DMSR Series

By KD Nielson

One cold summer’s day on a flight to the South Pole a C-130 with passengers, fresh veggies and mail for the station comes across smoke and the wreckage of a crash. Further investigation reveals the ship to be of extraterrestrial origin. The rescue of a survivor and the murder of one of the aircraft passengers by an unknown assailant sets Alex Bird and Team Four from the Department of Military and Scientific Research’s Special Projects on a search into the unknown. As they dig deeper, they uncover evidence of an insidious alien plot. From Station 8 in another galaxy to Camp 100, miles from the South Pole, Alex and Team Four continue to find bread crumbs leading to the aliens responsible for the murder of Team Four’s former team leader.

They gain valuable allies in their quest: the resourceful sheriff from Black Lake, and the jet setting congresswoman with her beautiful pilot, as well as the mysterious Vance.

The chase continues as California is racked by the worst disaster since the dawn of man, triggered by the failed attempt to reverse engineer alien technology. All evidence leads to a second survivor on the alien shuttle crash in Antarctica. Team Four race to capture the murderous renegade, while the DMSR throws its resources into stopping Armageddon. The trail ends at an old air force base and Alex gathers friends for the final curtain. Will they be in time, or will the rogue win as the western part of the United States is torn asunder and joins Atlantis?

• Language: English
• Publisher: KD Nielson
• Release date: May 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476144610

KD Nielson

Fantasy Writer Hi all, this is K.D. Nielson ... and welcome to my .... mind. I am a full time writer in search of a publisher, so I have to work at my day job to pay the bills. I have been writing and telling stories now for over 30 years. Since the 11,000+ earthquakes here in Christchurch, I have been free to indulge in my greatest passion, telling stories, while the city starts to get back on its feet. I have drawn on my experiences these past months (seems like years) of awful earthquakes, the years serving as a prison officer, and my time in the US Navy as part of Operation Deep Freeze, making seven deployments to Antarctica. Yes, in spite of everything, I am still sane. I have drawn on my daily experiences in these jobs and the different facets of everyday life, as material for my books. I have a wealth of intrigue, love, betrayal, war and heroic deeds just waiting for an avid reader. I have finished several books in the world I have created. They are just waiting to be discovered by that right someone, hopefully a publisher. All my books are available on Amazon through Kindle, and Createspace's print on demand. I am married to a lovely English girl, a schoolteacher, and we have three sons, one which seems to keep coming back, kind of cramps my style. My wife has donated (sometimes gang pressed might be more like it) hours of her valuable time helping me with editing and reading manuscripts, and being very patient with all my questions, some of them might be, well ... dumb. I have also been working with a like-minded friend who is a fantasy fan and a very good writer in her own right. She is also a renowned artist and in conjunction with another project connected to my books, she is working on sketches of the characters and creatures of my world. For more information on my books go to http://www.theworldsofkdnielson.com Thank you for bearing with me while I rabbit on ... I challenge you, step into my mind ....you might like it so much ... you may not want to leave. KD Nielson

Book preview

Intermittent bright flashes were followed by a dull rumbling echo lighting up the distant horizon. The three men on the bridge of the boat glanced at each other.

The older man, the boat’s Skipper, leaned on the side of the bridge, gestured angrily. The bastards are butchering that convoy.

The other officer, a mere youth of eighteen, the boat’s executive officer, gulped. Can’t we help them sir? His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

No son, the Skipper retorted bitterly, feeling impotent. We’ve our own job to do.

The third man followed the byplay with detached indifference. The Ensign had to toughen up or he wouldn’t make it. David Walker looked at the fluorescent hands on his watch. He straightened up. He was as tall as the navy commander at 6’3"; the two hundred pounds were lean and trim. His black hair curled out under the stocking cap, but these days it had traces of grey. In this job, thirty-two was old.

Ten minutes, Skipper, Walker prodded.

Right, Commander Godfry stood and moved to the wheel.

Mr. Thomson, go round the boat, make sure Mr. Walker’s team’s ready.

The youth nodded, Aye, aye sir.

The boat crept along at a slow ten knots. Suddenly, the night was ripped apart by the thundering crash of gunfire.

Damn! E-boats! The Skipper frantically spun the helm to port and slammed the throttles to their stops. The boat leapt forward like a bullet. Ensign Thomson caught the cannon shells as they tore into the bridge. He twirled about as if dancing and fell into Walker’s arms. David caught the stricken officer and now he too felt a tearing pain of his own.

The commander yelled, All guns, open fire as you bear!

The young officer tried to crawl forward in slow motion. His high-pitched screams, echoed over and over.

Walker stared at the mangled body in his blood-soaked arms. He was transfixed in horror as Thomson drew his sidearm and in slow motion lined it up between David’s staring eyes. Thomson began to laugh like a maniac as blood trickled from his mouth.

See you in hell, sucker, he cackled.

Walker closed his eyes to lessen the impact as he saw the hammer fall forward. He was drenched in a cold sweat and jerked upright. The screaming, gun-wielding officer turned into a man in a green flight suit and headset, tapping his shoulder. Walker could barely see him through his sleep fogged mind. He wiped his hand over his sweating face. Above the endless roar of the droning aircraft engines, he caught something about ‘twenty minutes.’

David waved to the crewman; who turned and coiled the black cord attached to the headset, then moved to the next passenger. Walker staggered off to the window in the paratroop door. The sun was blinding off of the icy glare below. He snuggled deeper into his parka. Six months in the hospital in New Zealand and now he was going south once again. The cold in the Hercules made his shoulder ache. He flexed it tenderly. Shrapnel from the shell and wood splinters from the bridge had torn up his back. The doctor said he was okay, so he must be, right?

That damn dream, it just wouldn’t go away. He could still see Ensign Thomson’s wild eyes shocked, not understanding what happened, appealing for help even as he died from terrible wounds.

David shook his head. ‘Maybe I’m bomb happy. The damn shrinks thought so.’ He dug into his parka pocket and brought out a small flask, Medicine.

* * *

McMurdo

Alex Bird put his sunglasses on as he stepped from the corridor into the receiving bay. Dozens of different pieces of equipment moved in ordered chaos; forklifts, heavy army trucks, tracked snow cats, all had a job or purpose. There were thirty or forty ground crew working around the Receiving Area, checking manifest against cargo; unloading or loading trucks; drivers gassing up; and some just sightseeing and getting in the way. The big doors were open to the outside and the cold Antarctic air made him shiver. He stood a moment longer, somehow sensing that this was the last moment of peace he would have for a long, long time to come.

