Trinity's Fall

by P A Vasey

  I pointed to the distant, barren shoreline. A less hospitable coast could not have been imagined. “We’re pretty much there. We’re not far from those co-ordinates he gave us.”

  Hamilton shrugged. “Okay. So now what?”

  Powell looked over at me as well and I felt a little annoyed. I was the civilian here, and yet it was as if this whole escapade was being directed by me, and that I knew what lay ahead.

  “I don’t fucking know,” I bit out. “It’s not as if I planned any of this shit.”

  Hamilton laid his hand lightly on my shoulder and squeezed. “I know, Kate. I’m sorry. It’s just, well, you do seem to be in the middle of it all.”

  I gave my shoulder an irritated twitch, but before I could say anything I might have regretted there was a crackle from the comm.

  Powell reached over and flicked a switch, bringing the microphone to his mouth. “Powell.”

  Hamilton pulled his headphones on and listened in, and I grabbed the third pair from the console.

  “Skipper, ET-Comm. We’re getting something. Onshore. Fourteen point six miles SSE.”

  I brought my binoculars up and twiddled the focus wheel. Onshore breezes were fluffing up an icy mist from the snow but there was nothing of note on the beach apart from rocks and the glacier rising into the distance.

  “That’s over those mountains,” said Hamilton. “We’ll need to disembark and go take a look.”

  A few small icebergs bobbed in the water between the Jimmy Carter and land, but nothing insurmountable.

  Powell grunted into the microphone. “OK, I’m coming down. Get the director out of his bunk and tell him we’ll be meeting in Operations in five. Slow us to 3 knots.”

  “Aye aye, skipper. Slow to 3 knots.”

  Hamilton took another slurp of his coffee. “I’ll grab Colleen and Harvey. Suit up.”

  Matt and I followed Powell down the icy steps, feeling the warmth percolate through from the sub’s interior. We made our way past electronics, pipes, conduits and wiring, past seamen who shot us frowns and sharp looks, and entered Operations, a cramped space just off the tower. Down here the rumbling and throbbing of the engines was subdued, like a sleeping giant. There was a nice smell of coffee coming from an industrial-looking machine in the corner, and a pile of pastries sat invitingly next to a selection of mugs and cups. A large wall-mounted monitor fizzed with white noise and wavy lines. Shelves bulging with magazines, manuals and logbooks hemmed in a rectangular table covered with nautical charts. Six chairs and a couch surrounded the table. The whole room was claustrophobic and functional. Like every other space on a submarine, I guessed.

  I pulled off my anorak, helped myself to an almond croissant, and shuffled along the couch so I was sitting next to Powell. Hamilton took the opposite side. The sub’s communications officer, a tall guy who introduced himself as Eddie Wong, squeezed in next and pulled out a keyboard from under the table. He started twiddling with the dials and controls on the monitor, and the screen morphed into a live image of the Jimmy Carter seen from above, maybe twenty or thirty yards in the air.

  “A drone?” I inquired.

  He gave me a curt nod. “That’s right. Long-range military version. Armed as well.”

  “So, we going to bomb whatever we find?” I asked sourly, remembering how well that had turned out back at the crater in Nevada.

  Wong didn’t answer but Powell explained in a patient tone. “The armaments are standard issue, a couple of small missiles, defensive really. It’s not like those aircraft-sized drones we use over the Middle East. Drones like these aren’t used for interdiction, just intelligence gathering.”

  Wong swiveled away from the monitor and ducked under the edge of the table, which to my astonishment came alive. A built-in LCD screen powered up and projected an electronic map pulsing with latitude and longitude and depth markers and shiny objects labelled with numbers and letters. In the center was a black submarine-shaped icon which I assumed was the Jimmy Carter. The coastline was mapped out with slope lines and altitude markers, and the scale seemed to indicate that the table width represented about twenty miles either side of us.

