by Paul G White
“Not we, Mr Craithie,” Margaret Blythe protested. “Please don’t include me in your statement. I have brought with me an open mind and I would resent having my opinions misrepresented in this way. I intend to learn all I can before making any assumptions or forming any opinions.”
Mutters of agreement sounded all around the table. Carter caught Margaret Blythe’s eye and winked, and was a little surprised to see her colour up a little. Interesting! he thought.
Carter consulted his list, and saw against Craithie’s name the word ‘physicist’. He had not personally placed Craithie on the list, so he must have been highly recommended by someone else in the same field. Carter could not help wondering how anyone with such a propensity for forming instant and erroneous opinions could ever be sufficiently disciplined to become a scientist of any kind. As far as he was concerned one fitted evidence into the framework of what was already known, and if it could not be made to fit, one asked the question ‘why not?’ Instant rejection of evidence and theories based on that evidence, showed a lack of respect for the experts who had gathered the evidence and those who had devised the theories. Carter wondered if the brusque Scot would become a hindrance to the project at a time when everyone, whichever discipline they followed, was highly likely to have to ‘think outside the box’.
The supper continued in relative silence until everyone had eaten their fill. Carter pushed back his canvas chair and stood. “Would everyone follow me please? I’d like to show you the video of the effect which obliterated the helicopter. It’s likely to be crowded in Director Hendriksson’s tent, but we should manage somehow.”
He led the group to the large, white tent and entered. He found Ellie Merrill hard at work enhancing the recording from the second video camera. Phil Makeman was by her side, ‘to learn her techniques’ but Carter suspected that the gruff geophysics expert would like to get to know her a little better. A new addition was a forty-two inch LCD screen hooked up to the laptop and Carter became aware of the dull chugging of a nearby generator. The government of the tiny country was sparing no effort in its quest to provide whatever equipment the on-site team deemed necessary.
Following introductions, Carter asked Ellie if she was able to demonstrate what had happened to the Huey.
“This recording has turned out to be even better than the first,” she informed him. “By sheer good fortune we get to see the opening in the hull of the space ship as it fires on the attacking helicopter.”
Her fingers sped over the keys and the big LCD screen showed the interior of the trench. This time the angle of view was several degrees lower. The debris performed its customary dance within the trench, affording occasional glimpses of the intensely black surface of the ship. Suddenly, several small rocks vanished in puffs of dust, followed instantly by the bark of the miniguns. They heard more gunfire and then the roar of ground-to-air rockets. Moments later two rockets soundlessly impacted the black surface, leaving the trench filled with swirling white smoke.
Everyone watched intently as a round section of the ship’s hull seemed to melt away and a half-second beam of darkness angled upwards toward the sky; the moment the destructive beam ceased, the opening in the hull shimmered and solidified. There was a change in the drumming of the helicopters’ engines and they heard what sounded like a single chopper receding into the distance at high speed. The whole attack and response had taken little more than half a minute.
Carter asked Ellie Merrill if she could slow down the sequence from the first bullets to the closing of the weapon port in the ship’s hull. Moments later they witnessed the sequence of events at a speed which enabled their eyes and minds to assimilate more of the detail. This time, they were able to see that the bullets and the rockets all vanished on contact with the ship’s shield. However, the video frame speed was far too slow to allow anyone to see how the skin of the ship ‘melted away and re-formed’, but they were able to witness the annihilation of everything that entered the cone of darkness, including a couple of sizeable boulders.
Carter glanced around him at the faces of the experts gathered around the screen. Everyone was staring at the monitor as if willing the sequence to continue – with the exception of John Craithie. His craggy features wore an unfathomable expression which, Carter supposed, must be due to conflicting thoughts and emotions. On the one hand, Craithie had insulted everyone’s intelligence for believing such things to be possible, and on the other hand, he had just witnessed the events for himself. Now, unless he was prepared to pour scorn on the video recordings, he was going to have to change his opinion. And, from Carter’s experience of the man up to this point, so doing would be akin to chewing upon a mouthful of ashes.
Craithie’s response to the video sequence was to stamp out of the tent in temper, and Carter had to admit that the Scot’s reaction neither surprised nor disappointed him. He had swiftly come to the conclusion that Craithie’s presence on site was likely to be a hindrance to the project, and that his overt antipathy was almost certain to cause more problems than would be balanced by whatever skill or talent he brought to the investigation of the spacecraft.
Margaret Blythe took a step in the direction of the retreating Craithie, but Carter said, “Let him go, Margaret. Give him chance to get it out of his system. Maybe a stroll around the site will bring him to his senses sufficiently for him to admit that there’s something strange going on here.”
Margaret nodded and watched Craithie stride over to the wide excavation, which resembled an irregular crater. Across the wide depression, the excavators were taking advantage of the last of the evening light to remove more of the burden from the artefact. The growling of the giant machines echoed from the ruins of the Mayan temple and fled into the surrounding jungle. But Craithie ignored them as if they were not there. She saw him bend and scoop up a fist sized rock and hurl it into the trench. So great was his effort that he almost tumbled down the slope into the excavation.
