by Chris Angus
“I can’t wait,” she said. “And for what it’s worth, I think you are a damned good commissioner.”
Chapter Fourteen
June, 1944
Laki Craters
Fritz stood on Laki’s rim and stared out at the view. It never failed to enthrall him. Beyond Laki’s splattered, scabby landscape, carpeted after several days of rain in bright green mosses, lay the distant, white mass of Vatnajökull Glacier. To the south was the bleak glacial flood plain known as Skeiðarársandur, The Sandur, surrounded by a panoramic theater of piercing mountains and glistening ice. The sight of Vatnajökull inevitably sent him into a reverie of Greta’s flowing blond hair and slim white thighs. She’d been his first great love, and he would never forget her. That would be his lifelong tribute to her.
Turning his attentions back to Laki Crater, he watched as more than a hundred men labored below. They removed piles of debris, a steady stream of blasted lava rock, which was then deposited in other, unused lava tubes. Every effort was made to hide their activities from any random overflight by a commercial or military plane. The men dressed in civilian clothes in the unlikely event someone might stumble upon them. To date only two unfortunate hikers had intruded. Their bodies were deposited in a bottomless crevasse miles away.
This portion of the southern coast was remote and inhospitable. Roads were nearly impassable. The war had dried up any sort of commerce or tourism. Virtually no one else came here, which was perfect for their purposes. Only a few remote fishing villages had to be carefully avoided by the U-boats that had been bringing in a steady stream of equipment and men for the last few months. Twice, freighters made late-night stops, unloading, among other necessities, a pair of bulldozers that were used to cut a primitive road to Laki.
Fritz dismissed the planned eruption of Laki as utter folly. He was a skilled enough geologist to realize that the possibility of causing the precise sort of eruption that would be required was a pipe dream. Another one of Goering’s many fantasies. In the meantime, however, something far more interesting had come to light.
After just a few weeks on site, Fritz began to realize that something unusual was happening to his men. Working inside the thermal tubes, surrounded by the warm, volcanic gases slowly being released into the air, the men had begun to display renewed vigor. Their productivity increased dramatically, as did their overall health. It was astonishing and completely impossible to ignore. Something was affecting them in a most inexplicable way.
Fritz reported the strange findings to his superiors. Soon, word came down that Hitler himself had taken an interest. Almost overnight, teams of researchers and medical doctors began to arrive to examine the men, to take air samples and to gather specimens of the limited flora of the area, mostly the gray moss and strangely shaped mushrooms.
Shortly thereafter, Hitler abruptly canceled Goering’s eruption scheme. One more failure for the Reich minister, who retreated even further into his narcotics addiction. Instead, the focus would now be on exploring the tunnel systems and developing a research facility to examine the men’s reactions and to track down the cause of the unusual physical effects.
Fritz was glad to end what he’d always considered a ridiculous attempt to affect the outcome of the war. But at the same time, he was astonished that the Führer, weighed down with all the problems of a war gone bad, had nevertheless become fascinated by what was happening in Iceland. The German leader was known to be something of a paranoid health fanatic. Though he took no pains to exercise beyond walking, he believed in the cleansing powers of the Austrian Alpine air and was open to any new astrological signs or findings. He feared diseases or contamination and tried to avoid direct contact with most people.
Fritz believed that the Führer had decided there was something on Laki that might improve the health of his men . . . and of himself. The idea complemented Hitler’s delusionary belief in the “master race.” Here was a way to make it happen.
The young Nazi geologist was ordered to begin constructing a secret laboratory beneath the earth. The men and materiel brought in by submarine hemorrhaged into a vast flow of supplies and equipment. Fritz had no idea where the Führer was getting the resources that were being pumped into Iceland. He feared, too, that the massive infusion must soon come to the attention of the local authorities.
But that was a problem for the elite SS forces in charge of security. Fritz’s orders were to concentrate on the construction of the research laboratory, and he soon became completely fascinated by the entire operation. A tunnel connection was discovered that led directly to the face of Vatnajökull glacier. Here, in the very shadow of the great ice mass, they created their research facility. Throughout the process, Fritz’s main sounding board came from an unexpected source.
Karl Müller was a bishop, a member of the German Conference of Bishops. Formerly a medical doctor before being called to the cloth, he was a tall, lean man who spoke softly, but had eyes that commanded attention. Also commanding attention was the fact he’d been sent by Hitler himself to oversee the Führer’s new pet project in Iceland. The intersection between the Nazis and the Catholic Church had been a difficult one. But Müller was clearly willing to try to breach the gap.
The bishop came up to stand beside Fritz on Laki’s rim. “We’ve nearly completed the vats,” he said. “And I have men gathering the mushrooms and samples of the moss to form concentrates from which we hope to be able to determine if the effects can be increased.”
Fritz stared at him. “My men showed health improvements simply from working in the tubes and breathing the gases from the Earth. I still believe that hydrogen sulfide is the effective agent. We’ve detected its rotten egg smell since we first came here. I don’t see how your mushrooms could be part of the answer to what has been happening.”
