by Paul G White
Without another word, the pair headed for the tent of Lars Hendriksson, Director of the excavation.
*
Hendriksson pushed his expensive rimless spectacles high onto his forehead and regarded Makeman and Andersson balefully through icy Nordic eyes. He flicked the two printouts irritably across his desk toward Phil Makeman and they held up in the slight breeze blowing in through the tent flap, finally settling atop an untidy pile of papers.
“You’re pulling my wire, aren’t you? Why don’t you just come out and admit it. We can all have a laugh about it and then get down to the serious work of excavating this site.”
Makeman almost laughed out aloud at the Swede’s use of a coarse English colloquialism, but he managed to hold back. He retrieved the two printouts from where they had landed on the desk and held them out for Hendriksson to see.
The director waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Look, gentlemen,” he growled impatiently, “if this is not your idea of an elaborate practical joke, then I suggest you check your equipment. Clearly there is something wrong with it.”
Makeman sighed and glanced at Andersson for support; the lanky Swede nodded in encouragement. They simply had to make the director examine the printouts with a critical eye.
“Lars,” Makeman said.
“You two still here?”
“Yes, Sir, we are, and we’re staying put until you take a good look at these printouts.”
It was Hendriksson’s turn to sigh. “OK, but I’d better not find that you’re wasting my time. We’re already behind schedule as it is.” He took the papers from Makeman and examined them. Finally, he said, “It looks like a printer or software problem to me.”
“That’s what we thought,” Andersson offered, “so we did a second scan using a different method. The A4 page is from Phil’s geophysics equipment and the A3 is from my deep radar. What you have in your hands are printouts that have been processed by two entirely different computers and printers. If they are the result of software or hardware errors, then both systems are faulty in exactly the same manner.”
Hendriksson sat straighter in his canvas chair. He stared at the two sheets of paper for more than a minute before enquiring, “Have you told anyone else about this?”
“No, Lars, we brought it straight to you as soon as we’d done the second scan.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Hendriksson almost spat.
“There are two possibilities,” Makeman offered. He held up two fingers and ticked one off. “One: the site’s been compromised and we’ll find some kind of fairly modern construction down there. And two:” he ticked off the other finger, “that thing’s for real, and it’s older than the Mayan civilisation.” He shrugged in resignation. “I tell you which I think it will be—” The eyes of the two Swedes were on him. “I reckon it’ll prove to be a hoax, because if it is for real, then that thing’s deep enough to be millions of years old, and that’s impossible.”
Makeman regarded the other two for a few moments before adding, “And I don’t mind admitting something like that would scare the crap out of me.”
“Then we’d better find out which it is,” Hendriksson growled. “As far as I’m concerned, I think I’d rather the anomaly be old, because at least it’ll confirm that no one’s been up to mischief with the site.” He riffled a few loose papers on his desk before adding with feeling, “I hate this kind of thing. Why can’t people leave well alone without interfering with evidence from the past?”
Which was, thought Makeman, a clear indication concerning which of the two alternatives he thought was more likely.
“Now, is either of you prepared to make a suggestion as to where we open a trench?”
With one hand, Makeman held the larger printout steady against the breeze still sighing through the tent, and with the other indicated a spot twenty metres from the temple foundations, which bisected the edge of the anomaly. “It’s deep,” he said, but it’ll most likely tell us what’s buried down there.”
“Right, I’ll get Mike to take over. I’ve got a meeting in Belize City with our financial backers, which is likely to last the rest of the day.” Hendriksson sighed. “Just when it’s starting to get interesting.”
*
The big diesel engine of the JCB chugged throatily and the bucket reached down into the two-metre wide trench, which was rapidly growing deeper at one end. The operator skilfully guided the laden scoop out of the trench and released the load of compacted soil onto a spoil heap a few metres from the trench, watched by a small group of archaeologists. Before he could drop the bucket into the trench once more, Mike Carter, the assistant site director, held up his hand and the machine’s movement ceased instantly.
“We need to shore up the sides of the trench,” he announced, hauling himself up the steps to where the operator was sitting, patiently awaiting further instructions.
Palo Lopez leaned over and pushed his cab window down. “Is something wrong, Señor Carter?”
“No, Palo, nothing’s wrong. I’d just like to shore up the trench before it collapses. Can you collect a couple of bucket loads of timber from the stock pile and drop it off here? Once you’ve done that, you can take a break while we make the trench safe.”
Lopez, a cheery twenty-two year old Puerto Rican national, grinned, flashing a fine display of even white teeth. “Sure, Señor. No problem.”
He waited just long enough to allow Carter to jump down before gunning the engine and heading for the pile of timber shuttering at the edge of the site. Minutes later, he returned and dumped the planks alongside the trench before setting off for another load. A little while later he was able to relax and watch the archaeologists begin erecting the shuttering.