  There was a commotion outside and Stillman entered, followed by Hubert and then Cole Harvey. Stillman was wearing a Navy-issue coverall, dark blue with grey splotches. A rectangular Velcro-backed name tag was on the right breast pocket and a US Navy patch on the left. Her hair was wet and combed straight back. She gave me a smile and shuffled in beside Hamilton, who gave her a little fist bump. Hubert was still in his suit, braces and tie, and just nodded as he squeezed in and sat on the other side of Powell. Harvey was wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, his grey hair still ponytailed and his stubble making him look grizzled but actually quite cool because he was surprisingly well built. He had a tattoo on his bicep that looked like an eagle sitting on top of an anchor holding a trident and pistol. He saw me looking and he grinned and flexed his arm. “Know what this is?”

  “Frat ink?” I grinned, winding him up.

  He gave me an open-mouthed look. “Dude … this is the Seal Trident.”

  “You were a Navy Seal?”

  “You betcha,” he replied. “Feel safer now?”

  I stifled a laugh and Stillman raised her eyes to the ceiling.

  “Alright, let’s get to it,” said Hubert, helping himself to a bear claw pastry. “Y’all know each other so I’m going to hand over the briefing to Captain Powell and Mr Wong here. Ben, can you bring us up to speed with what you’ve found?”

  Powell grunted and leaned over the table. He swiped the desktop like a huge iPad, moving the whole image laterally. He took us over the coastline and the altitude markers started to climb as we approached a dry river valley. A mile or so further inland the picture became pixelated, as if the upload speed had just crashed.

  He pointed to the blurred section. “The signal is coming from this area here. We can’t get an exact fix on it.”

  “What sort of signal?” I asked.

  “Difficult to be certain. It’s radio wave, low frequency and with a very, very long wavelength, right, Eddie?”

  Wong shrugged. “It’s not typical, but yes it’s probably radio. Radio waves are generated artificially by transmitters, of course, but they can also occur naturally.”

  Powell was nodding his head. “Yes, storm-generated lightning for example, and also astronomical objects.”

  I frowned. “But you think this is some kind of directed signal? Not a naturally occurring phenomenon?”

  He stretched out and pointed to the map again. “This area corresponded to the exact co-ordinates Bill provided. Something or someone is producing it.”

  “Why is it blurred?” Hamilton said. “Did you forget to upgrade your wifi?”

  Powell didn’t find that funny. “This map is generated from military satellite data. It should be crystal clear, like everything else in the area.”

  I folded my arms. “So we need to go take a look.”

  “Safety first. Eddie, send in the drone.”

  Wong turned back to the wall monitor, picked up an intercom and punched a number. He spoke a few words into the microphone and then flicked a glance at us over his shoulder. “Pilot’s sending it toward the area now.”

  Powell nodded. “Onscreen.”

  Wong flicked a switch on the monitor and we were now looking out of the drone’s nose camera as it flew at speed over the coastline toward the snow-covered granite cliffs. It looked as if it was going to crash but then veered left and headed through a gap in the wall into a valley cut deeply in the shoreline. Dark shadows loomed either side and the operator-pilot increased the altitude so we were flying over the edges and tracking the valley’s course inland. The camera switched briefly downward and we could see that the riverbed consisted of a thin ribbon of water bordered by smooth rocks of various sizes. There was a haze of light snow and mist, although visibility was remarkably good.

  “I thought the weather was pretty shitty over there?” said Ha
milton.

  Wong glanced up. “These are computer-enhanced optics. True visibility is only five yards or so because of the blizzard.”

  “Isn’t this the wrong season for blizzards?” I asked.

  Powell shrugged. “This is the Antarctica. Shit happens here. Although I agree the weather looks a little more wintry than usual.”

  “Glad I packed my snowboard then,” snickered Hamilton, again getting a cold stare from Powell.

  The camera changed to the forward POV again. The valley was widening although the cliff edges were still sharp and forbidding. Directly ahead was a misty oval shape, like someone had breathed on a pair of glasses before cleaning them.

  “Is that —?” I began.

  “Yes,” said Powell. “That’s it. Whatever it is.”

  “Slow it down,” said Hubert. “Take us higher and over the top.”