People nodded to him. He spoke to most as they passed by. Alex knew all of the almost three thousand people on the base. In his socks he stood 5’10" and weighed 180lb. His curly brown hair would never bow down to a comb and his perfect white teeth in that dazzling tan made him, to the female part of the base anyway, the most popular man available. The women thought him outrageously handsome and most would quickly fluff up their hair, even on the loading bay when he passed. All were a bit disappointed when he didn’t pick up on the subtle signals. A few thought him gay, but he didn’t really care one bit. Alex shrugged into the green winter flight jacket and zipped it up over his tan shirt.

He plonked his ball cap on his head and called out, Marty, has Zero Three landed yet?

A man, muffled from the cold, called back, Tower’s just called through; she’s on final approach now.

Alex waved and moved to the covered Jeep and cautiously drove out of the busy bay. A bus and a semi-truck followed. The airstrip was five minutes north; built out of rock and old lava deposits. The department’s construction corps had worked two years on it. The spaceport could be seen three miles to the west built into a now dormant volcano.

As he drove, Alex thought back to the team’s last mission. It should have been simple enough. Go to Station Two. Land on Island 104; a search and report mission. The P.T. boat they were on was jumped by two German E-boats. Commander Godfry’s crew had put up a good fight. One E-Boat smoking from battle damage withdrew licking her wounds, leaving her consort deep in the water, sinking, a victim of a well-placed depth charge. The P.T. boat was badly shot up; the pumps constantly manned, six in the crew, two team members killed. David Walker, the team leader, wounded along with another four of the crew. The boat limped back to base; down by the bow and listing to port, just like her crew and passengers, more dead than alive. Now, Walker was back.

Their boss, a mean little man, told him, Keep an eye on Walker. The last one may have been too much.

It was a bitch Alex thought angrily. David used to be a happy-go-lucky guy but everyone in Special Projects knew you didn’t die in bed of old age. Alex grinned when he thought of their unofficial motto ‘Piss on ‘em if they can’t take a joke.’ The C-130 was already on the ground so Alex stepped a little harder on the gas.

* * *

David Walker and Alex Bird wove a very erratic course back to their quarters. Each had an arm across the other’s shoulder. At that moment each other, and the frequently contacted walls, were all that kept the two men upright. They had descended on the bar, the casino and everywhere in between, like a ton of bricks. Security had been called twice, and each time they had managed to escape one step ahead of them. Now after almost four hours partying and at three in the morning they were headed home. Alex was glad David was back. The shit would fly in the morning when the old man heard, but it was just like old times.

* * *

David sat on the bed in his room suddenly afraid to go to sleep. All too often the young officer came to visit. Each time the words were different. Sometimes the face was different. Walker reached over to his suitcase and brought out a large bottle.

* * *

At 0800, a mere four hours later, four men sat in the office. The only furnishing was a single desk, a filing cabinet and a few chairs. The man behind the desk was short, thin, and his gaunt face corpse-like. Only his eyes showed any of the energy that burned through him. He rubbed his hand over the balding scalp and sighed as he looked at the damage list from last night. He glared at Alex, but for once the famous glare did nothing. Alex sat facing him with his feet on the desk wearing dark glasses. Suddenly, the scrawny man smiled. The other two jumped; the smile looked like a grimace. The ‘old man’ knew beyond a doubt that Alex was asleep.

Gentlemen, you two are new to Special Projects so let me give you a little background. He stood up clasping his hands behind his back and walked as he talked, as if his feet had a life of their own, This base is almost fifteen years old, built by the Government in 1998. There are almost three thousand men and women living here.

The two men’s eyes followed the man as he walked. Bird snorted once and his head fell over onto his chest.

There are currently eight planets that have receiving stations on them. Material for life support systems for the moon base and star ships and the many other necessary materials needed, come from the different planets.

A thundering crash echoed in the room. The two men jumped, as did the old man. Alex sat amidst a broken chair. He had toppled over backwards, his sunglasses swinging from one ear, a look of sheepish embarrassment on his face.

Special Project Director Emmett went to his desk and took out a sheet of paper and mumbled as he wrote, One waiting room chair, value 180.00 credits.

Alex staggered to his feet holding the broken armrest. 180.00 credits? he asked with injured innocence.

The wizened man straightened and glared at Bird. 180.00 credits. His mouth snapped shut like a rifle breech. He was pleased to see Alex fidget under his stare. Bird could see the malice in the eyes.

Alex went to the desk, picked up the swivel chair and in one swift motion broke it on the desktop. Emmett glared murderously. The two new members decide discretion was the better part of valor and hurriedly slipping out the door.

That, I believe, is now 360.00 credits, sir.

Then Alex gave the shorter man the broken arm rest and left. Emmett grinned or grimaced (it depended on who was commenting on it) at the retreating figure.

David whooped with laughter. I would have loved to have seen his face.

He started choking on the beer from the glass he held in his hand. Alex pounded on his back, and then sat back on the barstool he leapt from.

The fingees we’ve got must have thought all hell was going to break loose, agreed Alex with a grin.

David had a pained look on his face. His shoulders slumped. He thought of the two men who had died at Station 2. Alex could see memories tearing his friend apart and was saddened to know he couldn’t do anything about it. He put his mug down and picked up the clipboard.

Eric John Davenport, 32, single, air force major, discharged honorably. Seen action in the third Gulf War, shot down on a bombing mission, spent time as a POW. From looking at his military record before being shot down he was a damn good pilot, a fine officer. Alex sighed and took a deep drink. Since the war, his record picked up a few chicken scratches, notably was an incident with a senior officer, a woman. Rumor has it, since his release from the prison camp he thought he was more ‘relaxed’ after a few beers. It doesn’t say so, but I think that was why he ‘left’ the air force. I’m not sure why the DMSR signed on a man like that.

David's head snapped up, his eyes angry, What are you implying, that I drink too much, that I’m no better than this Eric?

Alex shrugged, it wasn’t what he meant but calmly said, If the shoe fits.

Walker jumped to his feet, fists clenched, nostrils flaring, his face beet red.

