The Nexus Colony (8 page)

“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,” Korbett 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.

A
s 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. Lightfoot 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.”

“Not my call, John,” Ruger responded. “Besides, I’ve got my own camera equipment.”

Lightfoot leaned back. “So I hear.”

Just like I said,
Ruger thought.
No secrets in Antarctica.

The last day Field Team Ruger had spent on
The Ice
, he had taken a roll of photographs of the crevasse he’d discovered up on the western slope of the glacier. Ruger hadn’t told anybody, including Dr. Grimes, that he had taken pictures of the deep crevasse. The shots included the westernmost extended part of the crevasse opening. The photographs came out good, clearly showing the sheerness of the wall which was studded with debris all the way up the eastern side. Ruger had developed the roll himself, using the photo lab with the permission of the Navy lab technician. He didn’t think the man had seen the prints, as the technician had only been in and out of the lab and didn’t seem much interested. But the man must have noticed them. Probably innocently mentioned it to Lightfoot, who was always in and out of the lab himself. But by now, Ruger’s photographs should have been confiscated along with the artifacts. Obviously, not everybody knew Ruger had taken them.

“What are the pictures of, Mike?” Lightfoot inquired candidly.

This S.O.B. is a pain in the ass
, Ruger thought. “Nothing of any interest to National Geo, John. Just some pictures of the field up on the glacier. Thought Grimes might want them.”

“Grimes doesn’t know you have them,” Lightfoot replied.

Ruger was silent, and sipped his coffee. “I didn’t offer them to him yet.”

Lightfoot slouched into the chair. “Level with me, Mike. You know something’s out there and so do I. Word has it that it’s alien. You know, Martian shit.” He sipped his coffee. “Although I find that hard to accept. I don’t believe in that sort of crap. You know?”

“Neither do I,” Ruger replied, then wished he hadn’t responded.

“But you found something pretty important,” Lightfoot continued, “or else the feds wouldn’t have taken it away from Hilly. Structural pieces, I heard.”

Amazing
, Ruger thought. Over the past several months this guy has even hardly had a conversation with me about anything, and all of a sudden he’s acting like a long lost friend.
Go pound ice up your butt, Lightfoot.

“Our guys lose a spacecraft or satellite or something?” Lightfoot asked. “That what you found?”

Ruger leaned back in the chair. “Look, John,” he said. “
I’ll
level with
you
. The whole base knows
what
we found. Nobody knows what it’s
from.
They took it all away. I could care less. Now, if you need any more information than that, go ask Jimmy Morrison.”

“Yeah, right,” Lightfoot replied disgustedly. Ruger was right. That’s where he’d just come from. And Morrison probably told him the same thing.
Go pound ice.

Jim Morrison, the Base Manager,
might
give out government information. Lightfoot thought he might as well ask Dr. Bryson again for a roll in the hay. She was walking towards them. Mike Ruger turned around and watched her approaching the table.

It was no big secret around McMurdo that Mike Ruger was the chosen one. He had, on more than one occasion, screwed the beautiful Dr. Allison Bryson. “The Big German Bastard”, as the “unchosen” ones were jealously calling Ruger behind his back. They all had a case for her. But it was easy to get enamored. She was a real beauty, and the remoteness of the base—where
all
women looked great sooner or later to desperate men—had nothing to do with it. No secrets in Antarctica. Especially on a base like McMurdo where the cold metal walls echoed like a chamber if you wanted to put your ears close to them and listen long enough.

But nobody was ever going to blame Mike Ruger. In a land such as Antarctica where every human body, male and female alike, is kept perpetually wrapped in clothing, a lot gets left to the imagination as to what lies underneath. Bryson had to have one hell of a body, and it was the general consensus of the male population that she did. They all envied “The Big German Bastard” because he was apparently the only one ever to find out. Lightfoot like the rest had tried, but she was totally turned off by everybody except Ruger.

Lightfoot watched her approaching. Her long, black hair glistened, and Lightfoot thought that she must have just showered this morning for it to look so clean.
God, what I’d give to see that.
As she neared the table, Ruger smiled. Lightfoot got up, offering her the chair next to him.

“I’ll sit here, John. Thanks,” she said, pulling up the chair next to Ruger.

“Hello, Allison,” Ruger said, smiling.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” she replied, looking at Lightfoot.

There was a moment of silence. Lightfoot sensed her body language.
Hit the road
.

Lightfoot stared her down, then leaned forward. “Maybe
you
can tell me what’s going on around here, Allison. Mike won’t tell me
anything
.”

Dr. Bryson looked back at him. “Why, John. How would I know? I have my own research to worry about.” Bryson, along with Drs. Darriel Marsden and Olaf Andreassen were conducting marine research along McMurdo Sound coastline as part of a joint international project.

Lightfoot snickered, an annoying habit which was probably one of the reasons people disliked him so much. He always seemed to be looking down on people, as if he knew so much more than you. “Oh, well,” he replied, gesturing surrender with his arms. “I might as well go ahead and ask Jimmy Morrison,” he said to Ruger. “Besides, Allison,” he said as he got up to leave. “You have
lust
in your eyes.” He walked away, snickering again.

“I can’t stand that man,” she said angrily, visibly annoyed by Lightfoot’s arrogance.

Ruger smiled. “That’s what he wants you to do. Get annoyed. Works on you every time, Allie.” He called her that when nobody was around.

She looked into his face. He said, “You’re not so beautiful when you’re angry, you know.”

“Why doesn’t he just leave?”

Mike Ruger watched Lightfoot disappear through the door, closing it behind him. “Because he’s a journalist. And he senses a story. And he’s probably right. Can’t take the man to task for that.”

“Stop defending him,” she said in a huff.

“I’m not. I can’t stand the bastard either.”

“He canceled his seat out, you know,” she said.

Ruger looked up. “No. I didn’t know that. He wants to go out on
The Ice
with me.”

“You’re not taking him, are you?”

“I guess that’s where he’s going now. Back to beg Morrison to let him go along.”

She took him by the arm. “Mike?” she asked, seriously. “What
were
those things you brought back? I really am curious, you know. Really.”

“Don’t know,” he replied honestly, shrugging his shoulders.

“Don’t play games with me,” she implored. “You don’t have to, you know. You know I wouldn’t tell anybody.”

He touched her warm hands. “I know that.
If
I knew what they were, I’d tell
you
of all people. But I really don’t. Honest.”

She looked into his blue eyes. She believed him. Mike Ruger wasn’t capable of telling lies. She tried to tell herself she wasn’t falling in love with him. It had to be the remoteness. Nonetheless, Mike Ruger was a kind, gentle man on the inside. Quite a contrast to the rough exterior which was tougher than
The Ice
itself. But Allison Bryson knew she had reached the summit of Mike Ruger’s emotions. His mistresses would always be the wildernesses of the world. But she had probably gotten much closer than anyone ever had.

She playfully tugged at his arms. “Are they
alien
like everybody says?”

God, you’re a beautiful woman, Allie
, Ruger thought, inwardly responding to the warm feeling rushing through his body. “They say they are. I don’t know anymore than that.”

“You’re going back out. There must be something to it.”

“I would imagine that’s true,” he said. “And I’m only going because they gave me a good offer. I couldn’t turn it down.”

“You don’t need money, Mike Ruger. Don’t fool me. You sense
adventure
.”

He smiled. “I guess so.”