“It’s surfaced,” somebody on the bridge said, breaking the silence.
It was at that very moment that everyone began to comprehend what was going on. The whole ocean off to the port side of the ship was unexpectedly lighted by an eerie glow. Through the fog, it could now be seen what had been following them. Whatever it was had not only surfaced, but had risen up into the air from a hundred feet below in the depths of the Ross Sea.
Total fear gripped every man and woman on the Penguin Princess. The object began to move ever so slowly toward the ship, not making a sound. The strobing colored lights ringed a cupola prominently jutting out from the bottom of the giant craft. It took a full minute for it to arrive into position directly over the deck of the vessel. There was no mistaking what each human being on board the ship was witnessing. The massive girth of the alien manifestation was equal to that of the Penguin Princess itself.
The ominous craft—they could all now distinctly see the saucer shape—hovered about a hundred feet directly over the vessel. Despite this being the greatest fear that most all of these men and women had ever experienced, everyone was suddenly compelled en masse to walk out onto the deck into the frigid temperature to see the thing that had risen from the depths of the Antarctic abyss. It loomed in the foggy mist like a portent defying all human logic.
Before the strange craft abruptly blinked out and disappeared straight upward into the sky—disappearing both visually and from the radar scope—it left a final calling card. A blue beam projected downward from the center of the cupola, touching in the midst of where everyone was standing in a circle. It was the place on the wide deck where the humans routinely emptied their fishing nets.
Fortunately, the twenty foot crocodile that emerged from the beam almost instantly was subdued by the frigid temperature before the monstrous reptile was able to inflict any harm on the unprotected humans surrounding it.
Chapter 6
FEBRUARY 8, 20--
U. S. McMURDO STATION
ANTARCTICA
7:40 A.M. GMT
For the past twenty hours the late summer storm had raged across the continent, passing through the 0-180 degree meridian that divides west and east Antarctica. The winds yesterday afternoon had exceeded a hundred knots as they howled down from the Transantarctic Mountain Range, across McMurdo Sound, and onto the vast frozen crust of the Ross Ice Shelf. And in their path, McMurdo Station defiantly held its ground, again called upon to bear testament to man’s recklessness and his mastery of surviving the elements.
Nothing was moving at the base. All outside activity had ceased, and the grounding of all aircraft in or out of the area had been in effect since early yesterday. The intensity of the wind this morning was ebbing, but even down to forty knots, air activity was still out of the question. There wasn’t a whole lot more that Mike Ruger could do but wait out the storm until the plane arrived from New Zealand with the team from the States. Whether the sudden severe weather was hampering their efforts or not out on The Ice, Ruger didn’t know and frankly didn’t care. Especially at this very moment.
Her naked body was warm against his side. She was still asleep, but sensed his wakefulness as she wrapped herself tightly around him. A change in plans is indigenous to Antarctica along with the wrath of the winds. Sometimes a lot easier to accept than at other times.
The shocker came yesterday when Ruger had slipped off to Allison’s quarters to wait after she had left the lounge to meet with Jimmy Morrison. At first, Ruger didn’t even respond to her absurd pronouncement when she came through the door of her cramped quarters, locking it behind her, pushing him playfully down onto the bed.
“I’m going with you,” she said, before his mouth covered hers and they rolled in a passionate embrace.
Somewhere in the lovers’ clinch he impassively replied, “I’m glad,” as they tore at each other’s clothes, both giving way to the pent-up desire that had been building since earlier this morning.
They had made unspoken love for the next hour. Each time when they would finish like this, Mike Ruger felt his feelings for this woman edging their way deeper into his emotions. It was getting harder and harder to diminish their interlude, and always in the aftermath of lovemaking, Mike Ruger would lie on his back staring up at the featureless ceiling while he stroked her hair as she lay softly across his chest. It took all his willpower to contain himself from saying what he might later regret.
