Elusive Salvation (Star Trek: The Original Series)

by Dayton Ward

  “That’s going to be some trick,” said Lieutenant Moreno. “I just checked, and the heavy equipment we need won’t be here for at least another eighteen hours.”

  This was disappointing though not unexpected, conceded Wheeler. He and his small group were standing in one of the most uninviting regions on the planet. Access was limited to special ships and aircraft, of which few were available to him at a moment’s notice. Still, he had pulled as many strings as he was able to see to it that excavation equipment was on its way here. Whatever awaited them in the ice, he wanted it treated like the priceless artifact it was, even though any potential monetary value it might hold was nowhere in his thoughts. Along with Moreno and other Cygnus personnel, Wheeler had been airlifted by helicopter from Tuktoyaktuk, the small hamlet on Kugmallit Bay that also served as one of the Distant Early Warning radar stations. The trip here from “the Real World” had been circuitous, at best, requiring flights between the air force bases at Andrews near Washington, DC, and Elmendorf in Anchorage, Alaska. This had come after a lengthy briefing with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to update him on the current situation. Another flight to the remote town of Inuvik had preceded an even shorter yet far more harrowing jump to the small airport in Tuktoyaktuk, where an MH-53J Pave Low III helicopter was waiting to bring them out to the site. Wheeler, a former helicopter pilot himself, whose last flights had been as training exercises in the waning months of the Vietnam War, had enjoyed this last leg of the trip most of all, and for a moment he had grown nostalgic for those distant, simpler days.

  Nah. This is way more interesting.

  “I’ve got a crew rigging up screens and netting to shield the site,” said Moreno, gesturing skyward. “Just in case anybody else gets curious.”

  Wheeler turned to where a crew of enlisted personnel, overseen by an air force lieutenant whose name escaped him, was unpacking rolls of white and light gray netting and canvas. In short order, the materials would be erected on metal poles with stakes driven into the ice, forming a web of camouflage tarpaulins that would render the site all but invisible to high altitude reconnaissance aircraft and satellite surveillance. That would leave Wheeler’s team free to operate without worrying about unwanted eyes, though the likelihood of any sort of visit by the Russians or another potentially troublesome party was slim. Still, in this line of work, it had long ago become prudent not to take anything for granted.

  “What are you planning to do with it once you’ve dug it out of there?” asked Doctor Iacovino. “It’s not like it’s going to fit in the back of that helicopter.”

  It was a reasonable question, one to which Wheeler had given considerable thought during the journey from Raven Rock. The truth was that he did not have the first clue how they would proceed, assuming they were successful in excavating the object from its icy grave. He hated the idea of cutting up the ship—or whatever it was—just to get it shipped out of here. Perhaps an aerial crane helicopter, provided one was available, could be used to get the artifact to an airport large enough to accommodate an air force heavy-lift cargo plane.

  Getting ahead of yourself, there, Dan. One thing at a time.

  The sound of running footsteps across the ice made Wheeler and the others turn to see Lieutenant Anthony Lucas, another air force officer under his command, coming toward him. The younger man was in charge of the communications center that was being established in a tent pitched beneath the snow camouflage cover, but his orange parka made him stick out against the surrounding white-blue terrain.

  “Major!” The lieutenant was waving something in the air, and it took Wheeler a second to realize it was a clipboard. Whatever had driven Lucas from his tent and its space heater, it must be important.

  “Slow down, Lieutenant,” Wheeler said, holding up a gloved hand. “You’re liable to go sliding over the edge or something.” Lucas slowed his sprint to a walk and began catching his breath, offering the clipboard to Wheeler before pointing to the mysterious metal protrusion.

  “That thing is transmitting.”

  Wheeler frowned, taking the clipboard. “What? You’re sure?” As he asked the question, he noted Doctor Iacovino trying to peer around his arm at the paper secured to the clipboard.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Lucas between breaths. He gestured to the clipboard, which held several pieces of green-and-white computer paper. “It’s all right there.”

