The Fifth Codex (4 page)

I say nothing in response and simply pace in a tight circle as the Admiral watches.  I have more on my mind than the silly antics of a rude cowboy.  Hands clasped to my front and both eyes to the floor, they wander toward his seat.

“So, how are
Maximilien
and Anastasia?” he asks kindly.

“Father is very well,” I lie with a fake smile to match.  That I can easily do so bothers me every time I have to.  “Mother is good too.”  At least this is the truth.

Nearly three years have passed since my father’s mind began to stray down the path that knows no beginning, no end, nor even the smoothness or roughness of the stones it aimlessly falters upon.  None would believe that the famed Colonel
Maximilien
Rothschild has succumbed to the fate he now suffers; in my pursuit of exhibiting good manners, I have yet to tell another.  And if any ask – as I just so nimbly demonstrated – I simply lie.

Father’s mind now forever lost has taken a good part of me with it.  No matter if in the grandest of settings or the most mundane, that I can recall so many treasured memories of us together and he cannot taints them all.  These recollections taunt me every time and without fail.  To remember one roils my insides and angers me to the point that tears beg the Almighty to wipe it from my mind as well.  I wish I could say this is not true, but then I would just be lying to myself as well.  As much as for my own greedy ambitions, I will find this fifth codex in honor of his noble ones.

After a pause, the Admiral cocks his head and then points to mine.  “A new hair color!  Blondish brown this time – I like it, it’s a good look.  A pain to keep up I’m sure, but you are playing it smart by changing it.”

In regards to the importance of why I am here, this casual remark takes me completely off guard.  Leave it the good Admiral to notice even this.

“I really wanted to try a bit of red,” I tell him quietly, “but I already have enough trouble keeping crazy hidden.  Especially for a first impression, I am in no hurry to reveal such things.”

“At least not yet, right?” the Admiral jokes.  I smile weakly at this.  “I see you have on your darkened glasses – brought your contacts too I hope.”  I nod as if in a trance, and my eyes drift to the floor once again.  “Good,” he continues.  “Suspicion around here ready to run more naked than a streaker, make sure you keep those eyes masked as well.” 

Aside from my own parents and husband, I adore Admiral Vanderbilt most.  The grandfatherly beard and little more than a ring of hair left on his head fail to take away from how sharp his trim form fits into perfectly pressed service khakis.  In fact, this beard and patch of leftover hair somehow enhances his appearance.  Years past the US Navy’s mandatory retirement age, his family name as much as his knowledge keeps yearly exemptions flowing.  His military brilliance well known, his love for the Star Wars movies and characters is near legendary.  Told by Philippe I am a linguist; in jest, he thereafter referred to me as ‘C-3P0’, the gold protocol droid.  At least until I kindly reminded him that this character, although endearing, was a bit of a coward.  Needless to say, he has not called me C-3P0 since.

In the stealthy circles we both wander in, our missions often handsomely reward liars, but nearly always seek to destroy those who hang onto the truth for too long.  Despite this and as far as I know, Admiral Vanderbilt has never lied to me outright.  Finally, my eyes meet his light blue ones.

“Do you think, Grandfather … do you think it is down there?” I ask in barely more than a whisper.

As if he knows of a great secret I do not, he chuckles almost arrogantly.  The good Admiral swings around to his computer and punches away at the keyboard for a few seconds before spinning back to face me.  He then points at a large screen on the wall I have to turn around to view.

“This is what awaits us.”  A very clear video begins to play that shows the image captured by a camera descending the drilled ice column.  It stops and hovers just over what appears to be thick, somewhat translucent ice.  “And
this
is the image our radar drew of what is just below that ice.”

“
EST-IL POSSIBLE!
”
I screech as if a blissful banshee the moment the image appears onscreen.  “Is this
really
what the radar image suggests?”

“I believe this is it!” he howls back.  He springs up and we share another hug.  If not practically related, I probably would have kissed him flush on the lips right then.

The image shows the fuzzy outline of a circle – no doubt made of some kind of metal – with five separate raised shapes equidistant from each other along its edges.  An image that, in almost every way, is identical to the raised engravings atop each of the four solid gold covers that keep safe my ancient codices.  There is but one difference: The five engravings atop the metallic disc are much larger than the ones on the codices.

