The Nexus Colony (14 page)

“No. I didn’t.”

“Let’s get one and compare it to what we’ve got here.”

“Right,” Darbury responded, annoyed with himself that he hadn’t already compiled the report. Darbury went to the computer while the others got up to have another cup of fresh coffee.

Korbett and the department quite simply utilized the massive database developed by MUFON. The MUFON Case Management System contained over twelve thousand high-quality UFO cases that have been documented from reliable sources from all over the world. The reports go back as far as before the time of Christ, but probably ninety-nine percent were from the past fifty years. Darbury also had his own personal supplemental database using additional government files that the general public, including MUFON, didn’t have access to. Both databases had a search mechanism to retrieve records and compile
ad hoc
reports—tailor made to whatever you wanted to know. Darbury wanted to know how many sightings were on record for the region of Antarctica since the beginning of recorded history.

Darbury waited for the reports to print out. In a minute, he held the papers in his hand and went back over to the table where everyone was again sitting down.

“What have we got?” Korbett asked.

Darbury was shaking his head. “Eight reported cases.”

“That’s all?” Vandergrif commented, as surprised as everyone else.

“That’s it,” Darbury replied, studying the information. “Actually, I am much surprised myself. The eight reports range from 1950 through 1972. Nothing before and nothing after that until a few days ago. Amazing.”

“What are the specifics?” Korbett asked.

Darbury went up to the grease board again and jotted down the basic information next to the matrix, translating the attributes from the file records. The result was as follows:

Darbury placed green push-pins on the map for each location, then stepped back to digest it along with everybody else. “No commonality.”

“Doesn’t appear to be, does there?” Koslovsky said.

“There’s no apparent connection at all between these eight events,” Vandergrif commented.

“They’re random,” Maislin replied. “Totally, completely random.”

“And a twenty five year gap between those events and our events to boot,” Vandergrif added. “For all intent and purpose, there has been no recorded activity over a whole generation.”

Korbett paced back and forth across the room, deep in thought. A few moments passed. “
Why
is there no recorded activity?” he asked, the tone in his voice rhetorical. “Number one, there’s no recorded activity simply because there are no
people
…or more accurately
few
people…there to see events of this nature.
Any
nature. There are only a handful of humans out in the field about six months in the year.”

They all nodded agreement.

“Number two,” Korbett continued, “statistically speaking, we figure what? Only about ten percent of all sightings are ever reported to where they can be catalogued in a database. That cuts down the potential number of sightings considerably.”

“Agreed,” Koslovsky said. “Go on, William.”

“Number three. The greater preponderance of people who are present in the region are scientific types who are conducting specific scientific research projects. And we all know the scientific types. Most of them wouldn’t believe it was a UFO if the thing landed right on their heads anyway.”

Darbury laughed his annoying cynical laugh.

“The same could be said for the military,” Maislin added. “They seldom report them anyway.”

“They always report them,” Darbury corrected him. “They just don’t make the local headlines.”

“I stand corrected, Willard,” Maislin replied, annoyed.

“Number four,” Korbett said, ignoring them and momentarily pausing to regroup his thought. “As simple as it sounds, I don’t think anybody ever looks
up
. Like the guys who are out in the ice fields. They’re probably looking down all the time. That place is so dangerous, they’re probably always looking down. Nobody ever looks up, do you agree?”

Surprisingly, all heads nodded simultaneously, even Darbury.

“Radar,” Vandergrif said. “What about radar? These things are always being picked up on radar.”

“Not so, Anton,” Koslovsky responded. “The one report…which one was it, Eli…?”

“Ahh…the February 4 sighting. The Japanese fishing vessel. The report indicates that the ship’s radar did not register the presence of an aircraft even though it was right in front of their noses.”

“Not so strange,” Darbury said. “Stealth technology is already almost honed to perfection by us humans.”

“That’s true, Anton,” Korbett replied. “Even the new F-22’s radar cross section permits 99.9% of the incoming radar energy to be deflected away. It’s always amazed me that we’ve ever been able to track UFO’s at all. There’s no doubt they’re
letting
us.”