‘Oh shit,’ Alex thought, springing from the stool, bracing himself for the punch that never came.

David sank back on this seat, suddenly deflated. He ran his hand through his graying hair. Maybe you’re right, maybe I am past it. His voice was bitter.

Suddenly angry, Alex snapped, That’s right, wallow in it. A pity party will do us all a lot of good.

Alex stood quietly, his body reflecting the despair that seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. He looked at David’s slumped form. Alex was all the more shocked when he noticed his friend silently crying. He slowly looked at the other patrons in the bar. Most if not all were watching the whole incident raptly, some with staring eyes and mouths hanging open.

Alright, peep shows over. Alex said his voice weary.

Any further conversation was quickly squashed as the speaker in the bar crackled and a tinny voice boomed, Attention, Weather Condition One is now set. All outside work is to be secured and the loading bay doors closed. I repeat, Weather Condition One is now set.

* * *

Unlike the old Antarctic days of Scott and Amundsen, or during the earlier Deep Freeze Program, where bad weather had stopped all outside work and weary men endured numbing cold and nerve racking winds, the personnel of McMurdo Base went about their business. All vehicles were brought indoors; personnel moved inside or stayed put. Once the massive sliding doors closed, hardly anything could be heard outside. Built entirely in the rocky mountain, the base had five levels; the lower most was the Trans-Mat level. Here the actual transporter and the different support shops were located. The Main Level held the loading bay, goods warehouse, research labs and rescue stations. Level One was the Recreation Level, with medical, a few stores of different sorts, churches, and casino, almost anything needed by a small town. Level Two was the Housing Level; there was accommodation for singles of either sex or couples, married or otherwise. Level Three was the Admin Level. Here the personnel office, weather office and the different department heads were located. Level Four was the command center or Ops Room. This room was manned round the clock by a dozen men and women.

As Condition One was set the room was a hive of activity. Reports came in to be acknowledged by the duty officer. The door from the elevator opened and a tall man in army uniform with four stars on his shoulder tabs came in, the base commander, General Robert Carrington.

Report. The voice was polite but demanding.

The duty officer looked at his status board. Station secure, airfield secure, launch site and fuel farm secure.

The general wiped his mouth and put away the hanky. Anyone outside?

Three men at the pumping station offloading from the tanker Atlantic Sire. Her crew is accounted for. Zero Five was en route from the South Pole when condition one was set and has returned to the station. The shuttle, John Wayne, was being moved to the launch site. The tow crew is sitting tight and buttoned up in the transporter. Zero Two was inbound from Christchurch and turned around before P.S.R.

The general beamed. Good, good. He turned to the elevator. Might as well get a new induct going for the new people. This storm might last a while. And keep tabs on the John Wayne. If the storm lasts too long we’ll have to go get those men.

The duty officer nodded, and said, Very good, general.

* * *

General Carrington took the elevator up to the next level. He saluted the two marine sentries and walked through his office over to the ‘window’. Being the only window in the whole base, it afforded a view of the storm, which was magnificent. The transparent aluminum was twenty feet long, ten feet high and two foot thick. This was his favorite place in the base. The office was high enough; Carrington could actually look down on the swirling, turbulent storm. He hung up his jacket, then patted his stomach as he sat down, firm and hard. The general was a health nut; even from day one as a new second lieutenant. If you weren’t careful you could easily become overweight down here. Most of the base grumbled when he started the fitness program.

At his desk he re-read the weather report. Zero Five would be safe enough at the South Pole, they weren’t closed in. The other C-130 Hercules hadn’t reached the point of safe return so there would be no problem there. Now the lunar shuttle, the John Wayne, he shook his head and sighed at the name. One of three shuttles; the John Wayne, the Pamela Sue Martin and Charlton Heston were named by a T.V. nut who also named the moon base, Alpha, after the old T.V. show ‘Space 1999’. Carrington, shook his head. He detested television; thank God they had evolved beyond that damnable thing. The John Wayne would have to return to the airfield to be re-prepped. His glance lingered on the layout of the airfield on the wall in front of him.

It was built two years ago, five miles from here in the earth itself, not on ice as in the early Deep Freeze days. The ice runway was where a conventional aircraft could land and then, later as the weather warmed up, the airfield was moved to the skiway, where only a ski-equipped aircraft could land on the permanent ice. This system was used for many long years. Thousands of men and hundreds of pieces of equipment from the army, navy and the department’s own construction corps had attacked the area. In three weeks the groundwork was done. The two runways were built, each with a heating element designed to keep them snow free. Most of the time it actually worked. When the cargo ships came in with the building materials the groundwork was ready. Two months later the shells of two hangars big enough for a C-130, an Admin block, control tower and crash crew hut were built. The interiors were worked on over the winter. The first C-130 piloted by the base operation’s officer, Commander Jason Hill, touched down on October 1st 2001. The airfield had a working population of eighty-four, their own quarters, mess, and their own galley. The general shook his head. A tremendous feat. The personnel from the launch site also quartered there.

* * *

Far below on Level 1 the base public relations officer stood in front of about sixty people and continued almost along the same lines the general had been thinking.

We have a mixed bag of aircraft here; the most notable are the C-130 Hercules. We have found the turbine engines are easier to acclimatize down here. Advanced jet aircraft are able to operate only for a limited time on the ice, as their engines are chronically prone to cold weather leaks. For those who remember about the Trans-Mat, there are eight receiving stations. Each planet has a different level of technology and the planetary year has been paralleled to our year for your convenience.

