The Nexus Colony

by G. F. Schreader

  There was a moment of light-hearted chuckles. Korbett said, “Well, at any rate. I guess we’ll have to wait and see if Abbott finds anything that suggests a terrestrial implication. In the meantime…”

  Koslovsky snickered, then laughed. “Lord knows if Abbott finds a swastika it will probably be a bigger field day for the news media than if we find an alien base.”

  They all laughed. Maggie stuck her head in the door. “Sorry to bother again, General. Ted Payne is on the line. Says its urgent.”

  Korbett responded, aside, “Everything is urgent with that man.” Breathing a sigh of surrender—they needed a little stimulating laugh now and then—Korbett got up from the table. “I’ll take it out there, Maggie,” he said, walking toward her.

  As Korbett picked up the phone in the other room, he couldn’t help thinking about the conversation they’d just had about secret Nazi bases in Antarctica. If Ted Payne could hear some of the discussions this group came up with, they’d all probably be fired for sure.

  “Hello, Ted,” Korbett spoke into the mouthpiece, feigning cordiality as he always did. “I wasn’t expecting to talk with you until after lunch.”

  The voice on the other end wasn’t as cordial. “We’ve been compromised, Korbett,” Payne said. “Seems like the AP is inquiring of the State Department about our secret project going on at McMurdo.”

  Korbett waited for more, but Payne didn’t offer any further explanation. “Yeah? So?” he said.

  “Somebody’s blabbing, Korbett. That’s all.”

  Again, Korbett waited for him to say more, then replied. “What are you suggesting, Ted?” he asked, much less cordial than he wanted to be. It was hard to decipher Ted Payne’s demeanor, even when he sounded accusatory.

  “Just make sure it isn’t any of your people.”

  “I’m sure it’s not.”

  “See that it isn’t.”

  Korbett bit his tongue. “And what is it you want me to do about it, Ted?”

  “Nothing at the moment,” he responded.

  Then why in the hell are you calling me, you asshole?

  Payne said, “See if you can come up with some believable contingency statement if we can’t diffuse it, that’s all.”

  “Right,” Korbett replied. “Have you tried weather balloons lately?” Korbett suggested, then regretted his referring to the now world famous story used to cover up the Roswell incident.

  “What?” Payne replied, angrily. “Get serious, Korbett.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” he replied. “We’ll think of something.”

  “I meant what I said earlier, General,” Payne added. “I want some results. Keep on the asses of your people out in the field.”

  “I’m on them, Ted.”

  “Good.”

  “You still want me to call you back after lunch?” Korbett asked, hoping to further annoy the man.

  Ted Payne hung up. “Fuck you, Ted,” Korbett muttered under his breath into the mouthpiece, barely able to contain his anger.

  Well, it was just as he anticipated. Sooner or later the whole story was going to leak out of the Antarctic. Maybe now Payne will keep his attention diverted to making cover-ups instead of bugging him to get results.

  Korbett walked back down the hall toward the room. As he passed by Maggie, he hesitated, and said, “Cancel that call to Ted Payne for later. Why don’t you order some lunch now and just send it in. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Maggie responded. “How late do you intend to stay today?”

  “I don’t think too late, Maggie,” he replied. For that matter, we might as well all go home now and wait for Abbott’s next report.

  Korbett re-entered the room. The four of them were all mulling aimlessly around the table. Might as well come up with a believable contingency statement while there was a lull in the action.

  Maybe the swastika story wouldn’t be a bad idea after all. It would certainly be more newsworthy and believable than crocodiles.

  Chapter 10

  FEBRUARY 9, 20--

  MULOCK GLACIER

  ENCAMPMENT

  2:10 P.M. GMT

  The temperature may have been a balmy minus fifteen degrees Fahrenheit outside, but inside the Scott tent the temperature had risen close to fifty—actually too warm, even to the point where it was uncomfortable for the heavy layers of clothing.

