Godzilla at World's End (10 page)

Dr. Wendell nodded, annoyed at the interruption and still angry at the young man for not knocking.
Politeness has gone out of style with these kids today.

Then Dr. Wendell chided himself. He just realized that this particular student had arrived only a few days before - a replacement for another student sent home.

The kid doesn't yet know the unwritten rules about life here in the South Pole.

Dr. Wendell, on the other hand, had been here at Miskatonic University's Dyer base camp all winter and was now more than familiar with the social niceties of life in the remotest region of the world.

One of those niceties was respect for other people's privacy - or as much of it as there was here in this tiny, remote outpost.

Dr. Wendell tapped a key, and a screen protector - which featured shifting images of California's Northridge earthquake of the previous century - appeared on the monitor. The shifting pictures of the disaster hid from prying eyes the earthquake model the scientist had been working on.

The geologist decided he didn't want this young man or any of the other graduate students to see the data still scrolling up on his screen behind the protector.

Dr. Wendell knew that this geology major was smart, or the university wouldn't have sent him. He also knew that this kid could easily draw the wrong conclusions from what he saw on the instruments. That data might be grossly misunderstood or cause a panic in the camp if it was released too soon, or grossly misunderstood.

Not that I understand it
, Dr. Wendell thought bitterly, wondering if he should order an evacuation.

The truth was that the geological activity occurring under the ice was a mystery to him, too. Because of the sheer weight of the ice crushing down on it, tectonic activity in the Earth's crust beneath the south polar regions was rare. The ice was so heavy that it pushed the land deep into the Earth's mantle. If that ice disappeared suddenly, the ground beneath it might rise a hundred feet or more above its current levels.

If the ice were melting for some reason, it might explain the geologic activity
, Dr. Wendell thought. But there was no significant melting occurring this spring, as far as he could measure. That made the seismic activity far below their feet a mystery.

Dr. Wendell didn't like mysteries. Solving mysteries was one of the reasons he had become a scientist in the first place. The fact that he hadn't yet solved this one bothered him greatly.

And Dyer camp, already uneasy over the unexplained disappearance of the dog teams the night before, didn't need another mystery. People here were jumpy, and more questionable and conflicting geological data hinting at potential disaster was not what they needed to hear about right now.

Dr. Wendell typed in his personal code, locking anyone else out of his computer. Then, with a groan, the tall bearded man rose from the plastic camp chair and unkinked his back. His joints were stiff from sitting in front of the computer all morning and afternoon, as well as from the ever-present cold that seemed to seep into the prefabricated huts of the camp, no matter how high the electric heating units were set.

The geologist noticed the graduate student curiously tapping one of the delicate thermometers that measured underground temperatures. Dr. Wendell cleared his throat loudly, and the youth quickly thrust his hands into the pockets of his heavy down parka.

"If you're going to stay here, please
don't
touch anything," Dr. Wendell explained to the student patiently. "And since you are supposed to monitor the seismograph, I want you to let me know immediately if there are any sudden changes in the readings."

The geologist motioned with his head toward the machine, which clicked in the corner of the long and narrow interior of the crowded hut. The machine was a smaller version of the massive seismographic machine back at the university.
That
machine measured seismological events all over New England and parts of Canada. This one covered a radius of only about five miles, but it worked on the same principles and was similarly constructed. Like larger seismograph machines, this one featured a long sheet of paper that slowly scrolled across a flat, horizontal surface while motion-sensitive arms drew jagged lines in ink on the clean white paper. The time and date were stamped on the edge of the paper each second.

The instrument measured vibrations in the Earth far below the ancient ice of the Antarctic. It had been doing that for months. Right next to the machine, rolls of previously used paper scrolls were stacked and hand-dated with a black Magic Marker in Dr. Wendell's crisp, precise script.

The geologist reminded the student how the machine worked and what unusual things to look for. The young grad student gritted his teeth at the unnecessary lecture. Then the older scientist zippered his coat and put thick gloves over the thin ones he was already wearing.

