So that’s the way it’s going to be, Ruger thought, the fury growing. But he needed his wits about himself now more than allowing his anger to take control. “Then I’m going up,” he said to Abbott. “And I want Hilly to go along.”
Abbott was silent for a moment. “All right,” he replied calmly. “All right, Mike. You go ahead. But just prepare yourself for what you might not want to see.”
Before Ruger could respond, Abbott turned and went back in through the ice opening.
“What’s going on out here?” he heard Grimes’ voice through the wall.
“I don’t know, Hilly,” Ruger responded. “But you and I are going back topside to find out.”
“No. I’m staying down here, Mike,” Grimes replied. It caught Ruger off guard.
Ruger peered through the opening where he could see the silhouette of his friend. “Don’t be an asshole, Hilly. There’s severe weather upstairs that could end up stranding everybody down here for days. You know all about that.”
“You go on ahead,” Grimes replied. “I can’t walk away from this one, Mike. I can’t.”
“God damn it!” Ruger exclaimed. He turned and left in frustration. There was no more sense in arguing the point.
Ruger had some difficulty in re-establishing contact with Monroe, only a hundred and fifty feet away. Ruger was getting alarmed. “…I said…reel me up!”
As Ruger neared the surface, the ominous black sky was threatening to blot out what little light was left to illuminate the Antarctic landscape. And Abbott’s words about being prepared for what he might not want to see were suddenly sinking in. As Ruger broke the surface, he could do nothing more than vocally vent his frustration, as he cursed loudly into the face of a strong wind.
* * * * *
The heat from the camp stove felt fantastic, but it did little else to quell the fear that this whole ordeal had imposed upon her. She brought the cup of hot soup up to her lips, cursing in the face of her terror as she trembled so out of control that it splashed the hot liquid onto her hands. Foremost on Allison’s mind was, What have they done to Lightfoot? She had searched, but he wasn’t present in any of the shelters.
The wind pounded fiercely against the walls of the tent. The air pressure inside, as always, threatened to make the tent explode into oblivion. Ruger said it would hold up. If it didn’t, she would simply die. Not from Abbott and his people, but at the hands of the messenger from The Ice.
Her nervous laughter brought on a tone of the macabre, but the mood was unexpectedly broken when she felt the sudden change in air pressure inside the tent. Her first thought was that it was finally happening. The end. The tent was breaking up. She began to cry. The figure that had come through the door was upon her quickly. She spilled the hot soup in her lap.
Ruger held her tightly, caressing her matted hair, kissing her softly around her face, reassuring her with words that suggested everything was all right, she was safe and he was there to protect her.
It took several minutes for her to calm down. Ruger checked her hands and feet thoroughly for any signs of frostbite. Fortunately, she was unscathed. The insulated suit had done its job, especially keeping her feet from penetration of the cold. He forced her to help him get herself back into the protective outer clothing. She protested. He insisted.
When Ruger was assured that she had calmed herself down, he began questioning her about what had gone on in his absence. What did she know about the circular depression outside and the “re-arrangement” of the encampment. And those bastards are going to pay for keeping you exposed outside for so long!
Allison shook here head, trying to control her sobbing. “I don’t know much of anything.”
He wiped her face with a damp, warm towel. “Where’s Lightfoot?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?” Ruger responded, confused.
She didn’t respond. “Allison. Where did he go?”
“I don’t know what they’ve done with him, Mike,” she replied. “He wasn’t here. Ever.”
Ruger felt the rage growing inside as he kept wiping the tears streaming across her face. “How long were you outside through all of this?”
“Long time. I just got here,” she said, whimpering. “He kept me up there on the ridge. They said Lightfoot was down here sick. They wouldn’t let me come down to help him. I had to pee so bad…”
Ruger gently held her by the shoulders. Softly, he said, “You have to get a hold of yourself, baby. Everything is under control now. I need you. Okay?”
She attempted to smile. “Okay.”
