The Nexus Colony (5 page)

It was late astral summer, and the low rays of the sun created a surreal effect, casting an orange-ish glow over the field. In the shadows, the aesthetic patterns of the sastrugi were plainly evident where the snow was piled up along the gentle rising slopes. As the entourage slowly made their way across the barren landscape—Grimes now riding in the back seat of Ruger’s snowmobile—they could sense how true it was that humans were only transients here, out of time and out of place in a totally alien world.

The day looked promising so far. The winds were only blowing with enough intensity to remind them that they were still out on the ice fields. Ruger slowed, then brought the machine to a stop. Ahead in the distance, the sloping of the glacier could be discerned as it backed up along the plain toward the plateau where the massive ice sheet originated high up in the Transantarctic Mountain Range. It was an awesome sight, still almost incomprehensible how the massive weight of the continent’s ice literally crushed the earth beneath it causing the land to sink in some places even below the level of the ocean.

Ruger pointed out the search site, Grimes getting visual confirmation from his colleagues that this was the area they wanted to search. Grimes and the others dismounted, but then Ruger headed out into the area alone to mark off the boundaries by tracking the snowmobile around the perimeter of the search area. What he was doing was searching for any crevasses, aside from the sastrugi, that would signify danger. Glaciers were great rivers of ice, and as they “flowed” they opened up crevasses which you could easily stumble into before you knew what was happening. That was one of Mike Ruger’s primary jobs—scout out the cracks in the ice and make sure none of the team members fell in. Some of the crevasses went down a long way. If you fell in, there was a good chance you’d never get out.

The field was perfectly flat inside the perimeter, and within the hour, the team was engrossed once again in their relentless search for meteorites. The team had collected four hundred and nine specimens so far this year, hardly anywhere near to the record of over six hundred several seasons ago. But it wasn’t so much the quantity as the quality. Grimes’ team had found a couple of incredible specimens so far this year, including two which had already been identified as possible pieces of the Martian landscape.

Grimes explained it simply to the mountaineers. Collisions of celestial bodies in space are cataclysmic. Somewhere in the celestial past, Mars had been struck by a comet or an asteroid. The chunks of debris—called
ejecta
—traveled through space as meteoroids, some ultimately in the line of Earth’s orbital path by happenstance, a few finding their way to the surface in the form of meteorites. It always made Grimes ponder just how many million more specimens were laying all over the planet waiting to be picked up and identified if you could sort through the camouflage.

Some areas around the glacial fields were studded with rocky debris, but some areas were relatively barren. It all had to do with the glacier itself, whether the flow brought the debris to the surface. Rocks—including meteorites—were easy to spot depending on the sun. Actually, today wasn’t the best of spotting conditions. There was an orange hue to the sun today. When you had blue light—when the ice crystals in the atmosphere cast a halo around the sun giving it an eerie blue tint—meteorite debris was easier to spot on the ice, as the shadows stood out on the bluish, non-glaring crust. While the team searched J24A—the first site on the 24th of January—Ruger moved off to scout for J24B, the back-up area, just in case the specimens were scarce.

Mike Ruger was solitary by nature. That’s why he had come to Antarctica in the first place. Twenty years ago, the allure of a wild, untamed land brought him here from the mountains of Europe. He had returned every summer since. Ruger thought meteorite hunting was incredibly boring, but the National Science Foundation was funded well and they paid well. While the field teams searched within the safety of the perimeter, Ruger would wander off enjoying an endless commune with the eternal beauty of Antarctica. It was only appropriate that he was the first human to spot the object.

It stood out against the landscape like a sore thumb. Out here in a world constructed in absolute harmony, when he looked down at the object it seemed so out of place that at first he thought something—his tool box, perhaps-- had fallen off his snowmobile. But of course, that was not possible. The tool box was secured tightly in the snowmobile, and he double-checked to make sure. Ruger looked around and could see that he had stumbled onto a significant debris deposit, rocks of all sizes and sorts spread out all over the ice. Getting off the machine, he picked up a few samples and threw the rocks into the snowmobile to take back for Grimes to examine.

