The Nexus Colony (3 page)

Terror had turned to panic. His instinct for survival now took control, and the old man’s only thoughts were to get away from there. As he ran from the rocky crags down onto the flat plain, the gale force winds propelled him along, pushing him out toward the open flatland in the direction of the bizarre structures. The structures. If only he could reach the structures and hide in the lee before the wind carried him away.

As Dancing Light Watcher struggled to maintain his balance and reach the complex, the cataclysmic upheaval began to happen all over the planet. The sky, by now almost completely darkened, was without warning filled with streaks of fire and flashes of lightening, and all around the Earth storms of hailstones and rocks rained down upon the surface of the planet. Throughout
The Land
, it began to rain a torrential downpour. At the base of the peninsula plateau, the ocean surged outward then began to rise up as a huge tidal wave crashed into the cliffs. Down along the bay, the gigantic swells of water almost instantly decimated the coastline, immediately wiping out most all of the forestland that rimmed the peninsula region.

As the torrential rains continued to pour down, floods gushed from the rocky crevasses, and the low lying areas filled quickly with water. The old man, by now barely holding onto his life, somehow managed to reach the edge of the structure complex. In the midst of total confusion, he tried to find the huge cube that he remembered was the largest of them all. Through the blistering downpour, off in the distance he saw its silhouette. But the water had begun to rise above his ankles, and he abandoned trying to reach the cube.

In desperation, he pushed toward the nearest structure. As suddenly as the rain had started, it abruptly stopped momentarily, and then a rain of hail and sleet fell from the sky, the huge pellets of ice crashing loudly upon the structures standing amidst the rising water. As the old man attempted to cover his head, he lost his balance and fell into the water. Grasping, sliding, falling again, in panic he tried to reach the domed structure only a few steps away. The hailstones pelted his body. And then the cold. The extreme cold. He had never felt such extreme cold.

The gale force winds momentarily abated, and he felt the pressure popping in his ears. The old man somehow managed to pull himself up onto the curved surface of the dome out of the slush that had formed since the rain of hail. He struggled with all his might to gain a handhold and foothold along the concave indentations of the structure’s surface. Ice began forming all along the honeycombed facade, and with his last effort he managed to press his palms downward with enough strength to allow his feet to push him upward along the surface. Then the rain of ice abruptly ceased, and the winds began to blow yet again with gale-like force. And
The Land
was suddenly filled with a mighty blast of frigid air, air so cold that his body was almost instantaneously numbed and he was losing all feeling.

Weakened by exhaustion and no longer able to cling to life, slowly the body of the old man slid back downward along the curved surface of the dome-like structure. As the temperature continued to plummet downward,
The Land
and everything in it was instantaneously blast frozen, transformed by the violent celestial upheaval that had rearranged the axial plane of planet Earth.
The Visitors
had done well here. But even they were not omnipotent.

Day had turned to absolute darkness, which would last for several months. The sky burned with a fury, the like of which the planet had not encountered for tens of thousands of years. Great rivers of fire streaked across the blackness of the heavens. In one fleeting moment of geologic time,
The Land
had reached the end of its age to be locked in the memory of no one. For not a living human would remain here.
The Land
had changed back to what it had once been several million years before.

He felt the warm embrace of the Earth Mother overtake his body as the last spark of life ebbed away. The final thought that went through the mind of Dancing Light Watcher was how good his life had been.

T
he frigid air always had turbulence, but it was still an exceptionally clear day. Even from this altitude, the pilot could see the crystalline spires of the tallest mountain peaks far off in the distance as they reflected the rays of the perpetual summer sun looming low on the horizon.

Elevated high above the glacial moraine that wound its way randomly through the mountains of east Antarctica below them, the surface of the perennial ice extended for as far as the eye could see and then for thousands of miles more beyond that. It was an extraordinary view that gave testament to just how vast and untamed a wilderness the Antarctic continent truly was. The highest peak in the region—about 14,000 feet—was much farther inland from the Ross Sea, but the pilot was only concerned with locating the target area along the Mulock Glacier that was spread out below with its eternal finger-like grip across the mountainous landscape.

The drone of the turbo-prop LC-130 Hercules transport plane vibrated the inside bulkheads with a steady rhythm, the tremendous horsepower pulling the heavy machine through the frigid Antarctic air, fighting a fierce crosswind so strong that it tossed the aircraft about like a leaf in the breeze. LC-130’s were great airplanes, probably the most versatile aircraft ever produced, but the stress that was created on the airframe through the years of dedicated polar assignment was beginning to take its toll on the entire fleet. The U. S. Navy had been flying the missions for a number of years on assignment to the American bases coordinated through the Special Committee on Antarctic Research (SCAR). The Navy wanted out, but the political climate had prevailed like the perennial ice. It was now a joint military effort. The Navy and the Air Force shared assignments.

The fleet may have been aging, but it was still a reliable plane. A pilot could feel the integrity through his hands. But it was of little consolation to Dr. Hilliard Grimes who sat in the back cargo bay harnessed to the uncomfortable canvass seats along with the other seven members of his field research team and the other two Navy crew members. Grimes listened to the creaks and groans of the aging plane as the transport hit air pocket after air pocket. He hated the ride out to the glacier fields. As a matter of fact, he hated the ride
anywhere
when it involved airplanes. Always made him air sick and disoriented, and even though his research colleagues good-naturedly chided him about being the vomit king, he took it all it stride.