  In the excitement that had followed the John Lightfoot encounter—Prall was intent on calling the interruption a detainment—everyone had congregated in Marsh Abbott’s tent, which also served as the command center. Jammed like sardines in a can, they were all crowded there to watch the interrogation of the terrified journalist who had narrowly and miraculously escaped his own execution at the hands of Donnie Monroe only because Mike Ruger’s arrival on the snowmobile had diverted Monroe’s aim the instant before he had pulled the trigger. Ruger was still uneasy and pissed as hell that these two goons were toting guns. You don’t need guns in Antarctica.

  The bullet missed Lightfoot, who fortunately had slipped on the ice at the same instant Ruger’s machine pummeled into the sastrugi where Prall and Monroe had positioned themselves to carry out the execution of the intruder. Prall would have finished the task had Ruger not managed to turn around in time for Abbott to order Prall to stand down, otherwise Lightfoot would have been blown apart all over the glacier—an unanticipated casualty. Like Ruger had told himself on the way out here to the Mulock, some things are expendable with these kinds of expeditions, especially people.

  Ruger and Prall had come to blows – as physical as it could get in all their heavy clothing – right there on the ice as Ruger dove at the man even before the snowmobile came to a full stop. If not for Abbott’s intervention—including his physically trying to restrain the outraged German—Ruger surely would have killed Colonel Prall. Marshall Abbott had unwittingly gained more insight into this enigmatic loner. Not only was he as strong as an ox—Abbott could barely contain him—but the man was incredibly agile even when cocooned in polar garb.

  It took the arrival of Lisk and the others before the situation settled enough to even where Mike Ruger’s pronouncement that both Prall and Monroe were murderous bastards! could be quelled. Even now, here in the tent where things had relatively calmed down, Abbott was still having to diffuse the situation between Prall and Ruger. Probably for the first time in Abbott’s career, he was glad there was a woman along whose personal involvement was advantageous to his gaining control. Allison Bryson held tightly to Mike Ruger’s arm, even while the big man fumed with rage behind his mask of calm. Prall simply stood posing in typical military gait. His sitting at ease military style infuriated Ruger all the more.

  “It’s hot as hell in here,” Abbott proclaimed calmly. “Open the damn zipper and let some air in,” he said, hands on hips as he assessed the situation.

  John Lightfoot cowered on the floor next to one of the camp stoves. Clearly still in mild shock, all he could blurt out was his appeal to save his photographic equipment that was strapped to the sled parked outside. To which Ruger mumbled under his breath that Lightfoot ought to be glad he’s still got his fucking brains in tact.

  Scott tents were large, but nine people plus gear and supplies made for cramped quarters. Despite Abbott’s sudden change of tactic ordering Ruger, Bryson, and Grimes outside, the three of them refused to leave. Ruger wasn’t about to leave Lightfoot alone with Abbott’s henchmen, and he made that fact perfectly clear.

  Where to begin seemed to put Colonel Abbott in a temporary quandary. From everyone talking and yelling to an abrupt moment of silence, Abbott stood over Lightfoot trying to figure out what to do about him. The wind was suddenly picking up outside, and the sound of the tent flap slapping against the side of the shelter rudely reminded everyone that the frigid isolation of the Antarctic wilderness was still outside, lingering like a lurking predator. Things began cooling off, including the ambient temperature as the wind blew in through the door. Abbott motioned to Grimes, “Close it.”

&
nbsp; Abbott knelt next to the cowering figure. His voice retained the passive calmness, and it forced Lightfoot to look up into his face.

  “Mr. Lightfoot,” Abbott began, “you are in some deep trouble, but I’m sure you are already aware of that.”

  Lightfoot simply nodded, his eyes bulging with fear.

  “I’m going to scrape away all the bullshit, Lightfoot,” Abbott continued, quite succinctly. “You evidently know enough to understand that what’s going on out here is a government project, of which you’ve no reason to be a part of. You’ll be handed over as soon as I can get somebody out here. Be glad you’re still alive. My people had every right to shoot you. That’s their job. That’s why they’re here.”

  Abbott arose. His words sunk in, not only to Lightfoot, but to the others as well. Abbott was holding the two cameras—both old Olympus OM1’s as Lisk had informed him—that Almshouse had just retrieved from Lightfoot’s sled. Lisk was pointing to the number counters in the windows of both cameras. They were indicating number one.

  “Fresh film,” Lisk said. “Both cameras. He was taking pictures from the air.”