Vandergrif sighed. “What’s all this going to prove anyway, even if we
are
able to substantiate concrete evidence that there has been recent and past UFO activity in Antarctica? No different than anywhere else.”

Korbett was silent for a moment. “I guess nothing new. Only that we’re not alone even when we
think
they’re letting us alone.”

“Now, William,” Koslovsky said. “
If
they are monitoring our activities even in the remotest region of our planet, then they must be just as interested in watching us
preserve
ourselves as they are watching us
destroy
ourselves.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Korbett responded. He paused for a moment. “Maybe we’ve stumbled onto something they didn’t want us to find.”

“No,” Maislin replied. “They would have been watching us out there long before this.”

“Maybe they have been,” Darbury said. “And like the General said, maybe we just haven’t been taking notice because our statistics are skewed. No reports for a generation does not mean there has been no activity.”

“What makes you think they have to make themselves known to watch us?” Vandergrif asked.

“Then why in the hell,” Maislin snipped, “did they all of a sudden start appearing all over the skies of Antarctica?”

“They wanted to get our attention,” Korbett said, reinforcing his prior notion.

“They sure got it,” Maislin replied.

“Maybe in their own way this is how they’re trying to tell us they’re watching us closely,” Koslovsky said.

“No kidding,” Darbury replied, and this time even Rula cast him an annoyed glance. Darbury backed off, continued and said, “But that doesn’t convey a whole lot of message. The real question is, do they want us out there on this God-forsaken ice field or not?”

Korbett pondered the thought.
What if they didn’t? It’s too late now, anyway.

“I think it would be real simple if they wanted us to back off,” Vandergrif said.

“You’re right,” Korbett agreed. “But they haven’t done anything hostile, have they?”

“Yet,” Vandergrif responded, and Korbett looked up.

“Have they ever done anything
really
hostile?” Korbett asked. “I mean on a grandiose scale.”

“A few isolated cases,” Koslovsky answered. “Actually, I think we’ve been more hostile towards
them
.”

“How do we know which ones
they
are?” Darbury asked.

Everyone looked at Darbury. Nobody had thought of that. The U. S. Government has categorically identified six definite individual races of extraterrestrial entity types. The group was all going under the assumption that
The Visitors
were most likely the alien
Grays
, thought by many to be actually automatons of some unknown race of space-faring beings. “I think by all indications we can assume who
they
are, Willard,” Korbett replied.

“No. What I mean is, are
they
the renegades within the visitor group, or are
they
the benefactors that some of us purport them to be?”

“We’ve certainly no way of knowing, now, do we?” Vandergrif said, casting yet another condescending look at Darbury.

“You’re right,” Korbett replied. “We really don’t.”

“How will we know?” Koslovsky asked, but no one offered an answer.

Several minutes passed in silence, as Korbett pondered the thought of what in the hell they were going to do if the visitors turned hostile. There was no report from the field yet, and Korbett was getting anxious to have some word. This weather delay was causing him a lot of anxiety. And Ted Payne had pressured him again this morning for news from the field. Weather was no excuse, Payne reminded him that the President had said. Korbett had doubted the President said that. But Korbett made one thing quite clear to Ted Payne, President or no President. If there was any sign of hostility toward his field team, his people were going to be pulled out of there immediately, aliens or no aliens.

There was nothing more they could do but wait. Staring at the grease board, Korbett sorted the sequence of events as he poured another cup of coffee. The encounter with the
Penguin Princess
was the indeed
the
grand encounter.

So far,
he thought.
Hopefully, there’ll be none grander.

T
he human footprint had already been etched once before along this desolate main artery of the Mulock Glacier. But unlike most regions of the continent where the human mark seemed all too indelible, any evidence of recent visitation had already been wiped out in the two weeks since Ruger and Grimes’ team of meteorite hunters had invaded the alien world of the Transantarctic Mountains.