“A simple equation, my friend,” said Müller. “The mushrooms show up only around the entries to the lava tubes. They are nowhere else. It stands to reason that they would soak in the gas and concentrate whatever is the causative factor. This is what I believe, in any event, and the direction that our investigations will take.” He stared across the forbidding landscape. “Fortunate for all of us that this region is so remote. A bit of a joke on our Icelandic friends, that we come here under their very noses to conduct such important studies.”
“I still consider the entire matter to be an unlikely premise,” said Fritz, stubbornly. “True, there appear to be modest health benefits from the gas, but to think we may have discovered some sort of Holy Grail is absurd. This massive expenditure is a waste, a fantasy that will drain the Third Reich.”
Müller considered him. “I would keep such thoughts to myself, my young friend. The war is grinding to its inevitable end. Better you should believe that you are undertaking research that will benefit all of humankind long after the war is over. If we succeed in this, you and I and perhaps Germany itself may yet find a way to survive the catastrophe that will soon engulf our homeland.”
And that was the vision that Fritz took to heart. Whatever the outcome of their studies here, the results would redound to the betterment of the world, not just Nazi Germany. If the Führer wished to spend his last resources in such a manner, who was he, Fritz Kraus, to object? And the more distracted Hitler became, the quicker this awful war might come to an end.
But then things began to go wrong. Several accidents underground seriously injured a dozen men who had to be evacuated to Germany by U-boat. Even more mysterious, two men simply disappeared. They were at work in the tunnels beneath the volcano, only a short distance from other workers. Even so, no one had any idea what happened to them. There was no other way out of the passage except past the other workers, all of whom swore the men never came out.
The mystery utterly baffled Kraus and seriously undermined the men’s morale. Fritz was inclined to believe the men had decided to desert and had help from the soldiers who claimed they never left the tunnel. Still, there was no proof of anything. Combined with the accid
ents, the soldiers became increasingly agitated about the gloomy underground maze of passageways. Rumors swirled that Laki and the research laboratory beneath Vatnajökull were somehow haunted.
It was nonsense, of course, but most of the men were very young . . . the last dregs of Hitler’s youth . . . poorly educated, and subject to superstition. Fritz countered the feelings by working them hard, to the point of exhaustion, so they had little time or energy to think about their fears.
Then one day, shortly after the vats began to be used in the laboratory, Fritz was near the tunnel entrance to the lab, when men suddenly began to pour out of the research area. They came running from every corner, nearly trampling Fritz in their frenzy to get out. The men made little noise, simply evacuating the lab in rapid fashion, the older scientists and medical people acting just as strangely as the young soldiers. The quiet, focused faces of the panicked men were eerie to contemplate.
Fritz was beside himself with bewilderment. He entered the deserted lab, moving slowly through the warren of rooms, searching for anything out of the ordinary. He worked his way past the vats and poked into the smallest rock crevices. There was a strange discoloration on the walls of the passageways. Like veins, the unusual coloration wove back and forth, permeating the smallest cracks. He had no idea what it was.
Finally, alone, frustrated, angry, he came upon something that nearly caused him to run out of the lab like the other men. He’d been feeling a chill . . . something was making him paranoid. Obviously, a hundred men running silently away from this place would be enough to make anyone a bit paranoid.
But standing in a rock crevice that ran deep beneath the vats, where visibility was marginal at best, he came upon the strangest thing he’d ever encountered. It was like a cocoon, pale yellow in color, and it hung from the rock face . . . almost like a sort of chrysalis . . . except it was the size of a man.
Fritz stared at the object for a long time, shivers running straight into the core of his being. Fighting back a sense of foreboding and the impulse to run away, he reached out one hand and touched the strange object. It was spongy, soft, with a sort of papery consistency.
Cautiously, he brought his hand up to the top of the cocoon, took a breath, and then quickly grabbed the spongy material and pulled away a large piece.
His heart nearly stopped beating. Staring at him was a human face, or what was left of one. It had turned spongy and pale, but there was no mistaking what it was. It was one of the two missing men.
He backed away, petrified. Moving like an automaton, he made his way out of the laboratory. He had no intention of telling anyone what he’d seen. Something about this place was not natural. He no longer had any doubts on that score.
Afterward, under questioning, the men gave almost as many explanations for their actions as there were soldiers. It was as if some sort of mass hysteria had overcome them, and no one could agree on what triggered the event.
The series of strange incidents spooked everyone. It took every ounce of Fritz’s leadership to get even a handful of the older men to return to work. When these men disappeared like the earlier ones had, without a trace, the dye was cast. He ordered the research lab closed and the entrance sealed. There was no argument about the decision from those who’d come under the influence of events. Even Müller acquiesced.
By the time word floated back to the Führer that his pet project had been halted, the war was in its final throes, and no one cared any longer about strangely shaped mushrooms in the remote wastelands of Iceland.
Chapter Fifteen
Present Day
Ryan clambered up the side of one of the strange vats that seemed to be central to whatever the creators of this vast underground laboratory had been doing. Using the piping system to scramble higher and trying to avoid any contact with the strange substance in the vat, he reached the lip of a small, rocky crevasse.
