SUMMARY:
What remains is speculation only as to the origin of the artifacts. The Department at present is unaware of any existing technology which could reproduce the compound molecular structure of the metals contained in the artifacts. It is pure conjecture as to whether their origin is terrestrial or extraterrestrial.
The Department feels the artifacts are extraordinary, have become an issue of national security, and intends to conduct a full field operation to obtain additional information. All artifacts are presently being held secure in Washington Headquarters. Analysis continues, but artifacts will be made available for continual inspection by project team members. Aerial photographs of the Fallon Hills and immediate surrounding area will be forthcoming.
Be advised that the period between March and October is the Antarctic winter. During this period, the total population of all bases is reduced down to several hundred from several thousand which inhabit the bases during the summer months from November through February. Due to the extreme severity of the winter, no field operations can be conducted after the end of February. Suggest with utmost urgency that field team be assembled and dispatched to McMurdo Station.
FORWARD RESPONSE ASAP
JAS72KRS77
LIST OF ATTACHMENTS:
Attachments ‘A’ through ‘E’—photographs of AR-1
Attachments ‘F’ through ‘H’—photographs of AR-2, AR-3, AR-4
Attachments ‘I’ through ‘O’—photographs of AR-5, AR-6, AR-7, AR-8, AR-9, AR-10, AR-11
Attachment ‘P’—photograph of AR-12
END
Korbett read the entire document several more times, memorizing virtually every sentence contained in it, making absolutely certain that he had registered everything in his head. Then he carefully perused the photographs, as fuzzy as they were because of the water-sol paper. They were nothing more than photo-copied images from the originals, their purpose only to familiarize him with the artifacts. The originals were secured away somewhere.
Their analysis seemed correct. They sure as hell looked like some part of a structure. The black box was the kicker, though. If they deciphered the symbols, maybe the whole project will end as quickly as it began. Unlikely, though.
Korbett leaned back and took another sip of the coffee, now cooled and tasting better. So, he thought. Looks like we’ve got another project lined up for the departmental ufologists. But Antarctica?
The first thing that hit Korbett was how in the hell was he going to coordinate the field operation in what was probably the most remote region on the planet earth? And why in the hell did they pick me to head this one?
The challenge. Already the mind of William Korbett was running at a hundred miles an hour, sorting through the network of resources that Korbett had built over the past twenty years. The first thing he’d have to do is assemble the field team, then arrange for their immediate transport to McMurdo. That in itself was no easy task. This was going to take a little more effort than just making the few usual phone calls. He’d need help on this one.
Turning on the computer, he fired off an e-mail message to Maggie Davenport. She was the best in the business at pulling strings. But even Korbett wondered if the strings stretched all the way to Antarctica. Typing the instructions into the computer, he requested that she gather all the information she could garner concerning Antarctica, glacier movements, weather patterns, NSF projects, the Antarctic Treaty, and whatever else she deemed relevant. And P.S…what the hell is a rookery? Maggie would have no idea what the project was all about at the moment, but she never questioned things. She just did her job.
Sending off e-mail messages to the other four group members to meet at three o’clock at the assigned command HQ (even Korbett didn’t know yet exactly where it would be, he’d have to decode the alpha-numeric at the bottom of the page), he began mentally jotting down the names of field operatives. And fortunately, Korbett had several friends attached to the National Science Foundation and should be able to get a lot of information through the rumor mill about what was really going on at McMurdo. He’d need that networking for sure. There’d be no cover for his field team, that was certain. Especially since they would be arriving at the end of the season when everybody else was preparing to depart for the winter.
Marsh Abbott. He was simply the best in the field. And since Operation Rookery had top priority status, Korbett had the power to even pull Marsh off any other project he might be currently assigned to. Maggie could get most all the reference information they’d need to know about Antarctica through the computer services. The aerial photographs will be helpful, providing they cover enough geographical area. If not, he’d be hell bent to arrange an aerial photo recon mission. Not impossible. Just difficult.
He had the feeling that he’d better arrange for satellite imaging of the entire area. In all probability, infrared imaging might be able to reveal something below the ice. He just hoped for the sake of the field team that it wasn’t too far below the ice. Somewhere in his mind he remembered reading that ice sheets at the poles could be as much as two miles thick. Hard to comprehend. Next to impossible to dig down into, although there was the recent story about the guy who dug out some World War II planes from below the ice in Greenland…he’d get Maggie to dig up that story to find out how they did it.
No time for that now. Korbett decided that a core field team of five would have to suffice. They’d need a lot of help in the field, but there wouldn’t be enough time to make arrangements from the Department roster. Unfortunately, they’d most likely be forced to utilize some of the McMurdo personnel. This wasn’t like hiring people out of a union hall. They’d need some real experts out on that glacial ice field. Maggie would have to advise him of the type of personnel the field team would need to accompany them. More than likely, personnel at McMurdo should at least have reliable credentials. And, evidently, the Department had a covert operative assigned there or else the artifacts wouldn’t have been retrieved so fast. Maybe even some of the personnel had security clearances. People who go there are professionals, whether they’re adventurers or not.
