The Fifth Codex (2 page)

REGARDING: The Incognita Project

ICE CORE #1: 2016-01-23

BLACK GRANITE fragments found only in

mountains recovered from bedrock.

ICE CORE #2: 2016-01-24

BRONZE fragments recovered from bedrock.

BRONZE: man-made alloy.

LOCATION: 76°40′S 133°59′W

Marie Byrd Land, Antarctica.

DEPARTURE: 2016-02-27

RAF Mildenhall, Suffolk, England.

“
Est-il possible
…?” I gasp as I drop the orders to the hardwood floor a second time.

“Rear Admiral Vanderbilt drew up these orders,” the colonel offers as if guessing my next question.  “Three weeks ago, the US Navy named him commander of the US Antarctic Program.”

I gawk at my friendly hostages before I hastily holster my remaining weapon.  They slowly stand up and meet my incredulous gaze with still wary eyes.

“
Admiral Vanderbilt?
”  My tone is perhaps a bit too bitter, but wholly deserved.  “
Sérieusement!
  Why did you not tell me this earlier?  Given information about me, did it not tell you that mentioning the Admiral
just
might
be important?”

“Apparently not,” they say together after a pause.  With sheepish faces that match their voices, each looks away from me in opposite directions.

“It certainly would have prevented a good bit of misunderstanding.”  The brigadier speaks these words inside a long exhale that sounds almost painful.

I pull out my holstered weapon again, slide out the cartridge, and hold each in a separate hand.  “No hard feelings?” I plead with a goofy smile.

“Provided you do not shoot us … no,” the brigadier responds dryly with an uneasy smirk.

With this answer, I pitch both into a nearby pillow.  Guns and cartridges tossed all about, I consider myself lucky I do not yet have children.  Or even a pet.

“Then I will come
most
willingly,” I tell them in a cheery voice.  I am mentally exhausted and they, judging by their faces, feel the same.  But one option now lies before us: “Protocol, orders, proper procedure, be damned – I think we all need a drink!”

I spring to the bar and pour three tulip glasses of my husband’s best Cognac.  Considering that I almost never drink alcohol, I am rather proud of myself for finding it.  A trying day turning blissful – I even chose the correct glasses!  In blessed relief that this crazed woman with loaded guns has not shot them dead, the military officers join me.

“To adventure in the frozen desert,” I toast.

“To adventure,” the brigadier repeats in a grateful tone.

They both grin back at me.  The colonel’s drink gone in two swigs without even a smell or a swirl first, he suddenly shivers as if bathed in ice.

“Antarctica,
Madame
Rothschild,” he chuckles as his teeth clatter, “along with your legionnaires and your wares, I think it best you bring your warmest furs!

From England to Cape Town, South Africa, by way of RAF Mount Pleasant in the Falkland Islands: McMurdo Station draws close.  Endless ice shimmering in the sunlight buries mountains up to their peaks.  Soaring through the air in an orange C-17 Globemaster III, there is little else to see.

Aside from the pilots and eight well-trained, well-armed companions, I have sighted no other signs of life since leaving the Falklands.  Every one of my soldiers handpicked by me and in my employment for at least the past decade – I know each as well as a sister does her brothers.  They act as the guardians of four ancient ‘siblings’ who patiently wait for us to find the fifth.  Safe in their vaults, if we do indeed find the fifth codex, these priceless treasures will surely join us in our joy.

Able to support over a thousand residents – as far as Antarctica is concerned – McMurdo Station is a sprawling city.  Over a hundred buildings scattered about its three airfields; at one time, it even drew power from its own nuclear reactor.  Our Globemaster III now circling this frozen metropolis, six daring snowboarders coasting down Observation Hill offer quite the cheery surprise.

The landing is a bit rough, but taking in the iced runway, probably as gentle as one can hope.  I and my contingent of retired, but still lethal, French Legionnaires, US Navy SEALs, and UK SAS soldiers exit from the rear of the C-17.  Our cargo – both precious and not so much – exits with us.

The heliport my wandering eyes latch onto is easily the most impressive sight I have seen thus far.  Atop each of these four helipads sits a gleaming Sikorsky CH-53E.  A most handsome – they are not called Sea Stallions for nothing – and safe-looking transport, we divide ourselves up into three of them.  Four of my soldiers load up half of our cargo into the first Sikorsky.  The other four load up the rest into the second helicopter.  With mounds of supplies to keep me company, I will ride in the third.

Suddenly gusty winds give fair warning that these flights by Sea Stallion will be even rougher than our flight in the C-17.  The command given, one after the other, this trio of transports lifts off.

“Pilot, are we headed for Russkaya Station?” I ask about thirty minutes after take off.

