Expedition Beyond Read online

  “Really? And what is this situation?” Colonel Wingert asked.

  Stephen said, “Perhaps we should start at the beginning.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mitch said. “We need your help, sir. We have a man caught in a crevasse, and we can’t rescue him without assistance.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Yes, sir. The crevasse is incredibly deep, but he had a parachute, and I personally saw him open his chute before communications were lost.”

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Two weeks, sir. But he had provisions—food and water, and also lights; it’s just too deep for him to climb out.”

  Stephen said, “Boster Denton had organized a mission to—”

  “Excuse me for interrupting,” Wingert said apologetically. “I am familiar with this particular situation from other sources and I’m afraid your friend Desmond is most likely dead.”

  “Des is not dead!” Mitch felt his ears flush and knew he was starting to lose control. “Sir.”

  Stephen said, “If I may also interrupt, please. The question if Des is alive or dead is just that—a question. What we need is an answer founded on solid evidence. Finding Des would accomplish that goal, and that is why we’re here today. Finding Des is the solution…how to find him is the question. For that, we need your help.”

  Wingert reached into a drawer and withdrew a hardcover volume of at least four hundred pages. He plopped it onto his desk, then pushed it towards Mitch.

  Mitch frowned at him. What was the point here?

  “Go ahead, the appropriate pages are marked,” the colonel said.

  The cover of the book had Top Secret stamped in red ink above a title: Operation Refrigerator. There were two bookmarks in it.

  Mitch opened the book at the first marker about 200 pages in, and read:

  Jones may inform you that Cox had a parachute that he opened during his descent, but this is utterly false. Appended are topographical computerized images (TCI) that demonstrate Cox was in free-fall for more than thirty kilometers, so one can safely surmise that the fall was fatal.

  Mitch looked up at the colonel with shock. For once in his life, he had nothing to say. Stephen moved quietly behind him, as Mitch turned to the second bookmark, unaware that Stephen was reading over his shoulder. The page was headed “Alicia Mitchell Jones”:

  I have never met a more vulgar man than Alicia Mitchell Jones. (His friends call him Mitch.)

  Jones is extremely profane. I was ashamed to be around him, especially with a woman present, which didn’t seem to slow down the irreverent language he spewed. I must apologize for not following him steadfastly as I found him so abusive.

  I would place his emotional maturity at something near that of a deranged five-year-old. He insanely jumped out of turn from an airplane and never opened his parachute, surviving only due to luck. On several occasions, I witnessed Jones deliberately attempt to cause harm to the rest of the team. He began to ignite a snow Glider’s fuel line with a torch, only to be stopped by Des Cox. He stole a pistol from Bearters, the Inuit, and fired several shots before it could be wrestled away. He even throttled me to prevent me from telling him the truth. He is very large and has a savage temper; he only understands violence. I do feel a psychiatric examination would be in order. He’s a bully and a—

  Stephen slammed the book shut. Mitch’s ears were crimson; his body was tensed with rage.

  “Who wrote that shit?” Mitch demanded.

  Stephen kicked Mitch’s foot, but Mitch ignored him.

  “Jack Squires. He works for me,” Wingert said, his tanned face furrowing.

  “Well…fu-u-uck him!”

  “Sir, there is a lady in the room,” Wingert said quietly.

  Mitch turned toward Margaret; she flinched.

  “Well, fu-uck her!”

  “Mitch! Stop, please!” Stephen cried.

  Wingert stood up so fast, his legs hit the edge of his desktop with a resounding crack, and the desk shook. He grimaced in pain; all the color drained from his face.

  Mitch didn’t wait for him to recover. He turned and walked out of the room, through the reception area into the corridor to keep from saying anything else. There, he stopped, put his back against the wall and slid to the floor, with his feet outstretched, a scarecrow in a stuffed suit.

  Stephen came out and squatted next to him.

  Mitch said, “We’re fucked. Des is fucked. The whole thing is fucked, and it’s all my fucking fault.”

  “No, Mitch, it’s not your fault. If anyone had said those awful things about me, I would have round-housed the guy right then and there. You didn’t overreact. We’ve just got to find another way to save Des.”

  Colonel Wingert came out of his office and strode over to them.

  “Gentlemen, we have a problem to solve. Please, come with me.”

  Stephen helped Mitch to his feet.

  Wingert led them outside to a grassy nook surrounded by a six-foot tall rock barrier. The few other people in the pocket park quickly disappeared. There was a picnic table near the middle, and Wingert sat on one bench, put his legs out and sighed.

  “Garbage. All garbage,” he said. “I really ought to find better mole.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mitch agreed. “Jack’s a pathological liar.”

  “I paid him good American taxpayers’ money for that report,” Wingert sighed.

  “The cold probably affected his mind,” Stephen observed.

  All three men laughed.

  “Please, sit down,” Wingert said, shifting his legs under the bench to face them. “There is an American astrophysicist currently making some waves in academia. His name is Anderson—apparently, he didn’t like having a given name, so he had it legally removed and now goes solely by his surname. Anyway, he’s startled his peers with a newfangled theory. Have either of you heard of him?”