  Wong mumbled something into the intercom and the drone slowed and started to climb. The blur enlarged and soon became separated from the valley below. If the scale was anything to go by, it was about half a mile wide and high. It seemed to continue for miles into the distance, but perspective made it difficult to judge.

  “How close are we?” I said.

  Wong pointed at the monitor, indicating some numerals and flashing lights down the side of the screen which I hadn’t noticed before. “Approaching two hundred yards, give or take,” he said.

  “Can we stop and hover?”

  He looked at Hubert and Powell for confirmation, and the latter nodded wordlessly. Wong gave the command and the drone’s forward speed dropped off and the picture stabilized. The blurred object appeared to be teardrop shaped, and we were at the widest point on the front edge. There was a faint image visible underneath, black and featureless but quite opaque.

  Hubert leaned back and folded his arms. “Speculation? Why can’t we see it?”

  Wong pursed his lips. “Maybe a distortion field of sorts. Jamming our signals but also jamming the visible spectrum too.”

  I squinted at the screen but nothing changed. I concentrated hard, wondering if any of the implanted information from Cain would suddenly appear and all would be revealed.

  Nothing happened.

  “Should we try and fly the drone through it?” I said to Hubert.

  He looked at me for a few seconds, weighing it up.

  “I agree with Kate,” interjected Stillman. “It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  Hubert gave her a sharp look before taking a deep breath. He turned to Powell. “Ben, this is your ship. We’re civilians. Your call.”

  Powell nodded slowly, weighing it up. After a few seconds he said, “Eddie, fly the drone through the field. Slowly, mind.”

  Everyone turned his or her attention back to the screen, as the drone started moving again. It descended slowly and as it approached, the structure behind the blur started to take shape, remaining black and homogenous but with sharp angles and boxiness replacing what I’d initially thought was more like a smooth black tadpole.

  “Seventy yards away … sixty … fifty,” intoned Wong, reading the data feed coming in down the side of the picture like a waterfall of red dots.

  Just then there was a flash of sunlight and the drone picture shook and turned upside down and went black as we lost the signal.

  Hubert looked at Wong. “What happened?”

  Wong was on the phone to the drone pilot and held up a finger while he received his report. He nodded thanks and hung up. “The drone flew into a solid wall. It broke.”

  EIGHTEEN

  The blizzard had intensified as we’d come ashore, flakes whirling in an angry vortex from a bleak silver sky. I’d expected the coldness and the sting on my face, but not the ferocity of the wind and the blinding whiteness of it all. At one point the snow had become so thick that it resembled confetti flakes, each crystal the size of my thumbnail. I pulled the neoprene facemask around my mouth and nose as the ice particles stabbed my exposed skin what felt like a million times per second. Slush was sliding down my collar into my neck and between my cuffs and gloves. My toes were already starting to tingle and the snowdrifts were up to my knees and making me drag my legs as if I’d had a stroke.

  Stillman and Hamilton were walking slowly next to me, hunched over, heads down, not speaking. Harvey and Wong and a couple of marines were drafting behind us, if that were possible at our snail’s speed. I flicked a glance over my shoulder and caught Harvey’s eye. He gave me a thumbs up. Was he … enjoying himself? I shook my head and more icy sludge slithered down my neck.

  My earpiece buzzed and I activated the comm with a sideways motion of my head. “Go ahead?”

  “Kate,” crackled Hubert’s voice, just audible above the gale. “We’re losing you on infrared and visual. What’s the sit-rep? You copy?”

  I stopped walking and turned away from the blizzard, snow pelting the back of my coat and hat. “We must be a hundred yards or thereabouts from the anomaly,” I shouted into the microphone. “Visibility is virtually zero. Hope we don’t just walk into that force-field or whatever it was that brought down the drone.”

  Stillman appeared next to me and pawed at my sleeve. She pointed ahead, eyes wide through the ice-encrusted mask. The barrier was just visible, like a mirage in the desert, glassy and shimmering.

  “We’re there,” I said to Hubert, back on the Jimmy Carter.

  “Activate body cams and do the survey.”

  “Copy that.”