She took a sip of water from a glass on a table beside her, then droned on. She had done this lecture so many times, she even bored herself. Her lethargic monotone quickly put some of the listeners to sleep. Station 1 on planet Xxaron is located in the Kareen System. Its technology level equates roughly to our 1800 western era. A rare element called Erzine is mined there. Erzine is used to power the Trans-Mat separator itself. Station 2 also in the Kareen System is situated on a secondary moon. The department runs a small town called Popular. Here a starship fuel crystal is mined called Floramat 6. Their tech level is early New England, you know with the Salem witch trials that you have probably read about. Then we have Station 3, a prehistoric planet, used for scientific research mainly. The eggheads put the plug in for this one. Station 4 is located on Marsden, a planet in the Onera system, and is a military observation station. Originally it was a source of Floramat 6, but after the station was built, a planetary war broke out. The mine was abandoned, but due to the expense of building the station, we keep a small crew there waiting for the civil war to finish. Station 5 is a colony settlement for farming. They will supply one third of our food when operating on line. It’s in the Kiross system. Station 6 tech level is similar to earth in the early 1940s. The mining operations here have been temporarily suspended as this planet is currently going through a conventional World War. Station 7, Bryzium is mined there, this is an element used in life support systems. This is a dead planet, probably because of an outside attack, or some national disaster. The planet’s name is Sheol in the Starn system; some nut gave it the Greek name for hell. Station 8 is at a medieval tech level and Trantizm is mined here; another crystalline power source. Station 9 is a barren planet with a long dead society. Another egghead plug, but in their excavations and research, vast information has been discovered about the cosmology and anthropology of the area. Stations 10, 11, 12, 13 and 14 are either planned or under construction, mostly in the Hazram system. She took a deep breath, another drink and looked at her watch.

If there are any questions, we’ve about twenty minutes more.

There was the usual murmuring among the listeners, even the occasional snort as some of them were prodded awake by their neighbors. Dale Brokworth, the Assistant PR man, whispered to the woman, Nice, but I think we’ve got two that are going to be a handful.

Sue Parker ran her fingers through her hair and plucked at her shirt front, the room was warm and stuffy. The two in the back?

Brokworth nodded.

A hand went up. Yes? Sue pointed wearily into the group.

Don’t things get upset if we go traipsing into a cow town with a M16?

Every station has its own support crew. If you get assigned to Station 1 you go down, get a bit of a run down, get kitted out in era clothes, weapons and money etc. It doesn’t matter a whole lot if you go to an advanced station if you’re carrying lower tech gear.

Miss, by reading what you gave out, it costs five million to build this receiving station, right?

Sue nodded carefully; not sure she was going to like the question. The man in the last row continued.

With new power sources, star ship redesign and engine advancements, a flight to the moon is one hundred and fifty thousand, so a voyage to these stations is a few million. What do these other two stations have that’s worth six point eight million credits? Even ‘Egg-Heads’ have to get funding from somewhere.

Sue turned to her assistant, who shrugged.

The questioner waved her silent and said, I know . . . that’s classified!

Sue blushed and said hastily, I’m sorry people but our times up.

As they filed out Sue went to Dale, Who are they? Do you know?

Must be the new members of Special Projects. He picked up the clipboard with the attendance sheet they had signed, to later go on their training file. He quickly skimmed down the list. Eric Davenport and Jason Bardonal.

Both watched as the two men in question filed out. Sue’s glance lingered on the man who asked all the questions. He would be Jason; she smiled mischievously as she nibbled on the end of her pen, he certainly was cute.

I wonder if they know what they’ve got themselves into, Dale mused.

Sue jumped as Dale spoke. Ahhh, probably not. She finished quickly, her face suddenly blushing.

* * *

Discovery

The light blue ski equipped C-130 Hercules droned deeper and deeper south. The aircraft’s shadow fluttered among the broken ground and pressure ridges. The plane was practically empty, two pallets of cargo; fresh eggs, veggies and mail. There were six passengers. Four were members from Special Project Team 4 and two men returning to South Pole Station after R & R. Team 4 had been together three months now. Emmett had them doing housekeeping duties, just milk runs really. He told them to explore the airfield, the launch site and the fuel farm. The tanker Orion Star had a crewman injured and they went along in one of the SAR helicopter for the medevac. Later, they were dropped twenty miles from base with minimum survival gear and told to walk home. They learned to sky dive and rappel. They had been to Siple Station, South Pole, Dome Charlie and a dozen other science camps, but two of the team still had to go through the portal. In spite of ‘doing nothing’ as they put it, or more precisely as Eric tediously commented on, they began to settle in as a team. As the Hercules plodded on, Walker and Davenport were asleep, each on a stretcher normally used for the flight crew on long runs. Bardonal read a cheap (both in price and writing) science fiction; the poor book was dog-eared from all the various owners.

Alex loitered on the flight deck. He stood behind the flight engineer hanging onto his seat back, watching the fantastic panorama unfold before them. Even though they were almost at 5,000 feet, it looked like you could reach out and touch the mountains.

‘I’d hate to go down here,’ he thought, giving an involuntary shudder even thinking about such a thing.

Ever since the night in the bar, Dave and Alex's relationship had shifted, while still friends, there was now some kind of barrier, a stilted awkwardness or tension that wasn’t there before. If asked, each would say nothing was wrong, but Alex knew there was. He had thought long and hard last night about what had happened. In the end, the only conclusion he could come up with, was that since David’s return south, he was emotionally empty. It was as if his spirit was already dead and the body wasn’t aware and had yet to catch up. Alex frowned slightly, almost like the poor chicken that had its head cut off and the body ran around for a few seconds. The pilot brought him back to the present.

Papa Golf Zero Four, receiving South Pole.

Being the nosy sort Alex put on the headset hanging on a hook by the crew rest bunk at the rear of the cockpit.

Zero Four, South Pole, we’ve received a mayday from Otter 229. The pilot reported being forced down in your area.

Just then the navigator cut in, I’ve a locator beacon forty two miles west of us Skipper.

South Pole, Papa Golf Zero Four, we’ve a locator beacon. We’ll be there in a few minutes.

With the ease of many hours flying, the pilot banked the big aircraft and settled into a new course.

Flight, Loadmaster, came over the headset.

Go ahead, Charlie.

Off to port at about six o’clock low, I see him.

The pilot had to rise slightly out of his seat to look downward. Got him Charlie. South Pole, Papa Golf Zero Four.

Go ahead Zero Four.

We’ve located your Otter; he’s down on the Piedmont Glacier. I see three figures outside. Port ski damaged. No sign of fire or wreckage.

Roger Zero Four, I’ll dispatch Otter 228 with a repair crew on board. ETA twenty minutes. Can you cover? Even over the radio, the relief in the voice was noticeable.

Roger, South Pole, we’ll babysit till mom arrives.

The Hercules waggled its wings for the benefit of the men below, and then slowly started to circle the crash site.

Alex moved to the pilot’s seat and was casually leaning on the upright when he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. He wiggled into the small space between the seat and the side panel and craned to see backward as the plane flew sedately on. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears; Alex held his breath till the Herc had made another circuit. Sure enough, the smoke was where he had seen it before.

