Anthony DeCosmo - Empire

“I understand,” Evan smiled and placed a reassuring hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I would do the same for Trevor in similar circumstances. Please excuse my outburst. I do understand. I do.”

“Should I change my vote, Mr. Godfrey? Please, you must tell me. Even if you think it a little possible that your Emperor would attack. Maybe I go change my vote anyway,” Gunther made as if to leave.

Evan stopped him.

“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Faust. I know Trevor well. I can tell you with absolute certainty that he will not attack New Winnabow. Not as long as you show your united front. He will respect your wishes. Oh, he will scream and he will threaten, but he would not kill fellow human beings.”

Gunther relaxed to the point that Evan thought the man might actually shed tears of relief.

“Trust me, Mr. Faust. Stick to your principles. I know exactly what Trevor will do.”

Jon found the scenery astounding, and big. Everything felt huge.

Jagged islands of ice floated in the cold waters, some hundreds of feet high with glorious peaks, others flat and wide. Some looked twisted and tormented; others seemingly carved with an artist’s eye.

From the conning tower, he saw frosted, charcoal mountains on the inland horizon smothered in misty-white clouds while the sub cruised through breathtaking fjords welcoming-and daring-travelers.

Off the port bow, a gigantic Blue Whale waved its tale to the sub as the Earthly creature pushed through the sea with a natural elegance that separated it from the clumsy machine.

On the shoreline, a walrus watched the boat pass with a befuddled gaze as if amused by the folly of man.

The air-perhaps the freshest air on Earth-tasted crisp but thin. Gentle breezes caressed the scenery, casting powdered snow aloft where it fluttered like old confetti from an ancient parade.

After a long journey under the ocean waves, the Newport News reached its destination. The majestic and unforgiving landscape of northern Greenland served as backdrop to the last leg of Jon Brewer’s journey. The stage on which a dance of horrors would play.

Qaanaaq, Greenland earned the title ‘the northernmost human settlement on Earth,’ prior to Armageddon. A child of the Cold War, Qaanaaq appeared in the 1950s when the U.S. airbase at Thule expanded.

To the east and north waited glaciers that once drew hordes of well-funded climatologists. Sharply rising black rock mountains coated with a hint of snow loomed on the far side of the long, desert-like ice cap.

To the west stood the fjords off northern Baffin Bay where blockades of icebergs often jammed due to a ridge at the bottom of the sea.

For most of Greenland, the midnight sun had faded. Not so in Qaanaaq. It would remain in a state of perpetual twilight for a few more weeks.

Nearly all of the homes, administrative buildings, and businesses were constructed of wood, a few included second floor lofts crammed under sharply pointed roofs.

A surprising variety of bright colors decorated those homes, perhaps as a means to bring cheer to an otherwise dull environment. However, color provided the only style to the entire “town”. The place reminded Jon Brewer of a toy train village: lifeless.

Dirt tracks, some under dusty coatings of old snow, cut between rows of homes with scattered lampposts and flagpoles along the way. The Polar Grill resembled a cross between a tool shed and a mobile home and offered “hot dogs” and “Roast chicken.”

Some of the buildings rested on flat plateaus poking from the side of a rocky hill. Most of the town-at least the private homes-were built on flatter ground. A cluster of cisterns-for fuel or drinking water-stood taller than everything else.

On Saturday, August 29, Jon Brewer’s task force arrived at Qaanaag, but no one came to greet them.

His men spent nearly five hours ferrying equipment from the Newport News ashore then set about the task of preparing for their trek across the northern wastelands.

Assembling the SUSV command vehicle came first. Jon supervised as his men built the vehicle as if putting together a child’s model kit. First came the two white-painted tracked modules-one resembling something like a tractor-trailer cab, the other a camper-that were coupled together with hoses and grapples not unlike the connections between box cars on a train. The vehicle would carry important equipment, shelter wounded if necessary, and otherwise provide a place for small groups to retreat from the cold now and then.

A dozen soldiers enjoyed the luxury of snowmobiles, most of which towed cargo containers. There were also four dog sled teams with Huskies pulling the leads.

Nonetheless, the majority of the one hundred infantrymen would cross the ice cap on foot. The lack of cargo space onboard the submarine combined with the haste with which the expedition had mustered allowed no other, more comfortable options.

Jon established headquarters inside the relatively new, single-story Qaanaaq hospital. He found a treasure trove of medical supplies. Whatever happened to the citizens of Qaanaaq-evacuation or elimination-they left behind fully stocked stores.

The balance of the task force occupied homes, garages, and city hall for shelter while they checked, prepped, and re-checked gear.

With the submarine moving out to sea, every soldier under Jon’s command realized they operated entirely on their own. No air support. No reinforcements. No supply convoys. Only what they carried on their backs.

Each of the men-including the command staff of Jon Brewer, Reverend Johnny, and Captain Casey Fink-wore heavy white arctic jackets. This offered more than enough protection against ‘summer’ temperatures hovering in the mid-twenties.

General Brewer and Captain Fink turned the hospital administrator’s office into a temporary command center. Jon felt the more temporary the better. Speed, he knew, remained his number one concern. He suspected the Goat-Walker that attacked their refueling stop was an intentional attempt to delay them. He wondered what other obstacles-and rivals-waited for them in the arctic wasteland ahead.

For the moment, Jon’s attention diverted from the map unfurled on the office desk to Fink, who stood at the far end of the room reviewing a field manual and whistling the same tune over and over again.

Brewer glared at Fink and asked, “Casey, what are you doing?”

“Huh? Oh, it’s from an old Bugs Bunny cartoon.” Fink then did the unthinkable. He stopped whistling and sung: “The five o’clock whistle’s on the blink. The whistle won’t blow and whaddya think? My pappa’s still in the factory ‘Cause he don’t know what tiiiiiiime-”

“CASEY! If you don’t shut up I may have to-”

Reverend Johnny appeared at the door panting heavily and wearing an expression that drained any good humor from the room.

“General, I fear the devil is afoot. I have found something you need to see.”

The men gathered their rifles and followed Johnny along a corridor lined with empty patient rooms. Two nervous soldiers stood outside one of those rooms. When Brewer looked inside, he became nervous, too.

“I think we know what happened to the people here,” Brewer said.

“Death came from below,” Reverend Johnny put a fine point on it.

The floor of the hospital room was splintered and smashed upward, revealing a hole in the tundra beneath. The sides of the hole had long-ago collapsed, sealing that particular threat but the implications were clear. Something large-larger than a man, smaller than a car-had tunneled into the hospital room and struck from below.

Reverend Johnny knelt and pointed to a ring of black, hardened sludge around the rim of the sealed tunnel.