He was lost in her effluvia—the sweet smell of their lovemaking, the warmth of their bodies—all tugging at his emotions so strongly that the thoughts of the raging winds outside had been abandoned. It wouldn’t be like this at all when they were out there on The Ice.
“You didn’t hear what I said,” she had whispered softly when their lovemaking was finished. She rested her chin in the thick hair of his chest.
“No. You’re right,” he replied playfully, rolling over onto his side to look into her beautiful face. “What did you say?”
“I said I was going with you.”
That was yesterday around noon time. It had taken several moments for Ruger to gather himself and comprehend what it was she was telling him. He sat up in bed, disbelief abruptly dissipating the wonderful feeling of euphoria.
“You’re what?”
“NSF has assigned me to go out on The Ice with you,” she replied. “Actually, not you. The team from the States.”
Mike Ruger was speechless.
“And Hilly, too,” she added.
Ruger was livid. Not at her, but at the absurdity of the notion.
“No,” he said.
Springing out of bed, he started dressing quickly, only one thought on his mind. Getting over to the administration complex and find out just what in the hell was going on. For one thing, Allison Bryson was a marine biologist. Why in God’s name would they be sending a marine biologist out on The Ice to search for debris? Hilliard Grimes he could see. But why send any of them out at all when these guys from the States probably had somebody along to supplement all their scientific needs?
“Mike. Calm down, for God’s sake,” Allison implored, visibly upset at the way he was over-reacting.
“It’s dangerous out there, Allie,” he replied, pulling on his insulated jump suit.
“No kidding,” she said. “The whole continent is.”
“Not like out there,” he responded, fumbling with the zipper in his haste. “You know exactly what I mean.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“‘What’s the big deal?’ the woman says.”
“That’s why they’re sending you out there, silly,” she said. “To keep us dumb scientists alive.” She restrained herself from laughing. His German accent, normally unnoticeable, seemed to come out when Mike Ruger was mad or upset, which wasn’t too often.
He pulled up the zipper and stood in front of her, hands on his hips. “I’m not taking you out there on The Ice over some inconsequential project that’s probably nothing more than a simple misunderstanding. You’ve no reason to be going along.”
“You’re right,” she responded. “But I work for the NSF the same as you. Jimmy said he got the order for the assignment direct from Washington. Two researchers from this base were assigned to go along with the Stateside team, and our names were the ones assigned.”
“There’s got to be a mistake.”
“I doubt it.”
“What do these people think you’re going to find out there? Minke whales?”
She feigned a playful frown. “I thought you’d be glad I was going along. We’d be together. I thought you’d like that.”
He sat on the bed, gently touching her tousled hair. “That’s not an issue.”
“Make love to me again.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “Later. I’ve got to talk to Morrison. I’ll be back.”
Mike Ruger stormed over to the complex, fighting the blistering winds along with his anger. These NSF idiots were sending her out along with him on some wild goos
e chase. It wasn’t a question of being qualified to do whatever it was they wanted her for. He didn’t want her out there for one very good reason.
Ruger was a mountaineering guide. The best in Antarctica. He was the best because he was the most focused on the elements, and his undivided attention to surviving the desolation of this most hostile of lands was contingent upon his attentiveness to survival. With Allison along, it would only serve to diminish that attention. That’s what he was afraid of. That he might lower his guard and make a mistake. He had never made a fatal mistake out on The Ice. Mistakes cost people their lives in Antarctica. And that’s what he was so angry about. Not about Allie’s going out on The Ice, but of his own potential loss of control over himself and his compulsion to do battle with the forces of nature. Mike Ruger was a passionate, complex man in more ways than Allison Bryson could even begin to comprehend.
