Operation Antarctica Read online

  He was right behind McCally as they went down, thirty steps before they reached the bottom. There hadn’t been any more corpses on the stairs, but there were more here. They lay in doorways, on floors, slumped against walls, strewn throughout the large open chamber in which the squad found themselves.

  The ceiling was a few feet above their heads, with more of the lighting strips stretching over it, all as frosted as the ones they’d seen in the stairwell on the way down. The chamber appeared to be the central hub of the underground system, with a dozen doors in a circle around it. Some of the doors were closed, others open, but with only darkness showing beyond them, too far away for their lights to penetrate the shadows. Banks counted the bodies, twelve in all, and all of which looked as rested, composed, and dead, as the one up on the landing by the door. To a man, they appeared to have stopped whatever business they’d been about and died, with no sign of stress or injury.

  And that’s just the ones I can see. What the fuck happened here?

  Eleven of the doors off the chamber were single-sized, but there was one double door and after taking his bearings, Banks knew that must lead deeper again into the ice, toward where he’d seen the domed area between the huts and the hills. If they were going to find anything, he had a hunch it would be through there.

  But better to be safe than sorry.

  “I want a sweep of all these rooms,” he said. “Leave the large door for last – I’ve got a feeling we’ll be going through there soon enough. But make sure the rest of the rooms are clear. And if you find any documentation, any books or papers, shout out and I’ll come running. And Wiggins…”

  The hefty private looked up as Banks shone a light on him.

  “Aye, Cap?”

  “Don’t touch anything you shouldn’t. And keep your trousers on, lad. Wouldn’t want your bollocks to drop off, would we?”

  *

  They split into the same teams as they’d used to search the sheds outside. McCally took his team off clockwise, and Banks went the other way. Banks’ first stop was at a long row of lockers against the walls; a quick examination found they contained a mixture of cold weather gear and weaponry – vintage pistols and rifles in the main, everything covered in the same white frosting.

  They moved on and quickly discovered that of the eleven rooms, eight were sleeping quarters, six bunks to a room. They found more corpses, half of the bunks occupied by the same, strangely calm, frozen dead. Banks noted that they were all men, and equally split between civilians and military judging by the uniforms on some, overalls on others.

  Of the remaining three rooms, one was a mess hall, a cramped set of six tables and long benches, and a large kitchen and storage area at the rear beyond a serving trestle. Banks went over to check the tall cupboards. He found a freezer, almost empty save for lumps of ice that might be meat, and a larger packed with decades-old tins of vegetables and fruit, many of which had burst. There were no bodies here, just more of the thin covering of frost and a terrible sense of emptiness.

  “What the fuck happened here, Cap?” Wiggins whispered.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, lad.”

  The second to last room Banks led his team to was obviously a generator and electrical area; he recognized what must be a fuse panel, gauges that registered voltage, and a cubic metal box that he took to be the base’s generator, but looked like nothing he’d ever seen before. Along the far wall, there was a series of tall metal containers and cabling, looking more like a farmer’s milking system than anything remotely electrical. A thicker cable led off, through the wall and away, heading further into the ice.

  Banks turned to the team.

  “Wiggins, Parker, see if you can make head or tail of this; maybe even get it up and running. We could do with a heat, or barring that, even some light would be nice to save us wandering about here in the gloaming.”

  He left the two men in the generator room and headed to the last door. The handle felt icy cold even through his gloves, and he had to put his shoulder to the door. It scraped, ice on metal, as it opened.

  This wasn’t a dorm, but an officer’s quarters. There was a proper bed at the far end of the room, but the occupant wasn’t in it; he was sitting upright in a chair at a writing desk. Banks knew this must be the base commander, and the man was definitely military; the black uniform, stiff hat, and bright red swastika armband all clearly visible even under the frost layer. His insignia told Banks his rank had been Oberstleutnant, a Wing Commander. The fact that he was a Luftwaffe officer, in Antarctica, was the first sign they’d had that there might be something to find here after all.

  *

  The officer looked to have been in his fifties, clean-shaven bar a pencil moustache as black as his uniform jacket. His eyes were now little more than frozen, milky marbles set back in their sockets but apart from that, he looked as if he might stand at any moment after having had a nap.

  The desk itself was strewn with notebooks, maps, papers, and diagrams. Banks brushed the ice off one, a nicely bound leather journal, and opened it. Although the rest of the papers on the desk all seemed to be written in German, much to his surprise, this particular book was written in English. One name toward the bottom of the first page immediately caught his eye.

  From the personal journal of Thomas Carnacki, 472 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea.

  As I have mentioned elsewhere in these journals, there are several of my cases I cannot relate to Dodgson and the others at all. Some of them involve maintaining a degree of delicacy and decorum. For example, there is a great lady of the land who would be most embarrassed should details of her involuntary nocturnal wanderings ever become public.