As indelible as it may have been expected to all but Mike Ruger, the tracks of the last ski drag which had been made on January 31 had simply vanished, yet one more testament of how the onslaught of nature’s minions so easily reclaimed the domain of
The Ice
. Ruger recognized the landing area only because of his incredible innate ability in the wilderness to sense where things ought to be. Whether he trained himself through experience or whether it was something unknown, Mike Ruger knew exactly where the other plane had landed and where he had planted the flag markers at the ends of the ski drag runway. But those, too, were gone, probably torn from the ice by the powerful katabatic winds that at the moment had mercifully receded.

Ruger stood on the crest of the small, icy mound looking eastward down the slope of the glacier and onto the ice field. About three miles distance he could see the marks of the ski drag where the LC-130 had put down, almost precisely where the tracks had been made back in January. In an otherwise asymmetrical world, the tracks stood out like a sore thumb. It was a crystal clear day with visibility unlimited. The glacial valley beneath him was cast in a yellowish glow from the late summer sun hovering just above the horizon. Even at this distance, Ruger could clearly see that the bright orange and black replacement flags he had driven into the ice to mark the end of the runway had survived the wind storm.

They had been fortunate indeed. Ruger was giving a lot of credit to Marshall Abbott for pushing the weather window, and was glad they had departed McMurdo with such haste. They had barely set up camp and secured the supply skids and snowmobiles when the unpredictable—and completely unexpected—katabatic winds surged to over fifty knots driving them all into the shelter of the Scott tents. Hunkered down in the lee of a huge ice mound, the winds continued to rage for the next several hours prohibiting any of them from going outside let alone move the half mile farther up the slope to view the southern end of the crevasse. All to Abbott’s chagrin. Ruger had been adamant, though. Abbott conceded, further reinforcing his faith in Ruger’s command over keeping them all alive out on
The Ice.

Despite the relatively low lighting conditions, Ruger still wore goggles to reduce the glare from the highly polished slopes of the glacial valley. When the sky turned charcoal gray succumbing to one of nature’s whimsical forays, you didn’t need goggles then. But at the moment, the sky was as blue as it could get in Antarctica.

Behind him, the rest of the group was beginning to stir outside their tents. Ruger turned around, again satisfied with his choice of camp configuration. The skids were set in the middle of the four tents with the snowmobiles parked parallel to the prevailing wind lane. That way, in the event any wind surges tore the supply skids apart or upset the machines, they wouldn’t come crashing through any of the tents. Of course, if the winds got that strong, they’d probably tear the tents out of the ice as well. A sobering thought, but Ruger felt confident nonetheless that he had secured the shelters as well as humanly possible. If the wind velocity got that high, they could kiss all their asses good-by.

Marsh Abbott was trudging through the shallow ice troughs toward Ruger. The winds had abated, but there was still the omni-present movement of frigid air coming down from the higher elevations toward the ocean. Ruger, facing the wind, could feel the subtle cooling effect penetrating his thick beard even through the face mask. The temperature was a “balmy” minus fifteen degrees Fahrenheit, and fortunately the wind chill factor was minimal.

Abbott approached, saying, “I want to get up there and take a look at this crevasse whenever you’re ready.” Puffs of white breath lingered in the frigid air, slowly dissipating into fine tiny crystals of ice left to float along the air currents.

“Sure. Whenever you’re all ready.”

“We’ve got about four hours until optimum link-up,” Abbott said, referring to the scheduled time the communication satellite would be closest to the horizon. “That should give us enough time to at least see if this crevasse of yours has anything interesting further to pursue.”

“No problem,” Ruger replied. “It’s just up over the ridge there.”

Communications were set up in the tent occupied by Abbott and Lisk, which would also serve as the main command center. The pairing of the individuals was an assumed selection. Prall and Monroe in one tent, Almshouse and Grimes in another. The two had already struck a mutual scientific interest despite Grimes’ skepticism toward any extraterrestrial implications. Almshouse had not delved too deeply into the issue. Almshouse was not one to compromise any government information. He had been involved too long.

