So far, they had found nothing. All of the tents were empty. The people’s sleeping bags, their clothes, and personal possessions still lay about inside the vacant tents. It was as if they had all just decided to go for a walk in the sub-zero temperatures.
None of what he saw made any sense.
He shone his flashlight around and began to dig through the paperwork lying about on the desks inside the main office. Petrenko didn’t see anything that would make him believe that anything other than a routine dig under the ice had been going on. He shook his head at the growing mystery and made his way back outside. Petrenko could see the light from his men’s flashlights, like so many lighthouses, reaching out into the dark.
The helicopter pilot walked over to Petrenko. He looked as white as a ghost. His hands were shaking. “Sir, no one had heard a word from the site in over a week. That was why I had decided to fly over the camp to check on the people working there. What I found was as welcoming as a graveyard.”
Petrenko nodded his head. The pilot was right. The camp was dead.
“Sir! Sir, over here,” called out a voice in the dark.
Petrenko turned his head. He could just make out through the swirling snowstorm his deputy standing beside a flimsy-looking wooden shack.
Petrenko walked over. “What is it? Have you found something?”
“I don’t know,” answered Vladov as he opened a flimsy wooden door and shone his flashlight down inside. “There’s a set of stairs cut into the ice. They lead down under the ground.”
Petrenko stepped inside the shack. With his flashlight held out in front of him, Petrenko cautiously climbed down into the pitch-black, icy tunnel system dug underneath the camp. A shiver ran up his spine. His wasn’t a superstitious man; however, it felt as if he were treading in a sacred, long-abandoned tomb.
Behind him climbed down Vladov. “Which way?” asked Vladov, shining his flashlight down a long tunnel running off the main passageway.
“You take that one,” replied Petrenko, pointing down the tunnel off to the side, “and I’ll take this one.”
Petrenko walked slowly, scanning the cold floor for clues. The farther he walked, the more he became convinced that someone had swept the entire area clean. There should have been signs on the ground that someone had been inside the tunnel. Unlike the surface, where the snow could cover a man’s tracks in minutes, the tunnel was protected from the elements; yet he did not find a single sign that anyone had ever been down there.
When Petrenko reached the end of the tunnel, he knelt down and slowly shone his flashlight along the icy wall. With his hand, he traced the outline of a square dug into the ice. Petrenko looked about; there were no other carvings in the walls.
Something had been carefully cut out of the ice. “What did you find down here?” muttered Petrenko to himself.
9
Built in 1932, in an upscale neighborhood of Buenos Aires, the Alvear Palace Hotel catered to visiting dignitaries, celebrities, and the very rich. Designed to resemble the classiest hotels in Paris, the Alvear Palace shone bright with its highly polished floors and dark-wood interior. At over six hundred dollars a night, Mitchell was surprised that Houston had insisted on putting them up there for a couple of days before they headed out to sea. Jen had jumped at the chance to visit Argentina on someone else’s dime. She eagerly volunteered to accompany Mitchell to Buenos Aires, so she could help bring the two newest members of his team up to speed with what was going on.
As they stepped from the elevator and out into the lobby, Jen and Mitchell took in the old-world splendor of the hotel as they strolled towards the hotel’s five-star dining room for a late breakfast. Both were dressed casually. Met at the entrance by the maître d’, Jen and Mitchell were escorted to a quiet table on the far side of the restaurant.
With a smile, Nate Jackson stood and waved them over. Mitchell had never met the people they had selected to join them on this assignment. He had flown ahead to check on the arrangements for their trip out into the cold, unforgiving South Atlantic Ocean while Jackson had been left behind to chaperone the remainder of the team to Argentina.
With Jackson at the table were the two new people who would be coming to Bouvet Island. One was a short, Hispanic woman in her late forties with curly black hair and a pair of thick glasses perched on her nose. The other was a fit-looking man in his early thirties with wavy blond hair, deep-green eyes, good looks and a chiseled chin. Mitchell knew that he was an ex-SOF operator, a U.S. Navy SEAL.
“Morning everyone,” said Mitchell as he quickly introduced Jen and himself to the new people.
“Maria Vega,” said the Hispanic woman with a welcoming smile on her round face.
“Eric McMasters.” The blond-haired man didn’t look up at Mitchell. Instead, he smiled over at Jen.
Mitchell saw the look. Before he was ready, McMasters’ hand reached over and gripped his tightly. Grinning, Mitchell played the game and squeezed back, hard, for a couple of seconds before letting go.
“You got quite a grip there, Ryan, for an Army Ranger,” said McMasters, shaking out his aching hand.
“Good thing you didn’t try that with Nate,” replied Mitchell as he pulled out Jen’s seat for her.
“I’m not that dumb. He probably would have broken my hand.”
Jackson shrugged noncommittally before taking his seat.
“Men,” said Jen, shaking her head.
A white-jacketed waiter came over and filled up everyone’s coffee cups before taking their breakfast order. With a nod of his head, he left them in peace.
“I’ve read your files, but why don’t you take a couple of minutes to introduce yourselves,” suggested Mitchell.
“I’ll start,” said Maria. “Before joining Polaris, I was a major in the U.S. Air Force. My last duty assignment was working in Space Command. I oversaw the surveillance of foreign satellites. While I was there, I wrote several papers for the Air Force on the history of the Soviet Luna program. I was working on my Ph.D. when General O’Reilly called me and asked me to join his organization.”
“What do you do at Polaris?” asked Jen. “I don’t ever recall seeing you around.”
“That’s because I’m not really there right now. I’m busy finishing my doctoral thesis on the history of the Soviet Space program.”
“Well, I’m glad you could come along to help us out,” said Mitchell earnestly. “I couldn’t tell you what a 1960s Soviet lunar probe looked like if one walked by.”
“Since General O’Reilly is picking up the tab for my education, and I may actually get to see a Soviet return vehicle up close, I couldn’t really say no.”
“Without sounding too harsh,” said Jackson, “how does a doctorate on the Soviet space program benefit Polaris?”
“I wondered the same myself when I was asked to come onboard,” replied Maria. “Unlike yourselves, I’m not and never will be an operator. When I finish my doctorate, I’m taking over from Margaret Young as the Chief Administrator for Polaris. She’s going to retire next year, and I’m going to replace her. My only condition to leaving the Air Force was that I first be allowed to complete my doctorate.”
Mitchell grinned and then said, “Well, Maria, when you take over the organization’s finances, please don’t scrutinize my team’s finances too closely. I’m not sure everything we do is legit.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Maria. “I’ve already been warned off by General O’Reilly to be creative with the books when it comes to you and your people.”