Chapter 21

Steve, Mike and Ernesto lay trussed up, bound at the ankles and wrists, arms behind them, in the back of the van. Two bandits sat in the front seats, windows rolled down, watching their Captain with the bare-breasted woman standing beside the Mercedes. One, speaking in Spanish, was making rude comments to the other about the woman's exposed breasts.

Steve felt something poking him in the back. He turned his head but was stopped with a wash of pain from the blow he'd taken from the rifle butt. He blinked, moistened his mouth a bit, swallowed, and waited for the pain to clear. Trying again, he was able to see Ernesto mouthing words at him. He thought the words were "my shoe" ... he mouthed the words back and Ernesto nodded slightly. Steve slowly bent his legs and eased himself down where he could reach Ernesto's street shoes. He pulled the lace on one loose, and pulled the tongue forward, feeling behind it. There was a small, flat pocket there. He could feel something inside. In another moment, he was able to slide a small, flat object out of the pocket. It was an old-fashioned single-edged razor blade with the thin pasteboard blade wrapper.

Steve straightened his legs, eased himself forward, and turned slightly with his back to Ernesto so his friend could see the blade in his fingers. Ernesto smiled and rolled himself so his back was to Steve. He took the blade, flicked the paper guard away, and started sawing at Steve's wrist binding.

Within moments the three men had cut themselves loose. It seemed a wonder that the two bandits were so clueless to the movements of the prisoners behind them, but no matter. It was too late now. A pair of hands grabbed each bandit from behind, one hand over a mouth and the other pressing against the neck for a sleeper hold. Both men slumped in their seats. Steve and Mike pulled them into the back of the van. While they gagged and tied the two, the trio tried to plan their next move. Perhaps Ernesto might accelerate the van to distract and run down the nearest gunmen; Steve and Mike would jump out and grab their weapons to use against the others? It seemed about the best they could do with what they had at hand. The two men they'd just captured left their weapons outside; the Captain had ordered that no arms were to be within reach of the prisoners inside the van.

Before they could do anything, shouts and screams erupted, followed by a string of automatic weapons fire. That burst was answered by two more bursts and the screams of dying men. A few scattered and random-spaced shots followed ... then silence. The dying echoes of gunfire and screams bounced back from the ridge above them, and faded. Steve and Mike looked at each other, shocked beyond belief. Ernesto, his usual smile gone, stared back with horrified eyes.

"Dear Mother of God" ... he whispered ... the senorita, Marie ... what of Marie?

The Agency director scanned the latest report to come up from McMurdo Sound. This was a packet of files from the station's science mission director. Of course, the mission director himself had not sent the reports; this bundle was courtesy of the Agency mole on the team's payroll. Normally he would just glance through them, looking for any summaries or conclusions to save himself hours of pointless reading. But this report was different. He buzzed his secretary:

"Sandy, hold all my calls and visitors for a while, will you? I'm going to be tied up in here with an important study, and I'd prefer not to be disturbed. I'll get back to you when I'm free again."

"Yes, sir, of course. You have an appointment with Mr. Jameson in 20 minutes. Shall I call him and let him know you'll be delayed?"

"Please. Tell him something's come up unexpectedly, and I'll get back to him soonest. And, Sandy? Thanks. If you get a chance, would you send in a fresh carafe of coffee?"

He spread the reports across his desk in front of himself and leaned back in his chair. Nearly an hour later, he was done reading and thinking. At this particular moment he was not a "happy camper." Not in the least. There were too damned many alarm bells in the details of these reports, and the conclusions, although couched in the usual scientific ass-covering language that refused to state conclusions unless the proof were actually biting one's safely-covered butt ... the conclusion in this report was inescapable: there were aliens swimming loose in Antarctic waters. The damned things were swimming in the American sector, right there at McMurdo base.

There were very few gray areas in the Director's sphere of understanding, and this one was crystal clear in his mind. Aliens in American-dominated waters were a threat to national security. And any such threat must be neutralized or eliminated.

Julie Christie had gathered a significant quantity of sonar and hydrophone recordings. Then, during the weeks of the late winter season, she'd had more than ample time to collate, evaluate, and compile the data until she'd put together a number of startling documents. First, she had an identifiable group of penguins that weren't penguins. She had no doubts about that. Secondly, they swam and worked together as intelligent groups. Their work patterns indicated harvesting activity, probably to gather krill and other protein organisms. Third, they were intelligently communicating with the cetaceans, the orca and whales. Although she was frustrated that she could not interpret their recorded "voices," she could establish that the communications between the two groups resulted in predictable actions and cooperation. She had several such instances documented in her recordings and analysis.

Her conclusion: the "penguins" aren't penguins, and neither are they from here, from planet earth. No other recorded instance of their existence had been noted, and it was not possible that these alien swimmers could be a sub-species of penguin. Their behavior and intelligence levels were far higher than any known penguin abilities, or of any known animal species. She suspected that she had uncovered a disguise, an alien species masquerading as an earth-based species to avoid detection!

But why? And who? And where did they come from? And where were they based? Obviously they were local, meaning nearby, under the ice shelf. But ... but ... but the more she studied her data and analyses and her conclusions, her questions overwhelmed the answers.

At the risk of professional ridicule and scorn, she cleaned up the reports, tidied up her conclusions, couched them in the appropriate butt-covering phraseology, and sent the bundle on to the mission director. It was copies of those reports that had landed on the Agency director's desk. It was really doing him no favors; it would be a long, long time before he would sleep more than a few fitful hours at a time. His dreams would be of alien swimmers darting through the dark antarctic waters to attack an American nuclear submarine.

Mike looked through the windshield at a bloody field of carnage. Two men lay beside the pickup truck, torn and bleeding. Another two men lay beside the other van, shot to pieces. He struggled to make sense of what they'd heard, of what he could see ... his mind was frozen in horror of what may have happened to Marie.

When the soft "tap tap" on the van's side door sounded, the three men scrambled and fell over themselves trying to get clear of the door before it slid open.

When the door did slide open, Marie stood there, her slender arms covering her breasts.

"Would one of you gentlemen please lend me your shirt?" she asked in a hushed whisper. She appeared unharmed except for large bruises beginning to discolor both sides of her face. Her eyes filled with unshed tears; one barely began to run down her cheek. She was pale and shivering, but was otherwise composed and in control of herself.

Steve jerked his shirt off and handed it to her, watching her face. None of them could think of anything to say. Mike was the first to come to his senses; then Ernesto. They climbed from the side of the van to step out among the dead bandits.

Steve watched Marie for another moment, then he came to his senses and eased forward. He held his arms out to her and she leaned forward into him, grasping him as tightly to herself as she possibly could. She lay her head against his chest. He felt her tears running between them. She made no sound but her tears flowed in a warm flood.

Mike confirmed what he had seen through the windshield. The dead men lay scattered, their blood soaking into the sands where they'd fallen. Not everyone was dead. The Captain certainly was; his head was mostly missing, blown away, and another burst had cut him nearly in half. But the other officer, the other man in uniform, he sat on the ground like a child, his legs outstretched with his hands flat on the ground, his face looking up to the sky. He rocked back and forth, his eyes staring but not seeing. His mouth moved, words pouring forth, again and again: "Madre de dios, perdóname!" And again, that same phrase, like a prayer, a plea to the heavens: "Madre de dios, perdóname!"

Mike turned to Ernesto. "What is he saying?"