Grimes was a mild-tempered individual, and other than his aversion to flying, he was one rugged son-of-a-bitch. They all were. They had to be. Living on the Antarctic ice fields for weeks at a time under the harshest conditions on planet Earth, you
had
to be tough or else you didn’t survive. All it took was one little mistake, one momentary mind lapse, like not watching out for crevasses or leaving your fingers exposed for too many seconds, and you could be a goner. The temperature even in the summer time averaged around zero degrees Fahrenheit. And then there was the wind. Always blowing along the glaciers, at most times anywhere up to 20 knots, and that was when there weren’t even any storms. The research team
had
to do their work in the high wind lanes along the ice fields. They were meteorite hunters.

Meteorites aren’t any more abundant in Antarctica than anywhere else on the planet. They’re just easier to find. The glacial ice fields were perfect hunting grounds, as the glaciers themselves acted like huge conveyor belts bringing all sorts of rocks and debris—including meteorites—to the surface as they transported them away from the glacial moraine. And the winds were always blowing along the glaciers, and the ice crystals, omni-present in the air, acted like an abrasive continually wearing away the surface crust and keeping the glacier relatively free of any significant snow accumulation. As the ice evaporated, a lot of the debris became exposed at the top. And a lot of the debris were chunks of meteorites, some tiny, some significantly large, but easily identified by the experts.

Grimes loved it. Meteorite research was heavily sponsored by the National Science Foundation, and he regarded it most fortunate that he was one of the primary field researchers. The United States had been mounting meteorite research since the early 1970’s and always worked out of McMurdo Station. Grimes’ team, which numbered eight individuals including two mountaineers, were headed out for another five weeks of hunting. That would take them up to the end of January. February was the last full month of the summer, but past experience along the glaciers proved that the gathering effort was minimal during that month due to the increasing winds, which when they blew beyond 20 knots, prevented anyone from leaving the shelters. You spent more time battling the intense winds and temperatures than you did gathering specimens. Statistics showed that the added effort just wasn’t worth it.

They’d had a good season so far, collecting close to four hundred meteorite specimens. The university wanted the team to close out the season by searching along the top portion of the Mulock Glacier which had been on the list for about three years now. Grimes’ group was more than happy to accommodate. That’s why they all had come to Antarctica in the first place. It was the last remaining pristine frontier left on the planet.

The plane hit another air pocket, and the sudden drop created a
whump
in Grimes’ ears. Shaking his head in agitation, he looked across at two of his colleagues, who were shoving their fingers in their throats in a gesture of mock gagging. It didn’t seem to bother anybody else on the plane when they hit the pockets. Grimes knew that someday one of these things was just going to break apart in the sky and some unfortunate research team was going to end up as a permanent part of the Antarctic landscape.

It was a relatively short flight from McMurdo Station to the Mulock Glacier, and Grimes was none too sad when one of the flight crewmen came over to inform him they were approaching the target area. The Navy pilot – his nametag said Daniels – wanted to know if somebody was going to come up front to watch the
downhill run
, as the pilots all called it. Grimes deferred to Mike Ruger, the head mountaineer, but Ruger was busy doing something with his gear and responded, “You go on up, Hilly. I want to get this thing straightened out before we land.”

“Right,” Grimes replied. Ruger wasn’t as much interested in scoping out the terrain from the air simply because he’d been out here along the Mulock Glacier a number of times. He knew right where they were. But somebody always went up front on the flight deck to get a bearing on the area, and it was usually one of the mountaineers. Grimes felt comfortable with Mike Ruger. This guy was the best there was on the continent. German born, but raised and educated in the USA. They didn’t get any better than Ruger. Everybody liked and trusted him, as solitary as he was.

Feeling closed in, Grimes thought to himself,
what the hell
, then unbuckled the harness and worked his way through the piles of skids toward the flight deck.

The ride seemed to smooth out as the LC-130 descended down toward the glacier. The co-pilot, a pleasant young lieutenant with a Boston accent – Grimes couldn’t read his nametag – positioned Grimes in the trainee seat in between and slightly behind the pilot and co-pilot. From here, Grimes had a panoramic view of the whole world outside the aircraft.

The view was sensational, and it always seemed to temporarily alleviate the fears Grimes felt about flying. His thoughts focused on the spectacle. Antarctica is an incredible journey. It has two basic topographies—one is perennial ice and snow, the other rock. About ninety nine percent of the continent is covered by a permanent ice sheet. The average thickness is estimated to be one mile. Ninety percent of the Earth’s total ice is locked up in Antarctica, as well as about seventy percent of the world’s fresh water. Yet it is the driest place on Earth. The coldness is so intense that it allows no moisture in the air, and even the dew that forms in the air cannot exist as droplets of water but rather as miniature ice crystals known as diamond dust. The snow, when it is present, is so powdery dry that is squeaks like Styrofoam when walked on.

