Thomas Greanias - Raising Atlantis

Two unarmed MPs were waiting for him by the air lock. O’Dell nodded, and slowly the heavy inside door opened. The icy air took his breath away as two figures-one large and squat, the other tall and slim-came in and stomped their boots. The squat man lifted his hood and O’Dell saw the ugliest red swollen face of his life.

“I am Colonel Ivan Kovich,” he said triumphantly in English but with a thick Russian accent. “And you are in very big trouble. Very big.”

Before O’Dell could reply that Ice Base Orion was simply a humble research station, Kovich began to cough uncontrollably. His tall, lanky aide pounded his commanding officer on the back until Kovich waved him off.

“Read it to him, Vlad,” Kovich said, and by way of introduction added, “This is Vladimir Lenin, great-great-grandson of Lenin himself.”

O’Dell watched with interest as the young officer produced a crumpled piece of paper from his parka and smoothed it out. Apparently this Lenin hadn’t risen quite so high in the ranks as his ancestor. In halting English he said, “You are in violation of Article One of international Antarctic Treaty. No military allowed. Treaty gives us right to inspect base.”

The young Lenin glanced at Kovich, who nodded, and then put the piece of paper away.

“Any questions?” Kovich asked O’Dell.

O’Dell said, “How many of you will be joining us?”

“As many Russians as there are Americans here on this base and at the bottom of that gorge outside,” Kovich said.

“What about Colonel Zawas and his team?”

“We hope you tell us,” Kovich said. “We have not heard from his patrol. They have vanished into thin air.”

There was silence inside the chamber. Yeats looked at Conrad and could tell from his expression that something had gone horribly wrong with his calculations. The nun could tell too, he thought.

Yeats said, “Any chance you-”

“No mistake,” Conrad said. “The southern shaft, which we know was built at least twelve thousand years ago, is designed to align with the star Sirius as it appears in our skies present day. The northern shaft likewise targets Al Nitak, the middle star in Orion’s belt.”

There was more, Yeats could tell, but Conrad wasn’t talking, and Yeats knew why. Serena was also studying Conrad closely.

“Even if you’re right about the astronomical alignments, why now?” she asked Conrad. “Do you think P4 has anything to do with the recent earthquakes?”

To Yeats’s relief, Conrad said nothing.

“I think we ought to call Ice Base Orion before we proceed any farther.” Yeats pulled out his radio and adjusted the frequency. “Ice Base Orion, this is Team Phoenix.”

There was no response, just hissing and popping.

“Ice Base Orion,” Yeats tried again. “Do you copy?”

Again, no answer.

“Damn,” Yeats said. “These walls must be interfering.”

“They didn’t interfere with the video that the probe sent,” Serena said. “Maybe your base isn’t there anymore. Maybe it’s been buried by the snowstorm.”

“Look, Sister Serghetti-” Yeats snapped.

“Doctor Serghetti,” she corrected.

“Look, Doctor Serghetti, we’ve got a case of radio blackout probably caused by this polar storm. That’s all. Considering the weather on the surface, I say we wait it out down here. And as long as we’re here, we do what we’re supposed to do. Lopez, Marcus, Kreigel!”

The three officers snapped to attention. “Sir!”

“Set up a new command and logistics post inside this chamber. The habitat is probably unstable. Bring whatever you need down here.” Yeats put a hand on Conrad’s shoulder. “You said something back on the surface about four shafts in the pyramid.”

“Yes,” said Conrad. “I suspect the other two shafts, if they exist, are in a lower chamber. We’ll need to find it to be sure.”

“To be sure of what?” Serena pressed.

Conrad said, “I’ll know when we get there.”

“And just how are you going to get there?” she asked.

“Through that door.”

“What door?” Yeats asked.

“That door.”

Yeats watched Conrad turn toward the shaft they had emerged from and scan the wall to the right with his flashlight. There in the corner, to Yeats’s amazement, was an open passageway. It had been behind them.

“That wasn’t there before,” Serena said hoarsely.

“Yes, it was,” Conrad said. “It’s always been there.”

Once again Conrad’s sense of space and dimension awed Yeats. He wouldn’t be surprised if Conrad already had mapped out the entire interior of P4 in his head.

“I’m telling you it wasn’t,” Serena insisted.

“And I’m telling you that you missed it,” Conrad said. “Chill out, OK?”

“Fine.” She took a step toward the open door. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Yeats blocked her with his arm. “You stay here while Conrad and I search for those two other shafts.”

Yeats could see a flash of fury in Serena’s eyes. She clearly had trouble taking orders. No wonder she was such a pain in the ass for the Vatican. She pressed against his arm toward the doorway, but Conrad gripped her shoulder and pulled her back.

“It’s all right, Serena,” Conrad said. “When we find the other shafts, we’ll come back for you.”

That’ll be the day, Yeats thought. “Of course we’ll come back for you,” he told her. “As soon as we find something.”

“Promise,” added Conrad earnestly, which bothered Yeats. Conrad didn’t have the right to promise anybody anything.

The look on Serena’s face told Yeats that she didn’t believe Conrad for a second. “Fine,” she said. “Go.”

Yeats nodded to Marcus and Kreigel, who took up positions at the doorway, and then he followed Conrad out of the chamber and down a low, square tunnel.

As they proceeded through the dark, Yeats worried that he had badly miscalculated in allowing Mother Earth to join the team. Not because there was anything wrong with her, but because something clearly was wrong with Conrad whenever she was around.

A little space, Yeats hoped, would clear the kid’s head.

The strategy paid off several minutes later when they reached a solid horizontal platform. It looked like some kind of altar. Conrad suddenly stopped.

“What is it?” Yeats asked.

“This lies exactly along the east-west axis of the pyramid,” Conrad explained. “It marks the point of transition between the northern and southern halves of the monument.”

“So?” Yeats was about to take another step when Conrad braced him with his arm. It was stronger than Yeats expected.

“Look.” Conrad aimed his flashlight into the darkness, revealing what looked like a gigantic subway tunnel plunging toward the center of the earth. Running down the middle of the shiny floor was a sunken channel about forty feet wide and twenty feet deep. It mirrored precisely the design of the vaulted ceiling at its apex three hundred feet overhead. “This is the main corridor or Great Gallery.”

“Goddamn it, son.” Yeats stepped back from the ledge. “You certainly know your way around this place. You sure you’ve never been here before?”

“Only in my dreams.”

“Looks like a nightmare to me,” Yeats said as he peered over the ledge. “Where does it go?”

“Only one way to find out.” Conrad unraveled rope from his pack. “The slope is about twenty-six degrees and the floors are slick. We’ll need to use lines. Just stick to the ramparts and try not to slide into the channel.”

They had descended about a thousand feet when Yeats suddenly lost all sense of direction. It was the same sort of vertigo he sometimes felt back at Ice Base Orion on the surface. He couldn’t tell which end of the tunnel was up or which was the floor or ceiling. Yeats rubbed his eyes, which stung from the salt of his cold sweat, and continued down the Great Gallery.