Skipper, look! he said excitedly.

As the aircraft came abreast of the indicated area, the aircraft commander looked to where Alex pointed, his fingers quivering with excitement. A thin stream of smoke could be seen, as well as light reflecting off some kind of metal. The pilot twisted around to face Alex, and pulled the earpiece off his ear. Alex did the same.

You want to take a look? The disbelief in both his face and voice was plain.

The Otter pilot said he was forced down, maybe he was … literally, Alex whispered back, holding his hand over the mike in front of his mouth.

The pilot nodded and pulled the earpiece back on. A few minutes maneuvering brought the Hercules over the smoke. All the men in the cockpit craned to look out the left-hand window. Shit or Look at that could be heard as jumbled voices talked excitedly over the headset. A deep black gouge mark melted in the ice, running a fair distance. Bits of metal lay in the snow. Whatever had hit, was buried in tons of fallen snow except for the last ten to fifteen feet of smooth hull. Four engine pods could be seen protruding from the back. The smoke was drifting from one of the pods; even now it was almost gone.

Skipper, can you get lower? Alex couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice.

Damn right we can. All right everyone look alive, we’re dropping down for a closer look. Frank, plot this spot.

The navigator nodded vigorously.

As the plane dropped lower, the turbulence from below began to toss them about. Even though the pilot was a bit slack on discipline and protocol, he was a damn good flyer. With skill and ease, he brought the jumping, bouncing plane lower, and circled the wreck. He even had time for a look. The headsets were alive with wild, excited talk. The only one not participating was the co-pilot. He was monitoring the height and air speed. Suddenly an alarm shrilled.

The engineer’s head snapped upward to the overhead panel. Fire warning, number two, light now steady.

Pull the handle. Charlie, take a look!

The engineer pulled the T handle. In the back, the Loadmaster hurried to the after paratroop door, stumbling over the cargo rollers in his haste and looked out.

Skipper, we’re burning, flames from the turbine section!

The co-pilot had already pulled back the engine throttle and feathered number two engine.

Fire the bottle! the pilot barked.

With a quick push of the toggle switch the fire extinguisher spurted into the engine.

The engineer grimaced, No go!

Skipper, we’re going down, the co-pilot rasped.

The Hercules was too heavy flying on three engines at reduced power. The plane lurched alarmingly. Alex stumbled between the seat and cockpit side; Anderson pushed the other three throttles to their stops.

The aircraft commander muttered through clenched teeth, Like hell we are, and pulled the yoke back to his stomach. Come on, baby, don’t let daddy down now.

The whine of the engine was deafening.

Fire?

No good, the engineer replied anxiously.

Altitude?

The co-pilot snapped, 1500.

Fire bottle two, jettison fuel.

Skipper?

Damn you, do it!

Come on sugar, mama’s waiting for daddy at home.

The engineer hit the dump pumps. Fuel began spewing from the trailing edge of the wing tips. The Hercules slowly came up.

Height? he asked.

Eight hundred feet, the co-pilot choked.

Fire’s out, skipper. The engineer reported sighing deeply.

The navigator jumped in, Highest peak twelve hundred feet, dead ahead!

Anderson grunted, sweating profusely as he and the co-pilot pulled back on the yoke and banking left, slipped the C-130 to the side of the towering granite spire looming ominously in front. Once clear, the pilot straightened for a gentle climb back to where the C-130 belonged, still trailing smoke from their damaged engine. The laboring aircraft cleared the jagged slope with a dozen feet to spare, the prop wash blowing the dusting snow from the rocks. Painstakingly, they climbed for altitude and they headed for the South Pole.

Sinking back in his seat with a sigh of relief, the pilot said, Relax a minute, then report damage. He turned to his cockpit crew, forcing a smile. Good job, just like in training.

Everyone noticed he was sweating badly and his hands shook a bit, but then so did the others. To the aircrew, the other crash was forgotten in their need to get their own aircraft home. But Alex, rubbing the bruise on his forehead, was staring out the side window, watching the tiny thread of smoke until they moved beyond his line of sight. A UFO, they had really found a UFO.

Papa Golf Zero Four, a C-130, N model built in 1996 was still the best transport, for both range and cargo that money could buy. But at that moment, Lt. Commander Paul Alexander didn’t care. She was the sweetest thing flying and the crew listening to him talk could have sworn he was actually talking to the plane itself. Two thousand pounds of fuel isn’t a lot for three hungry engines. Shortly before landing, number four coughed, roared again, and slowly died. They managed to make a two-engine landing with number one slowly winding to a stop as they taxied into the fuel pits. When the remaining engine was shut down there was eighty pounds of fuel left. The South Pole had no maintenance equipment so a bright yellow D-8 dozer was backed in under the after part of number two engine. The flight engineer and Charlie the Loadmaster, mechanics by training before applying for aircrew school, climbed on the dozer hood and were quickly checking out the damage, the big cam shell covering, once open, revealed a mass of scorched metal and burnt wiring. The co-pilot fuelled the Hercules; a job normally done by the engineer. But, between the lieutenant and the South Pole fuelie, they finally got it done.

Team Four, and Lt. Commander Alexander were ensconced in South Pole radio room after tactfully getting rid of the operator. In spite of the exciting news, the pilot’s first concern was for his plane. Twenty minutes went by while the damage was talked about with McMurdo Station, well, Mac Center to be exact as the operations room was referred to. Another Hercules was being scheduled in case they needed to bring parts and personnel down; they were just waiting for the damage report.

The door opened and his engineer, a chief petty officer, came in wiping his hands on a dirty, greasy towel. It’s no good Skipper; it’ll have to come off.

For the first time he didn’t care about being grounded, Paul had other ideas.

Mac Center, the chief says the engine will have to come off.

Roger, we copy. As soon as the storm breaks we’ll get a Herc airborne.

You socked in again? Paul sounded almost hopeful.

Damn right we are; the Herbie came in so quick we had shit scattered all over.

No one missing is there? Paul asked with genuine concern.

Not now. We’ve a few in the hospital with exposure.

Mac, how long will the storm last?

The experts say one to two days, but hell, you know the record has been ten days. It really is anyone’s guess; this Herbie is a real bitch.

Okay McMurdo, tell Ops while we’re stuck here, we’re going to take a look at a wreck we found.