  But there are other cases, often dark, often furtive, that I must by rights keep close to my chest. This is not because they are too alarming or disturbing for my good friends, but purely because if I did tell anyone, I would in all probability meet my end in a dark cell on bread and water for the rest of my natural life. That is, if I did not see the end of a hangman’s rope first. Matters of national security are tricky things at the best of times, and when they call for my peculiar area of expertise, they tend to become even more peculiar still and even less available for public consumption.

  My friend, Dodgson, has written elsewhere of my infrequent encounters with the extraordinary Mr. Winston Churchill, and the matter I will relate here begins, and ends, with one such meeting.

  “The plot thickens,” Banks whispered to himself. He needed to know more, but before he had time for that, he needed to know what was beyond the big double door.

  A leather satchel sat on the floor at the dead oberst’s feet, and Banks quickly gathered up all the papers and notebooks and stowed them away, before stowing the satchel itself in his backpack, feeling the weight of history on his shoulders.

  While Banks was stowing the papers, Hynd had been checking the desk drawers.

  “Nothing important in here, Cap,” he said. “Fresh paper and ink, frozen solid. There doesn’t seem to be a log or report book.”

  “It’ll be around somewhere,” Banks replied. “And that’s something we’ll definitely want.”

  He had a last look at the officer in the chair – he still couldn’t believe the man wasn’t going to get up and walk. There was only one other thing of note, a calendar hanging on the wall by the door with one date circled heavily in red pencil.

  4th of January, 1942.

  *

  McCally and his team arrived from across the chamber as Banks and Hynd left the officer’s room.

  “Anything, Cally?”

  The corporal shook his head.

  “More dead men in their beds. Looks like whatever did it took them nice and quiet in their sleep. It’s a fucking mystery all right.”

  So far, they had not found a single sign that there had been any warning at all given to the residents of the base. It appeared they had all died in the same moment, some going about whatever their business might be and others, possibly a diff
erent work shift, being taken in their beds. Banks hoped an answer might be forthcoming on the other side of the big double door.

  Before broaching it, he walked over to the generator room doorway and called out to the two men working inside.

  “Any joy, Wiggins?” he asked.

  The private looked glum.

  “Nothing doing, Cap,” he said. He pointed his light at the thicker wiring that ran through the wall. “We thought the generator might be here to feed power through yon cable there. But it’s the other way round. It’s all dead in here, and any juice to run this beastie would be coming from wherever that goes.”

  On the other side of the double doors.

  “Saddle up then, lads,” Banks said. “Let’s find out what these buggers were all so busy at before they died.”

  - 3 -

  The double doors weren’t locked and opened easily enough, although the creaking of the hinges echoed like a wailing siren around the chamber and brought the hackles rising at the back of Bank’s neck. His gut was telling him to run away, and over the years, he’d learned to trust it. But he had a job to do here, and a team to lead.

  “Cally, you’re on point. Parker and Wiggins, watch our backs. We don’t know what killed these Jerries, so if you see anything squirrelly, you have my permission to shoot it.”

  McCally led Hughes, Patel, and Wilkes into the darkness beyond the door, with Banks and Hynd following right behind them.

  It became obvious quickly that they were in a long, enclosed tunnel. There were no doors to either side, just an alley of darkness stretching away beyond the range of their lights. It was colder still in here, and the darkness felt heavier, more oppressive. The floor rose upward at a slight incline, and Banks’ mental map of the area told him that they must be travelling up toward the domed area of ice they’d seen from the outside.

  The corridor was made of the same metal plating they’d seen throughout the facility, and again Banks was reminded more of the interior of a boat than an under the ice base. The heating costs in fuel while the place was operational must have been enormous. That had him wondering, not for the first time, what was so important to the Nazi effort that could lead them to such secrecy and expense.

  And in a project that has obviously failed.

  He hoped to find an answer at the end of the corridor.

  *

  The corridor itself continued for fifty more paces. There were no more corpses, but as they approached another double door, they saw thin, watery, light coming through the small eye-level windows in the doors themselves. Banks didn’t have to give the order; all of the squad unslung their rifles into their hands and their level of alertness went up a notch. They moved as one toward the doorway.

  Banks stepped forward to try to peer through, but the windows were frosted over. He managed to clear his side, but the inside was still too milky and opaque. He could make out a large darker shadow beyond, but nothing to say what might lie on the other side. He motioned for silence and they stood quiet, listening, but all he heard was the team’s own breathing. He motioned for McCally to come forward, and covered the corporal as he slowly pushed the door open.

  Once again, a creaking wail of old hinges echoed loud all around them. All attempts at secrecy were now moot. Banks gave the signal, and the squad, as one, moved forward through the double doors.

  *

  Almost as one, they stopped, dumbfounded by the sight before them.

  They had arrived in a high-domed circular chamber some fifty yards across. Thin watery light came in from above where a vaulted ceiling of girders and glass let in sunlight through a layer of thin snow and frost. There were more corpses here, a score of men lying on the floor, almost equally split between civilians in overalls and uniformed airmen. Again, they all appeared to have fallen where they stood, then just gone to sleep and been frozen. Everything was covered in more frost, which felt crisp underfoot. The only sound in the chamber was the crunch as Banks took a step forward, and he winced at the noise, wondering what he would do if any of the dead men woke at that point.