But Morrison said no. He wouldn’t reconsider the assignments of Dr. Hilliard Grimes, and particularly Dr. Allison Bryson. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he had no authorization to do so. As a matter of fact, Morrison was simply the intermediary, the piano man, because somebody in the NSF back in Washington was calling the shots on this project. As Morrison explained, he got a communiqué instructing him to inform Grimes and Bryson that both of them were assigned to the team headed out to the Mulock Glacier as “scientific advisory support personnel” for the NSF. Morrison felt it was bullshit, too, but that was all he knew about it. If Ruger had a problem with that—which Morrison couldn’t see why he should have from a personnel standpoint-- Ruger could take it up at a later date through the proper channels.
Jim Morrison was an honest man and a damn good administrator. Ruger held him in high regard. Ruger backed off, and resolute, returned to Allison’s quarters. The wind storm was hitting McMurdo with a vengeance an hour after Ruger was informed that the flight from New Zealand was postponed until later notification. They made love all afternoon, spent the evening in the recreation lounge with the large group of bored—and boring—scientists, and came back to bed to wait out the storm.
It was close to eight o’clock now, and Ruger sensed he’d better get up and take a stroll over to the communications complex to get an ETA on the New Zealand flight. Surprisingly, he dressed and slipped out of the door without disturbing her. Ruger bundled up for the short walk over to the complex. The wind was down to about ten knots by the time he arrived there.
Inside, Ruger ran into John Lightfoot, who appeared anxious, out of character for the man. Maybe the place is finally getting to him after all, Ruger thought.
“You’re plane’s en route, Mike,” Lightfoot said, catching him by surprise.
“Really?” Ruger said, quickly recovering, not giving Lightfoot the opening at his surprise. “Thanks for the info, John.” Ruger knew why the man was there. The son-of-a-bitch was still trying to finagle his way out onto The Ice with them. Ruger wasn’t about to give him another opening.
Ramstead was sitting at the computer obviously waiting for an incoming message to download from the Internet. When he glanced up and saw Ruger, he called out, “ETA eleven a.m. on the flight from NZ, Mike.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Ruger replied. “Thanks, Russell.” Ruger turned. “See you later, John.”
“Right. See you around,” Lightfoot replied, smiling.
Ruger left the complex and went back to Allison’s quarters. They had about another hour to kill before they’d have to go over to the transport pad to make final preparations for transfer onto the LC-130 Hercules from New Zealand that would take them directly out to the Mulock Glacier. Ruger was just glad of one thing. John Lightfoot was out of his way and one less worry.
But what Ruger didn’t know, Lightfoot had been waiting for what would turn out to be the confirmation agreement from Adventure Network International. The message to Lightfoot was simple:
$10,000 payment in advance. One way passenger manifest McMurdo to Mulock Glacier region, on or about Feb 08. Weather permitting.
* * * * *
The LC-130 Hercules had arrived precisely on time, and Mike Ruger along with Allison Bryson and Hilliard Grimes quickly boarded the aircraft that sat anxiously idling in front of the cargo complex.
They had been standing in the open hangar waiting for the plane to drop the rear cargo door. Their instructions were to do nothing and wait for the team leader, a fellow named Marshall Abbott. Strange instructions, Ruger thought. But if that was what they wanted, then that’s what they wanted. When Ruger looked up, only one man was getting off. He introduced himself, and the exchange was brief and to the point.
“Abbott,” he said. “Call me Marsh,” he added, extending his gloved hand to each one of them.
“Ruger. Mike Ruger,” he replied. “This is Dr. Allison Bryson…”
“Dr. Bryson,” Abbott acknowledged.
“Allison. Please,” she responded, taking his hand.
“…and Dr. Hilliard Grimes.”
“Hilly,” he responded in kind.
Abbott acknowledged Grimes and shook his hand. “You’ll meet the rest of the team on board,” Abbott replied. “Once we get airborne, I’ll fill you in on all the details to date.” Then turning to Ruger, he said, “Then you can give us your briefing, Mike.”
“Sure.”
