“I vote we get outside, Cap” Wiggins replied. “This place gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies.”
The rest of the squad was in agreement.
“The hut it is then,” Banks said. “Let’s hope we can get the stove lit; otherwise, it’s going to get a tad chilly.”
“Maybe we’ll just burn Wiggins,” Hynd said. “All that lard should keep us toasty for a while.”
*
McCally took point again, and now that they knew the route, they made good time through the base and up into the suddenly too-bright Antarctic day. Banks looked straight ahead as they crossed through the open central chamber – he’d seen enough dead for one day. When they reached the top landing, they saw that some of the frost had melted from the man who lay below the main entrance. Some pink showed at his cheek, pink tinged with blue, and Banks again had a vision of the man standing up and going about his day. He stepped quickly over the body, not looking down, wondering whether he’d be able to stifle a scream if a cold hand reached for his ankle. He let out a sigh of relief he didn’t realize he’d been holding in when they stepped out into the daylight. He knew it wasn’t hot outside, but somehow it felt like a summer day in comparison to the cold, dark bowels of the base’s tunnels.
I’m not going back down there again unless I have to.
He closed the door behind him. It shut with a clang that he hoped was the ringing of a bell to bring the episode to an end.
*
Once they got to the hut, McCally took charge of organizing the men and trying to get the stove going. Banks and Hynd stood in the doorway while Hynd had a smoke.
“I’m going down to the dinghy to call it in, Sarge,” Banks said. “If we’re lucky, they’ll say that the paperwork is enough and we can hightail it back to the boat and a bit of dinner.”
“When are we ever lucky?” Hynd replied. “I’ll make a start on going through the papers while you’re away, just in case.”
Banks nodded and left Hynd to his smoke, heading back down the track to the jetty and the dinghy.
In other circumstances, he’d have taken his time and enjoyed the view which was a stunning vista of ice, rock, and clear blue water in picture-postcard quality, but something about this place still had him spooked, and his gut was telling him there was trouble brewing. As he’d told Hynd, he was hoping that the brass back home would be satisfied with the paperwork, but he knew better. As soon as they heard about the saucer, the paperwork would be almost secondary, no matter what revelations lay there.
*
He had to wait while the call was relayed through the icebreaker and on to Whitehall. The clipped tones of the voice at the other end were calm and measured for the most part, but he went quiet at the mention of the saucer, then quieter still when Banks mentioned the two names he’d read – Carnacki and Churchill.
“This needs to go up the chain to the highest level,” the man said. “Stay in position, and check back in four hours. We’ll have orders for you then.”
As he switched off the radio and climbed up out of the dinghy, Banks already knew what the answer would be. His gut told him, and kept telling him every step back up the track.
- 4 -
At least McCally had managed to get the stove going in the hut, although it was cramped inside with all eight of them in a space that looked to be made for no more than two or three men. Hughes, Patel, and Wilkes sat tight together on the bottom bunk, Wiggins was stretched out on the one above them, Parker and McCally were by the stove, with a kettle on and a pot boiling up some of the thin soup that passed as their rations. They all looked up as Banks entered.
“At ease, lads,” he said. “The brass needs some thinking time. Four hours till next check-in, so smoke them if you’ve got them.”
“So what do they think it is, Cap?” Wiggins asked. “Some black ops bullshit cobbled up during the war to try and make us shit ourselves?”
“Aye,” Parker said. “I’ve seen that film. Nazi UFO in a tube station in London, wasn’t it? Fucking ace that was.”
“This is no black ops,” Hynd said, and the room fell quiet. “We all saw the bodies, and the rust on the walls, and the age of the paperwork. It’s all too good; in fact, it’s fucking perfect. It’s exactly what it looks like. No more, no less.”
“But, Sarge,” Wiggins said. “Fucking NAZI UFOs? That’s just sad-sack internet conspiracy theory bollocks.”
“Not anymore it isn’t,” Hynd said. “You saw it. We all saw it.”
McCally came over from the stove and put a pot of soup on the table and some bowls and cutlery. The room was already warming up, so much so that Parker and McCally had taken off their outer jackets.
“Get it inside you, lads. We found enough wood to keep the stove running for a while, so at least we won’t freeze our nuts off for the next four hours.”
“Turn it down a tad,” Banks said. “And eke out the wood as much as you can. We might be here a bit longer than four hours, if my gut’s right.”
*
Banks and Hynd let the squad get to the soup first. Hynd had been as good as his word and been among the paperwork in the canvas kit bags they’d brought out of the base.
“This all looks legit, Cap,” the sergeant said. “But it’s as weird as fuck.”
“In what way?”
“Well, there’s orbital mechanics and flight plans and the like, everything you’d expect if they really were trying to attempt to get that fucker off the ground. But there are all sorts of other bits of shite along with the technical stuff. Take those gold markings on the floor under the saucer, for example. If I’m reading this right, it’s a fucking pentagram.”
“What, black magic, demonology, all that old bollocks?”
“Exactly. I’d heard the Nazis were mad for that kind of crap, but I never expected to find evidence all the way down here.”