The object that had first caught his eye was embedded frozen in the ice, protruding out on a forty-five degree angle. Obviously, it had been there for some time, probably rising to the surface after a slow journey of many years up from the floor of the plain. It was odd—though not impossible—for something like that to be here. After all, humans have been present in Antarctica now for close to a hundred years. Obviously, it had to be from some prior expedition. Or maybe it was something that had fallen or had been thrown out of a passing aircraft. Ruger gently kicked it. He’d have to hack it out. Might as well wait until later when he brought Grimes back to scout out the field of debris.

An hour or so later, Grimes heard Ruger approaching from the distance, the rising crescendo of the revving machine resounding across the glacial terrain, being born along with the wind that was suddenly beginning to pick up again. It was getting colder, and Grimes was considering calling it a day, as J24A was already turning out to be a wash. The debris was nothing more than sedimentary rocks, quite common in the Transantarctic region. There weren’t even a lot of them, and Grimes was elated when Ruger reported he’d found a promising bed of debris further up the glacier.

“Jump on, Hilly,” Ruger yelled above the drone of the engine.

“It’s getting colder, Mike,” Grimes responded.

Ruger looked up at the blue sky. “Yeah,” he said. “We should be all right for a few hours.” They had to yell. Aside from the whining noise of the engine, you always had to yell outside to be heard anyway. Your face was always protected by a thermal mask and your ears were bundled up, deadening the sound.

“It’s no good here, Mike,” Grimes replied, climbing onto the back seat of the snowmobile.

“Found something up there interesting,” Ruger said over his shoulder.

“What’s that?” Grimes asked.

“A box or something. Solid black. Embedded in the ice. I’ll have to chop it out.”

“How big?” Grimes asked.

Ruger let go of the steering mechanism and estimated its size. “Can’t really tell. It’s down in the ice.”

“Probably just a rock,” Grimes commented. “Solid black you said?”

“Yeah. Looks pretty solid.”

“Probably just a chunk of coal,” Grimes speculated. “It gets brought to the surface occasionally.” There were plenty of coal deposits in Antarctica, especially in this region, testament to a past when the continent was covered by verdant forests.

“I don’t think so, Hilly,” Ruger replied. “Too symmetrical to be coal. Coal doesn’t fracture like a crystal. This thing’s squared off. Looks like a shoe box. Probably something somebody dropped it out here. Must have been here for quite a while, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“Nobody’s been out here for a
long
time as far as I know.”

Ruger would know that, Grimes thought. He knew every inch of the territory and everybody who had ever been here.

“We’ll check it out,” Grimes said, burying his face deep behind Ruger’s back to ward off the blasting effects of the head wind.

Initially, Grimes’ interest in the object was indifference—the prospects of meteorites whetting his scientific appetite—until Ruger showed it to him. The debris was certainly plentiful. But when Grimes saw the object, it struck him with the same oddity that had gotten Ruger’s attention.

“What do you make of that?” Grimes said, kneeling next to it along with Ruger who had begun to chop it free.

“No telling how long it’s been here, Hilly.”

“You’re right, though, Mike. Looks like a box of some sort.”

Ruger cleaned away most of the crusted ice. It was still caked, but they could see the perfect geometrical symmetry of the object.

“What do you think it is?” Grimes asked, taking the box from Ruger to feel its weight, which was surprisingly light.

Ruger shrugged. “No idea. Could be anything. If I had to guess, I’d say it fell out of a plane. I know there’s been no expeditions up here.”

Grimes also shrugged inside his suit, handing it back to Ruger. “Throw it in the snowmobile. We’ll take a look at it back at camp.” Though it piqued his interest, it wasn’t the black box that Grimes was interested in at the moment. It was meteorites.

But over the next six day period, site J24B would relinquish a number of interesting artifacts for Field Team Ruger. Disappointingly, they would not be Martian meteorites. The field was indeed filled with rocky debris, but it was all of terrestrial origin. But on the same note they weren’t sure of the origin of the other strange things that were found. The rest of the objects were scattered sporadically all the way up the slope for a distance of about two miles. Mike Ruger at least had the presence of mind to mark each spot with a pole marker. Though he couldn’t have realized it then, marking the locations would turn out to be a big advantage in the weeks to come.