  The paper was a printout of a graph chart, which was marked with time stamps at fifteen-minute intervals, with the earliest time indication being less than two hours ago. Wheeler figured that had to be about the time Lucas and his people had set up their communications equipment and began transmitting status reports back to the DEW station at Tuktoyaktuk, which in turn would send the information on through an encrypted air force radio network back to Raven Rock. Though they had the ability to send and receive communications via satellite equipment, Wheeler had decided not to trust the connection with sensitive information, as rumors abounded that the Russians had cracked some of the encryption ciphers used for secure military message traffic.

  His breathing having returned to normal, Lucas said, “It’s a constant, steady signal, sir, on a very low frequency. Still, it’s got enough power so that anyone who knows what to listen or look for can pick it up.”

  “And who would be listening or looking for this?” asked Lieutenant Moreno.

  Lucas shrugged. “I don’t know, Joe. I just deal with the comm, remember?” He nodded to Moreno. “The who and what is your thing.”

  “What kind of signal is it?” asked Iacovino.

  “It’s some type of acoustical beacon, cycling through at intervals of twelve seconds.” Lucas reached up to warm his face with his glove. “I’ve got no idea what it might be trying to say. Could be a distress call, or somebody trying to order a pizza, for all the hell I know. I’ll have to double-check, but I don’t think it’s like anything we have on file.”

  “Perhaps we can help with that.”

  The female voice was not Iacovino’s, which was a problem, as she was the only woman on Wheeler’s team. Looking up from the clipboard, he saw three people standing twenty feet from him, dressed in thick white parkas, trousers, and gloves that reminded him of a sniper’s ghillie suit. Hoods and goggles disguised their faces, but Wheeler figured the smaller of the trio was the one who had spoken. The new arrivals had apparently come from the direction of the camp his team had established, making him wonder how they had gotten this far without being detected or challenged.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  The smaller figure held something thin and silver in her right hand, which was pointed in his general direction. “You probably won’t believe me, Major, but we’re friends and we’re here to help.”

  Then all the white in Wheeler’s field of vision went black.

  • • •

  Kirk watched as the servo acted with its customary efficiency, stunning the three men and their female companion. Their bodies stiffened and their expressions went flat, and the clipboard carried by the one male officer clattered to the ice.

  “Okay, people,” said Roberta Lincoln. “Everybody lie down right where you are and have yourselves a nice little nap.”

  Unable to suppress a smile as the four officers dutifully complied with her request, Kirk shook his head. “I really need one of those things. There’s a long list of admirals and diplomats back home who are perfect for it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” replied Lincoln as she returned the servo to a pocket on her parka’s left sleeve.

  Standing next to Kirk, Spock reached into an oversized pocket of his parka and removed a tricorder. The Vulcan stepped closer to the alien object and activated the unit, which began emitting its familiar high-pitched warbling whistle.

  “Definitely Iramahl in design, Admiral,” Spock reported after a moment. “According to my scans, this craft has
been here for more than a century. Stresses and gaps in the ice beneath it suggest upheaval, possibly due to seismic activity or other environmental factors, which could explain why it’s not buried deeper within the glacier.”

  Lincoln said, “There won’t be any records to verify that sort of thing. Not for this part of the world, anyway. The only things living around here are polar bears.”

  “No, but the timing works out pretty closely,” said Kirk.

  After pausing to further study his tricorder readings, Spock added, “I am picking up residual traces of Iramahl bio-matter. Two adults; a male and a female. Readings suggest they have been here for the same length of time as the vessel itself.”

  “Died in the crash?” asked Lincoln.

  “A logical assumption. The section of the ship containing the readings suffered tremendous damage, including buckling of the outer and inner hulls, suggesting it was this portion of the vessel that bore the brunt of the crash landing. Anyone in that section likely was fatally injured on impact.”