  “No digital cameras?” Abbott inquired, looking at Lightfoot who shook his head ‘no’.

  Abbott wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. He knelt back down next to Lightfoot, and asked quietly, “Where’s the film you took from the air?”

  If Lightfoot had been at all intimidated or terrified before from the experience, it certainly didn’t show now. His sudden change to effrontery caught everyone by surprise. “It’s on it’s way back,” he answered, as impudent as it sounded. Abbott, not to be intimidated, responded by standing up again. Lightfoot added, “Along with a tape recording of what’s going on out here.”

  For a moment, everyone stood motionless, and Ruger especially was taken back by Lightfoot’s sudden hubris. This is not the time and place to fuck with these guys, John, Ruger found himself thinking.

  Ironically, Abbott, Lisk, and Prall all simultaneously looked at one another. Secrets among thieves, was what Ruger and everybody else was thinking. Abbott contemplated, and Ruger knew Abbott was calculating whether his transmission to be sent out would get through the channels in sufficient time to stem the flow of information, and in particular, have enough time to intercept the plane. Ruger shuddered to think that the U.S. Government would even contemplate shooting it down.

  Abbott slowly turned back to Lightfoot. “Just what is going on out here, Mr. Lightfoot?” he asked, and it took on a surprising tone of innocence.

  There was a moment of silence. The question seemed to throw Lightfoot a curve, but he recovered quickly. “The whole fucking continent knows why you bastards are out here, Mister…. ‘er, what was your name anyway?” Same old cocky asshole, Ruger thought, and it infuriated him even more than Prall.

  But Abbott wasn’t rattled in the least. “Tell me, Mr. Lightfoot…what you think you saw from up in the air…” and he gestured.

  “A lot more than you’ll ever give me credit for,” Lightfoot responded.

  Abbott smirked. “I don’t give you credit for anything.”

  “Photographs speak for themselves. When they get where they’re going, it will confirm our suspicions about you assholes.”

  “Our suspicions?” Abbott replied, amused. “I think there’s only one asshole with any suspicions, Mr. Lightfoot, and you happen to be it.”

  Lightfoot smirked himself, and Ruger thought just how much this man’s facial expressions made a person want to put a fist down his throat. So much for new found compassion, Ruger thought.

  “Speculation,” Lightfoot responded.

  Abbott was silent for a few moments. Even Ruger could see he was carefully studying the man’s face and body language that none of the others, including Ruger, were able to interpret. Abbott evidently saw something nobody else saw. He turned to Lisk and confidently said, “He’s got nothing.”

  In the moment of silence that followed, Lightfoot’s face went ashen. Ruger could see that Abbott was right. Tiny beads of sweat began forming on Lightfoot’s forehead. You didn’t sweat out on the Antarctic ice fields. Lightfoot suddenly blurted out, “I saw what you found down there! I photographed it!”

  But Abbott didn’t respond, and everybody knew by the pathetic tone of Lightfoot’s voice—as much as he tried to disguise it—he was trying desperately to play his trump card.

  Prall moved in for the kill. “What do you want to do with him?”

  “Wait a minute!” the despairing Lightfoot cried out, standing up, a pathetic sight. “Wait just a darn minute! I’m a U.S. citizen and you can’t do anything to me!”

  “We’ll confine him to one of the tents until we can get somebody out here to take him back,” Abbott said.

  “Want me to immobilize him?” Prall asked.

  To everyone’s surprise, Allison protested, “Marsh!” she implored. “What are you planning to do with him?”

  Abbott turned to face her, expressionless. “That’s not your concern, Dr. Bryson.”

  “It is my concern, sir!” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. Ruger pulled her back as she moved toward Abbott.

  “Allison!” Ruger reprimanded.

  “Do something!” she implored Ruger.

  Ruger held up his hand. Abbott didn’t move. “Look, Marsh,” he tried to reason. “We’ve had enough trouble here. Let’s just hold on a second. We can’t take a human being into this environment and incapacitate him just because you say so. Let’s be reasonable here.”

  Abbott snapped back at Ruger. “Like I said to Bryson, Mike. Not your concern!”

