Operation Antarctica

- 1 -

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.

It was colder still down at sea level, and the squad huddled as tightly as they could around the center of the dinghy to avoid both the biting wind off the waves and the splashing spray that turned to slush on the rubber sides.

Hynd took charge of the piloting, keeping the revs so low that they ran nearly silent across the still waters. There was no banter among the men now. The mission had started as soon as they left the deck and they all had a still, tense expression, coiled and ready for any action required.

Banks pulled on his night-vision goggles. They were not that much more effective than normal sight in the twilight, but they had the added advantage of a zoom function that Banks turned to its fullest extent. As Hynd brought the dinghy cruising around the promontory, he got his first sight of the base ahead.

It didn’t look like much, just a metal jetty on the shoreline, then up to a pathway that led between half a dozen small metal huts. Beyond that, the ice rose in a dome that might be artificial, but looked natural. Beyond that was only a rocky range of windswept hills and beyond that again, the main bulk of the ice sheet, some half a mile high. It looked more like a summer camp for fishermen than any kind of research station.

As they approached shore, Banks checked the radiation detector at his chest. Red meant danger, but the upper circle of the badge was still solid green. He gave Hynd the thumbs-up, and the sarge brought the dinghy in and alongside the rickety jetty.

The metal of the structure looked pitted and rusted, almost eaten through in places, but they managed to find a spot that appeared firm enough to tie up on. Hynd sent Wiggins up the short ladder first.

“Up you go, fat boy,” he said. “If it’ll take your lardy arse, it’ll do for the rest of us.”

“If I’ve got a lardy arse, it’s your wife’s fault, Sarge,” Wiggins said as he climbed up. “Every time I screw her, she gives me a biscuit.”

Hynd slapped the private on the back of his thighs.

“Button your lip, lad,” he said. “And climb. We’re on the clock here.”

Wiggins climbed up onto the surface of the jetty and gingerly tested his footing before turning back.

“We’re okay, as long as we don’t jump up and down. Or have to service the sarge’s missus.”

By the time Banks got up out of the dinghy, Wiggins was already making his way to the shore to avoid getting a clout on the ear.

The small encampment didn’t look any more enticing from closer up. The metal sheds were in better shape than the jetty, but they too showed sign of corrosion and neglect, and there were no other footprints but those of the squad in the snow. The path ahead of them was smooth, white, and pristine

If there is another team here, they didn’t come this way.

At least it wasn’t particularly cold. There was no wind to speak of now that they were off the bay and out of the water, and it would be full dawn soon and warm up farther. Banks guessed it couldn’t be much more than a degree or two below freezing.

“Cheer up, Cap,” Hynd said. “At least it’s not Baffin Island.”

“Don’t fucking remind me,” Hynd said, and meant it. They’d lost three good men in that cluster-fuck. He wasn’t in any mood to recreate the memory. He motioned for McCally to take Wiggins and Parker to the sheds on the right, while he, Hynd, Hughes, Patel, and Wilkes went left.

The door of the first shed was hanging almost off its hinges. Inside, a space the size of a family-car garage, there were two rows of wooden crates, each stamped with a swastika, all still nailed down as if they’d been stored after transit and never opened. A thick layer of frost lay over everything, and again there were no footprints on the floor or around the doorway, no sign that anyone had been here for decades. A single bare electric bulb hung overhead. Patel pulled a string cord at the side of the door, and it came off in his hand, falling in three parts to the floor. He got a clout around the ear from Hynd.

“Behave yourself, lad,” Hynd said. “Save the farting about for when we get back.”

Patel had the good sense to look abashed, and all five of them kept quiet as they left the empty building and moved uphill to the second shed. Banks looked over to his right to see McCally give a thumbs-down at the door of the shed he’d been sent to investigate.

Looks like this will be a short trip.

Banks checked his radiation badge again, relieved to see that it still showed green, then led the other four to the door of the second shed. This one was in better condition, the heavy double door solid and locked against them, not giving way under a hard shoulder shove from Wiggins. But it opened easily enough after the sarge got into the lock with a small pick.

This shed was better insulated than the first, with a timber interior wall. It was, or rather had been, living quarters, with two beds to the right, a table and three chairs in the center, and a large stove against the left wall for heating and cooking. One of the beds looked almost lumpy, and Banks’ first thought was that it must be a body, but when Hynd checked, it was just a bundle of crumpled sheets and blankets. Everything was neat, tidied away, except for a newspaper on the table. It only had a light cover of frost, easily wiped away, and although it was in German, the date was clear enough — November 29th, 1942.

There was a pair of tall lockers, military-style, beside the beds, but they were empty save for some frozen-solid woolens. Reading the room, Banks guessed that the occupants had simply put on their cold weather clothing and left one day, never to return.

They did a quick survey of every corner, but came up with nothing more than what they had already. When they got outside, McCally was at the door of another shed, and once again gave a thumbs-down.

Banks was more and more convinced they were on a wild goose chase.

Any thoughts of a wasted journey were blown away at the third hut. This one was far more solidly built and resembled the other sheds on the hillside, but only in so far as it had been made to look that way from a distance. It had been painted the same institutional green, but it was made of iron rather than thin sheet metal, and rang like the hull of a boat when hit by the butt of a rifle. Similarly, the door wasn’t a door as such, but more of a hatch, like an interior entranceway on a boat or a sub.

McCally brought his team up to join the rest of the squad, and Wiggins tried to turn the metal wheel to engage the locking mechanism. It squealed, but didn’t give.

“Give us a hand here, somebody,” he said. “This bastard’s playing hard to get.”

Parker was first to move, and once both men took a side of the wheel, it moved more easily. The screech of metal on metal echoed around the still bay, causing Banks to look around, checking that the sound had not brought them to anyone’s attention. The door swung outward with another ear-piercing shriek, showing darkness beyond, and a set of metal stairs leading down into the hill, heading inland.

Banks had another look around the bay. Nothing moved; even the water was still and the dinghy sat calmly at its berth. A dome of clear sky hung overhead, the stars fading out and disappearing as the sun began a slow climb over the horizon. Banks had a last gaze at the sun, cursing it for its promise of heat, then turned back to the dark hole beyond the door. He checked his radiation badge and was relieved to see it was still in the green.

“Okay, Cally, you’re on point. Take us in.”

The corporal stepped forward, then immediately stopped, and waved Banks up alongside him to look down the stairwell. Banks saw that they’d need both night-vision goggles and the lights on their rifle once inside fully, but he didn’t need either to see six steps down.

A body lay sprawled on the first landing.