  “So we know at least three survived,” said Kirk. “That’s more to go on than we had five minutes ago.” Studying the protrusion, he frowned. “How big is this thing, anyway?”

  Spock replied, “Approximately twenty meters in length, thirteen meters across at its widest point. It consists of three sections: a cockpit, a storage or berthing compartment, and an engineering space. Based on the schematics we were given, this is the control pod section of the larger craft.”

  “And with the rest of the ship in the Mariana Trench,” Kirk said, “this is the only piece that presents an immediate problem.” Soon after Lincoln’s arrival in the twenty-third century, Admiral Nogura had relayed the news that deep ocean sensor sweeps had found the wreckage of the Iramahl vessel almost eight kilometers below the surface of the Pacific Ocean near Guam. It was not quite the deepest place that could have been selected, but it was more than sufficient, as it had taken several attempts to pinpoint the vessel’s location. By present-day standards, the wreck was all but unreachable. According to the historical records Spock had been able to search, there was no record of the ship ever being discovered.

  Small favors, I suppose.

  Turning away from the protrusion and looking to the camp they had infiltrated, Kirk regarded the unconscious officers Lincoln had disabled, and the others underneath the tarps and inside the tents. After using the transporter device in Gary Seven’s New York office to travel here, Spock had used his tricorder to pinpoint the location of everyone in the encampment. Then he and Kirk had remained at a safe distance as Lincoln moved through the camp with ease, disabling each of the military and civilian personnel with the same effectiveness she had used here.

  “What about all of these people?” he asked. “How are they going to explain what happened?”

  Shrugging as she studied the Iramahl ship, Lincoln replied, “Most of them won’t even know what hit them.” She gestured to the last four people she had immobilized with her servo. “I can wipe away the short-term memory of them seeing us, but it’s not as if they don’t know aliens are hanging out on Earth.” She placed a hand on the craft’s exposed hull section. “Besides, when they wake up, we’ll have given them something else to freak out about.”

  It took Kirk an extra moment to understand her choice of terms, which was somewhat embarrassing once he realized her meaning. “We’re taking this thing with us?”

  Lincoln nodded. “That’s the plan.”

  Before Kirk could ask how she intended to accomplish such a feat, Spock said, “I am detecting energy readings.” The Vulcan had moved closer to the ship and was still conducting scans with his tricorder. “They’re very limited. I suspect some form of reserve battery power source.”

  “After more than a century buried in ice and subfreezing temperatures?” Kirk asked. “That’s some power source. Is it dangerous?”

  Spock replied, “I am unable to make that determination based on these readings, Admiral. However, scans are also detecting a low-frequency communications signal.” He adjusted one of the tricorder’s controls. “From the Iramahl language database Jepolin provided us, this appears to be a form of homing beacon, transmitting location coordinates based on the mapping systems employed by the onboard computer. It’s not powerful enough to escape the atmosphere, but someone with the proper monitoring equipment would be able to detect the signal and use it to track the ship’s location.”

  “Meaning the Iramahl survivors,” said Lincoln, “or the Ptaen hunting them.”

  “Precisely.”

  Kirk eyed the alien ship. “Can we stop or mask the signal somehow?”

  “Not without gaining entry or destroying the vessel,” replied Spock.

  “I have a better idea.” Reaching for her parka sleeve, Lincoln retrieved her servo. “You fellas might want to stand back. I don’t know how or even if this is going to work.”

  She twisted the silver fountain pen that was so much more than its outward appearance suggested. Kirk heard an almost musical succession of electronic tones, and a moment later the very air seemed to tingle as a now quite familiar blue mist appeared as if from nowhere. Unlike the fog-like environs of the vault housing Gary Seven’s mysterious transporter device, the mist was free-form as it fell across the alien ship. Then Kirk was sure he heard the sounds of ice cracking and water falling, and he took an involuntary step away from the craft.

  A moment later the blue fog and the ship it embraced was gone.

  “Fascinating,” said Spock.

