The Nexus Colony (9 page)

“Who’s the team coming from the States?” she asked.

Ruger raised his eyebrow, teasing her more. “How’d you know that already?” He’d just found out himself less than an hour ago.

“Darriel told me.”

“How did
she
know?”

“Morrison told her.”

He let out a subtle laugh. “These government guys think they’ve got some top secret project here. They’re in for a big surprise.”

“When are they due?”

“This afternoon. They’re flying them in special along the New Zealand route for some reason. Plane’s supposed to stop, I pile in with all the gear, and we head right out to the Mulock. Put ‘em down right where I left off with Hilly’s gang.”

“They looking for more alien artifacts?”

“I suppose so,” he replied. “I presume they’re going to try to find the source. I would.” Ruger smiled.

It took her a moment to catch on. “You’ve already found it, haven’t you?” she asked quietly.

He felt the warmth again emanating from her body through her hands. She looked at his face, which still held the same expression. “Maybe,” he replied just as quietly, the smile transparent behind the mask.

“You’re a
shit
, Ruger. You know that?”

“Sure. Want to do it?”

“They’re the pictures you were developing in the lab, weren’t they?”

Ruger sat back. “For Christ’s sake, Allie. Is there
anybody
who doesn’t know what goes on around here?”

She snuggled closer to him, and Ruger knew that everybody in the lounge was enviously watching from a distance, if only out of the corners of their eyes. “There are some things not
everybody
knows,” she whispered in his ear.

Don’t kid yourself
, he wanted to say, but knew better not to. Especially to a woman. Ruger smiled at her. The brilliant Dr. Bryson was indeed beautiful. But then again her naiveté…well, it was probably one of the things that attracted him so much to her. If he was ever going to fall in love with a woman…

“So, what’s new with your research?’ he said, surprising her with the sudden change of subject.

“I thought you wanted to do it?”

He blushed. She loved the way he did that.

“Nothing’s new,” she replied. “We’re setting up the parameters for the next phase. April through October. Wish I was staying on a little longer this year. Not because of you, of course,” she lied.

“Why’d you have to say that?” he said, knowing she was teasing him.

“Because it’s true. You might meet somebody else.”

They both laughed. The population of the whole continent in another month would be down to only ten percent of the present population. There would just be a skeleton crew at McMurdo, mostly support personnel. It was an intimate joke between them. At least they could both laugh about their relationship. Both knew their boundaries and limitations. The perfect arrangement for a land such as Antarctica.

Ruger and Bryson hadn’t even noticed that Dr. Darriel Marsden and Dr. Olaf Andreassen had come into the club and were approaching the table. Both were sitting down before they realized it.

“Good morning, Michael,” Dr. Marsden said, cheerful as always. She was an older woman, and Ruger always thought she looked too matronly to be out here on the continent doing scientific research. But he liked her. She was nice person. Dr. Andreassen, on the other hand, was a grump who was quite a few years younger than his research compatriot. The two of them were constantly in each other’s company. He and Allison had often speculated about whether they had an intimate relationship. If they did,
that
was the best kept secret in Antarctica.

“Good morning, Darriel,” Ruger replied. “Dr. Andreassen,” he said, acknowledging the doctor like everybody did, never using his first name.

“Before I forget, Allison,” Dr. Marsden said. “Jimmy Morrison wants you over in his office. Says its important.”

“Right now?”

“Uh-huh. Said its urgent.”

As she got up, Ruger cast a glance. Lightfoot was right. She
did
have lust in her eyes.

“See you in a few, Mike,” she said, a signal that Ruger was to come by her quarters in a little while. He had time, and smiled back.

“Maybe he’s sending you out on
The Ice
with me,” Ruger called jokingly across the room.

“Very funny,” she replied as she walked away toward the door.

Both Mike Ruger and Dr. Allison Bryson were in for a big surprise. Major General William Korbett did indeed have many friends over at the National Science Foundation. But sometimes even he had to pay back some of the favors. And sometimes he didn’t know what form those favors would take.

10:30 A.M.
McMURDO STATION
ADMINISTRATION COMPLEX

John Lightfoot emerged from the cavernous complex of aluminum shells and stepped into the face of a frigid wind that several hours ago had begun howling like a wild banshee across the white carpet of ice. Tiny pieces of fine white crystals—called
diamond dust
—stung his face reminding him he had forgotten to don his woolen mask in his excitement to get over to the communications center. Lightfoot turned his face away from the wind, twisting his neck as far as he could manage inside the furry hood of his parka. Already, ice crystals were forming a coating on his thick beard.

It was a relatively short walk to the main complex of Quonset huts where the administrative building housed the communications center. But in temperatures of minus fifteen degrees, the walk could seem like an eternity. The sun, which had been shining continuously for the past four months, loomed precariously just above the horizon, enshrouded by an ethereal glow that seemed to diminish its life-giving power over the desolate land beneath it. Lightfoot shuddered, not bothering to wonder if his reaction to the cold was from the icy wind penetrating his clothing or his subconscious humility. He had been photographing this land for three months. It was a humbling experience.

Even though the population of McMurdo still numbered about twelve hundred, Lightfoot at the moment was the only human in sight. Off in the distance toward the polar observatory, he heard the whining of a snowmobile, probably one of the astronomers checking out the facility about a half mile away. They were setting up for their long stay over the winter when they could observe continuously because the sun wouldn’t be shining for about five months.