“So what next? The fucking Lost Ark?”
Hynd shrugged.
“At this stage, Cap, very little would surprise me.”
Banks wasn’t really listening to his sergeant. His mind was back in the hangar, his foot on the gold circle, feeling the tingling vibration run through his body. His gut instinct was shouting loud at him now, but he pushed it down.
“Maybe Wiggins was right,” he said. “Maybe this is all some kind of black ops psychological shite.”
“Aye, maybe,” Hynd said. “But what if it isn’t?”
Banks clapped Hynd on the shoulder.
“Then we’ll just have to kick auld Nick in the nuts and fuck off for a pint,” he said. “Like we always do.”
*
His attempt at humor seemed to placate the sergeant, but Banks’ own mood was sour. After finishing the soup, Hughes, Patel, and Wilkes sat, tight together on the bottom bunk, and all three quickly went to sleep, accompanied by the snoring of Wiggins above them. Banks envied them the rest, but he couldn’t get his mind to settle. Parker, McCally, and Hynd got a card game going, but Banks was still thinking of the two names in the journal he’d found, still wondering as to their relevance to the current situation. He stepped over nearer the stove and sat leaning on the counter that served as chopping board and food preparation area. He got the old leather journal from his backpack, opened it up, and continued reading from where he’d left off.
Soon he had left the Antarctic behind, flying back to London, over a hundred years before.
*
I was expecting a parcel of books that Saturday morning, and when the knock came to the door in Cheyne Walk, I almost ran to answer, eagerly anticipating an afternoon of studious endeavor in my library among the pages of some new friends for my shelves. Instead, I found a tall, heavily built lad on my doorstep.
At first glance, I might have taken him for a policeman or a bruiser, for he had something of the manner of both, but his tone was polite, even cultured, as he handed me an envelope.
“I was told to pass this to you personally, sir,” he said. “It is for your eyes only.�
�
The envelope was plain, but of expensive paper, and the handwritten note was done most elegantly in the blackest of black inks with not the slightest smudge on it. The wording of the note itself was equally as terse as the deliverer’s message.
“I have sent my driver for you. Come immediately. It is of national importance.”
I suspected the name even before I read it. It was appended, simply, ‘Churchill.’ I knew the man well enough from our previous encounters to know he would not be an easy chap to refuse.
I took enough time to fetch an overcoat, a hat, and my pipe and tobacco. The burly young chap stood, stock-still, filling my doorway the whole time, and only moved aside to let me exit. Then I was, if not exactly bundled, enthusiastically encouraged into a waiting carriage and within seconds, we were off and away, heading east at some speed along the Embankment.
I had the interior of the rather well-appointed carriage to myself, the bearer of the telegram having stepped up to sit with the driver. Once we passed Westminster, and didn’t stop at Parliament, but continued to head even farther east, I realized it might be a longer trip than I had anticipated.
To pass the time, I read the note again, but it told me nothing new beyond the fact that Churchill was a man who expected to be obeyed. I hadn’t heard from him since our last encounter, but I remembered reading of his appointment as First Lord of the Admiralty in The Thunderer a month or so back. I wondered if this summons might had something to do with that, but I had insufficient facts to hand for such conjecture, and settled for lighting a pipe, trying to enjoy the journey, and not letting my curiosity turn to frayed nerves and a bad temper.
The carriage kept going along the north side of the river, past St. Paul’s and London Bridge, past the Tower, and headed into the warren of old quays and warehouses of the docks. I was starting to regret not having partaken of a larger breakfast.
I was still wondering quite how far I might have to travel when the carriage finally came to a halt at an old boat shed that, once upon a time, must have been one of the largest on the docks. There were a score or more of the young, strapping, silent type of chaps around. Some of them had made some kind of attempt at disguising themselves in old, frayed and worn clothing in an effort to pass themselves off as dockhands. But they weren’t fooling me. This was Churchill’s work all right, and these were his lads. I guessed they were military, or rather, given Churchill’s post, Navy chaps to a man, and they were hard men, trained to kill by the look of them. I decided I had better be on my toes and keep my nose clean as I stepped down from the carriage onto the quay.
*
Churchill was there to meet me. He had grown more stout and portly since our last meeting, and his belly strained rather too tightly against his waistcoat. Compared to his lads around us, he looked out of place on the dock, his walking cane, heavy silver fob chain, tall hat and tails being much too grand, and more suited to the rarified atmosphere of the House.
Given the abrupt nature of my summoning, I half-expected him to be brusque and off-hand. But he was all ‘hale fellow, well met’ and made a show of telling his lads that I was an expert, consultant I believe is the word he used, and that I was to be given access to the whole site; nothing was to be kept from me. I still had no idea what was kept in the big shed at this point, but at least I knew now that I had been brought for a reason, for Churchill took my arm and suddenly became quite conspiratorial.