  Lincoln smiled. “Neat trick, huh? I just hope I set this thing correctly and didn’t send that ship to Times Square or something.”

  Nineteen

  Brooklyn Navy Yard—Brooklyn, New York

  August 12, 1985

  From the outside, the three-story warehouse looked no different from the dozens like it scattered across the former shipbuilding facility. Facing northwest with Manhattan in the distance, he took in the abandoned dry docks and piers forming a perimeter around the yard’s basin. It had been several years since any ship construction had taken place here, and the area was falling into neglect. This worked to their advantage, Kirk decided as he inspected the buildings and dry docks to either side of the warehouse where he now stood.

  It was only a short walk to the nearest ship berth, which was tucked into the yard’s southeastern corner. Kirk had inspected the building itself along with its immediate surroundings upon their arrival, as much out of curiosity as to ascertain its location, avenues of approach, security, and any points of vulnerability. The warehouse’s exterior was a combination of brick and concrete, and he had found a cornerstone noting the building’s construction as having taken place in the year 1912. Observing outside activity for more than thirty minutes after arriving, Kirk had concluded that there was no vehicular or pedestrian traffic anywhere in the immediate vicinity.

  “I told you, Admiral,” said Lincoln as he stepped back into the building, the reinforced door closing and locking behind him. She was leaning against a waist-high counter separating the passageway from a cubicle that would serve as a receptionist’s workspace, if this building were playing host to a real company. As it happened, Aegis Information Technology, Inc., was little more than an elaborate front, unremarkable to anyone who might happen past it, let alone make it through the security door and into the building itself. Of course, the likelihood of that happening was rather remote.

  “This place is like a vault,” she said. “The surrounding area is a ghost town. There are a few businesses and tenants scattered here and there, but that’s farther down, closer to the piers. Around here, it’s just us and the rats.” She made a show of looking around the reception area. “But they’re pretty big rats, I have to tell you. Keep your phaser handy.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Kirk said. Glancing around the room, he added, “It never occurred to me before today that
you and Mister Seven might have another base of operations, but it makes perfect sense, the more I think about it.”

  Lincoln replied, “It’s not something we use very often, but there are times when we need more space for our work than the office provides. Plus, this has the added benefit of not being in the middle of Manhattan.”

  “Where is Seven, anyway?” asked Kirk.

  “Off-planet, again.” Lincoln sighed. “That’s been happening a great deal lately. It’s been pretty hectic these past several years. There’s a lot going on in the world, Admiral.”

  Kirk nodded. “I can imagine.” The late twentieth century had been a tumultuous period of Earth’s history, as he recalled. The Eugenics Wars were but a few years in the future, and Kirk already knew that Seven and Lincoln would play a role in that clandestine conflict that had raged around the planet, all while lurking in the shadows of civilization. He had to remind himself that for this Roberta Lincoln, those events had not yet happened. Even if she possessed specific foreknowledge of the future, discussing such matters carried with it the danger of altering the history that was yet to be written.

  “I expect he’ll be back soon,” said Lincoln. Pushing away from the counter, she headed for one of the room’s two other doors. To Kirk, both interior portals looked every bit as robust as the one leading outside. A numerical keypad was set into the wall next to the door, and she entered a ten-digit code before pressing a key marked Enter. Kirk heard a solid metallic clicking sound before the door swung inward.

  “The inner sanctum,” she said, leading the way through the door.

  As much as the area behind him looked every bit a twentieth-century working environment, this much larger chamber also supported that illusion, but only to a point. Fashioned from cinderblock and featuring no windows that might allow curious eyes to see inside, there were metal tables and workbenches lining the walls and an enclosed office area at one end, complete with a vault not unlike the one in Gary Seven’s New York City office. Set into the room’s opposite wall were two more doors, seemingly identical to the one through which Kirk and Roberta had just passed. Resting in the center of the room’s concrete floor was the Iramahl ship, and standing in front of it was what Kirk hoped to be one of only two Vulcans on the planet.