Korbett typed in the names of five individuals: Marshall Abbott; Dr. Peter Almshouse, ufologist (who actually worked for Dr. Vandergrif, and, who conveniently was an amateur archaeo-astronomer); Al Lisk, a computer and electronics expert (and, like Marsh Abbott, a former Air Force Blue Beret and Delta force operative); Lt. Colonel Dave Borden, military advisor; Captain Charles Renninger, military advisor.
If the Department was right and the artifacts were of extraterrestrial origin, then he’d need Almshouse’s expertise if the team found anything. If the black box was some sort of electronic device and they found any more, he’d need Al Lisk. Borden and Renninger were two good former special forces personnel. They’d keep things in line while Marsh did his job. Korbett sent off the list.
The coffee was cold. Korbett decided he’d better not drink anymore anyway. Leaning back in the chair, he mulled over the names of the project members. He was acquainted with all of them, good friends with Eli Maislin.
Dr. Eli Maislin: head departmental ufologist, degrees in forensic science and exobiology. Korbett had first met Maislin several years ago on a project that involved a crashed space object that was rumored to be occupied by beings. That one turned out to be bogus. The object was a crashed weather satellite sent up by the European Space Agency. The “beings” turned out to be a few “fried” whitetail deer that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when the fragments came down, fortunately in a forested region. They had a good laugh about it and were friends ever since. Eli was a good man. A top level researcher. Probably the best ufologist the Department had.
Dr. Rula Koslovsky was a former Russian nuclear physicist, not unusual for a woman to hold those types of degrees in the former Soviet Union. He was closely acquainted with Koslovsky, having worked with her on numerous occasions. She always called him William, which he hated to be called, but for some reason it didn�
��t bother him when Rula called him that. She had defected to the United States in the late 70’s after the KGB arrested and subsequently executed her husband for treason. The details were unclear, but it was inconsequential anyway. Dr. Koslovsky had long been involved in Soviet UFO research as far back as the 60’s. And since the warming of relations after the fall of the Soviet Union, the American UFO research effort had gleaned a plethora of valuable information from Soviet researchers in general. Combined, it had answered a number of questions about extraterrestrial visitation. Notwithstanding the fact, of course, that it raised twice as many more. She was good. He was glad to have her assigned to the team.
Dr. Anton Vandergrif was also a top level UFO researcher, his specialty being archaeo-astronomy, the science that concerned itself with the recovery and study of evidence of the astronomical beliefs and practices of ancient peoples. Archaeo-astronomy is primarily a tool to gain insight into cultures, principally by studying symbols and glyphs. Korbett could see why they assigned Vandergrif to the team. If he couldn’t immediately identify the symbols on the black box, there must be some extraterrestrial implication. Anton was a pleasant individual, always smiling, always friendly. He liked Anton Vandergrif.
On the other hand, there was Willard Darbury. If you asked anyone around the Department to give you their first thoughts about Willard Darbury, the words “annoying little bastard” would probably come from everyone’s lips. There wasn’t any better way to describe Willard. He was short and portly, balding, and suffered from terminal halitosis, as Maggie had once put it. His high-pitched whinny voice annoyed everybody to the point that when he spoke out in the company of people, heads turned to see where the annoyance was coming from. But there was one thing that no one could take away from Willard Darbury. He was a walking encyclopedia of UFO knowledge. It wasn’t only his field of expertise, it was his life. It was all he lived for. The man must have a computer chip with a hundred gigabytes of memory implanted in his brain, Korbett thought. He must have read every book and article ever published on the subject. He networked with all the grass root organizations—primarily the Mutual UFO Network (MUFON) and the British equivalent, BUFORA—attended all the local and international symposiums, and could find an answer to every question ever posed at him concerning the UFO phenomena. The man was indispensable.
“Oh, well,” Korbett mumbled out loud, resolute. “God bless, you Willard. I guess I’ll have to keep you and Eli at opposite ends of the table.”
There wasn’t too much else he could do at the moment until he’d met with the project members. The e-mail sent off, Korbett shut down the computer. He read through the document one more time, making sure he’d digested everything he needed to know for the time being.
Gathering together the document, making sure he had all the pages and attachments, Korbett went into the private bathroom off the study. Dropping the pages into the toilet bowl one by one, he watched as each one instantly dissolved. When the last one was deposited, he flushed them down the toilet.