Carter broke into a sprint; somehow he had to prevent Craithie from hurling more rocks at the surface of the ship. In the absence of data concerning the speed or trajectory of material impacting the shield, it was impossible to be certain whether or not his action would trigger a response from the ship. The bullets and rockets had been travelling at speeds around two-thousand metres a second, and at the other end of the scale, the debris in the trench was recycling at, perhaps five metres per second. But what might happen if that speed increased to forty metres per second? This, Carter decided, was not the time to lose one of the scientists to a response from the ship.
With the remainder of the group following behind at the best pace they could muster, Carter reached Craithie’s side and grasped his arm, preventing him from hurling another rock at the surface of the artefact. Craithie wrenched his arm loose from Carter’s grip and turned angrily on the archaeologist. The fist-sized piece of limestone skittered harmlessly across the uneven ground.
“What the hell are you doing?” Craithie demanded.
Slightly out of breath from the short sprint, Carter huffed, “Preventing you from risking retaliation from the ship’s weaponry.”
Craithie’s eyes were ablaze. “I don’t mean that, you idiot. I meant what are you doing by excavating this abomination in the eyes of God? This . . . this thing—” In his black anger, he was barely able to articulate his thoughts. He drew in a huge lungful of air and slowly expelled it in an effort to gain a small measure of control. “This so-called spaceship could not have been made by the hand of man, and must therefore be the work of Satan himself. It must be destroyed . . . or buried so deep that it will never be found.”
They had been joined by the rest of the scientists, with Phil Makeman at the rear of the group. Before Carter could respond, Makeman growled, “You’re joking, right?”
Craithie treated the archaeologist to a withering stare. Then he looked into each of the faces in turn, perhaps Carter thought, to gauge the level of sympathy for his point of view. If that had been his in
tention, he was disappointed.
Craithie said to Makeman, “I never joke about my faith, and you insult me by suggesting that I might. I am telling you that God made man in his image and every other creature on Earth is lower than God’s finest creation. None of the lower creatures is capable of sentient thought and yet you are saying that here is proof of creatures the equal of men?”
Makeman had heard enough. “Not just equal,” he riposted, “but in all likelihood greatly superior. Look, Craithie, I’m not disposed toward any faith, but I know several colleagues who believe in God in some form or another. Not one of them believes this bullshit about man being above all other creatures; in fact for some of them the opposite is probably true. Whoever built that ship down there has got to be our equal at least because the technology is way in advance of what we can muster. So let’s quit trying to make this into some kind of religious crusade and get down to the business at hand, and that is the problem of understanding exactly what we have here.”
Makeman realised that in his anger, he had been clenching his fists, and he could feel the imprints of his fingernails in the palms of his hands. He heard a single, polite clap . . . and then another and another until everyone, with the exception of Craithie, was roundly applauding him.
“Bravo, Mr Makeman,” a voice said, “I think you articulated what every one of us would have wanted to say.”
Craithie listened to the applause with mounting anger. Finally, he grunted, “Satan’s whores,” under his breath before demanding, “Where will I find Hendriksson? I’m not staying in this madhouse any longer.”
“I’ll take you to see him,” Carter replied.
“There’s no need for you to accompany me. Just tell me where I’ll find him.”
“No, Mr Craithie, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”
“I’m coming with you,” Makeman added, “just in case.”
Carter motioned with his hand in the direction of a military tent near the entrance to the site, behind which a scattering of vehicles were randomly parked on the edge of the cleared jungle.
Craithie’s eyes flicked over to the parked vehicles, and then he nodded and meekly followed Mike Carter with Phil Makeman tagging along behind.
Hendriksson was in the middle of a discussion with Colonel Suarez and Major Heathcote when Carter and Makeman led Craithie into the Colonel’s tent. From Craithie’s flushed appearance it was clear to Hendriksson that the newly-arrived physicist was extremely unhappy.
The director raised his eyebrows in query and Carter offered, “Sorry for interrupting gentlemen, but Mr Craithie has decided that he doesn’t wish to stay in what he calls a madhouse. I think I’d better let Mr Craithie explain.”
Makeman muttered under his breath, “If you can get any sense out of him.”
The stocky Scot caught the edge of Makeman’s comment and veins and tendons stood out in his neck as he fought to control his temper.
Mike Carter interceded. “We don’t want to make the situation worse, Phil, so try to keep a check on your tongue.”
Makeman said, “Ok,” and closed an imaginary zip across his lips.
Hendriksson stared at his geophysics expert and asked quietly, “Has something happened between you and Mr Craithie, Phil? Have you been your usual charming self?”
Makeman laughed, “Absolutely not, Lars. All I’ve done is say what everybody else was too polite to say. Mike will confirm that I’ve done nothing wrong. Just ask Mister Craithie,” he said, putting a heavy stress on the title, “I’m sure he’ll have no difficulty in impugning your intelligence the way he’s impugned everyone else’s.”
Hendriksson smiled placatingly at Craithie. “Would you like to explain, Mr Craithie, and I’ll see what I can do to clear up any misunderstandings. And if you still feel you have no wish to remain on site, I shall personally drive you to the airport at Belize City in around seven days’ time.”