“Over a hundred feet of granite,” the Admiral continues, “was in the way before Korzhak drilled through and removed it.  Do you see the hinges to the right?  It is a vault of some kind.  This is where the bronze from the ice core samples came from!  Big day tomorrow …
very
big day!  Now we just need to choose which one of your men will descend the ice column, open the vault, and retrieve what lays hidden inside it.”

“
What
?  Bite your tongue!  I think you mean
woman
!  No one here, not even my own soldiers, has more potholing experience.  And even if I had none,
I
am getting that fifth codex and no one else!”

“Alexys
Élisabeth
… honey,” he tries to sweet talk back at me in a slow drawl, “it is too dangerous, let someone else ––”

“
Absolutely not!
  That is final, and this discussion is over!”

My favorite Star Wars fanatic lets out a defeated sigh and stares at the black carpet under our feet.  With a stern, defiant pout, I watch him with slits as eyes.  Leave it to the endearing Admiral to wipe this pout away and soften my stare.

“So … um,” he peeks up and throws me a sneaky smile, “have you seen it?  Have you see Episode VII yet?”

Just when convinced it will never arrive, tomorrow becomes today.  Cheated of delicious delights from the morning before, I enjoy a grand breakfast with my men.  The Admiral’s confidence in what lies in wait below has emboldened me.  So much so, I direct four soldiers to begin setting up my equipment as soon as our forthcoming meeting ends.  My darkened glasses on as always, I enter the CIC at 0830.  Others join me soon after.  The time has come to discuss our approach for opening the gateway to another world we believe existed before the one we now know.

In addition to Admiral Vanderbilt, me, and the quartet of my brilliant peers, another six Russians join us.  They wear grey coveralls emblazoned with the red and black logo of Dr. Korzhak’s drilling company.  I know not a one of them, yet my life will soon be in their hands.  Along with Korzhak, these Russians sit on one end of the CIC while the rest of us – aside from the Admiral – sit on the other.  He now paces in the open space between the two groups.

“For nearly a week,” Admiral Vanderbilt begins, “Dr. Korzhak and his team have diligently widened the ice core.  Along the entire length of the drilled column, they have also installed this wired mesh along its walls.”  He untangles and then holds up an example.  The mesh appears as if a snow-white spider web with two small cameras and even smaller lights woven into it.  “Lights and cameras will create a good bit of heat, and these nitrogen cooled meshes will help combat this.  Everything ready, all looks good as far as I can tell.  As for who is going in – Alexys
Élisabeth
has gamely volunteered.”

Gasped whispers and childish giggles break out from the two sides.  I say nothing and simply stare at the Admiral.  After a few technical questions and answers, he dismisses Korzhak and the six Russians.

“I will stay here in the CIC and monitor everything with Dr. Saddlebirch,” Admiral Vanderbilt tells us once they depart.  “Alfred and Alistar, I need you to assist Alexys
Élisabeth
once she has changed into her descent suit.  Check oxygen levels, that the suit is tight, nothing hanging loose, basic check down.  After she comes back up, anything she needs, please just help in whatever way you can.  We will all be wired in, of course.”  He hands each of us headpieces tuned to the same frequency.  “Remember, at 1130 hours, we will meet in the red dome.  No lunch!  We don’t need stuffed guts getting in the way.  If you have not eaten breakfast by now, hurry up and do so.”  He pauses and lets out a deep breath.  “Okay … see you soon.”

With this, he bids us on our way until 1130.  Upon our dismissal, my soldiers begin to transport and then unpack my equipment.  I oversee them for a few minutes and then depart the CIC.

Once in my barracks, I find my descent suit along with unneeded instructions amongst a few other things.  With not a clue as what to do with myself for the next couple of hours, I lie down atop my rather comfortable bed and stare upward.

The descent suit, the barracks, the conversations, the gathered team, both the purpose and thoughts of it all – this overwhelms me.  In just a few hours, I might have in my greedy hands the end of a long journey of searching.  So many false finds and squashed hopes over the years – the fifth codex might soon be mine!  My thankfully full tummy and dreams of what might be to comfort me; with closed eyes, I recall the one who long ago inspired this journey and the hopes that came with it….