  “Bit it is my concern!” he yelled back, angrily. “I’m responsible for the safety of each human out here! Whether you interpret it or not, that includes John Lightfoot!”

  Abbott cast a glance at the terrified journalist.

  Ruger continued, “And I’m not about to let you tie up the son-of-a-bitch just because you think he’s in your way. He’s not!”

  Abbott didn’t respond. He looked back at Ruger with the same expressionless face.

  Allison started to say something again, but Ruger cut her off. “Look, Marsh,” he said, his voice a bit calmer, appealing to reason. “I agree with you…and I think everybody else does, too. He’s got nothing photographed. There’s nothing to see. He’s certainly not going to get away with anything once we leave this place. And…” Ruger was emphatic, “…he certainly isn’t going anywhere. But he does have something we can use.”

  Even Lightfoot looked puzzled.

  Ruger continued, “He’s a photographer. He takes good pictures of things. Think about it, Marsh. Think about it just for a moment.” Both men locked gazes. Abbott knew exactly what Ruger was talking about. It—the discovery of the strange structural beam—it was still down there in the crevasse, but nobody else knew about it yet other than the two of them.

  By the look on Abbott’s face, Ruger could see Abbott’s growing concern that he, Ruger might blurt something out, that for all intent and purpose wasn’t ready to be revealed just at the moment. Ruger saw the wheels turning in Abbott’s head. There was an opening and he took it. “Think, Marsh,” he said. “You wouldn’t have to worry about leaving him up here alone.”

  “I have no intention of leaving him alone,” Abbott replied, angrily, though not at Ruger.

  Ruger wasn’t about to give in. “He can document whatever we’re going to do out here and do one hell of a better job than you or I can do with that camera equipment you brought along. Your big shots in Washington don’t even know that type of digital camera they gave you won’t work in these extreme temperatures. This guy Lightfoot is smart. He uses film. And he uses the right equipment. You’re going to need good documentation. You’ve got the perfect tools.” Pointing at Lightfoot, Ruger added, “Use both instead of throwing them away.”

  Abbott let out an expression of disgust, but everybody could sense that Abbott knew Ruger was right. Why waste the guy’s talents when they could put him to
good use? Abbott looked back at Ruger, but couldn’t interpret his facial expression either way. It was either one of capitulation or stone-walling. No compromises! Ruger thought at first. But again, when Abbott didn’t respond, Ruger pressed the issue farther. “Whatever you do with the guy when you take him out of here is your concern. I don’t think any of us care…”

  “Ruger!” Lightfoot implored. “You gotta help me out of this, man…”

  “Shut up!” Ruger snapped, yelling. “Just shut up you stupid idiot!”

  Lightfoot cowered.

  Ruger breathed a sigh of disgust. “Let’s use this guy’s expertise, Marsh. What the hell is it going to hurt at this point? He sure as hell isn’t going anywhere.”

  Abbott took in a deep breath of the cold air that had filled up the tent again, letting out a cloud a white breath. Abbott said, quite calmly, “I want all of you out of here,” and he gestured to everyone except Lisk. And then to Prall he said, “Take this son-of-a-bitch and put him in Ruger’s tent for the time being.”

  As everyone was filing out, Lisk loaded up the computer program. Abbott said to Lisk, “Is he right about the digital cameras not working out here?”

  Lisk was a little embarrassed. “He’s probably right.” Abbott didn’t pursue it any further.

  Ruger could only guess at this point what Abbott was going to do, or better yet, how he was going to arrange to get Lightfoot retrieved. Abbott was no doubt deferring to his superiors. But anyway you wanted to look at it, it was going to take hours, maybe even days to make any arrangement.

  Outside, they marched in single file and Ruger had the distinct impression that the three of them, in addition to Lightfoot, were under guard. Allison stayed close to Ruger. There was even the look of fear on Hilly’s face, and it seemed to say it all. This whole expedition had suddenly turned into a nightmare. Ruger promised himself for the sake of all of them that he wasn’t going to let this insanity get any worse. Government secrets or no government secrets, he resolved to himself that if he had to turn this into a real survival situation where everyone’s life was at stake, he was going to do it. If that meant fighting these people, he’d do it and take his chances with the U.S. Government later.