“Russkaya?  No ma’am,” the American pilot replies.  For as noisy as the helicopter is, our voices sound surprisingly clear through my headset.  “Discovery Point is what they’re calling it.  Now all built up, a few months ago it was little more than a bunch of nerds and their tents.  I have no clue what ya’ll are searching for, but it must
really
be worth gettin’!”  He lets out a loud laugh and then continues.  “Russkaya is close, but not in use.  And even if the Russians still used it, that old station is too close to the coast.  Not long ago, they were too busy with Lake Vostok to care about anywhere else.  Now?  There are so many of them there, Discovery Point might as well be little Moscow.  They are the only ones who have both the knowhow and equipment to drill through more than a mile of this crazy ice.”  He pauses for a bit as I take this in.  “And make a big enough hole to not collapse in on itself.”

“As it is more than 900 miles to Discovery Point, how does an aircraft with a range of 700 miles fly the distance?  Will we stop to refuel?”

“No worries, ma’am,” the pilot answers with a laugh.  “Although we do cut it rather close, these Sea Stallions are retrofitted for both cold and extended range.  About 1,000 miles is the farthest my bird can fly before dry.  Because of this, gotta be careful concerning the weather and all.”

No more words spoken and five jarring hours later, I sleepily gaze upon a settlement more fitting for a colony on Mars than the shoddy buildings that make up McMurdo Station.  Lit up as if a Christmas tree – even with the midnight sun shining down – it is a beautiful sight.  Fittingly, concerning the time, it
is
close to midnight London time.  Five massive half-spheres rising from the ice now work to awaken my heavy-lidded eyes.

Drenched in blood red and directly in the center of it all sits the largest of these ‘bubbles’.  The other four are the exact same distance apart from both each other and the middle bubble.  Intrigued by this, I gaze at the compass on my watch.  Sure enough, they match exactly the four cardinal points.  The colors of the outer quartet of bubbles are as such: north awash in blue, east a canary yellow, south painted a forest green, and west glowing as orange as would the setting sun.

Lights of a pale blue color shine in every direction skyward as if desperately trying to catch a UFO’s attention.  From each of these four bubbles extends a tunnel, appearing as if made from glass, into the largest red one.  Just to the south of all this lays scattered equipment more massive than any I have ever seen.  Enough floodlights, a few of them lit, to light Wembley Stadium tower above these machines.  To the east of Discovery Point is a heliport with eight helipads –
twice
as many as at McMurdo.  And to the west –
what in the world
?

Small hills of steel and other sturdy materials rise out of the glacier.  Another army of floodlights even larger than those to the south stands guard.  As to what all this is for, I will ask not the pilot, but Admiral Vanderbilt.

The excitement of our trip cannot hide one obvious truth.  Beautiful, pristine, majestic in spots and its own special way, Antarctica owns a dreary dullness with seemingly no end.  And just as I realize this, our flight does end.

After a perfect landing, I thank my pilot for a safe trip and we exit the helicopters.  The swirling air bone-chillingly cold, I gather with my eight companions.  We now huddle together in a tight circle as if penguins trying to keep our eggs warm.  After a minute or two of this, the leader of my soldiers, retired UK SAS Major Gavin Sinclair, points over my shoulder and we turn our heads to follow.  An older woman bundled up tight meets our warmth-craving stares.  Saggy skin around her peeking eyes gives away her advanced age.  No badge, no logo, no indications of rank; for all I can tell, she might be a maid or might be in charge of everything.  She points to her left, but says nothing and walks in that direction.  Despite such an aloof greeting, as there is no one else around, we swiftly follow.

She takes us to an open door that leads underground.  After some words with another using a pink
(really?)
walkie-talkie, a small group – just as tightly bundled up as she is – marches passed us and through the shielding door.  My soldiers watch warily as these workers bring our precious cargo safely inside.  Everything accounted for and the nine of us desperate for sleep, the woman closes the door and takes off her outer clothing above the waist.  To describe her as homely is a
very
kind description.

“We have accommodations ready for you and your soldiers.  Follow me, please.”  In her husky tone – distinctly Aussie – this sounds more like a command than a suggestion.  She does not offer her name, and we do not ask for it.

Horribly disoriented after a handful of loopy turns, she leads us into a dreary, gaping room.  Still, washing areas and decent looking beds await our exhausted selves.  Not home, but good enough – this is Antarctica after all.  As she watches, we begin to unpack our personal belongings.

“Food is on the way.  It is a good bit past midnight London time, but as Discovery Point follows UTC minus 6 hours, it is now,” she stares at her timepiece, “1845.  Adjust yourselves accordingly.”

I hurriedly rip off my cheap travel watch and pitch it aside.  The luxurious feel of my favorite Patek Philippe around my wrist exudes a sense of normalcy and calms me.  As I set my beloved timepiece to the correct hour, with a grunt, our unsightly guide takes a few steps back as if to leave us.

“Excuse me,” I say somewhat loudly.  “Upon landing, I noticed five large half-spheres of different colors.  Which one is this?”