  “I have,” Mitch answered. “Anderson’s a fucking nut.”

  The colonel smiled. “Well, you may think he’s a fucking nut, but some believe he’s the greatest living astrophysicist.”

  “What’s this all about?” Stephen asked.

  Wingert said, “I think you’d need to be an astrophysicist to understand Anderson’s theory completely, but for the rest of us there’s a simpler explanation. For decades it’s been known, at least in scientific circles, that the universe contains matter and antimatter in equal proportions. However, the known matter always outweighed the known antimatter, so there’s been a great search for the hidden antimatter—black holes that neutralize matter. Are you with me so far?”

  Mitch nodded slowly, unable to fathom a connection between this and finding Des.

  Wingert continued. “Then along comes Anderson, who’s hypothesized that there wasn’t any hidden antimatter; in fact—and this is where he diverges from all others—there is far less matter in the universe than previously believed, so the known matter is equivalent to the known antimatter.”

  After a pause to let that sink in, Wingert explained, “Anderson theorizes that all the planets are hollow.”

  “I told you the guy was a fucking nut!” Mitch said.

  “That may be,” the colonel said, “but we also think he might be right. Anderson has developed a six-hundred-page thesis that starts with an explanation of the origin of matter and antimatter, of how the stars and planets were formed, and continues through computer simulations of the resulting hollow celestial bodies. Mind you, he doesn’t use the word ‘hollow’ anywhere in his thesis, but the planets and stars formed around something which left gasses inside all of them. The mass around the gaseous center exerts a gravitational field that, along with centrifugal forces, would push any object away from the center and act similar to—if not exactly like—the gravitational force on the surface.”

  “So, where did you get your interplanetary ex
perience?” Mitch asked the colonel.

  Wingert laughed. “No, I haven’t read Anderson’s theory. The Army has read it and interpreted it to me. If you want a copy and/or the interpretation, I’d be happy to provide them to you.”

  Stephen said, “Where does Des enter into this picture?”

  “We think he’s fallen into an abyss that leads to the interior. Anderson believes that systems in nature are interdependent, so gasses in the center of—let’s take Earth—would slowly build pressure that would need to be released. After several hundred years, cracks open between the surface and the center to exchange gasses and equalize pressures. It seems that there are always two vents, on opposite sides of the planet to each other.

  “When the Earth was younger, these sudden openings were huge ravines, as much as fifty kilometers long. As the Earth aged, the vents have gotten smaller. Anderson thinks your North Pole crevasse and another that has opened near Alice Springs in Australia are the current vents. Anderson is in Australia now, investigating. The Australians have teams three hundred kilometers down inside the Earth. They’re building a platform every one hundred kilometers. The tentacled creatures Jack discussed in his report have killed three construction workers, but now they’ve learned how to avoid them—bright light attracts them, but not infrared. Apparently, the buggers are pretty hard to kill.

  “The President and Congress have given us a green light. I’m in charge of getting a team down your North Pole vent as soon as possible, but two problems have persisted.”

  “Only two?” Mitch said. Perhaps they were closer to rescuing Des than he’d thought just a few minutes ago.

  Wingert smiled. “Anderson believes that as you descend into the Earth, the gravitational force reverses—so, if you were standing on the inside, you would be upside-down to us. Past that, if you continued towards the center for another four thousand kilometers, the atmosphere would be virtually the same as ours at the surface. At the center is the core where antimatter and matter collide—it supposedly glows like the sun. The Aussies believe Anderson and they are set to prove his theory, but we want to win this race.”

  “The two problems you mentioned?” Stephen asked.

  “One problem got solved today. The other, we almost had answered weeks ago, and then along came your expedition. The Inuits had promised surface rights to you first, so we had to wait. I managed to insert Jack with your team to gather as much information as possible, but now that the Inuits know they have something of value, they want more chips. So under the ruse of ‘no guns’—and we do need to take weapons with us—they are foot-dragging. Negotiations are continuing, but could take months. We haven’t got months. They want more land and money—big money.”

  “Damned straight we don’t have months! We need to find Des now!” Mitch exploded.

  “I agree,” Wingert said. “We need to move on this. The Aussies don’t yet understand the time problem. Anderson has apparently miscalculated and we believe they’ll never make it.”

  “What is this time problem?” Stephen asked.

  Wingert said grimly, “The vents are closing. The one near Alice Springs is already half a meter smaller, and Jack’s data indicates that yours is, too. They’ll soon close up like nothing happened, just like they’ve probably always done.”

  Mitch said, “Sir, you said a problem got solved today. What was that one?”

  “Why, it was you, Mitch.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes. The Inuit, Bearters, is close to their government council, and he has demanded that you lead any further American expedition to Ellesmere Island. I had to make sure you weren’t a loose cannon, as Jack had reported. Your profanity doesn’t concern me, but I needed to know if you could be depended on to keep a cool head. That’s why I showed you what Jack had written. You did as well under the circumstances as I would have. Do you think you can apologize to Margaret?”

  “Yes, sir!” Mitch said, standing. “But before I do…”

  He removed a cloth from his pocket, placed it on the table and carefully unfolded it. There was a soft green glow as the contents stretched and recoiled.