  The main thing, the elephant in the room he was trying not to think about, the thing they couldn’t drag their eyes from at first, was the silver metal saucer that sat almost exactly in the middle of the chamber. It was twenty yards in diameter, and the only thing breaking the expanse of shining metal was a large red circle at its highest point, with a five-foot-tall, black-on-white Swastika in the center.

  The saucer sat flush to the ground, and rose to a maximum height of ten feet at the center of the Swastika. There was no sign of any doorway or window, no method of ingress that Banks could see from where he stood by the doorway.

  “Fucking hell,” Wiggins said softly, and Banks realized he had nothing of any greater import to add to the statement just then.

  *

  It took Banks ten seconds to be able to drag his gaze from the saucer. It commanded attention, catching the eye and refusing to let go. The silver surface had avoided all ravages of time – there was none of the otherwise ever-present frost covering the metal, which was polished to a high shine, reflecting the girders and glass roof above in a most disorienting manner that was almost hypnotic.

  Finally, Banks looked away, and took in details of the rest of the chamber.

  Another bank of the tall metal containers they’d seen in the generator room lined the wall directly to his left. He guessed this was the endpoint of the thicker cable, but as yet couldn’t fathom what their purpose was, or what manner of power source might have been in use here.

  To his right was obviously the engineering or laboratory area. A corkboard covered the wall almost a quarter of a way around the outside circle, and it was covered with blueprints, diagrams, and notes. Six long trestle tables were likewise festooned with books, notebooks, and charts.

  Banks saw that the rest of the squad was still transfixed by the saucer. He clapped his hands, twice, the noise echoing like a drumbeat in the chamber.

  “What’s the matter? You lot never seen a fucking Nazi UFO before?” he said. “Parker and Wiggins, find something to stow all this paperwork in. It’ll be coming with us when we leave. And take it gently; it’s probably going to be fragile.”

  “I’ll imagine it’s the sarge’s wife,” Wiggins said, then had to dodge out of the way to avoid a smack on the head from Hynd.

  “Cally, you see if you can make heads or tails of the power system. The rest of you, you’re with me,” Banks said, and turned his gaze again to the saucer.

  *

  The first thing he spotted was that the floor area around the saucer was also devoid of frost, to a distance of several yards from the vessel all around. As he got closer, he noticed markings on the floor, what looked like quarter-inch thick lines of gold embedded in the metal plates. Two of the lines appeared to be concentric circles running around the saucer and marking the boundary of the frost-free area. The other marks were a series of straight lines and squiggles that he could make no sense of from a distance.

  He stepped forward for a closer look, his left foot landing on the outer of the gold circles. He felt a tingle run through him, not a current surge as such, more like the sensation of licking the poles of a battery. At the same time, a shout rang around the chamber from McCally at the bank of metal containers.

  “No, Cap. Back off.”

  Banks lifted his foot off the circle and stepped away. The tingling stopped immediately.

  “What is it, Cally?” he said.

  “Come and see, Cap. I don’t have a fucking clue.”

  Banks walked over to McCally, who stood beside a series of gauges embedded in a panel in the wall. He tapped the top one. It was a meter graded from zero to a number in the millions. The needle pointed at zero.

  “This moved,” McCally said. “When you took the step forward, it went up. Not by much, but it was noticeable.”

  Banks shouted across to Hynd who was still at the edge of the outer circle.

  “Go on, Sarge,
” he said. “Just one step, then back again. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Hynd took a step forward while Banks watched the gauge. There was a small but definite movement of the needle, and it fell back to zero as soon as the sergeant stepped back out of the circle.

  “What the hell is this shit, Cap?” McCally said.

  “Buggered if I know, Cally. But I don’t think we should fuck with it until we’ve got more intel.”

  “There’s something else, Cap,” Hynd said, and motioned that Banks should have a look. The sergeant pointed at his feet as Banks walked over to where he stood. The area of floor that was free of frost had grown, now stretching for an inch beyond the outermost of the gold inlaid circles. Banks bent toward the gold lines and felt heat coming from the circle even before he touched it. It felt warm through his gloves.

  “What the fuck, Cap?” Hynd said.

  *

  Wiggins and Parker returned from the right side of the room. They had managed to find two canvas kit bags, both of which they’d filled with the books, notebooks, and charts that they’d found in the work area.

  “Is that the lot?” Banks asked.

  Wiggins nodded.

  “Everything that was salvageable. The frost had got in too deep to some of the paperwork and it fell apart as soon as we so much as breathed on it. But there’s some solid intel in the bags from what we saw while we were packing it.”

  “Good work,” Banks replied then spoke up so that the whole squad could hear him. “I need to call this in, lads. We’ve got two choices; you can stay underground here in the base, or we set up camp out in the hut with the bunks and the stove.”