The Mac Center operator was instantly concerned, One of ours?

No McMurdo, not ours, we’re going to borrow one of the South Pole Otters and find out who’s it is.

Will pass on the message, good hunting. McMurdo Station, out.

Everyone stood watching the pilot sitting there with a smile, he looked as happy as a pig in shit.

Let’s go people. We have to see a man about a horse.

Skipper, give me twenty minutes to move Zero Four to another spot. I would like to come with you.

Okay, Dan, you’ve got the time. But only us six, the rest of the crew can wait.

As they left, Chief Henry gave the pilot a piece of paper. Frank thought you might want this.

Paul read it. It was the crash location from the Hercules’s navigation computer.

Two hours later the Otter was winging its way north, well any location from South Pole is north. The station commander was quite happy to loan them the plane after hearing about the wreck, and the fact that they had found his other plane when it went down. The one hour flight was uneventful, mind numbingly boring; the tiny plane seemed to strain every rivet, jarring their eye teeth. After the perceived spaciousness of the C-130, the Otter was cramped and small, and very noisy. The wreck was circled a few times, while the men, with no headsets, shouted to each other about what they were going to do. It was finally decided to set down in a branch canyon, half a mile from the site. Chief Henry produced two items; a Geiger counter, he had borrowed from a scientist and a .45 automatic. He put the clip in the handle, pulled back the barrel, cocking it. Then, put the safety on, returning it to a holster which he strapped around his hips.

The chief, seeing the inquiring glance from Jason said, My old man flew in the Gulf War. Shot down twice. He said to always have one just in case, and so I have. Besides I was a Boy Scout.

What does that have to do with anything?

Be prepared.

* * *

The Wreck

The wind, gusting around forty miles an hour was freezing, cutting through cold weather clothing like jagged teeth tearing through decaying flesh. South Pole itself sat on 10,000 feet of ice, so at close to 11,000 where they now found themselves, the air was thin. A haze of fog followed each man as they quickly adjusted their clothing to eliminate any gaps. They all felt their eyes begin to itch as the dry razor cold sucked the moisture from them; the hairs in each man’s nose tore apart painfully as he breathed. Eric wheezed, and started coughing violently into his gloved hand. He had inhaled too deeply, now tears from his streaming eyes pooled into the scarf, instantly freezing the covering to his face. They could barely make out his words through the material, now harder than a weightlifter’s abs, as he moaned about the friggin’ cold.

They slowly moved forward, not acclimatized to the thin air at this altitude, with Chief Henry sweeping the area for radiation. Alex stopped briefly, noticing David doing the same. What if the ship was venting some other kind of material their Geiger counter was unable to detect? The counter stayed silent. Both men shook their covered heads and moved slowly after the group. They came across the melted trail quite quickly. It was fifty feet wide, almost half a mile long. The hot temperature from either the re-entry or the burning craft, melted the ice everywhere it touched, only to immediately refreeze. The resulting tear drop shape would be extremely slippery.

Davenport’s whistle was long and drawn out. Shit, it must have been moving at one hell of a whack to do this.

No one commented on it. They began to find wreckage strewn behind when the juggernaut had smashed into the iron hard icecap tearing itself to pieces as it hurtled headlong toward its own destruction. The small group of men could only stand silently, staring at the carnage they could see. Each had their own idea as to what they would find inside, or even wondering if they could find a way in. There was a good chance the entry door, hatch or whatever the thing had, might be buried under tons of ice and snow that covered the ship’s dead carcass. They moved in careful miniaturized shuffling steps, often hanging on to each other to even stay upright on the polished surface. They soon came to the canyon end. The group hovered miserably, staring in awe; however, the rapidly lowering thermometer gave them no time for prolonged thought. They had to get in quickly or the small plane would be grounded here by the winds that were swiftly rising. Walker moved forward and touched the hull … cold.

Spread out guys, find a way in. No one, I repeat, no one goes inside alone!

At the edge of the cave-in they found a ragged hole in the hull.

Must be where the wing was torn from, Paul muttered.

He looked around surprised, not realizing he had spoken out loud. They scrambled in over the snow and ice that had almost filled the compartment. All there was left of the damaged, unburied compartment was a few empty, bent and twisted seats facing forward. They could see one door forward and one in the rear bulkhead.

Chief, you and Jason check the rear compartment, we’ll go forward. Walker was almost whispering.

The place felt like a crypt.

Moving forward they had to force the next hatch open. Inside they could see the damage to the hull extended even here. Seven bodies were found partly visible in the snow, some had limbs missing, two women, dressed in green jumpsuits; five men in red. All were blue from the cold and frozen solid.

They look like us, Davenport muttered dejectedly.

What did you want, two heads, six arms? snapped Paul a bit sarcastically. The Pilot jumped hearing his harsh strained voice. Sorry, it’s this place. It gives you the creeps.

Eric nodded agreeing. I don’t know, I guess, he answered lamely. He too looked around, skittish in the darkened compartment.

None of us do, don’t get complacent, snapped Walker.

They all pulled the parka hood off their heads, slipping the goggles to let them hang around their necks. A few of the men awkwardly fished flashlights from their outside pockets, throwing the room into an even eerier gloom as lights bobbed about while they scrambled over the drifts.

The door forward was a quarter buried. Two buttons were set in the wall to the left. Walker pushed the top one. A whining sound could be heard, and then with a whoosh, the door slipped sideways.

Ship still has power. Then, Walker slowly stepped through.

This compartment had only four seats and another door forward. Each seat held an occupant, one woman and three men, each wore the standard jump suits like the others, but with assorted colors; these were adorned with more decorative markings and designs. The two men along the left hand side were dead; the catastrophic hull failure had literally torn them apart. One man had been impaled on a razor sharp bit of metal. Alex could see where pulverized rock filtered into the compartment. The two to the right were alive. Alex checked the male in the rear seat.

He appears to be dying. There’s a lot of blood on the chest, and running from his nose and mouth. Alex probed inside the jumpsuit and could see a three inch metal shard. Alex looked across the aisle. Something had hit the hull, fracturing it and a jagged splinter had scythed into the man. If they had been able to get here hours earlier, they might have been able to save him.

Paul straightened from the woman. She’s alive, but seems to be out cold.

Alex doubled as Team Four’s medic. He hurried forward leaving the dying man, shrugging off his backpack, he knelt beside her.

