Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Antarctica

At least he’d been right about one thing; it was considerably warmer inside the base, noticeably so even as they stepped inside the heavy metal door and closed it behind them. Wiggins moved to lock it internally, but Banks stopped him.

“Leave it, lad. Yon frozen buggers don’t seem to be any respecters of locks, and our relief might need to come in fast, so let’s not make it hard for them, eh?”

Wiggins looked like he wanted to say something, but Banks’ rebuke several minutes earlier appeared to make him more circumspect this time, which suited Banks just fine. He didn’t have time to be dealing with insubordination; he was too busy dealing with his own doubts.

They all moved down to the first landing. Banks unzipped his outer jacket and winced as his hands tingled with returning heat. He turned to Hynd.

“We’re only going as far in as we need to go in order to get some heat and some rest. I don’t want anyone going near that fucking saucer. We’ll make for the living quarters then pick a nice wee warm room, and we stay there until the relief arrives. We’ve got some rations, some reading material, heat, and light. Everything a growing lad needs.”

“Except the sarge’s wife,” Wiggins replied, but this time the humor fell flat. The squad had just seen their dead friends stand with the German officer, and it had affected them all. Banks pushed the image away as soon as he thought it. He realized he was locking an awful lot of stuff away in there, stuff that he knew would be back to bite him on the arse on long dark nights once they got home.

Aye, well, it can get in line with all the other crap .

He led the squad away, heading down into the bowels of the base.

“In out, in out, shake it all about,” Wiggins muttered, but nobody felt like singing along.

It felt warmer still in the main living chamber at the foot of the stairwell. The overhead lights glowed, not white as might be expected, but the same warm golden glow they’d encountered in the hangar around the saucer. Banks glanced at the double doorway that led to the hangar, and felt the pull and tug, the urge to join the dance.

“Dhumna Ort!” he muttered. He remembered how putting in his earplugs had muted the effect, and motioned to the others to follow his lead in pushing the plugs in deep.

“We’re going to be shouting at each other with these things in, so keep chat to a minimum,” he said. “Hand signals only, and speaking only if you really need to. Got it?”

Hynd pushed his plugs in and gave Banks the thumbs up. The other three followed suit. Banks was relieved to note that the urge to run through the double door and head for the hangar had now gone. He motioned to the team to get on the move.

They did a quick survey of the rooms, relieved to find they were all empty of cold corpses, and chose one with four bunks and a table and chairs. Banks got them inside, closed the door behind them, and motioned that the team should each take a bunk.

He sat down, suddenly dog-tired, at the table. The weight of the events of the day before, and the night they’d spent in the hut felt like a heavy stone pressing down on his shoulders. He put his head in his hands and was asleep before he could give any thought to setting a guard.

He dreamed, of starry vistas and swirling shadows, of nebulous gas clouds the size of galaxies, of the nurseries and graveyards of the stars themselves, and of dancing, lost and joyous in the rhythm of the black.

This time, he came out of it standing at the door of the room, his hand on the door handle — it had been the feel of cold metal in his palm that had brought him just far enough out of dream sleep to realize what was happening. Somewhere, far distant, a choir chanted in the wind, but now that he was awake, he found he could fight against it.

“Dhumna Ort!” he whispered, and all compulsion fell away from him, dispelled as quickly as the vanishing of the far-off chanting.

He looked around. The other four men were all asleep, Wiggins snoring loudly, Parker muttering and moaning, McCally lying half-in, half out of a cot as if he’d tried to get out of it then lost all energy, and Hynd, face down, breathing heavily. They all seemed to be genuinely asleep, but Banks couldn’t help wondering if they too were somewhere off in the black, lost to the dance.

He let them sleep. He rummaged in his backpack and took out the old leather journal, needing something to focus on to stop sleep, and the dance, from leading him astray. He’d already read all of the account of the nature of the thing in the submarine, but perhaps there was something else in the writings that could help him understand — and maybe even overcome — what they were dealing with here. One word, ‘demon’ caught his attention as he scanned the pages, and he backed up a few pages, and started reading at that point.

As I descended the steps, I got a clue as to what Churchill had meant. There had been a fire in the area under the bar at some point in the past, not recently, but one that had been bad enough to leave a thick layer of ash and soot covering everything. Light came in through a small window high up that was itself smeared with a greasy film of thin soot. The window overlooked the river, and despite the soot was letting in enough light for me to see that I wasn’t in a beer cellar after all.

The fire that had left the soot and ash behind had also left remnants of furniture: three long sofas, all halfway burned through, and a squat square table that had been overturned and leaned against the wall.

A roughly circular piece of the floorboards, a yard or so at the widest point had been cleared of ash, and I got my first inkling of why Churchill had asked for my help. I could not see all of it, but there was definitely a magic circle and an interior pentagram drawn there.

But this wasn’t one of my protections, far from it. I had seen the like of this before, in books in my library, old books, that dealt with calling up all manner of things to do your bidding. This was a summoning circle, and from the quick look I’d had at it, I had a sinking feeling it wasn’t mere necromancy that had been attempted in this room.

Whoever had been at work here was after something rather more sensational. It was clear to me now that they had been involved in a medieval ritual of some infamy; this room had seen an attempt at summoning, and controlling, a demon.

Of course, I know there are no such things as demons, there are merely mischief making manifestations from the Outer Darkness. But people who dabble in the esoteric disciplines without any training are wont to see what they expect, especially those of a religious bent to start with. I had no doubt that this small room here under the bar had seen some excitable people get excited, perhaps even over excited while under the influence of drugs and liquor and the promise of power from the great beyond.

While I’d been examining the circle and arriving at some conclusions as to its nature, Churchill had been watching me.

“First impressions, old boy?” he asked.

“Stuff and nonsense,” I replied. “People with more money and liquor than sense looking for an easy thrill, and receiving precisely what they were looking for. It’s all parlor games and cheap tricks to rook the gullible. You’re a man of the world, Churchill; you know that for yourself.”

Churchill nodded.

“I have usually been of the same mind,” he replied, “despite having come across several things on my travels over the years that have as yet defied explanation. And, like you, I would put this down to too much liquor, money, and high spirits. But there is more to it than that; otherwise, I would not have bothered you with it in the first place.”