Abbott turned and walked out of the hangar toward the plane, a signal for them to follow. The man was very military, Ruger noticed. He even walked with a regimented gait. The loadmaster was already moving Ruger’s supply sleds and four snowmobiles up into the cargo hold of the aircraft. They followed Abbott up the ramp and took the three seats inside the plane indicated by another one of the crewmembers.
The drone of the idling engines echoed inside the hold, and the brief introductions were again nothing more than cursory. The two men at the far end, Ruger noticed, had introduced themselves by their military ranking. Colonel Prall and Major Monroe. They didn’t seem to be as cordial as the other two, and Ruger immediately sensed some hostility. Probably because neither he nor Allison or Hilly should have been there. Ruger wasn’t even sure if these guys had known about their joining the team at McMurdo before they even left New Zealand. Although he only suspected it, Ruger felt certain that political pressures in Washington on behalf of the NSF had probably placed Bryson and Grimes on the team at some point after these guys had left the States. Ruger was only a mountaineering guide, and by all indications was nothing more than a logistical necessity. Ruger surmised that all these guys were military. And the mission had Top Secret written all over its face, whatever the hell that meant.
Ruger’s eyes met Prall’s. For that brief moment, Ruger sensed foreboding. He needed only that instant to understand that he—Bryson and Grimes, too—they had all better be careful with this man. Some things become expendable in survival situations. Sometimes people.
The man who introduced himself as Dr. Almshouse—Peter—seemingly had struck an instant rapport with Allison and Hilliard. He was an amiable fellow, and immediately Ruger felt a little more at ease. Grimes was sitting in the seat next to Almshouse, but Ruger couldn’t hear their conversation over the din of the engines. Allison was leaning over Hilly’s shoulders, and by all appearances, the three of them were engaged in discussion. About what, Ruger had no idea, but it seemed they all shared the same level of enthusiasm. From the few words Ruger could pick up, it was mostly scientific jargon anyway.
The hydraulic pumps of the cargo ramp labored in the cold temperature as it slowly closed, drowning out the annoying engine noise. And hopefully, Ruger thought, the awful smell of the exhaust fumes that were being sucked up into the hold of the transport. It was nauseating, and Ruger wondered if it was bothering everybody else as much as it was bothering him.
The door sealed, the engines began to rev, and the bulky aircraft started to move along the icy taxi-way into position for takeoff. The weather had turned clear and the wind speed had come down drastically even since the plane had landed. Ruger estimated it to be no
more than five knots. A perfect day for flying, unlike the past twenty-four hours. A good window, and that was why they were wasting no time as the plane accelerated after completing its turn. In a matter of minutes, it was airborne and climbing at a steep rate. Ruger peaked at Grimes, and wasn’t surprised to see his squeamish friend had backed out of the conversation. Ruger hoped he didn’t embarrass himself and throw up all over that Almshouse fellow.
The whole stopover on the ground had been less than forty-five minutes, just enough time to take on some fuel while they loaded the cargo and supplies. Ruger thought it odd they didn’t stay a bit longer considering the flight from New Zealand had taken about eight hours. Whatever the hell was out there on the Mulock Glacier—or whatever they thought might be out there—it must be damn important to these guys, Ruger thought. Or more accurately, to somebody in the U.S. Government.
As the plane continued its steep climb, everybody just seemed to hang on to the webbing waiting for the plane to level off. The drone of the engines reverberated through the bulkheads. Hilliard Grimes had a brief attack of deja vue, and in the moment of its aftermath, he reminded himself once again just how much he hated flying. It wasn’t so much fear of being airborne as it was of the constant awareness that one is completely vulnerable and at the mercy of a rickety old airplane being battered around by the worst weather on the planet.
When the plane finally settled into a cruising altitude, Marshall Abbott motioned the three of them to gather around a small area where he had set up a makeshift desk on a wooden carton. Ruger noticed a lot of paperwork scattered on top that obviously came from the black attaché case at his feet.
The Nexus Colony Page 11
