Below, a few figures appeared from some of the buildings. All wore parkas and stared skyward. The plane’s engine must have been heard. Visitors were surely rare out here in the remote ZCI zone of the polar ice cap. Matt was relieved to see that the gawkers wore parkas of vibrant colors: greens, blues, yellows, and reds. Such colors were meant to be seen, to help find a mate lost in a storm.
Thankfully there was not a single white parka among them.
Jenny set the plane’s skis and dropped the flaps. She began a smooth descent to the tabletop ice field just north of the base. “Everyone buckle in,” she warned.
The Twin Otter fell toward the ice. Matt gripped his seat arms. The plane swooped down, leveled off sharply, then skidded over the ice. The vibration of the skis over the slightly uneven surface rattled every bolt in the plane and the metal fillings in Matt’s back molars.
But once she had touched down, Jenny quickly cut power and raised the flaps to brake. The plane slowed, and the vibration died down to a gentle bumping.
Craig let out a sigh of relief.
“Welcome to the middle of the Arctic Ocean,” Jenny said, and angled the plane around. She taxied back toward the base, now a short distance away.
“The Arctic Ocean,” Craig echoed, eyeing out the windows suspiciously.
Matt could relate to his misgivings. Since three years ago, he distrusted ice. Though the footing under you might look solid, it wasn’t. It was never a constant. It was an illusion of solidness, a false sense of security that betrayed when one least expected. You just had to turn your back for a second…a moment’s distraction…
Matt continued to grip his chair arms as if he were still falling from the skies. He stared out at the world of ice around him. Here was his personal hell — not fiery flames, but endless ice.
“It looks like we’ve stirred up a welcoming party,” Jenny said as she cut her engines and the twin props slowly rotated down.
Matt swung his attention back to the base. A group of six snowmobiles rumbled out toward them. They were manned by men in matching blue parkas. He spotted the Navy insignia.
Base security.
One of the men stood up in his snowmobile and lifted a bullhorn in his hand. “Vacate the aircraft now! Keep your hands empty and in plain sight! Any attempt to leave or any hostile action will be met with deadly force!”
Matt sighed. “The Welcome Wagon sure has gone to hell these days.”
Amanda stared at the chaos, amazed at the amount of work that had been done in a single night. Not that day or night really had much meaning in the station, especially in the dark ice tunnels of the Crawl Space. In the detached isolation of her silent world, she watched the drama play out.
“Careful with that!” Dr. Henry Ogden barked across the frozen lake. Even from here, Amanda could read his lips and exaggerated expression.
Under his supervision, a pair of graduate students struggled to raise a light pole. It was the fourth to illuminate the cliff face. Nearby, the generator, which was running the lights and other assorted equipment, trembled in bad humor atop its rubber footpads. Power cords and conduits snaked across the ice lake’s surface.
Small red flags marked off sites on the lake. The rocky cliff face itself was no less assaulted. Steel ladders leaned against it. More flags checkered its surface.
Sites of specimens, Amanda imagined. She stared at the sections of the lake cordoned off with string and flags. She knew what specimens lay frozen under those spots. The grendels…as they had come to be called.
News of the discovery had spread quickly. While Amanda was sure Dr. Ogden had not divulged the information himself, such a secret could not be kept long among a group of isolated scientists. Someone had clearly talked.
All around the huge cavern, research students and senior members of the biology staff labored together. But Amanda also spotted several scientists from other disciplines, including her dear friend Dr. Oskar Willig. The Swedish oceanographer was the elder statesman of the entire Omega group. His accomplishments and credentials were numerous and well-known, including the Nobel Prize in 1972. His unruly gray hair was equally as distinguishable, making him easy to spot.
She crossed toward him, stepping around the piles of sample bottles and boxes. At least someone had sanded the floor and strewn a few rubber mats over some of the busier work areas. Dr. Willig knelt on one of these mats, staring down into the ice.
He glanced to her as she walked up. “Amanda.” He grinned and sat back on his heels. “Come to see the mascot of the station, have you?”
She returned his smile. “I caught the creature feature last night.”
He climbed to his feet with an ease that belied his age. He was a wiry, fit seventy-year-old. “It’s a tremendous discovery.”
“The legendary Grendel itself.”
“Ambulocetus natans,” Dr. Willig corrected. “Or if you are to believe our notable colleague from Harvard, Ambulocetus natans arctos.”
She shook her head. Arctic subspecies…it seemed Dr. Ogden was not wasting time staking his claim. “So what do you think about his assertions?”
“Intriguing theory. Polar adaptation of the prehistoric species. But Henry has a long way to go between theory and proof.”
She nodded. “Well, he has enough specimens to work with.”
“Yes, indeed. He should be able to thaw—” Dr. Willig started and peered over a shoulder.
Amanda followed his gaze. He had heard something. It didn’t take long to spot the commotion that drew his attention and interrupted their conversation.
Henry Ogden and Connor MacFerran were nose to nose. The brawny Scottish geologist loomed over the shorter biologist. But Henry was not about to give ground. He stood with his hands on his hips, leaning forward, an angry Chihuahua before a pitbull.
Dr. Willig turned back to her so she could read his lips. “Here we go again. This is the third head butting since I came down here an hour ago.”
“I’d better see what’s going on,” Amanda decided reluctantly.
“Always the diplomat.”
“No, always the baby-sitter.” She left Dr. Willig and crossed to the warring researchers. They barely noted her arrival, continuing their argument.
“…not until all the specimens are collected. We’ve not even begun the photographs.” Henry had his face almost pressed against the geologist’s.
“You can’t hog all the friggin’ research time down here. That cliff is volcanic basalt with pure carboniferous intrusions. All I need to do is core a few samples.”
“How few?”
“No more than twenty.”
The biologist’s face darkened. “Are you mad? You’ll tear the whole thing down. Ruin who knows how much sensitive data.”
Amanda barely followed their discourse, missing much as she read their lips, but she gained as much information from the gestures and body postures. A fistfight was about to break out. She could smell the territorial bloom of testosterone.
“Boys,” she said calmly.
They glanced to her, to her crossed arms, to her stern expression. Each took a step back.
“What’s this all about?” she asked slowly.
Connor MacFerran answered first. His lips were harder to read because of his thick black beard. “We’ve been patient with the biology team. But we have just as much right to sample this discovery. An inclusion of this magnitude”—he waved to the cliff face—“is not the sole ownership of Dr. Ogden.”
Henry stated his case. “We’ve only had the one night to prep the site. Our collection is more delicate than the bulldozing techniques of the geologists. It’s a simple case of priority. My sampling won’t harm his specimens, but his sampling could irreparably damage mine.”