  “I call them mantibles—not this part, I mean the whole creature,” Mitch explained. “I got this little finger before it got Des and me.”

  “You’ve got part of one!” Wingert exclaimed excitedly.

  “Yup. Cleaved it off with my little rock hammer.”

  Wingert nudged the specimen with his pen and it stretched again. “Do you think the Army could borrow this for analysis?”

  “The Army can keep it. I’ve already done a little geological analysis.”

  “What do you make of it?” Wingert asked.

  “I don’t think it’s alive,” Mitch said with a smile.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can something be considered alive if it’s never born and never dies? What we have here is a crystalline obelisk.”

  Wingert looked confused. “Doctor, what in the hell is he talking about?”

  “I think Mitch is telling you that this is a rock.”

  Chapter 14

  LATITUDE 82° 10’ NORTH

  LONGITUDE 73° 42’ WEST

  LAPTITUDE 68%

  Month 2, Day 12; 1400 UTC, 8:00 AM LTD

  Des walked alone through the forest; the cool mist seeped into his clothes until they clung to his skin. The chattering of monkeys above was less frequent and the undergrowth now sparse. Gnarled trees rose majestically into the haze from the green carpet of grass and flowers.

  Des felt as if he were being watched, like animals were lurking on both sides. He pushed aside his fears and focused on the intensive course in English he had been presenting to Anastasia. He was elated at how fast she learned; she was already putting together complete sentences, most of which made total sense, and was able to recall words he hadn’t used for days. He, on the other hand, still struggled ineptly to learn her language.

  The village was boxed on three sides by ocean, mountain and river; Des moved inland on the fourth side. He judged he was going north, then reflected on how preposterous that was—all directions from the North Pole would be south. As he pushed through ground foliage, he kept his back towards the ocean to avoid getting lost. He still felt unseen eyes following him.

  He stopped to listen and heard human voices ahead.

  He moved cautiously to what he thought was a clearing. Two warrior women stood by the edge, then they approached him, bowing slightly.

  It wasn’t a clearing, after all. A black abyss was meters away. The mouth of the cave where Des had scrambled from the monster was gone. Now there was only a crevasse, reminiscence of the icy one he’d fallen into. The gentlest of breezes lapped inward over its edge.

  “Des.”

  He turned, and saw Anastasia was standing among five other warriors twenty meters behind him. She looked even more radiant in the forest than in the village.

  “Itar wants us,” she told him.

  Anastasia had been vague about the local governance, even in response to his direct questions, though she had mentioned a queen or royalty of some sort, so Des assumed it to be a monarchical hierarchy. Itar obviously held a position of some importance—he was certainly an elder and maybe a sage.

  Government wasn’t the only subject that Anastasia had skirted.

  “Where are the men?” Des had asked.

  “Working,” she’d replied tersely.

  Working at what? Des had pantomimed hunting and fishing, but either Anastasia’s reticence or her ability to convey her thoughts meant he got no details.

  She led him to a path up the mountain where the other warriors left them. She didn’t hold his hand on their walks anymore and ignored his attempts to hold hers, which saddened Des. They climbed two thousand meters to a gently sloping meadow hugging the mountainside.

  An enormous stucc
o building was underneath a ledge, partially hidden in dense green foliage. The roof was flat with protruding log ends. A guard with a war club stood at the doorway.

  “A door!” Des exclaimed in surprise.

  He hadn’t seen one before in this land, especially like this one. The thick, heavy iron door appeared to be centuries old. There was some rust and decay, but mostly it seemed quite well preserved. Grommets held filigreed copper carvings of helmeted Spaniards and large sailing ships on its surface. Des pushed against it, and the door swung open freely a few inches on oiled, metal hinges. He guessed that it weighed four hundred pounds. The inner surface had heavy cross-latching mechanisms that could keep it closed. Des was impressed.

  The guard spoke briskly to Anastasia.

  “Please don’t touch,” Anastasia told Des, adding pointedly, “anything.”

  A stooped, elderly woman appeared from somewhere inside. Her sallow face was wrinkled and warty, her mannerisms abrupt. She motioned for them to follow her.

  “Who is she?” Des whispered.

  “She watches…” Anastasia replied.

  “Caretaker? Keeper?” Des asked.

  “Yes, caretaker.”

  The old woman brought them to a large room, with light filtering through long, thin slits in the stucco plastered and wood-beamed ceiling above them. There were a variety of exhibits that made Des think this was some kind of museum, so the old woman must be the curator, but when he turned, she had gone.

  Twenty war clubs stood in a row, upright on wooden stands, spaced about a meter apart. The first one looked mostly like the branch of a tree. Next to it was a tree branch with one end sharpened. Underneath each club was a plaque with a pictograph. The war club he’d become familiar with was at the far end.

  Des wandered over to a diorama that depicted iron making. There was a wooden, ten-inch-high handmade forge and several wooden molds. Some molds were set in earthen bowls filled with water; Des knew that was done to cool the molten iron after the mold had been filled. At the end was the resultant ball for a war club attached to a small stick with twine. Des wondered if they had tried different forms, or used iron for other products.