He turned to look toward the observatory, a distinct dark silhouette against a bluish terrain. He’d gone out there on occasion to photograph the impressive telescope complex as part of his assignment. It was incredible how the terrain was so different in just the distance of a half mile. On an overcast day—such as today and the last time he was out there—the darkness, lack of contrast, and the icing up of your goggles made the visibility almost nil as you zipped along on the snowmobile. And when the wind picked up blowing the diamond dust around, you could easily inadvertently wander off the well-trodden path that led to the observatory. The sastrugi would then get you for sure, and more than one astronomer had admitted to driving a station snowmobile into the deep sastrugi ruts that hadn’t been there the day before.

Turning his head back toward the administration complex, Lightfoot quickened his pace. By human reckoning, Antarctica might be a place of isolation, but the isolation was certainly not absolute. The human footprint was indelibly imprinted. Off to his left, the industrial sprawl of McMurdo was evident. He recalled the first time he had experienced that. It had stopped him in his tracks. A rather large scale junkyard and a still-fuming garbage dump were omni-present to grab even the most disconcerted observer. It was a sad commentary on the level of activity that had been here at McMurdo for the past several decades. Moving into the new millennia didn’t change a thing. They’d promised to clean it up, and Lightfoot had made sure that his portfolio was filled with enough depictions of the smoldering dump. You had to put it all into perspective, though. McMurdo was a human haven for scientists, laborers and adventurers alike—all of them vying for control over this most mysterious of lands that reeked with desolation and beckoned like the call of a temptress simply because it was there.

Lightfoot turned onto the last leg of his jaunt and scurried down the ramp through the doors of the administration complex. Once inside the aluminum plated foyer, he waited until the door was securely latched before removing his goggles. It was quite a bit warmer in here—probably in the upper twenties—but relatively cozy because the wind wasn’t dropping the chill factor.

It took a minute to walk the length of the hallway tunnel where he entered the more hospitable area of the human comfort zone. The communications center was always a bustle of activity. Antarctica has no telephone lines. All communications are accomplished via satellite. Unfortunately, the placement of satellites into orbit around the Earth are at the mercy of celestial mechanics. The Earth spins on its axis much like a top spins on the floor. Satellites that are placed directly overhead in a polar orbit—circling from north pole to south pole along longitudinal lines—would only be available for short periods of time before they would quickly pass out of range below the horizon. As it is, the most efficient orbital pattern can be achieved closer to the equatorial plane, which results in communications satellites moving closer to parallel along the latitudinal line. It optimizes the time period when communications are available. But unfortunately, the link-up is typically still only available for a few hours per day. And these few hours are crucial to the residents. Everybody is continually vying for time to transmit outgoing messages and research data. Fortunately, the Internet has a good link, and a lot of communication activity is maximized.

Like everything else in this land of isolation, even outgoing communications are prioritized, and John Lightfoot knew it. The center’s administrator—a congenial fellow named Gittleman—had been very accommodating to Lightfoot over the past few months. A lot of data had been sent back to the editorial office in Washington, but Lightfoot never had to “jump line” to get his data ahead of other priorities. There simply wasn’t the need because Lightfoot’s deadline was long-term and never needed to be time-tested. But Lightfoot had a priority now. It didn’t matter that the agenda didn’t fit the magazine’s. Nobody would know the difference anyway. Abuse of privilege was the name of the game to survive in this business.

Lightfoot walked into the office which was abuzz with people, mostly computer activity. He had to get the message out post haste. Gittleman was over in the corner evidently engaged in a heated discussion with one of his subordinates, a man Lightfoot recognized but couldn’t remember his name. Arguments were not uncommon. It was February, near the close of the season, and cabin fever was beginning to affect everybody. Lightfoot was acquainted with the man whom Gittleman now seemed to be reprimanding. The name tag was too far away for Lightfoot to read. It didn’t matter anyway.
Carpe diem! Seize the moment!
Lightfoot thought, remembering the line from that damn movie he had seen countless times. The opening was there, and Lightfoot knew it was a good avenue to jump line. It wasn’t Gittleman he’d approach. It was this other guy.

Lightfoot went over to the counter along the wall where they kept all the mail paraphernalia and message pads, deciding to wait a few minutes until after Gittleman went back into his office and the other fellow calmed down. Lightfoot grabbed a pad and jotted down the message. It read:

Adventure Network International, ANI, was one of several private business companies that offered tourist packages to those who wanted the adventure of visiting Antarctica. In essence, they were glorified bush pilots running a legal business under Chilean law. It was a sore spot on the international scene, and it was estimated that three to five thousand tourists visited the continent each year, mostly by air, a few by sea. More than once over the past few years, environmental damage had occurred from ships running aground due to inaccurate navigational charts, or planes getting stranded in the remote regions never to be flown out again.
Eternal metal monuments to enterprise
, Lightfoot had jotted down in his journal for a caption. Overnight camping jaunts were commonplace along the Antarctic Peninsula, and like all human activity everywhere else on the planet, waste went unchecked. Even Lightfoot took offense at the way some of these companies conducted business. No respect for the planet’s final terrestrial frontier.

But it wasn’t Lightfoot’s primary concern at the moment. His article for National Geo would address all that and more. He hadn’t dealt with ANI before, because the Navy had accommodated all his requests to photograph the various regions of the continent from the air. Obviously, there was no way the Navy, and particularly not the Air Force, were going to accommodate him now by delivering him out to the Mulock Glacier where Ruger would be setting up camp with the federal boys from stateside. He had to connive his own way out there.

The plan was simple. Charter a bush pilot, have him take the short hop out to the glacier after Ruger has set up camp—easy to find by spotting the orange Scott tents—put down and get off, waving the pilot good-by before Ruger or anyone has the chance to react. The plane would be gone and Ruger wouldn’t have any choice. Even if they managed to send him back the next day after communications were passed along, at least he’d be able to find out what the hell was going on out there that was so important. Lightfoot only hoped the feds didn’t shoot him.
What a ridiculous notion
, he thought.