“You said you never saw Lightfoot?”
She shook her head ‘no’.
“What the hell is going on?” he said, standing up.
“A plane was here,” she said.
Ruger gasped, “What?”
“A plane came down. Landed here. I tried to leave with it, but they wouldn’t let me on. I watched it land from up there. That’s when I took the snowmobile and I thought Monroe was going to shoot me and…I was so afraid…”
Ruger held her again. “It’s all right now, baby.”
So, Ruger thought. Abbott must have called in a plane when he came back up a few hours ago. The timing makes sense. He must have had one on stand-by back at McMurdo.
“Let me guess,” Ruger said. “They took only the body.”
“Yes,” she replied.
“But they wouldn’t take you.”
“No.”
“And they didn’t take Lightfoot.”
“No.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“I’m sure,” she repeated adamantly. “I was right there with them the whole time on the plane. They put that body on. They let me on to get out of the wind. Then they made me get off.”
Ruger was outraged. How the aircraft ever managed to land and take off again considering the awful wind conditions was amazing. It sounded like a suicide mission. The winds upstairs must be buffeting the hell out of the plane. Those government bastards will stop at nothing and sacrifice anything or anybody to get what they want.
Ruger contemplated his next move. Monroe had almost been an obstacle. When Ruger had reached the top of the crevasse, Monroe was waiting for him at the controls of the winch.
“I’m going down to camp,” Ruger said.
“No. You’re not,” a disoriented Monroe replied.
Ruger looked around. “Where’s Allison?” he asked.
Monroe stared off into space.
“Do yourself a favor, Monroe,” Ruger yelled angrily into the face of a howling wind that was threatening to knock both of them off their feet. “Get yourself some shelter before you end up frostbitten and at the bottom of that crevasse the hard way.”
Monroe nodded. He said something back, but Ruger couldn’t hear if he was coherent or not. “I’m going down there,” Ruger yelled at him. “Now get back.”
Monroe stood motionless. The man held the gun pointed at him. That’s when Ruger left. He thanked God, because he had tempted fate once again.
“…I’m so scared,” she said, breaking his train of thought.
Ruger held her. “Something happened outside, but I don’t know what. Are you sure you didn’t see anything?”
“No.”
Ruger kept the terrifying thoughts to himself that Abbott had suggested several hours before. This nightmare couldn’t be happening. But it was.
The time. Ruger looked at the time on the small clock near the camp stove. “Shit…” he said, pulling on his parka and mask. “I’ll be right back.”
“No! Don’t leave me!” she implored.
He held her gently by the shoulders. “I won’t be long. With any luck, I can still get a message out over the Internet or if not, maybe on Abbott’s radio. Now just wait here. You’ll be all right.” He didn’t believe it, but it was worth the try.
Ruger made his way through the roaring wind and into Abbott’s tent. He cursed loudly, fumbling through the gear. The radio t
ransmitter was minus the battery pack, which was an integral part of the device. It needed to be on the radio when you hooked it up to the converter adapter for power. Abbott was making sure nobody used it without his knowledge. Ruger crossed his fingers and switched on the computer. He breathed a sigh of relief when it hummed to life. While it loaded, he searched frantically for the missing battery pack. If it was hidden in the tent, Abbott had done a good job. Monroe’s condition unexpectedly crossed his mind. The man had to have frostbite by now.
The system was loaded. Ruger typed in the message short and to the point. It read: Emergency. Situation critical. Request evac ASAP. Field Team Ruger End.
Whether the signal was strong enough to be picked up by the passing satellite, he wasn’t sure. The timeframe for the overpass was at the end of the window. Probably passed. At worst, he would have to figure out how to rig up the radio without the battery pack. There wasn’t time now.