“Seems stable,” he called to Sam. “Come on up.” He took a turn of rope around his shoulder. They’d found the line below. Though old and fraying, it was all they had.
Sam climbed quickly to his side. She was an accomplished mountaineer, a virtual requirement in her line of work.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Better,” she replied. “Strange. As soon as we started to climb higher, my sense of . . . I don’t know . . . like I was being watched or something, diminished.” She shivered. “I still really, really want to get out of here though.”
He pointed to the slippery route upward. “You can see where the light’s coming from, about a hundred feet up. We’re at the bottom of a great crevasse.”
She stared up at their proposed route. “The glacier must have overrun the abandoned lab. Then crevices formed that allowed the meltwater to drip down, causing all the formations we’ve seen. This place would make one hell of a tourist attraction . . . ‘See the secret World War II Laboratory’ . . . Might even put me back in good graces with the government.”
“I’m going to make for that next platform of ice.” Ryan pointed to a flat projection some twenty feet higher. “Wish to hell we had crampons. Climbing this ice is going to be difficult enough.”
She watched him go higher, playing out the fraying rope. The crevasse sloped at about a thirty-degree angle, which was fortunate. It could just as easily have been a straight ninety-degree cliff that would have been impossible for them to scale without proper gear.
When she climbed to Ryan’s side, she could see he was cold.
“I’ll take the lead this time,” she said. “My jacket keeps me a lot warmer against the ice.”
He played the rope out, calling encouragement when she reached a particularly difficult section. Once past it, she wedged herself into a slit in the icy ramp they were following.
“I’m going to take a breather,” she called down.
He watched as she disappeared into the space. He heard her moving about, trying to get comfortable, when suddenly she let out an almost indecipherable cry.
“What is it?” he yelled. “Are you all right? What’s the matter?”
For a very long moment, there was no answer. He couldn’t see her from where he was and feared something had happened to her. Maybe an ice slide or collapse of the structure had trapped her.
“Sam!” he called as loud as he could.
“I’m . . . okay . . .” her voice came shakily. “Come on up. You’re not going to believe what’s up here.”
He worked his way slowly upward until he was level with the slit where Sam waited. Her face was white . . . with cold, he thought. “You gave me a hell of a scare,” he said. “Why did you cry out?”
She just nodded her head at the icy wall in front of her. He turned to look in the direction she indicated.
“Jesus, Holy Mother of God!” He lost his grip and slipped backward several feet before he could arrest himself. Then he slowly pulled back to Sam’s level and stared at the most horrible thing he’d ever seen.
In the translucent ice, but only just covered, was a body. Exposed for the full frontal length, it was clothed in leather climbing pants, a faded wool shirt, and hobnailed boots of a sort that had been out of fashion for half a century.
The face was fully visible and completely preserved in the ice, so that it might easily have seemed a living person when Sam first saw it. Surrounding the face and frozen in a shoulder-length spray was the woman’s clearly blonde hair. It was still possible to see that this poor woman had once been beautiful.
“Who do you suppose she was?” Ryan asked in a near whisper.
“Anyone’s guess,” Sam replied. “Climbers often disappear down crevasses, never to be seen again. I suppose with enough research, it might be possible to figure out who she was, checking old papers and announcements of climbers who were lost. From her outfit, I’d say she’s been here a while, maybe even predating the war.”
“When we get out of here, we should tell the authorities,” he said. “They can come retrieve her body. There might still
be family members who’d want to know what happened to her.”
She shuddered. “Not sure I’d want to know, or . . . God forbid . . . see her, if she was someone close to me. But I suppose you’re right. We have to report it to Dagursson.”
She stood up in the icy slit. “Let’s get the hell out of here. I don’t want to look at her anymore. If we hadn’t found a way out of the tunnel back there, someone might have found us someday just like her.”
“Frozen lovers,” he said speculatively. “That would give the tour guide something to talk about.”
“Don’t even joke about it, okay?” She looked one last time at the ghostly figure in the ice. “She was beautiful. Someone must have loved her once.”
They didn’t speak about the woman in the ice again. The remainder of the climb was tortuous and exhausting, but they emerged finally into the bright sunshine.
They lay on their backs, soaking the warm rays into their bodies. After so many hours in what was essentially an enormous meat locker, the warmth was intoxicating.
Finally, Ryan rolled over and rested on one elbow. He looked at Sam and couldn’t resist planting a kiss on her lips.
“Welcome back to the real world,” he said.
She kissed him hungrily. “I really thought we were done for when we came up against that wall of ice down in the tunnel.”
“I suppose that was the only reason you made love to me,” he said. “Just to pass the time. A brief fling in the dark.”
“There won’t be anything brief about it, mister, and if you think . . .”
She stopped and they both looked at each other strangely.
“You feel that?” Ryan asked.
She nodded. They stood up. There was a distant rumble, almost like thunder but very low on the sound scale. The sky was crystal clear. There were no storms on the horizon.