A moment later, the bearded scientist emerged from the plastic-and-metal-frame structure dubbed a "zucchini hut" because of its unconventional shape - like a long, bright red squash lying in the snow. Such structures were cheap and easy to put up and maintain, and could be found in research stations all over Antarctica.

A huddled cluster of these prefabricated buildings served as the laboratories and living spaces for the twenty-six men and three women who had been sent to Antarctica by the geology department of Miskatonic University. Their job was to study the unusual seismic activity detected in this area of Wilkes Land.

After the relative dimness of the hut's interior, the glare of Antarctica's endless daylight caused the scientist to don his sunglasses. It wouldn't do to become snow-blind. The expedition had already been forced to send one graduate student back on the monthly supply helicopter from Australia's station on Macquarie Island. The unfortunate woman had forgotten to wear sunglasses on a field expedition. Luckily for her, snow blindness is usually temporary.

As Dr. Wendell crossed the camp, a frigid katabatic wind sprang up. Tiny bits of ice blasted across the frozen plain as the gusts swirled around the sixteen huts that served as the group's sleeping quarters. The small, cramped structures were called "apple" huts because that's exactly what they looked like - a bunch of apples someone had dropped into the snow.

Like the longer zucchini huts, these buildings were bright red because the color stood out boldly against the snow and could be easily seen from the air, or in the haze of a sudden storm.

Well, at least there won't be any snowstorms coming along
, Dr. Wendell thought.
It's almost summer here. If only the gravity winds would die down ...

The temperature in Antarctica at this time of year was almost balmy - ranging from a high of zero degrees Fahrenheit to a low of minus twenty. But the katabatic winds, caused by shifts in gravity at the south polar region, could push the wind chill to minus fifty or even lower.

Dr. Wendell shivered. Even over the howl of the wind, he could hear the sound of the gasoline-powered electric generator cranking away, supplying power to the camp, the telephone and communications equipment, and all of the scientific instruments.

Without electricity, the people here at Dyer would freeze to death overnight.

On his way to Dr. Meyer's zucchini hut, Dr. Wendell checked the connections from the generator to his own research station. He also checked the phone lines, wondering why his phone wasn't working.

Everything looked normal. The problem with the phone must be coming from somewhere else.
At least we didn't lose power
, Dr. Wendell thought with some relief.
It would be bad if we lost data because of an interruption in power.

The scientist knew this from experience. It had happened before.

As Dr. Wendell trudged across the ice field, he saw some men clustered around the two Norwegian-built Hagglunds tracked vehicles. The gaudy orange machines were little more than cabins set on tank tracks. The tops of the Hagglunds were covered by clusters of spotlights. The side doors on both vehicles had the Miskatonic crest painted on them. The brand-new machines, delivered just a month ago, were the pride of the base camp. Dr. Wendell hadn't yet had a chance to ride in one, but he knew they would both come in handy.

The vehicles could roll across country with ease, and had a range of more than 100 miles. They could also carry extra fuel, which could extend that range considerably.

He wondered what the men were doing with the ungainly vehicles. One was up and running, and a maintenance crew was working on the other. Dr. Wendell surmised that they were going out to hunt for the missing dogs.

As he neared the largest zucchini hut in the camp's cluster, the weary geologist wondered what the team leader wanted with him. He hoped it wasn't answers, because Dr. Stanley Wendell didn't have any.

***

"Come in," Dr. Hiram Meyer called out when he heard the knock on the door of his hut. Dr. Wendell entered, preceded by a blast of cold air.

The two scientists nodded to each other. Then Dr. Wendell closed the door behind him and approached the portable heater. He pulled off his gloves, unzipped his parka, and warmed his hands for a moment.

"Any sign of the missing dog team?" Dr. Wendell asked. His colleague shook his craggy head, a look of consternation on his sun-bronzed and wrinkled face.

"As far as Dr. Ronson could tell, the dogs just burst out of their shelter and ran off into the frozen plain," Dr. Meyer explained. "The loss of the dogs is a problem, but I think we have a more serious problem to worry about."