Walker, Alexander and Davenport moved to the forward door. When the button was pushed, the men had to shoulder the door open. A ten foot long tunnel with storage lockers ran along each side. Here, they could see the obvious damage caused by the crash. Bent and twisted bulkheads, sprung lockers, wires dangling from the overhead. Carefully picking their way forward, they found the twisted and buckled remains of what was once the cockpit. Three bodies could be seen among the wreckage. Every once in a while, a spark would jump with a phiff and a spiral of smoke would dissipate into the frigid air.

* * *

Chief Henry and Jason spent ten minutes before they were able to muscle open the rear entrance. The engine room was full of acrid smoke which billowed through the open door. Both men coughed and their eyes watered as they moved in. Four engines were evenly spaced around the compartment, the two closest to the door showed signs of damage. One must have exploded tearing into the other. The bulkheads and part of the ceiling were blackened and pitted from the explosion and there were formless bundles on the floor just inside the door. The forward part of the compartment was obviously the engineer’s console, covered in banks of dials and instruments.

Chief Henry spotted a loose clamp lying on the floor askew; on closer inspection he found a sealed entrance to a lower deck. He drew his .45, kicking off the restraints and levered open the hatch. A figure, waiting on the small ladder below, jabbed a stick-like object upward; Henry was flung backwards crying out; the .45 went off, deafening the two men as the alien weapon discharged with a white spark and a resounding snap. A red overalled man hastily climbed out in his bid to escape. He quickly turned in surprise as he heard the clang of heavy boots on the metal deck, as Jason came flying across the small compartment, catching the figure in a waist high tackle. The fight was short and sharp. A wicked right sent Jason falling backwards over the engineer's wrecked seat … dazed.

* * *

Alex turned hearing the others return. I'm no doctor, but if I'm right, she'll be okay. The other guy is dead. He found himself whispering, still incredulous that they had actually found a living, breathing alien, but like the others, more creeped out by the dark cold tomb.

Walker started to reply when they all heard the gun go off.

What the f …! Walker spun around, his heart pounding in his ears, desperately wishing he had his flask. The rest of the men stood shocked. Suddenly, as one, they bolted for the door, crowding the narrow space, getting in each other’s way.

Jason looked up as they fell through the door; he was struggling to stand, shaking his head groggily.

Alex rushed to check on Chief Henry. Out cold, he's in shock.

Jason shakily pointed to the trap door, as he dabbed at his bleeding nose. Some bastard was hiding in there; attacked the chief with some crazy weapon.

Where is he? Walker snapped.

You must have seen him; he would’ve come right past you. Jason looked through the open door, suddenly noticing something winking on the console "Oh shit.

That flashing light wasn't blinking before.

Out! Now! Walker bellowed.

Jason and Paul quickly bent to help with the chief. Alex went running forward.

Leave her, Walker yelled.

I'll be damned if I'll let another woman die, Alex snapped.

The others struggled out with the comatose chief. Alex came staggering back, the woman draped unconscious over his shoulder.

Walker grabbed Henry's gun. Let’s get on with it!

They desperately staggered through the snow shrouded opening, struggling almost pointlessly on the ice. They slipped and skidded, burdened with the dead weight of two bodies. Jason headed out across the virgin trackless expanse, trying to get away from the ice that impeded their escape and would surely kill them in the end. The rest obediently followed.

A red light flashed off to the right, their attacker hidden somewhere on the slope. The ice exploded three times directly in front of the fleeing men. Walker spun and fired the .45. The rest frantically diving behind cover, David turned around; he found his answer. He smiled peacefully in Alex’s direction. An energy bolt caught him high in the back. He tumbled face forward and slid a few feet, collapsing in the snow. Paul and Alex raced recklessly forward, dragging Walker under cover.

The alien ship blew sky-high; blinding flashes of light mingled with an ear-shattering explosion as debris was flung outward. Smoke and flames billowed from the remains; they could feel the heat from the inferno even at this distance. The ice rumbled under their feet threateningly. The shock wave bowled everyone over and then ice, filled with torn, jagged metal rained down in all directions. The terrified group shakily found their legs. The exploding ship was burning so furiously that within moments there was very little left; the choking smoke had already begun to drift off. Alex staggered over and handed a shaky Chief Henry his gun.

I'm sorry, the chief said sadly looking at Walker.

Alex looked at the spread-eagled body. Yes, I am too.

I don't understand, why didn't he run?

Alex knelt beside his friend and quietly said, Ever since our last mission, his heart hasn’t been in it. He's been dead a long time.

Alex hoped that maybe now his friend could sleep at night, without help.

* * *

Denver

Denver, capital of Colorado, the Mile High City, home of the Denver Broncos, of all the major cities affected during the cataclysmic change over, this city was the one with the most severe long reaching ramifications. When 1999 clicked over to the new millennium thousands of computers worldwide crashed because they couldn't handle a simple thing like a date change to 2000. By late January, millions of people were just beginning to see the scope of the global disaster. It was felt hardest in the banks. Institutions worldwide lost billions as their computers dumped. People surged to withdraw their money. The greatest run in history had begun. Banks struggled to manage, but could only handle a tiny part of what was required. Some of the presidents and CEO’s of the bigger depositories had spent the money necessary to upgrade their computers for the changeover. They hired private security forces to guard their property and keep panicked, frightened people away. Fighting broke out as depositors demanded their money, or at least be able to talk to someone who was accountable. The guards, no more than ordinary citizens, panicked under the threat of the mobs and opened fire. The first night, thousands died in the senseless slaughter. Survivors returned armed, and the violence escalated. The Mayor was killed; her car caught in a crossfire when she went to talk with banker representatives. Fighting raged for weeks, Denver was slowly dying, shops were burnt and ravaged, and looting ran wild. Objects that represented the system that had lost or stolen millions were attacked by angry, ‘righteous’ mobs. The police station, city hall, fire stations and even hospitals were targeted. People who had lost everything were set upon by others, equally destitute, but were more ruthless or lacking the law abiding conviction of the majority of the populous. Finally, Governor Reynolds ordered General Ascot of the 21st Airborne to move in troops to restore order. In a sense of self-preservation, soldiers shot anyone who shot at them. By January 22nd, twelve hundred citizens, eight hundred and twenty security guards and two hundred and ten soldiers were killed in the bitter days of fighting. It would take twelve years to rebuild the ravaged, destroyed areas.