Craithie’s jaw tightened when he heard the time stipulation, but he gave no other indication he appreciated that he was temporarily confined to the site. He stared belligerently at the director and grated in an accent that was made harsher by his anger, “From my experience of the other idiots I’ve met here, I can’t imagine that you will understand what is at stake here—”
Makeman grinned. “I warned you it wouldn’t be long before he’d insult you too, Lars.”
Hendriksson treated Makeman to a withering stare. “If you can’t avoid these unhelpful comments, Phil, it would be better if you left.”
Makeman sobered a little. “Sorry Lars. I’ll keep out of it.” He glanced over at Heathcote and the major winked at him. It seemed that the British officer was enjoying the exchanges.
Heathcote saluted Colonel Suarez and said, “If you would excuse me for a moment, Colonel, there is something I need to deal with. You’ll brief me when I return?”
Suarez nodded and Heathcote slipped out of the tent.
“Please continue, Mr Craithie. There will be no more interruptions until you’ve had your say. But please may I request that you avoid any further insults aimed at my colleagues or myself?”
Craithie took a deep breath to calm himself and growled, “I suppose.” He glared at those around him in the tent. “I have seen what you have discovered in this midden, and I’m telling you that I’m the only one within fifty miles who understands what it means.”
“Tell us. What does it mean?”
“It means that Satan is walking amongst you in this jungle hell-hole and not one of you can appreciate the effect it will have on religion and faith. That . . . abomination out there will kill everyone’s belief that man is God’s greatest creation.”
“Everyone’s?”
“Everyone with half a brain and an ounce of faith in God’s creation of the universe.”
“Mr Craithie, I asked you to desist from these insults.”
Craithie almost apologised. “I told these other—” he caught himself in time before be called Carter and Makeman idiots once more, “people, that we must either destroy the spaceship or bury it so deep that it could never be found. And he—” he waved his hand in Makeman’s general direction, “asked me if I was joking, which was just the kind of response I would expect from one with a closed mind.”
Makeman broke his imposed silence, “Glad to be of help.”
That proved the final straw for the angry Scot. “I’m saying no more, because none of you are prepared to recognise the situation for what it is. I want to go home . . . now . . . and not in seven days, or even seven hours. I want to go now, and if you won’t provide transport, I’ll walk to the airport.”
Hendriksson sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr Craithie . . . really I am, but perhaps you don’t appreciate your position. Whilst no one is technically a prisoner here, no one is permitted to leave until the site is fully up and running, with a large complement of international scientists. Once that is achieved, an announcement will be made to the world, and everyone will be made aware of our discovery. Until then, the government of Belize has proscribed all movement from the site with the exception of authorised personnel. So you see, Mr Craithie, flying home is completely out of the question at the moment.”
“And am I to be placed under house arrest?”
“Of course not. But you should be made aware that the jungle surrounding us extends over most of the Yucatán Peninsula, and it contains many dangers such as poisonous snakes and insects. Even to brush your skin against the bark of certain trees can prove extremely hazardous, even deadly. No, Mr Craithie, the jungle itself provides its own boundaries to the uninitiated.”
Craithie glowered at Director Hendriksson for several seconds, before turning on his heel and storming out of the tent.
“I think we may need to watch him in case he attempts anything silly,” Hendriksson groaned.
No one disagreed.
*
Major Heathcote beckoned Sergeant Scott over from where he was carrying out a check on supplies. The look on the
major’s face told Scott that something was amiss.
“Problems, Sir?”
“Perhaps, Scotty.” Heathcote detailed what had occurred in the tent between Hendriksson and Craithie.
“You think he’ll try to run for it, Sir?”
“I’d say it was extremely likely. He was pretty upset. Just make sure he doesn’t do anything to embarrass us . . . and keep him safe. It’s a jungle out there.”
Jim Scott grinned at the joke. “Leave it to me, Sir. Have you got a description?”
“One metre seventy and around ninety kilos. His name is Craithie and he’s a Scot like yourself.”
Scott grinned. “Not like me, Sir. I’m naturalised SAS.”
Heathcote gave a perfunctory salute, which was returned in all correctness by Jim Scott, and walked away grinning at his sergeant’s affirmation of his allegiance to his regiment and to his comrades above all else.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Craithie waited impatiently for nightfall, which at this time of year occurred at around nine pm, preceded by a lengthy twilight. Whilst the other newcomers had been getting acquainted with the facilities and getting to know those colleagues who had preceded them to the site, he remained in his quarters. He checked and rechecked his wallet and passport; everything was in order. He realised he would look extremely foolish if he were to escape only to discover that he had left his passport or money in his luggage at the site. No, he thought, not if he were to escape . . . he would make his way to the airport, despite Hendriksson’s dire warnings about poisonous snakes and other dangers of the forest.
He pushed aside the tent flap and looked around. He could see some activity around the edge of the growing excavation. Two floodlight towers had been erected and he could hear the whine of a heavy diesel engine being turned over. The engine caught and revved highly for several seconds before settling down to a steady rumble. Someone shouted instructions and first one bank of floodlights came to life, followed moments later by the other, illuminating the trench and a broad area all around.