The excavation team was made up of experienced archaeologists and soon a long stretch of shuttering was in place, preventing both sides of the trench from caving in. Hendriksson waved his hand and beckoned the JCB forward once again. Lopez fed power to the big diesel and the caterpillar tracks churned up the loose topsoil as the heavy machine lurched forward. The operator halted beside the deepest point of the trench and lowered his scoop. The engine roared and the carbon steel ‘teeth’ bit into the sand and gravel three metres below ground level, finally emerging with more than a tonne of material dribbling out of the edges of the scoop. After half an hour, Carter called a halt once again for more shoring to be added.
It was now late afternoon, and the sun was little more than a finger’s breadth above the treetops. Palo Lopez was feeling the heat, despite the air-conditioning in the cab. Sweat was running down his face and dripping onto his once-white tee-shirt, which bore a logo proudly proclaiming ‘LA Rams – Super Bowl LVIII’. The trench was now more than five metres deep and there was no sign of the anomaly.
Carter waved Lopez to a halt. The rumble of the engine calmed to a steady tick-over, but Carter ran a finger across his throat in the time honoured gesture and the engine died altogether.
“Where the hell is the damned anomaly,” he asked no one in particular. “We’re down five metres already so we ought to be seeing something.” He waved Makeman and Andersson over and nodded in the direction of the trench. “I reckon we need some kind of confirmation that there’s actually something down there,” he told them, “before we dig clear through to the Earth’s core. I want you to get your equipment down to the lowest point of the trench and see what sort of signals you can come up with. Can you see any problems with that?”
Makeman grinned, and his even teeth sparkled in stark contrast to his sweat and grime-smeared features. “Consider it done, Boss,” he said genially. “I was hoping you’d ask for another reading at some stage, because it’s been impossible to come up with a true depth from the surface level.”
Together, he and Sven Andersson hurried off to bring their equipment, and a few minutes later, they were at the lowest point of the trench, bouncing radar signals into the ground beneath their feet. The area to be covered was no more than four sq
uare metres, and they were finished within minutes. They immediately uploaded the data into a laptop, and moments later, the printer chattered and an A4 printout emerged.
They handed the paper to Carter and he scanned it quickly. The edge of the anomaly was still there, and it was now much clearer on the printout.
“Any suggestions?” Carter enquired, handing the sheet to Andersson.
The tall Swede examined the printout very carefully before announcing, “In my professional opinion—”
Makeman knew when his friend used that particular phrase, it was inevitably followed by bad news.
“In my professional opinion, we’re going to have to dig down at least another twelve metres. A trench isn’t going to work. We’re going to need a shaft, and a pretty professional one at that if we’re going down that deep.”
Carter groaned. “I figured as much.” He waved his arms in a scissors motion for everyone to see. “That’s it for today, everyone,” he called. “We’ll make a fresh start at 08:00 tomorrow.” He grimaced at Makeman and Andersson. “The pair of you had better come with me. We’ve got some explaining to do for Hendriksson when he returns, and it’ll be best if we’re all singing from the same hymn sheet.”
At Hendriksson’s tent, which served as site office, the three archaeologists sat in canvas director’s chairs, sipping welcome mugs of coffee.
Carter tapped the printout and said, “I’d welcome your input, guys, because we have something down there that’s not the kind of archaeology you come across every day. Hendriksson would like to believe that it’s been planted, but the sheer logistics of burying something that big and that deep makes such a scenario unlikely. So . . . any ideas?”
Makeman glanced at Andersson and the laconic Swede waved his hand, conceding the floor. “Do you want to know what we really think?”
Carter nodded. “Be my guest. It can’t be any weirder than what’s running through my head at the moment.”
“We reckon,” Makeman began, “that what’s down there is some kind of vessel . . . ship . . . whatever you want to call it. It’s difficult to make out how deep down it is, because the radar doesn’t react with it in any way we’ve ever seen before.” He stabbed a finger on the printout near to the centre of the anomaly. “If it’s to make sense at all, this area is likely to be the highest point, but we can’t be certain of that from the data. What we think is that we ought to dig a trench at that point, but still sink the shaft as well to locate the edge. This is not your usual kind of artefact and we think that once we’ve uncovered part of it, we’re going to find we need help, big time.”
Carter grinned. “It seems we’re all seeing it the same way. I reckon it’s some kind of ship—” He hesitated, uncertain whether or not to voice his thoughts and invite possible ridicule. He gathered his resolve and continued, “In fact, I’ll go a little further and say I think it’ll prove to be one that’s not meant to sail the seas.”
“You mean spaceship, don’t you?” Makeman enquired. He glanced at Andersson, who wore the kind of non-committal expression that suggested Makeman would have to pry an opinion from him with a crowbar. “We deliberately held back from suggesting ETs, but truth be known, it would fit the shape better than any seagoing craft we’ve ever seen . . . if the movies are anything to go by.”
Carter interlaced his fingers across his abdomen, and sat back in his chair. The canvas bulged and the frame groaned a little at the abuse but Carter seemed not to notice. “Let’s get this straight then, for when Hendriksson returns this evening. If he asks for your input, for God’s sake don’t mention space ships or Martians. That’s likely to send him into a spin. I’m going to recommend that we start a new trench and sink a shaft, exactly as you’ve suggested, and we’ll let him make the decisions once we see what’s buried here.”
