Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Antarctica

Captain John Banks’ mind reeled with the information he’d just been given. Huddled against the cold, he stood on the deck of the icebreaker wondering what to tell the squad. The Southern Cross hung high in the sky amid a blanket of stars, and away on the horizon the white wall of the ice shelf that was their destination was clearly visible in the twilight that passed for full nighttime at this time of year. The vessel’s sharp prow cleaved the waves, and they made good time through clear water, with the long ribbon of their wash trailing behind to the horizon, a glistening silver smear on the water.

Lossiemouth, London, the Azores, the Falklands and now here, right on the verge of Antarctica. It had proved to be a long, tiring trip already. Thirty-six hours ago, the colonel had said jump, and S-Squad jumped; Banks, Sergeant Hynd, Corporal McCally, and five old hands from those available for immediate assignment. Banks knew Wiggins and Parker from Afghanistan, good men both. The other three were new to him, but if they were on the rotation, they had the training and they knew the drill. He had no worries on that score. The only thing he was worried about was being laughed out of the room when he told them what had been thought important enough to subject them to the trip.

He couldn’t put it off any longer — the chill breeze on deck was persistent and threatened to freeze his breath at his nose and lips. He had a long look at the approaching ice shelf, a wall that stretched in a ribbon across the horizon, and wondered what was waiting for them there.

He got exactly the reaction he’d been expecting.

“Fucking Nazi UFO bases? In Antarctica? Dinnae talk shite. You’re having us on, Cap. Aren’t you? This is some Indiana Jones Hollywood bollocks, surely? If not that, it’s certainly tin-foil hat territory.”

Since the mission off Baffin Island, McCally had taken on the role of squad skeptic, one that fitted his stoic Highland nature only too well. He sat at the far end of the table in the cramped cabin that was doubling as their briefing room, a wide grin on his face. Banks smiled in return and sipped at a steaming mug of black coffee before replying, grateful for the warmth both at his chilled hands, and in his gullet and belly.

“I’m only telling you what I was just told on the comms link. The colonel didn’t look like he was taking the piss, and although the uplink was a bit dodgy and pixilated most of the time, I could hear him loud and clear.”

“I blame the fucking aliens,” Wiggins said, and got a laugh all around before Banks called for quiet.

“Listen up, I don’t have time to repeat it. Our destination is on Queen Maude Land. The Norwegians have given us dispensation to go in and have a look; it’s their territory nowadays, but the Jerries were here first, and were building on and under the ice from 1938 onward. The story is they established a research base, a quiet spot where they could test new forms of propulsion. The rumor, and it’s one the colonel sees to give credence to, is that they got a working saucer going before they went quiet.”

“Went quiet? What does that mean?” Hynd asked.

“Nobody knows. One summer they were there, the next summer they weren’t. And during the war, everybody was too busy to go and look. The Yanks were interested enough to send a team down in the late 40s, but they retreated when their radiation meters went off the scale before they even got ashore. We’ve been told to be just as careful.”

“Good job I’m wearing my lead-lined boxers, then,” Wiggins replied. “But why now, Cap? What’s changed?”

“Something showed up in infra-red on a satellite pass,” Banks replied. “The brass is worried that somebody else, the Russians maybe, have gone in to see if there’s anything worth plundering.”

“And the last thing we want is fucking commie UFOs,” Hynd replied, and laughed bitterly. “So we get to freeze our balls off again, Cap? Can you not get us a wee job in the Bahamas? If they want us to investigate weird shit, I vote for the Bermuda Triangle next time.”

“Me too, Sarge. Me too,” Banks said.

“So, this radiation, Cap,” McCally chipped in. “Should we be worried?”

“They sent a drone over with a counter earlier,” Banks replied. “We’ve been given the all clear, and as I said, we’ve been told to be careful. We’ll be wearing detectors; and Wiggins has got his magic knickers. You’ll be fine.”

“And no fucking aliens, right?”

Banks sighed.

“As far as anybody knows, they built a saucer but never got it off the ice. If they got further on with the research and got it working, I think Von Braun might have known, told the Yanks about it, and we’d already have saucers everywhere.”

“We already do,” Wiggins replied, “according to some.” He lapsed into an atrocious American accent. “Chariots of the Gods, man. They practically own South America.”

That got another laugh around the table. Banks stood up.

“Right, that’s enough of that bollocks. Roll call in ten on deck. Time to get kitted up.”

Hynd stayed behind when the others left and looked Banks in the eye.

“There’s more to this than you’ve let on, isn’t there, Cap?”

Banks nodded.

“But it’s more rumor and speculation rather than hard fact,” he replied. “Nothing to worry the squad with until we know better.”

“But it could go sideways on us fast?”

Banks nodded again.

“Doesn’t everything? That’s why they pay us the big bucks.”

Hynd snorted as the two men headed for the storeroom and their kit.

“Remember, Cap, the Caribbean next time. At least we’ll be warm when we get shafted.”

Banks met the squad on deck at the top of the hour. Hughes, Patel, and Wilkes, the three he hadn’t worked with before, were in a huddle at the portside gunwales, smoking cigarettes cupped, sailor style, inside their palms. He’s noticed that the three, although efficient enough, and pleasant enough company in the mess, kept to a tight group. He knew why too; combat does that to men and these three had served together in some rough spots. He’d read the reports, and knew that he, Hynd, and McCally shared a similar bond. When you go through hell and come out the other side, you remember who helped you get through it.

He called the team together. They all wore white parkas, had rifles slung, and carried small packs on their backs. They were going in light; no need for heavy gear with the icebreaker at anchor just offshore. Their dinghy was already in the water, a fifteen-foot Zodiac with fiberglass hull and twin five hundred cc Honda engines; more than enough power to get them across the half mile of water and around a promontory to the bay that was their destination.

“We’re going in quiet and dark, or as dark as we can anyway,” he said. “Just in case there’s another team already there ahead of us. The icebreaker’s going to sit offshore here out of sight and wait for our return. We’ve got twelve hours to get in and out.”

“No personal radios?” Hynd asked.

“Nope. Silent means silent this time. There’s a radio on the dinghy’s dashboard, and I’ve got the boat’s frequency,” he said, and tapped his brow, “so if we need to make a call, we can. But let’s hope we don’t need to. A quick shufti, see what’s what, and back here in time for breakfast. Okay?”

“Yeah,” McCally replied. “Like that ever works out to plan.”

“Change the patter, Cally,” Hynd said. “It’s getting on my tits.”

“Which is more than your wife ever does, or so I’ve heard, Sarge,” Wiggins replied, and Banks took it as a good omen that they were all still laughing as they went in single file down the ladder to the dinghy.