On the last day they were scheduled to be in the field before the plane would return them to McMurdo Station, Mike Ruger took an extended trip farther up the glacier just to see if he could find any more of the strange debris. But the glacier leveled off, and the ice field was void of all debris. The only thing present was a huge crack in the glacier where the powerful force had split open a narrow crevasse that looked as deep as the Grand Canyon when Ruger tried to get close enough to look over the side. Though he couldn’t see much past twenty feet down along the sheer wall on the opposite side—safety concerns were paramount, especially when you were by yourself—Ruger could see that there seemed to be an appreciable amount of rocky debris embedded in the wall. He couldn’t make out what it was. Maybe more of the strange objects.

But the schedule had run out on the expedition. It was the beginning of February. There was still about a month remaining, perhaps six weeks before ninety percent of the human population of Antarctica would depart the continent for the winter months, returning again at the beginning of next October. Grimes and his team were finished with their field activities and were going back to the States to conduct laboratory testing of their collection. Ruger was not going to stay the winter this year, but rather for the first time in three years was going back home to Germany until the start of the next mountaineering season in Antarctica.

But things were always subject to change out on
The Ice
. Before the winter would set in eight weeks from now, Mike Ruger and Hilliard Grimes and a host of others would find themselves wishing that it was only the katabatic winds that they had to contend with in this alien world of Antarctica.

B
ill Korbett had been staring out of the second story balcony window at the dreary morning when he saw the car turn up the long, narrow driveway. He recognized the make and model as one of the current fleet that was being utilized by Ted Payne’s staff. Payne was the President’s Chief Advisor for External Anomalous Affairs. A section so secretive that even the tabloid news media hadn’t picked up on their existence.

External Anomalous Affairs handled the continuing problems with the UFO phenomena and all the disinformation associated with it. Bill Korbett was one of Payne’s strategists, most noted for his organizational skills in getting things done the way this President
wanted
things to get done. Quietly with no paper trails left behind.

Despite wearing the heavy cotton shaker sweater that Emmy had given him for Christmas, Korbett shivered as he saw the puff of cold breath emanating from the courier’s mouth as the man got out of the car down in the driveway. The courier noticed him in the window and waved. Korbett gestured he’d be right down.

Opening the front door, Korbett felt the cold moisture instantly crystallizing in his mustache. He waved the young man quickly inside. “Sure is cold this morning,” Korbett reprimanded. “Where’s your hat, son?”

The courier only smiled. “I don’t like hats, sir. Never wear them,” he replied, unlocking and opening the courier pouch. He handed the manila envelope to Korbett.

“Don’t you young people know that over three quarters of your body heat goes out through the top of your head?” Korbett admonished.

The courier smiled again, obviously used to being good-naturedly reprimanded by old generals and admirals. “No sir. I didn’t know that.”

“Hrr-umpf,” Korbett grunted for effect, knowing that the younger man was patronizing him. But he didn’t mind it. He got along well with young people, and they seemed to sense that.

Korbett put on his bifocals. The address on the envelope was hand written. It read quite simply:

Korbett looked up. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing, sir.”

“How’s Ted? Haven’t seen him since Christmas.” Not that Korbett really cared.

The young man smiled with the same expression. “He’s fine sir. Grumpy as ever, I guess.”

Korbett patted him on the back as they moved toward the door. “He’s not so bad. Growl’s worse than the bite.” Might as well patronize the young man, Korbett thought.

“Suppose so, sir.”

“Thanks again,” Korbett said. “Be careful. Looks like it might snow.”

Korbett watched from the door as the young man drove back down to the entrance, turned right out of the driveway, and disappeared along the carefully landscaped tree line that lined the affluent neighborhood. A puff of wintry air swirled around his neck to remind him just how cold it was outside, sending a shiver down his spine. He pushed the front door shut.

Bill Korbett was as Texas as they came, one hell of a football player in his day back at the University of Texas. He had spent thirty-four years in a brilliant military career, starting back in the Vietnam era where he was an F-4 fighter jock. Not many ex-fighter jocks ever made it into the ranks of the generals, especially into the intelligence sector. But Korbett was one of those rare introspective individuals with an IQ to match most all of the high-ranking military strategists. He accomplished virtually everything he set out to do. Everything he was assigned to do.