Grimes reflected about the climatology, the scientific wheels always clicking in his mind. The coastline along the eastern end of Antarctica is subjected to the most violent storms on the face of the planet. The ice is so abounding that it creates huge frigid air masses rising above the continent that blend with the prevailing warmer westerly air masses, creating the most intense storm belt on the planet. The permanent low pressure system is known as the Antarctic Trough, and the storms rage so violently that few living things can survive, least of all man. Occasionally, the storms make their way inland. When they rage over the face of the glaciers, the winds test the survival of even the fittest.

Grimes understood how difficult it was to conceptualize the fact that if all the ice in Antarctica were to suddenly melt, it would raise the level of the world’s oceans about two hundred feet. An intimidating thought when trying to understand the power of Mother Nature.
The Ice.
It was what everybody called it without ever having to be told. As far as the human eye could see, everything was coated by it, and as he peered through the checkered Plexiglas window panels of the LC-130, it left him with the impression that the whole world was one crystalline mass.

The plane began to bank, and it interrupted his sobering thoughts. The pilot, who up to this time hadn’t said a word to Grimes, cast him a brief acknowledging smile, then went right back to the task at hand. As the aircraft came out of its bank between two magnificent spires, the Mulock Glacier appeared in all its splendor, fanning out before them toward the horizon just a mere five hundred feet below.

The LC-130 lumbered along as the pilot reconnoitered the prospective landing area. The initial pass over the area showed it to be a promising site for touchdown. Not for Grimes and his meteorite hunters, but promising as a runway for the especially ski-equipped aircraft. Like everywhere else on the Antarctic continent, there were no airports, no airfields, no constructed runways per se. Everything was ice. Airplanes made their own runways.

When the transports took research teams into the interior, the pilots looked for flat, lengthy areas along the ice fields. Then they flew over them once or twice to get a preliminary look at the potential
runway
to see if it was smooth enough to attempt landing. The skis attached to the wheels had a large surface area, and it really wasn’t all that difficult to land one of these babies. As long as the ice was relatively smooth and there were no crevasses. You hit a crevasse, and you and the plane were goners.

What the pilots did was make a
ski drag
—affectionately call the
downhill run
. They came in as if to land, but instead of setting the plane all the way down, they kept the throttles open just enough to get airborne once the skis dragged across the ice field, making deep, distinctive tracks through the shallow snow covering. Then they throttled back up and got airborne again, circling the area to look at their ski tracks.

It was no big deal for a pilot. It was very similar to performing routine touch-and-goes practiced by every pilot in the world. When the plane gets airborne after the run across the field, they look closely at the pattern created in the ski tracks. If the line is straight and uninterrupted, the runway has potential. If the line looks broken like a series of dots and dashes, it’s an indication that there are crevices hidden just below the crust of snow.

Crevasses are the pilot’s bane. It could mean instantaneous destruction of the plane if you hit a crevasse on landing. If the pilot had even an inkling that the ski drag might be showing crevasses, they wouldn’t take you in no matter
how
promising the ice field looked to your research. For that matter, you couldn’t even get a bush pilot to take you down, and some of those guys were real kamikazes. Antarctica was a dangerous place. If you didn’t respect that, you didn’t last very long.

The long stretch of ice directly ahead of the plane came up to meet them quickly as Daniels backed off just enough on the throttles to allow the plane to touch the surface of the ice. The plane slowly dropped out of the sky, and Grimes realized he had been holding his breath when the massive bulk of the LC-130 Hercules hit with a pronounced
thump
against the solid ice surface. The vibration started immediately upon touchdown, and Grimes could feel the rumble coming up through his feet right into his chest cavity. The pitch of the powerful engines changed as the pilot throttled up and commenced plowing his way straight across the ice field.

Nervously, Grimes held on tightly as the plane shuddered and rumbled, bouncing him sideways back and forth in the poorly-secured trainee seat. He noticed that the pilot and co-pilot, along with the flight engineer, were strapped securely in their shoulder harnesses while all he had was a seat belt holding him down to the canvass pad. Great ergonomics for the poor bastards being trained. Grimes often wondered if these Navy flyboys did this as a joke on the wimpy scientists, asking them to come up front to observe. They probably got a good laugh watching the observer getting his brains and his balls knocked all around. But anyway you looked at it, it was something that had to be done. Grimes hated it, the pilot and co-pilot seemed indifferent, and his team colleagues sitting in the back end thought it was like an amusement park ride.

It seemed like the pilot had been doing the ski drag for a very long time before Grimes finally heard the engines roar back to full power as the plane abruptly stopped its vibrating, the bulky transport finally airborne again and no longer engaged in the ski drag. It probably took all of a minute and a half, but to Grimes, it seemed a hell of a lot longer. But it was finally over with. At least phase one was. If this was a good runway, they would go around again and come in for a landing, basically setting the plane down in the same tracks he had just made across the ice field. Most of the pilots referred to it as a controlled crash landing in the same vein of carrier pilots. Grimes couldn’t agree more. If a pilot didn’t like what he saw, well…he’d start all over again and find another promising runway somewhere else along the glacier field.