Ruger spotted the case of food ration packets, grabbed an open gear bag and stuffed several handfuls into it. The fierce wind pounded against the tent walls. The anchors were holding well. He prayed they did their job. Especially the ones holding Allison’s tent. That was why he kept her dressed in full outer garment. In case the tent let go and she’d have to scurry for cover into another one. The frigid conditions were frightening enough without having to confront unexpected exposure. One or two minutes of disorientation and a human could easily perish. Ruger had to make sure that she was safe and secure. Because he was going back down into the crevasse to confront Abbott one last time and get them the hell out of there. He was taking the food along in case they got stranded. If they did, sooner or later somebody would come looking.
Allison…Ruger only prayed he was making the right decision to keep her in the tent. The katabatic winds were fierce, but they weren’t their fiercest in the summer months. As Ruger trekked back across the short distance to the tent, a gust almost knocked him off his feet. He quickly checked the anchors. They were secure. He used himself to gauge the strength of the wind. As long as it didn’t pick up beyond ten more knots, everything should hold.
She protested. Knowing she would, Ruger tried his best to comfort her and assure her that the tent would be safe. It was the safest place for anybody to be. Whether she liked it or not, he was going to attempt to have Monroe come down here with her. How do you expect to get back out of the crevasse? He’d climb the rappelling rope line, then get the rest of them out with the winch.
As Ruger secured the zipper from outside, he had two prayers. The first was that the winch stayed securely anchored to the ice. The other prayer…that they left them alone.
Chapter 17
FEBRUARY 10, 20--
FLIGHT PATH TO PUNTAS ARENAS, CHILE
WEST OF TRANSANTARCTIC MOUNTAINS
ALTITUDE 24,500 FEET
6:22 P.M. GMT
Those left behind on the Mulock Glacier had no idea just how hard the winds had been buffeting the wings of the LC-130 that departed the Mulock Glacier a short while ago. The pilot—one of the most experienced C.I.A. pilots in the eastern theater of operations—thought for sure that this was going to be his final flight.
The aircraft groaned. The airframe felt as if the wings were flapping like a bird. Imagine this, the pilot thought. All the years of dodging every conceivable air attack in every imaginable rotten corner of the world, and it comes down to this. Torn apart by high altitude winds and scattered across the Antarctic landscape. What a fucking ignominious way to go out.
“God damn it!” he cursed out loud above the din as the plane dropped into a huge air pocket, the inside of the flight deck echoing the whump! as he fought the yoke to stabilize the aircraft.
“Almost lost it that time,” he announced disgustedly to the co-pilot, who despite it all, sat there calmly as if they were flying low altitude over a tropical island with everyone enjoying the scenery. The bastard is probably shitting his pants. He doesn’t fool me.
The flight plan was simple. Make the run to Puntas Arenas to the Chilean Air Force Base where they would rendezvous with a U.S. Air Force liaison with a courier plane to transfer the cargo. Probably a high speed jet, one that could make the run back to the States quickly, which is where he assumed the cargo was destined. Must be one important son-of-a-bitch who got his ass frozen out there for the government boys to risk sending us in under these weather conditions. He wondered if the same government boys were going to come back to scrape up their remains along with that damn frozen body when the plane augured into the ice below. Probably not. They’d only want the body back there in the cargo hold. What did it matter anyway?
The ride smoothed out, and for the next several minutes the pilot was able to maintain stability, but he wasn’t comfortable enough yet to engage the auto-pilot. And at the moment, there didn’t seem to be any altitude safer than the one they were cruising at. Sit back and enjoy the ride while we can, he thought.
The strange event began when he heard the flight navigator cursing loudly above the drone of the engines. The navigational Doppler device began acting up. “How good are you at flying by the seat of your pants?” he called out to the pilot from the rear of the flight deck.
“Guess we’re going to find out, huh?” the pilot responded under his breath as he observed the compass needle on the instrument panel begin to go haywire.
Quickly focusing on the most discernible point on the distant horizon, he applied all his years experience in the attempt to keep orientation. It was easy to lose, especially when flying polar routes. Fortunately, the horizon was dark. Comfortable, at least for the moment, he glanced back down at the instrument clusters. Now they were all starting to function abnormally.