The two geophysics experts nodded, happy to let Carter update the site director on the progress so far . . . or lack of it!
*
At 07:45 the following morning Makeman and Andersson began laying out the boundaries of the trench to be opened, and at 08:00, Palo Lopez gunned the excavator’s engine and the bucket dug into the topsoil. By mid-morning, he had excavated a three-metre deep trench some ten metres long and three metres wide. He paused in his work long enough to take a long drink from a litre bottle of water, and then resumed the excavation. By noon, when the hot, tropical sun was at its highest, the depth of the trench had increased to four metres. All work on the pyramid had ceased, and excitement was mounting amongst the archaeologists gathered just out of range of the swinging hydraulic scoop. Everyone sensed that they were near to their goal, and no one wanted to miss the point when the last bucket of debris cleared the surface of the artefact.
Under Lopez’ deft control, the hydraulic arm reached down into the depths of the trench and the powerful mechanism pulled the scoop backward, gathering up more than a tonne of material. All resistance ceased as if the bucket had encountered a void, and the operator immediately lifted the heavy load clear, expecting to see an opening in the floor of the trench.
He cut his engine and toggled his intercom and, with a sense of awe, said, “Señor Carter, we are there. You must see this.”
The groups of archaeologists surged to the edge of the trench and leaned forward to get the best view possible. What everyone saw was an intensely black surface, sparkling with powerful energy discharges, which was spraying a fountain of soil and small rocks almost to ground level four metres above. As the debris fell back to the surface under the force of gravity, it was repelled upwards once more, maintaining a continuous stream of cycling material.
Carter and Hendriksson stood alongside Makeman and Andersson at the trench’s edge, watching the interplay of flying debris in silent amazement.
Finally, Makeman growled, “What the hell is happening down there?
No one had a reasonable answer, but Carter regarded the pristine condition of the black surface and said, “Whatever it is, it’s nothing that we’ve ever come across before. If I knew no better, I’d say that what we have here is some kind of force field that’s protecting the artefact. In which case, this excavation has just moved utterly beyond our knowledge and experience. We need serious help – and not just from archaeologists.”
Still staring at the interplay of the material fountaining over the naked section of the artefact, Hendriksson had to agree. “Pull everyone back, Mike, and put a fence around the trench. Stop work on the shaft altogether. From what’s happening down there, I have a mental picture of someone flying into the air when they finally reach the artefact, so it’s probably too dangerous to continue.”
“OK, what then?”
“We call for help. We can’t do this on our own.”
Carter looked down into the trench once more, and commented, “If we’re going to ask for help from outsiders, wouldn’t it be prudent to obtain dating evidence first? We need to be certain of our facts before seeking to bring in outside agencies, and I’d say knowing when the artefact was buried was absolutely necessary. The last thing we want is egg on our faces, and I personally have no wish to end my career as a laughing stock.”
“Agreed,” Hendriksson conceded. “Let’s get to it, and then we’ll fence it all off when we have the evidence. Dating should prove relatively easy,” he added, “because the walls of the trench cut cleanly through the strata. I’ll tell you this, though: I’m not inclined to trust the dating to anyone else, so it falls to the two of us.”
Carter shrugged. “I’ll get my toolkit and helmet and I’ll see you down there, OK?”
Hendriksson grunted, “OK.”
Minutes later, Hendriksson and Carter were working their way from the shallower end of the trench towards the deepest point, where the bare surface of the artefact still shimmered and spat material upwards. The strata were fairly well defined. Above the black material of the artefact lay three metres of compressed sand, rock, coral and what appeared to be burnt organic material; and immediately above that laye
r was a narrow band of entirely different composition, which to Carter appeared to resemble a section of the K-T boundary layer he had recently examined in Alberta, Canada. His expertise was not in Palaeontology, but from the evidence within the walls of the trench, he was fairly certain that the anomaly lay below the level of the Cretaceous-Tertiary extinction event. So, what the hell had they discovered? he wondered.
Hendriksson was picking at the thin stratum of the K-T boundary layer. “Have you come across this before, Mike?” he asked casually.
“I think so. And if it’s what I think it is, it makes the artefact over sixty-five million years old.”
Hendriksson wore a pained expression for a few moments. He had hesitated to offer his opinion, trusting his assistant to make the necessary logical leap, and Carter had not disappointed. Clearly, this was far bigger than anyone had imagined. In fact, it was singularly the greatest discovery since the dawn of mankind. It was imperative that they bring in experts from every field of science, because despite its almost unimaginable age, the artefact appeared to be still active.
With several samples of the boundary layer in plastic containers for analysis, Carter and Hendriksson were busy collecting examples of fossilised coral and other ocean dwellers from immediately below it, when the ground trembled beneath their feet.
“Get out of the trench!” Hendriksson cried, and Carter needed no second bidding He’d seen the aftermath of a collapsed trench some years before and it had left with him a lasting impression. Two gifted archaeologists had died that day, and he had no wish to become another statistic. He scrambled monkey-like up the ladder and, once at the top, turned to haul the less agile Hendriksson over the rim.