Washington wasn’t Texas, but Bill Korbett didn’t mind the area so much. You get used to any place after having spent an entire military career in every god-forsaken place on the planet. You just accommodate yourself.
Don’t like Washington in January or February, though. You can have that.

Korbett went down the long hallway and opened the two French doors that led into his private study, closing them behind him not so much for the draft, but rather for the privacy. Though the house staff were trusted employees, Bill Korbett was still a government intelligence official. Even Emmy respected that completely, and seldom bothered her husband when he was closed in his study.

The Exchequer desk was relatively free of clutter. Korbett sat down in the plush, leather chair, broke the seal, and peeled back the gummed flap. Making certain his hands were dry, he removed the document and placed it on the desk pad. All documents sent from External Anomalous Affairs were still prepared the old-fashioned, yet effective way on water-soluble paper in the event they had to be quickly destroyed. Even excessive moisture on a person’s hands would cause a reaction and dissolve small portions of the document. The knock on the door momentarily broke his train of thought.

“Enter,” he said, placing the envelope on top to cover the document.

“Your coffee, General,” Mrs. Klingenhoff said, pushing the door open with one hand while balancing the tray in the other.

“Ah,” Korbett replied, spinning around. He had forgotten he’d asked Mrs. Klingenhoff for more coffee this morning. Emmy had left early and gone off shopping for the day, otherwise she’d fuss at him for having too much coffee.
A lot of caffeine aggravates your prostate
, she’d remind him what the doctor had said.
The hell with prostates
, he said to himself.
It’s cold this morning and I want another cup of coffee
. “Just set it on the end table, Mrs. Klingenhoff. I’ll take care of it.”

“Are you sure, General?” The soft-spoken elderly woman responded, used to putting in the cream and sugar just the way the General liked it.

“I’ll get it. That’s fine.”

“How about another pastry?” she replied.

Korbett patted his waistline, which really wasn’t true. At age sixty-two, he was still in top physical condition, having stuck to his daily workout regimen for the past forty odd years. “Gotta cut down. You’re cooking is doing me in.”

She smiled. She was the best housekeeper he and Emmy had ever employed.

“Will you be having lunch at the club or home today, General?”

Korbett thought for a moment. It depended on what was in the dispatch. “I’ll let you know a little later.”

Mrs. Klingenhoff smiled and turned to leave.

He called after her. “I have some important work, so please answer the phone and hold my calls for about an hour.”

The woman smiled and nodded. That was all he ever had to say.

She closed the door behind her. The aroma of the freshly-brewed coffee—Blue Mountain Jamaican, his favorite—filled the room. Korbett poured a cup, put in the cream and sugar, and took a sip. Perfect temperature. Carrying the cup over toward the desk, he placed the coffee on the table behind his chair within easy reach of spinning around. He usually had his coffee on the desk in front of him, but not if he was reviewing any dispatch that was prepared on water-soluble paper. One big spill and you could kiss the document good-bye. Instantly.

Korbett moved the envelope aside, put his bifocals back on, and spun around for one more sip of coffee before starting to read the document. The new code word had first caught his eye.
NEXUS
. This was the first document he’d seen which contained the new changed-out top secret code word. Korbett blew off the steam from the still piping cup.

All government documents that carried a
secret
or
top secret
security classification were marked with a single five letter code word reserved for that level of clearance. The purpose was to assign some psychological validity to the importance of the contents. Since only people with that particular level of clearance would hypothetically ever see the coded document, the assumption was that the code word would remain forever cryptic. But not in the real world. Five letter code words were kept active—several years in most cases—until they were compromised. Korbett always suspected that was probably the case within hours after the change out, so why should we really care? Switching code words cost the taxpayers millions.

Code words…
The intelligence community played crazy games. Korbett always thought they were playing mind games with the Middle Easterners and the Chinese and everybody else by periodically changing code words. It must be because they want our enemies to think the word being used at any particular time has some esoteric meaning related to national security. In reality it was nothing more than a random jumble of five English letters. However, they always made it a recognizable English word simply so people would remember it easily.
NEXUS. What the hell is that anyway? Something binding. An important link or connection…Gibberish. Meaningless gibberish. Anyway…

Korbett placed the cup back onto the table and turned to focus his attention on the document. His mind cleared of all thoughts, he began. It read: