgar Rice Burrough’s Lost Word was discussed.
“This is getting preposterous!” Coughenour bellowed at his staff, disgusted. “I want an explanation. We’re scientists. Not storytellers.”
The most plausible explanation was that somehow a huge underwater vortex had been created that managed to retain the nutrients and maintain the critical temperature to sustain these creatures as the vortex traveled along the ocean underwater river system. “That’s fine,” one oceanographer researcher commented, “but there are no known underwater systems that would bring this vortex to this exact location.”
“Even the strongest currents would take months at the fastest.”
“Not only that,” another commented, “but where did the croc come from? This variety may be salt water aquatic, but they still breath air.”
This most plausible of all explanations, however, wasn’t that far from the truth. Only it wasn’t a vortex that had transported the pocket of tropical marine life to the Ross Sea. At that very moment, the Penguin Princess was about to find out the answer.
The call came down to Dr. Coughenour rather abruptly from Captain Gamage on the bridge. Could he come up there right away? Coughenour and several of his staff hurried to the bridge where they were told that sonar had just picked up a huge underwater object off the port bow that was heading directly for the ship, range 2,000 yards, depth about a hundred feet. It hadn’t been there a minute before Gamage called. It just suddenly showed up. The operator reported that it was too large to be a single animal—the variety of whales in the region weren’t that big—and promptly suggested that it might be a pod of Minke whales so closely compacted that they appeared as a single entity.
They watched through the dense fog which barely reflected enough ambient light to make out objects in the water.
“Are you certain it’s not a berg?” Coughenour asked the Captain.
“Positive,” he replied. “Radar shows too symmetrical an image. It’s no berg.” Gamage barked an order to the Chief Engineering Officer. “All ahead, slow, Mr. Geddes.”
“Aye, sir. Ahead slow,” came the response.
The ship stirred to life and the vessel began moving slowly through the water to get out of the way, the subtle hum of its engines the only revealing sound that there was even a ship on the water. The vessel bobbed in the swells, while on board the silence of the crew and the team members was as hushed as the ocean surrounding them. Everyone on board was peering off the port bow into the fog.
“Two hundred yards,” Captain Gamage reported. “It’s turned. It’s still heading towards us.”
“It’s got to be a sub,” somebody sa
id.
Gamage shook his head. The crew and most of the others knew it wasn’t any submarine.
Gamage called out an order again. “Right full rudder. All ahead three quarters, Mr. Geddes.”
“Right full rudder. All ahead three quarters. Aye, sir,” Geddes responded.
The water churned and the Penguin Princess lurched through the water. Several more minutes of stillness went by. Gamage finally said what everyone suspected. “It’s still following us. It’s staying parallel to port.”
“Hundred yards, sir,” the operator said.
“Full stop, Mr. Geddes,” Gamage ordered. The engines grew silent again, and the ship’s momentum continued to propel it through the murkiness for another few minutes.
More time passed in silence before the ship was again floating listlessly in the swells. But the object had also stopped, this time maintaining the same distance.
The stillness had become overwhelming. Someone soon noticed that they couldn’t even discern the lapping of the ocean against the small chunks of ice that floated perpetually on the surface of the Ross Sea. At first the glow in the water off to port was subtle. Within several minutes it became apparent that whatever was sitting out there beneath the surface and under the shroud of fog was now giving off a tremendous amount of light. The glow, which at first had been white, turned to a multi-color display that began reflecting off the chunks of ice floating all around the Penguin Princess.
Out of the obscurity of the freezing mist, they heard a woo--oosh, like the suction sound when something large is rapidly pulled from submersion in water up into the open air. Captain Gamage anticipated the after-effect, the residual waves rocking the ship as they passed in succession under the vessel. Coughenour saw fear in Gamage’s eyes, but it didn’t take a ship’s captain to tell anyone that whatever could make sudden waves that huge on a relatively calm ocean had to be of enormous size.
The Nexus Colony Page 10