“You are in none of them,
Madame
Rothschild. 
This
is the underground bunker.  Concerning you and what your men guard, security is important is it not?”  My sleep deprived head nods weakly in agreement.  “Even in Antarctica, bad things can happen to those who fail to prepare for them.  At 0900, Admiral Vanderbilt will call on you to meet your peers and begin work.  More than enough time between now and then to eat and sleep, I very much suggest you be ready when he does so.”

Her quick departure leaves us all both together and alone for the first time in three days.  Curiously, blank stares are the best way we can think of to celebrate.  Our dinner, well, I suppose you can say it was edible, arrives fifteen minutes later.  Upon picking through what we deem safe, my men and I at least own half-stuffed guts.  The first night of our next adventure finally here rekindles the delightful thrill only a new quest can.  This excitement as if charges of lightning sparking through the air, six hours pass with the feel of one.

March 1
st
quickly becomes March 2
nd
– it is now 0120 Discovery Point time.  This passing of time suddenly realized and eager to fall asleep quickly, we tuck ourselves into our foreign beds.  My alarm set for 0800, its whiny ring comes within moments of actually dozing off.

*****

At exactly 0900 enters not the Admiral, but this Aussie woman once more.  Uninvited, unannounced, she opens our door and steps right in.  Motionless and with vacant eyes that look me over from head to toe, you would have thought I had walked in on her.  I feel for my darkened glasses to ensure they are on – they are – and stare straight back at her.

“A slight change in plans,
Madame
,” she drawls as she melts out of her frozen stupor.  “You will be staying with the other scientists in the barracks on the west end of Discovery Point.  As for your men, this will be their permanent housing.”  My mouth agape in prepared protest, she closes it tight – “Admiral’s orders.”

With a fake smile much too wide to be real, I spin around to gather my personal belongings.  My equipment and precious wares will stay safely behind with my soldiers.  For now, this is fine.  I will not need them until later.

“Here are your access cards.”  She starts handing these cards out to the nine of us.  “They give each of you complete access to all areas aside from the Command Information Center in the blue igloo.  If and when necessary, your soldiers will have the chance to set up their equipment in the CIC.  As each of you surely noticed from the air, the four outer igloos all join the red one at the center.  If you get lost, just start going about in circles … you will find your way again.”

Every one of us chuckles at this ‘helpful’ hint, yet her warped face appears perfectly stern.

“Your quarters,
Madame
Rothschild, will be in the orange igloo.  Do you need help with your belongings?”

“No thank you,” I answer back.  “I think we have everything under control.”

From here, two of my men wheel my luggage behind me as I follow our grumpy guide.  After they escort my trunks and me to the orange bubble, the two soldiers depart.  The strange woman about to do the same, I simply cannot help myself.

“We do not have access to the CIC?” I ask.  “Not sure if I heard you correctly – is this true?”  She slowly turns toward me as if in disbelief I can be so bold.

“Admiral Vanderbilt has access to the CIC.  One person aside from him likewise has access.  And none others.  Did you hear me correctly
this time
?”

A battle of wits underway, I choose to holster my tongue.  Too weary from my long trip to clean up the mess – this one is just not worth the time it would take to do so.  My face as blank as hers is ugly; I spin around and approach my trunks.  No more words spoken, the wrinkled loon thankfully departs.  Now alone, I inspect my rather well-appointed barracks and quickly realize these cozy surroundings are for me only.

Ah … the benefits of being a woman in a male dominated field!

Just as my imagination carries me off to cradling in my hands the fifth codex I dearly hope awaits me, an ear-splitting ring from my tablet returns me back to reality.

“Dr. Rothschild!” Major Sinclair crows joyfully.  “No idea what you told that Aussie boiler, but take a look at this!”

My nose scrunches up as the grizzled Scot points his tablet’s camera at a regal bounty of scrumptious food.  The banquet he taunts me with appears to have no end!  A pile of croissants – so warm the steam still rises from their doughy deliciousness – practically mocks me through the screen.  More attacking this bounty than eating it, starving wolves with the run of a butcher shop have nothing on these ravenous men.  Seeing this, drooling at this, I suddenly realize I am starving as well.

“
Breakfast
?” I whisper dreamily as if recalling a great delight I once knew, but have not partaken of in ages.  “I want breakfast!”  Ready to dash back to the bunker, I rush to the doorway, swipe the access card, the door whisks open ––

Oh, pour l’amour de Dieu!
 
Will this hobo woman please stop stalking me!

“Oh – we meet again,” I say with more fake cheeriness.  Her usual loopy stare is the best greeting she can muster.  “
C’est froid
,” I gasp as she shoves the ice-cold plate into my free hand.  On this plate sits a bagel with a smattering of cream cheese.  “I’m sure the bagel is just as cold,” I growl a bit too loudly.