A few farsighted men actually profited, some of them accidentally, their only thoughts were in trying to save their companies. Miles Stapleton, multi-billionaire, head of the Stapleton Industries conglomerate was one such man. Miles poured the millions needed into the companies he controlled for the software upgrade so the computers would survive. While the assets his brother Jeremy oversaw, there was no such attempt as the younger brother was firmly convinced that the crash, if it even happened, wouldn’t be too severe. When the changeover finally happened, Jeremy’s companies foundered. He lost two and a half billion credits, literally overnight. To save the family empire, Miles bought out his brother for ten million. Jeremy bitterly hated Miles. The younger brother thought the older should have been more generous, or that Miles should have put his own money into Jeremy’s side of the family business. Never once did the youngest Stapleton even consider that he might have been wrong.

When the grudge held by the youngest Stapleton sibling against Miles threatened to split the family apart, Laura, Jeremy's eldest daughter compounded the issue when she sided with her uncle. Jeremy was incensed that she thought Miles was right while he was wrong. Father and daughter argued for days over the whole incident. Laura knew deep in her heart that her dear father, was only able to make the money he did, by riding the shirt tails of her uncle’s financial genius. In one of the more telling moments, Jeremy lost his temper and slapped Laura across the face. The daughter, in a blind rage smacked him back. Jeremy raged for days and in the end when Laura wouldn’t back down and apologize for hitting him, or for supporting his brother, Jeremy cut her off and kicked her out. So Laura, sporting a brand new black eye, came to work for her uncle. The girl had a love of flying and natural instincts made her a first rate pilot. Laura loved the freedom she found high among the clouds. Not wanting to live off her uncle’s charity, she started flying a childhood friend around after she was elected to congress. Now, eight years later Laura was the only pilot for Congresswoman Sandra Redwood.

Stapleton Industries head office was located in the new rebuilt quarter of Denver. The sprawling complex covered five acres, rising ten stories high, and employed almost eight hundred people. Laura walked down the corridor, her tennis shoes making a slight squeak on the highly polished floor. Most men would turn as Laura walked past. Simply describing how Laura moved when walking was like describing the Mona Lisa as a ‘nice painting’. She stood 5'8" and weighed a trim 130lb. Her coppery auburn hair was usually pulled back in a ponytail. She had a heart shaped face, long slender neck and the softest, silkiest hair that women envied. Her face was blemish free and her eyes were the bright blue of cornflowers. Her snug Broncos jersey highlighted her firm figure and the tight Levi's only emphasized Laura’s tight bum and long, long legs. She was aware of her natural allure, the almost magnetic effect she seemed to have, so she downplayed it by hiding under an old leather flight jacket. She passed into her uncle's office. Miles sat behind a big oaken desk, smiling as his niece came in. That damn jacket, she should get rid of it. Her Grandfather gave it to her after the end of the first Gulf War, a bomber jacket with the words 'Sassy Lil' on the back.

Uncle Miles, Laura said lovingly, her face glowing.

Laura, why don’t you get rid of that old relic?

She only grinned. Her uncle was always trying to get her to part with it.

I'm going out of town for a while. She said, pushing stuff from the corner of Miles’ desk where she sat half perched on the edge.

Jet-setting with that Senator woman. Miles couldn’t help but grin whenever she was in the room; Laura brightened everywhere as went as naturally as breathing.

Congresswoman, actually Uncle, but yeah, she's going down to McMurdo. You know, all the usual fact finding stuff, must be budget time.

Miles pushed a button on the desk intercom, Sara, can you bring me the Laser Research Test results for Professor Jackson down at McMurdo?

Do you want me to take it for you? Laura asked.

If you don't mind taking the test results to McMurdo for me.

Laura stood, smiling. I'll be gone about two months.

His secretary came in. The test results you asked for, she said.

The woman cheerfully greeted Laura.

Thanks Sara.

We'll I'm off, Uncle. Laura scooted around the desk and kissed her uncle on the cheek.

As Laura turned to leave, Miles saw the big manila file on his desk. He suddenly remembered he was going to talk to Laura about the Test Center she had run for him. The file contained the official investigation report on the aircraft crash.

Honey, I’m going to reopen the Wendover Flight Test Facility, he said quietly.

She froze in mid-step and slowly faced her uncle.

You can go back if you want, he said gently.

Wendover was an old air force base and had gradually been down-graded over the years, now it was a test field and a refueling stop. The military only had a small token presence there. Stapleton Industries was one of many who used Wendover and the surrounding Bonneville Salt Flats as a testing ground. Miles watched the byplay of emotions on her face. Laura had graduated in the late 90s from Utah State with a Masters in Aeronautical Engineering, and Jeremy, who had been the owner of the center, had blatantly sent her there as managing director in 1999. The man who ran the facility refused to play second fiddle to some spoilt rich kid. Laura was more than able to step into his suddenly vacant shoes and the other staff was happy to stay with her, at least in the short term seeing what she was able to do. Disaster struck early in the morning on January 1st. That morning’s flight had been cancelled by Laura. She firmly believed Miles was right. Her father had refused to upgrade the software for the center and Laura had used her own money to pay for the improvements. However, she didn’t have the unlimited resources that her father and uncle had, so the computer programmer responsible for the installation, whilst good, wasn’t as quick as others in his field. So, just in case, she gave everyone the day off and closed the center. Laura, secure in the knowledge that the test flight had been cancelled, had slept in late. Colonel McRoberts, the facilities test pilot, tired of the dreary place and stuck in the middle of the desert, decided to make the flight early. His plane had been doing high altitude maneuvers when the calendar clicked over to January. At first nothing went wrong, but then the F-120 began to experience catastrophic system failures. He went to eject, but found the ejection system compromised. His cockpit recorder taped his screams all the way into the ground. Laura was suddenly woken by a thunderclap. Rushing to the window, she looked out in dismay seeing the telltale smoke over the salt flats. It was months before the investigation could start and the center was closed pending the outcome. But in the financial crisis that had been running rampant at the time, the testing facility and the fifty two workers were quickly forgotten. Miles, swore that he would reopen every company Jeremy had messed up with his blundering incompetence. Laura stood there, tears in her eyes, remembering the time after