"What's up?" Dr. Wendell asked, wondering if he should inform his superior that they might be having an earthquake in the next week or so.
No
, he decided.
I'll save that revelation for later, when I've had the chance to review the data more carefully.

Dr. Meyer frowned up at the bearded man from his wheeled office chair. "The phones are down," he announced.

Wendell shrugged. "So?"

His colleague's face held such a strange look that Dr. Wendell decided to hear it for himself. He reached for the phone on the desk and placed the receiver to his ear. What he heard surprised him.

Usually when the phones went dead up here, they were just that - dead. But this time Dr. Wendell heard a distinct electronic crackle, followed by a weird high-pitched whine that sounded oddly familiar.

"Do you know what that sounds like?" Dr. Wendell asked, holding the receiver out to Dr. Meyer. His superior stared back at him before speaking.

"Back in the navy, we called that sound electronic jamming," Dr. Meyer stated.

Dr. Wendell blinked. "That's what it sounds like to me, too," he replied, recalling his combat days as a radio communications specialist during the Persian Gulf War. "But who would be jamming us? And why?"

Dr. Meyer ignored the question. Instead, the heavyset man slid his chair over to the satellite radio equipment. One of the chair's plastic wheels squeaked loudly, the result of being exposed to the cold, dry air of the Antarctic summer.

The South Pole was drier than a desert. In fact, it was one of the driest places on Earth.

"I decided to call the U.S. base at McMurdo for some electronic repair advice," the man in the chair explained. Then he switched on the radio.

The same high-pitched whine, almost an electronic squawk, issued from those speakers.

"The satellite radio is being jammed, too," Dr. Meyer said gravely. "So is the shortwave radio, and even our short-range cell phones."

Dr. Wendell was silent a moment as the meaning of what he had been told sunk in. Then he looked again at his superior.

"So we're cut off," he whispered, fighting the sudden, paranoid urge to look over his shoulder.

Dr. Meyer nodded grimly. "From everyone."

"So that's why the men outside are prepping the two Hagglunds," Dr. Wendell said. It was a statement, not a question.

Again, Dr. Meyer nodded. "That's why I called you over," the portly man announced. "I want your opinion on where I should send the vehicles. Should I send them to Concorde Base, or to the Aussies at the temporary camp west of here? Or should I separate the two teams and send one vehicle to each camp?"

Dr. Wendell thought about it for a moment. "Well, I think it's too dangerous to separate the vehicles."

Dr. Meyer nodded in agreement as Dr. Wendell talked on.

"The Australian base is closer, and I'm sure they are still there," he said. "But the French base at Concorde should be hard-wired by now. If it is, then they will have a fiberoptic communications trunk line right to Dumont d'Urville Base on the coast."

Dr. Meyer nodded. "That's what I was thinking. If the jamming is widespread, then the Australians are probably being jammed, too."

"But a fiberoptic cable is impossible to jam," Dr. Wendell noted, finishing his superior's thought. Dr. Meyer nodded and explained the terrain and the distances involved.

As Meyer spoke, Dr. Wendell noticed that neither of them was disputing that the research facility
was
being jammed - whatever that meant. Both were thinking the same thing, though neither of them spoke the words aloud:

The jamming was deliberate.

"Are you sure the French are really hard-wired?" Dr. Wendell asked.

"Well, I'm not certain," Dr. Meyer replied cautiously. "Their cable was supposed to have been completed months ago, but with Greenpeace protests and all ..." Meyer's voice trailed off.

The French had had a lot of trouble with the environmental group called Greenpeace. Back in the 1980s, the French government had tried to construct an airfield at Dumont d'Urville. They dynamited several islands flat and killed a lot of Antarctic wildlife. Greenpeace managed to get some pictures of the slaughter and smeared the French in the court of public opinion. Nobody was in favor of killing penguins and wrecking the delicate Antarctic environment.

Though the French managed to complete their airfield and several support hangars around it, all of it was washed away in a glacial landslide and tidal wave less than a year later.