*****

“
Venez enfant, viens à moi
[1]
,” my bedridden
grand-mère
begged of me on a late afternoon in early June nearly thirty years ago.  Despite her many coughs and gasps for air, she still spoke the most beautiful French.  After many years and countless attempts, I long ago gave up trying to mimic her unique accent.

“
Oui, grand-mère, je suis ici
[2]
,” my squeaky voice replied. 
Grand-mère
always spoke French, and Mother demanded that I as well always speak in my native tongue when in her presence.

The day before my birthday, I was hoping for a present.  Instead,
Grand-mère
handed me my destiny.  It was, of course, the bronze key to the vault guarding the Mermaid Codex and a piece of parchment twisted around it.  I stared at the curious key for a bit and then unrolled the parchment.  Its words in English, I read them aloud twice before doing so in silence at least three more times.

“
Je ne comprends pas
…
qu’est-ce que cela signifie
[3]
?”

But I would hear no more words in the sweetest French on this day or any other.  Her final task fulfilled, my beloved
grand-mère
passed away at my side.  Tears of that grand, sad day as I so vividly remember it are now silent tears rolling down my face.

*****

A little after 1200 hours, we make our way out of the green dome – the southernmost one.  A balmy 2°C (35°F) greets us.  Korzhak points to the sky and angrily grumbles something in Russian to his team, but the rest of us understand nothing of what he tells them.  As the descent suit does not have room for a crazed Russian
homme
to somewhat sane French
femme
dictionary, I cannot look his words up.  Although still a 400-meter walk or so ahead of us, we can already see a towering drill rise up above the wintery desert as if its own mountain ridge.  With each step forward, this silver and forest green drill becomes more magnificent.  Now close to it, we all gasp as our heads crook skyward.

“She weighs only eighty-four metric tons,” Korzhak says proudly in his thick accent.  With each next word, he grows more excited.  “294 segments of pipe ten meters long; as of now, she can go 2,940 meters deep.  How far we can drill down, only a matter of how many drill pipes we have.  After we drill, we take pipes out, and then, like magic – now you have hole!”

My head tired of gawking at the sky, I look to the ground from where this monstrosity rises.  A thick, perfect square made of steel covers what I guess is the opening to the drilled column.  As if a train to a track, the metal square’s edges have wheels on them that embed into two massive steel rails.  These two rails, about thirty meters apart, run for at least one hundred meters in each direction.  To the east – my left – about halfway down the rails sits the huge drill.  Almost the whole length of the rails in the opposite direction awaits a crane painted in deep orange.  Although nowhere near as tall or massive as the drill, it is still as big as any crane I have ever seen.  Many times more Russians than I have seen to this point busily work on this crane and other equipment.

“If you have courage to, in the hole here you will go.”  Korzhak smirks as he points to the steel square now slowly making its way along the rails toward the drill.  As if an attempt to offer me fair warning, the wheels below the metal square now in motion squeak loudly, almost painfully.

“Yes, well, as I did not see
you
volunteer, one of us had to have the courage to do so,” I unwisely wisecrack back.  With a sly smile, Dr. Korzhak walks away; his clumsy strut suddenly reminding me just who is in charge of my well-being.

Out of the corner of one eye, I notice Dr. Ravensdale and Dr. Leitz approach.  The other eye still focused on Korzhak, he now mutters to himself and points to the sky once more.  I find this odd.  As it is Antarctica, aside from the sun, there is not a whole lot else high above.

A silent signal given by Alistair to do so, I fumble for my headpiece and clumsily put it on.  It is now 1230 hours.  The drilled hole now exposed to the open air and the approaching crane (its engines are quieter than I would have expected) close to it, final preparations can begin at last.  I take a long swig of water once Alfred hooks me into my harness.  The water bottle put away, I next pull a pair of remarkably thin gloves over my hands.  A sleek hardhat appearing as more of a helmet covering my head; the camera atop it steady and lights lit; my darkened glasses wedged onto my face; a crimson good luck charm in my descent suit’s right front pocket – I am ready.

“As if Alice … down the rabbit hole,” Dr. Ravensdale jokes with a fatherly grin.

“Yes, my friend, I do indeed feel much the same.  This time, however, perhaps I can do what Alice could not.”

“And what is that?” Dr. Leitz asks with a warm, cheery smile.

“The looking-glass I will be returning through – that pesky white rabbit is coming back with me!”