  Harvey fanned out to my left, taking one of the marines with him. The other marine stuck with us, as did Wong, who was fumbling to get his body cam to work. It wasn’t long before there was a noticeable change in the volume of the wind and the sound of the snow under my feet transitioned from the squeak of fresh snow to the crunch of melting snow. My boots splashed through shallow pools of water in between the drifts.

  “Easy does it,” said Hamilton, pulling on my sleeve. “We don’t know for certain where that barrier begins.”

  Wong brought out a piece of equipment the size of a briefcase, which he laid on a mound of snow. He opened it to reveal touch-sensitive screens and dials, not dissimilar to a Star Trek tricorder. I went over and squatted down to see what he was doing.

  “Eddie, what can you tell us?” I shouted into his ear.

  “Not much,” he answered. “There’s definitely a jamming signal interfering with all my instruments. I can’t even tell you what the temperature is just now.”

  “It’s cold, Eddie,” I said.

  I caught movement in my peripheral vision and looked up to see Harvey waving his arms about twenty yards closer to the barrier. The microphone was no longer functioning so Wong and I trudged over to join him. He was standing over the downed drone. It was about six feet long, gunmetal grey, with four upturned wings and rotor blades and a forked tailpiece.

  “It looks like it’s in one piece,” I said.

  Harvey nodded. “It’s weird. It crashed into the barrier, so why isn’t it busted up?”

  Wong kneeled down to examine the machine, running his hands over the smooth white side of the main fuselage. He turned one of the rotors, letting it spin for a few rotations before stopping and spinning it the other way.

  “Seems okay,” he began.

  Without warning, the drone powered up, its rotor blades whipping up a storm and driving the snow in all directions. We scrambled out of the way as it awkwardly lifted off and hovered a few feet in the air, nose swinging left and right.

  I turned to Wong. “Eddie, can’t you turn it off?”

  He opened the tricorder thingy and started scrabbling around the switches and dials with his gloved fingers. Realizing his mistake, he pulled his facemask down and peeled the glove off with his teeth. He jabbed a few buttons, glancing at the drone in between actions. Nothing seemed to be happening.

  “Dude,” said Harvey. “Why’d we even bring you?”

  Wong gave him a death stare and continued to jab away at the screen. I edged closer to Stillm
an and leaned in to her, covering my mouth with my glove, and shouted directly into her ear over the noise of the drone.

  “I’ve a bad feeling about this. Something’s not right.”

  Stillman’s head bobbed up and down, and she pulled off her own gloves, reached into her pocket and brought out her gun. She gestured for Hamilton to the same.

  Just in time.

  The drone reared up into the air and two small rockets dropped from under a wing and fizzed toward us. We dived to the ground and they shot past, exploding against the barrier.

  “Non-homing munitions,” yelled Stillman. “That’s why we’re still alive. Stay down!”

  Harvey and the marines brought their guns to bear on the drone. There was a rapid burst of fire and it was peppered with bullets and broke apart, crashing gracelessly into the snow. It fired another rocket as it hit the deck, the missile streaking toward one of the marines. There was a small but substantial explosion as the warhead discharged and the marine jerked backward, shrapnel shredding the front of his anorak. Harvey was also knocked to the ground but jumped up quickly and ran to the downed soldier.

  I started to run to him to see if I could help but my feet were locked in place like they were glued to the floor. There was a tingling – a kind of static charge around me – and my stomach plummeted like in an elevator. Nausea clawed at my throat, and I swallowed to force down the bile that was ascending my gullet.

  I looked to see how the others were doing and saw a balloon-like protuberance oozing from the barrier, rolling like breaking waves over surf. I yelled at Stillman but my voice was muted, deadened by whatever was causing the static. The wave washed over Stillman, then Hamilton and then it was on me. My body shivered as it passed through, one of those uncontrollable shakes you get when you have a fever, then my feet were swept away and I face-planted into the powder. I screamed and tried to grab onto rocks, gravel or anything on the ground, but just left long furrows in the snow as I was pulled in.

  The last thing I saw was Harvey running at full pelt toward me and then being repelled as if tied to a rubber band.

  Then I was on the other side.