That left Ruger and Dr. Bryson. Abbott had asked him off to the side, “She anything to you?”

He paused. “Does it matter?”

“It matters,” Abbott responded. “There’s no room for personal feelings out here, Mike. I mean that.”

“We’re all professionals, Marsh,” Ruger had replied. “I think you and I have that understanding. Let’s leave it at that.”

Abbott’s perceptiveness was astounding, Ruger had detected. But Ruger felt that even Abbott could see that their love relationship would not interfere with their performance of duty. Ruger felt he was able to convey that, and let the matter drop, as did Abbott.

The two men stood for a moment peering down into the glacial valley. In the silence of this surreal world, it was as if nature had abandoned all its charges to encapsulate the land in a perpetual changing array of crystalline asymmetry. In a world as dynamic as Antarctica, it was astonishing even that the human mind was capable at all of comprehending such a metamorphosis.

Abbott broke the silence when he said, “I see why everyone out here calls it
The Ice
.”

Ruger nodded. “People don’t comprehend how quickly it changes. It disorients human perception. You have to learn how to orient yourself with the sun and the topography.”

“I see your markers survived the wind.”

“That’s what I was checking on,” Ruger replied. “Priority, Marsh. In case we’ve got to get picked up in a hurry.”

Abbott nodded, turning back toward the camp. “Come on. I’m chomping at the bit to get a look at this place. If its still intact.”

“You saw it from the air yesterday,” Ruger laughed. “Its still intact.”

On their way up the glacial slope yesterday, Grimes and Ruger had pointed out the approximate locations where they had found the artifacts, if for no other reason than to put it into perspective relative to the enormous expanse of the glacial terrain. Abbott told them that his team had been familiarized with the area through a series of recon photos, but for some reason, apparently Ruger’s crevasse had escaped notice.

“Hard to see from the air,” Ruger explained. “You wouldn’t have seen this one if I hadn’t pointed it out. Usually when they open up, they’re narrow at the top to begin with. All the pressure is below. Then if the winds blow perpendicular to the opening, the ice crystals build up a hood over the split. If you’re viewing it top down, especially from a high altitude, a lot of times you don’t recognize it as a crevasse. That’s why we do ski drags before we land. In case a crevasse is hidden and turns out to be a big one.”

“Maybe those artifacts are from some plane that went down a crevasse. Maybe this one,” Grimes suggested.

“Not from any aircraft
we’ve
ever built,” Almshouse had replied.

“How wide is this one?” Abbott asked about the crevasse.

“Pretty narrow,” Ruger replied. “I’d say ten, twelve maybe.”

“We still should have noticed it,” Abbott commented.

“It’ll still be there, Marsh,” Ruger assured him. “They close quickly sometimes, but not quite
that
fast.”

The others were standing around the four snowmobiles that Grimes was commencing to start up. Prall and Monroe made everyone uncomfortable, because, as Ruger had noticed, nothing had changed since yesterday when they walked off the plane. The image of both men standing on an ice field—garbed in bright red polar clothing from head to toe and silhouetted against the Antarctic backdrop with specially configured weapons slung across their shoulders—was enough to make anyone uncomfortable. It seemed totally out of place. Abbott’s words came back to Ruger, but he kept them to himself.
Aliens. They’re here to protect us against aliens.
Neither man had interacted since getting off the plane, and the sense of collectivism that was essential to Antarctic survival seemed never to have been established with this group.
Who’s going to protect any aliens from them?
Ruger thought facetiously.

With all four machines now running, the pure, frigid air was suddenly filled with the noxious smell of exhaust fumes, a human signature disrupting an inhuman world. Ruger indicated to Abbott that he was to accompany him in the lead machine. “Tell your two deputies to bring up the rear,” and Ruger realized after he said it, he was well within earshot of the two. Whether they heard his remark or not, there was no reaction.