“What the hell…” the co-pilot exclaimed as suddenly the auto-pilot control system activated. He looked at the pilot. Speechless, they both stared at the controls.
The aircraft began to bank as if some invisible hand had taken the yoke control. “Shut that fucking thing off,” the pilot ordered.
“I didn’t turn it on,” the co-pilot responded.
As if on cue, they both grabbed the yoke, the co-pilot simultaneously flipping the switch controlling the auto-pilot feature. They tried desperately to disengage the system. The plane did not respond. It was as if the aircraft had developed a mind of its own, the plane responding to absolutely nothing that either of them attempted to do.
“Jesus, I don’t believe this!” the pilot exclaimed, sitting back in the seat and holding his hands helplessly in the air.
Suddenly, one of the back-enders came through the door leading to the flight deck. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed. “You guys get a load of that off the port wing?”
All heads turned to look out the side window. The plane continued to bank into a slow turn, then leveled off a minute later. It was heading straight toward the formation of white lights. Through the spider-web front Plexiglas of the LC-130, they now had a panoramic view. The whole crew crowded onto the flight deck. They gaped in disbelief at the enormity of the strange craft that was positioned at the center of the light formation in the far off distance.
The pilot could tell it was still many miles off. But there was no mistaking what they were seeing. This was no light aberration. It was silhouetted against a charcoal sky. The huge craft was surrounded by a ring of pulsating, colored lights. It appeared to be hovering, presumably at their last know altitude of about twenty five thousand feet.
“What the…what are they doing…” someone said, when suddenly the formation of smaller craft that had been hovering broke formation and headed straight at them.
“Jesus! Oh, Jesus! They’re going to crash into us!”
Frantically, the pilot and co-pilot pulled as hard as they could on the yoke trying to wrestle control of the plane. It was heading straight toward the mother ship. God knows how many of the white lights continued on their path heading straight at them.
The navigator screamed into the radio, “Mayday! Mayday!” yelling their l
ast known position, screaming something to the effect that they were being attacked by spacecraft.
Collision was imminent. It was now clearly seen that the white lights were flying disks. They had taken a formation where two of them were at the front of the attack, the rest falling in directly behind the two leaders.
“It’s all over, guys,” someone cried out. “They’re going to hit us! My God! Oh, my God! Please no!”
No less than one second before impact, the formation, one by one, broke away over the top of the airplane. Bracing himself against the collision, when the pilot realized they weren’t going to be hit, he braced for the rock and roll that would be created by the buffeting air as the strange little silvery disks streaked over top within feet of the plane. The expected buffeting never came. One by one the disks passed by directly over top the flight deck.
“How many?” the pilot cried out. “God damn it! How many?!”
Not that anyone had bothered to count. It was merely a terrified response to an even more terrifying situation.
Subconsciously in his head, perhaps because of all his years in the business, the pilot tried to estimate the size of the mother ship ahead. The LC-130’s airspeed had to be about two hundred fifty knots, and the mother ship kept getting larger and larger in view. His perception was now completely disoriented, and he sounded like a simpleton when he responded, “My God! It’s just enormous!”
The navigator had lost control of himself and was in a panic. “Please no! Please no!” he cried out. “They’re going to take us on board! They’re taking us inside!”
His panic-stricken words struck deep. They were headed directly toward the center of the huge spacecraft, the impact imminent and only seconds away.
The pilot’s emotions now turned to absolute anger. “Say your prayers, boys,” he exclaimed, gritting his teeth in rage. “Those mother-fuckers…”
Completely unexpectedly, the massive mother ship suddenly rose upward. As the LC-130 passed directly beneath, all eyes on the flight deck were gaping upward through the Plexiglas panels at the incredible and unbelievable sight. It would be etched in each man’s mind for the rest of the lives.
The Nexus Colony Page 29