*
“It’s those bally Huns. They’re at it again,” he said as he led me toward the large boat shed and to a small door to the rear of the main building. “They’re readying for war, I can feel it in my water. And it’s my job now to do what I can to stop them mastering the seas. It’s our best defense, always has been. But it’s also our weakest point, for there are far too many miles of coastline all the way up the North Sea that are undefended and vulnerable to a sneak attack. We must show that we are prepared for any eventuality. Britannia must rule the waves again, and we must take charge of the oceans now, before it’s too late. Don’t you agree?”
It had sounded more in the nature of a speech than conversation, so I thought it best to be circumspect and muttered my agreement, to which he clapped me on the shoulder. It appeared we were to be friends, for a while at least.
We came to a halt outside the small door and he turned to me again.
“Now, Carnacki, my good man, I must ask for your complete discretion on this matter. What you are about to see is the best-kept secret in the country at the moment, and we must ensure it remains that way. Apart from my chaps on guard here, there’s only ten people know of it. And you are the tenth. The PM knows, but not the cabinet, and not even the King has been told. I know you are a man of your word, so I can trust you to keep this under your hat.”
I nodded in reply, but didn’t get time to get a word in edgeways as he continued.
“And there are to be no Friday night stories told around the fire over a smoke and a brandy; not with this one. It’s too bally sensitive to be bandied about, even between close friends and confidantes. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I replied, although I was feeling increasingly unsure as to what I was letting myself in for. Churchill nodded to the guard beside the door, who opened it to allow us into the cathedral that was the boat shed and reveal Churchill’s big secret.
Of all the things I had considered, of all the things I had expected to see, I think a German U-Boat might well have been near the bottom of the list.
*
And yet there it was, like a great russet-colored whale beached up on timbers that held it off the floor and ran along its whole length. The bulk of it almost filled the old shed from the huge riverside doors to the rear where we stood. I could only look at it in awe, and wonder how it had got here, to the East London docks. Churchill answered my question before I asked it.
“We think she’s a prototype for a new class they’re developing over there; there’s been rumors of such a thing for a year or so now, and it looks like they were right. We caught this one snooping around in the North Sea, up in Doggerland at the shallowest point. Well, we didn’t actually catch her. The engineers who’ve been over her bow to stern tell me that she had some kind of system failure and gave up the ghost all on her own. She was floating on the surface when we got to her, and not a man of the crew left alive inside either. The poor blighters all died of suffocation, or so the doctors assure me.”
He paused, and laughed as if he had made a joke.
“Gave up the ghost. That’s rather apt, I must remember that one.”
He didn’t look inclined to explain that point, so I let it lie and went on to the matter that most concerned me.
“So you have a German submarine. That’s probably good for you and the Admiralty,” I replied. “But I fail to see why you need my particular brand of expertise, or where I am being asked to apply it.”
Churchill laughed again, a booming thing that echoed high in the rafters of the shed.
“That is why you would never make a politician or indeed an Admiral, Carnacki. You have failed to see our tactical advantage here, even when it’s right in front of your nose.”
“I’m still not with you,” I replied.
Churchill waved at the length of the submarine in reply.
“It felt like a godsend, when it turned up like that, almost on our doorstep,” he said. “A free, no strings attached, chance to examine our largest adversary’s latest vessel. But when I looked at it, I started to wonder. It was a simple question at first, but the implications of it kept making me come back to it again and again.
“What if we gave them it back? What if we gave them it back with something on board that would make them think twice about ever sending something our way again?”
I was starting to see some daylight, and I was wishing that I didn’t.
“You want me to mock up some kind of propaganda scene inside the submarine, is that what this is about? I am to make it look like something from be
yond killed the crew and that it has been taken over by a spectral presence? Parlor tricks and scare tactics, in other words.”
“You’ve nearly got it, old man,” Churchill said, and suddenly he looked completely serious. “But I do not, under any circumstances, want a mere mock-up. There must be no ‘parlor tricks’ that can be easily exposed as such. I need the real thing. I want this U-boat infested with a particularly vicious spook. I want it sent back to them, and I want to put the fear of God into the bally Hun so that they will never trouble us again.”
*
It took a few seconds for all of that to sink in. I did not know whether to be simply confused, or completely appalled. In the end, I pleaded unfit for the task at hand.
“You’ve seen my methods first-hand, Churchill,” I said. “You know my defenses are just that; they are only defensive. I wouldn’t know to go about calling up a spook, never mind ensuring you got a nasty, vicious one.”
He didn’t reply at first; he looked me straight in the eye for the longest time before speaking in a measured voice.
“Come, now. That is not strictly true, is it, Carnacki?” he said finally. “I know for a fact you have a wide variety of books on the shelves in your library dealing with such matters. There must be something in those tomes that is of practical use?”
I did not go into how he might know what I had in my private library. Just as he had seen my methods first-hand, so I had seen his. He had a ruthless streak in him I found hard to like, and a blatant disregard for any piddling matters such as legality and morality if they did not suit his purposes. He did, however, have the strongest sense of duty to King and Country of any chap I have ever met, and I could not help but be impressed with the zeal with which he approached the task.
Operation Antarctica Page 3