Ruger revved the machine, signaling to everyone he was ready to go. “Stay in my trail and do not deviate off it,” he ordered over the din of the engines. “I don’t want anybody going down a crevasse or dumping the machine in some sastrugi. When we get to the area of the big crevasse, I’ll stop back a distance. Then we’ll talk more.”

The solid white sheet beneath the heavy machine creaked and showed signs of minor cracking as Ruger pulled off and powered his way up the slope. Keeping the speed relatively low in case he encountered some unforeseen obstruction, Ruger carved a straight path to the top of the glacial ridge where he stopped to peer out over the undulating ice field that extended far up into the distant mountain range. The ice glistened with a subtle orangish hue despite the low position of the sun over the horizon. It was eerie. But strangeness was an integral part of this land.

“It’s just down there a couple hundred yards,” Ruger said to Abbott, pointing to a place where they could see absolutely no trace of any massive ice opening.

“How close you taking us in?” Abbott asked.

“Maybe within twenty-five yards,” Ruger replied. “Then we’ll secure a line to one of the machines and I’ll go in for a closer look. That way I can get confirmation right away whether I was right or not.”

“Roger,” Abbott replied. “Don’t fall the hell in.”

“I won’t as long as you don’t let go,” Ruger replied, revving the throttle and moving slowly down off the ridge toward the crevasse.

Despite the facemask pressing against his thick beard, Ruger already felt the tiny traces of ice forming around the edges of his facial hair and the cilia in his nostrils. It wasn’t that it was uncomfortable. It was just a reminder of how harsh conditions were all of the time. He found himself hoping that Prall and Monroe—especially Prall—was annoyed as hell about it.

But all disconcerting thoughts disappeared as Ruger slowed the machine when it closed in to within twenty-five yards of the crevasse edge. He stopped, leaving the engine idle as he stood up to get a better vantage. It was about on this very same spot that he had stood less than two weeks ago. It was as far as he had gotten. The dark, contrasting images embedded in the ice wall were still there in view.

“That it?” he heard Abbott ask, pointing toward the visible debris in the wall.

“Yeah,” Ruger replied, shutting off the engine. “That’s it.” Ruger looked off to his right and noticed the last vestiges of his snowmobile tracks from before. The wind had all but claimed them in such a short period.

“You want to move down there?” Abbott inquired, pointing.

“No,” Ruger answered. “Slope’s a little less severe here. Let me have a look-see.”

It took a few minutes to rig up the lifeline which they connected to the snowmobile. With skates firmly attached to his boots, Ruger carefully made his way to the edge of the crevasse, and they all watched silently for several minutes while he moved back and forth along the edge peering down into the frozen ice canyon below. Then he quickly moved back up to the group.

“Hook up another line,” Ruger said.

“Did you find something?” Allison asked excitedly.

Ruger looked at the group, all of whom stared blankly, anticipating Ruger to make some monumental pronouncement about something he might have observed. “Ever rappel down an ice shaft before?” he asked of no one in particular, deftly making certain the specialized spiked boots were tightly in place.

“I have,” Lisk replied.

“So have I,” Abbott said.

Ruger looked at the two of them, neither of whom made a motion. “Well,” he said, “I would appreciate if one of you would care to follow along, at least down to the edge of the crevasse so we can get a better look at what’s down there.”

“How deep?” Prall asked.

“Can’t tell. It’s deep, though,” Ruger replied, breaking out the rappelling gear from the skid attached to the back of the snowmobile. “Here,” he said to Abbott. “Put this gear on.”

“Guess that means you’re elected,” Almshouse replied nervously, obviously relieved it wasn’t going to be him.

“I was going anyway,” Abbott commented as he took the harness strap from Ruger. “Help me on with this thing, will you Al?”

“How much rope you have?” Almshouse asked.

“This one’s a one fifty,” Ruger replied.

“What if you need more?”

“I don’t plan to go any farther that that, at least not for now,” Ruger said. Turning to Abbott he said, “We’ll just make a shallow descent to see if anything more is embedded in the wall.”