Outside, the day looked drearier than it had earlier this morning. Another month or so and it would start getting a bit nicer. Looking at his watch, he decided he’d have plenty of time to get in a workout before leaving for the meeting. It would be better to do it at home today instead of at the club, as he needed the time to formulate some more contingency plans, and it was easier if he didn’t have to listen to all the old retired military farts reliving their glory days. Antarctica! Christ, the next thing you know they’ll be asking me to send my people to the moon. He walked back to his desk and pressed the button for the P.A. system. “Mrs. Klingenhoff?” he said.
In a moment her voice crackled over the squawk box. “Yes, General?”
“I’ll be having lunch out today. Tell Mrs. Korbett I won’t be home until later this evening.”
“Will you be at the Officer’s Club, sir?”
“No,” he responded. “Just tell her I’m on official business. I’ll call her later today.”
“You watch for the weather out there, General,” she said, genuinely concerned as always for the welfare of both him and Mrs. Korbett. “Report says it’s supposed to get very cold.”
For some people, Mrs. Klingenhoff, it’s going to get a hell of a lot colder than it is here in Washington, D. C.
Chapter 3
FEBRUARY 6, 20--
RURAL AREA NEAR GATHERSBURG, MARYLAND
8:45 A.M. EST
It was a welcome change from the stifling heat that had been blanketing the whole northern region of South America for the past several weeks. What had it been? Twenty some odd days since the temperature had dropped below ninety degrees in Rio de Janeiro? Whatever, he thought. But it was nice nonetheless to feel a good old-fashioned seasonal American cold front.
Marshall Abbott had the car heater turned on full blast, but had the driver’s window and the back opposite passenger window halfway down to let some of the frosty air circulate through the car. Most people would have thought he was nuts, but actually, it was quite refreshing.
The sign said Silver Mountain Vacation Community - Private. As he turned left off the highway onto the heavily wooded road that led up to the governmental restricted area, in the distance he could see the unassuming guardhouse next to the stone pillars framing the driveway entry. The entrance looked like a stereo typical vacation home community, the kind where they posted a guard at a neat looking shack and they wouldn’t let anybody in except the residents and their guests, which is what the sign at the gate said. Abbott surmised theyhad constructed the facade that way so the facility blended right in with the neighborhood. The whole area in this part of the county was dotted with private vacation communities. Rest assured, he thought, if anybody tried to crash the gate, they’d more than likely get their asses blown away. This was a top secret government installation, and you wouldn’t get ten feet past the shack.
Stopping, he showed his i.d. picture to the guard, and it was obvious to Abbott that the man was a military police officer even though he wasn’t in military garb. The guard stepped over to the guard shack window and swiped his card through the computer scan. A minute later he came back, handed the card back to Abbott, and gave directions on which road to follow up around the bend. Abbott thanked him and moved on. He thought it should have been a more secure entry, but then again, it all depended upon what was housed here. Obviously, not much.
Driving along the wooded lane, Abbott was taken in by the subtle peacefulness of the Maryland woods. It had gotten too warm in the car, so he turned down the heater fan. The place reminded him of the neighborhood where Bill Korbett lived, only here there weren’t any ritzy homes visible like on Korbett’s street. Abbott had worked on several projects for Bill Korbett during the past several years. He admired the man who, since his retirement from active service, was now devoting his career in support of the most powerful human being on Earth—the President. A far cry from back in the days of Vietnam when Marshall Abbott had first met Bill Korbett.
Korbett was a seasoned veteran then. A combat pilot who just made the rank of Major. He was a retired General now. But the man was always Bill Korbett whether he was the General living in the affluence of the Washington scene or the cocky new Major sucking down rot gut Thai beer in some hooch in Nakon Phenom. Abbott first got to know Korbett in Thailand. They had actually first met in the mountains of central Vietnam north of Da Nang near the DMZ. Korbett was an F4 fighter jock. The Air Force flew a lot of ground support missions along the demilitarized zone, and Korbett had been shot down right along the DMZ by one of those hand-held portable Russian missiles that the North Vietnamese Army was getting very cocky with.
Abbott was Air Force Special Forces—a “Blue Beret” as they were called back then—and it had been Abbott’s team that was operating in the area trying to weed out the little bastards that were populating the hills carrying around the deadly back-pack missiles. Occasionally they’d get lucky and hit one of the American planes. The North Vietnamese A
rmy—NVA troopers—were hard to eliminate because they immediately moved off every time they launched one. By the time the airborne reconnaissance platforms got a lock on their positions—which they got in less than a minute—and passed it off to 7th Air Force which in turn passed it off to teams like Abbott’s, the enemy was gone. Disappeared into the forests.
That’s what Abbott was doing the day Korbett was shot down. They saw the two airmen punch out. Abbott just happened to be in the right place at the right time and saw the parachutes. Korbett was the lucky one. His navigator never made it because the gooks shot him while hanging in a tree. Abbott’s team found Korbett, then shot the North Vietnamese troopers. Korbett had sustained a sprained ankle and Abbott physically carried him back to the rendezvous point where they were picked up by chopper.
The Nexus Colony Page 6