Both chuckle and work to strap on my oxygen mask.  Alfred disconnects the microphone piece to my headset and tosses it to the frozen ground.  He then plugs the piece of wire still left into the bottom part of my mask.  With lime green electrical tape that clashes horribly with my silver descent suit, Alistair tapes any leftover slack from the wire onto the front of my suit.  The result is beyond ugly, yet perfectly practical.  Warm grins for a job well done meet my queer stare and they step away.

I gaze at the huge crane one last time.  Its driver and Korzhak exchange words, but from what I can tell, Korzhak does most of the talking.  He appears a bit heated, but with this bitter man, who knows?  Others I guess are mechanics point at and walk around the machine that will keep me from falling to my death – hopefully.  To come back up alive, that is the plan at least.  The driver looks a little young to be operating a crane, but aside from noticing this and the scurrying mechanics, I think little else of them.

With a deep breath, I tug on the cable attached to my harness; it gives me about two meters of slack.  I step down a ladder bolted to the lip of the drilled hole, say a silent prayer, push away from the ladder, and let myself hang freely.  That I do not immediately tumble to my death
––

This is a good first sign!

“Let’s do a communications check everyone,” the Admiral orders through our headsets.

“Saddlebirch, checkin’ in.”  Drs. Ravensdale and Leitz do so next.  After I check in as well, there is an unsettling pause.

“Victor!  Are you there?”

“
Da
, I am here,” Korzhak blurts.  “Busy working, busy working.”

“We are at zero meters … 1246 hours … begin descent,” announces a Russian voice I have yet to hear.  His accent nowhere near as thick as that of Dr. Korzhak, he speaks near perfect English.  The crane now starts to lower me in.  “Total depth is 2,685 meters.  Descent speed – one meter per second.  We will slow to half speed at 2,000 meters.”

As I think of the near-endless iced chamber’s true length for the first time, the calmness of this voice suddenly becomes unsettling.  I already know the drilled out column is deep, but never asked about the exact depth.

For my own sake, maybe it is best to leave the rabbit holes to Alice!

I want to speak, but realize I will do little more than squeak if I try.  I suddenly have no moisture in my throat to do so easily.  Not comfortable enough to reach for water, I instead decide to save what saliva I have left for when I truly need to talk.  My insides shake wildly.  A search spanning twenty-nine years and counting – it all comes down to this.

“100 meters down.  All systems lit green … no errors … no warnings.”

The sounds from above too faint to hear, only the rhythmic wheeze of my oxygen mask keeps me company.  Just as my breathing reminds me of the Star Wars villain I sound like, none other than Admiral Vanderbilt speaks.

“We have you, honey, everything is under control,” he proclaims confidently.  “Don’t be scared.”

“No worries, Grandfather,” I announce in equal, but false, confidence.  “I am not scared.”  Not my intention, but powerless to stop it, my voice slips into a moisture-starved, cracked whisper.  “Only terrified….”

The motion downward is wholly different from potholing.  That my descent is steady and I have no control over it are the two most obvious differences.  The speed of the crane lowering me rattles me a bit at first, but I quickly adjust.  Despite this, the whole experience still feels rather creepy.  Lights and cameras cleverly embedded in the nitrogen-cooled mesh that line the wall of the ice column soon come into view.  These cameras, no thicker than a finger, appear as if snakes that now peek at me from all sides.  The width of the drilled ice column more than sufficient, I have a surprising amount of room to move about.

“500 meters down.  All systems lit green … no errors … no warnings.”

My heart races only slightly less wildly than when I had first started out.  My descent suit designed to keep me comfortable – I am sweating like mad!  Unable to hold off a moment longer, unsteady hands reach for my water jug and I drink half of it.  The water’s coolness soothes more than just my throat.  Lastly, I pull off my glasses and hang them over one of a handful of metal rings around my waist.

“1,000 meters down.  All systems lit green … no errors … one warning.”

I have no clue as to what this ‘warning’ indicates.  In our final meeting, Korzhak informed us that any system warnings would be minor.  System errors or a system going from green to yellow is what worries him.  Curiously, he never mentioned if a system went from yellow to red.  The more systems, the more worry; fourteen separate systems suggest that
plenty
can go wrong.

“A hundred bucks, Admiral,” Saddlebirch whispers through my headset.  “Give you even odds she bails before the bottom.”