Chapter 7

Secrets and Suspicions

The rescue went smoothly, without delay and without weather problems. Michael was flown straight through to Christchurch, NZ for medical evaluation and treatment. He was delighted to hear the physician say that his leg would be "fine, just fine."

"You are one lucky fellow, considering what could have happened with that wound. It seems you have a strong immune system, to resist serious infection. And I compliment you on your first aid skills. This isn't the neatest job of stitching—I'd send one of my surgical students to the back of the queue if he presented me with a job like this—but for doing it to yourself, under field conditions, it's a first rate job, sir."

Michael groaned softly, remembering the agony of it.

"I wouldn't suggest that you or any of your students try doing it yourself, doctor. It's hard to keep your mind on neatness when all you want is for the torture to end!"

The doctor chuckled, agreeing that he never intended to let that happen.

"Well, I think we'll keep you here a few days, run the normal tests, arrange a bit of physical therapy to get that leg back into shape, and then we'll let you go. Sound good?"

"Absolutely, doctor! The sooner the better."

"Good. Get some rest. I've sent word to the dietician that you're to get our 'full fare' menu, so expect a big dinner arriving shortly. Try to get a good night's sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

Agent Barringer snooped around McMurdo for two days. His first day with Commander Blevins was almost routine. No news other than the initial discovery report and the SAR flight had leaked about the Siple Island rescue. Barringer reviewed everything in the Commander's files, including the interview with the survey flight pilot. From this end it seemed to be a perfectly routine, efficient Navy operation.

It wasn't a grenade that exploded in the outhouse this time. It was a bomb.

Agent Barringer was killing a little time in the chow hall, sipping his second cup of ultra-high-test watch-standing fortifier (Navy coffee) when he overheard a couple of technicians talking behind him:

"Admit it, Joe. You wish you were lucky like that weird penguin, don't you? Instead of jumping into the raft with her, you'd jump into her sack. And I bet you'd be dropping something hotter between her legs than a message in a bottle, right?"

"Shut up, ya dumb fuck. We were told not to say nuthin' about that, and what I'd like to drop between Dr. Christie's legs ain't none of yer concern. Zip yer mouth, or I'll zip it for ya!"

Barringer was stunned. What the hell ... message in a bottle? What is that about?

He swung around, smiling at the two men.

"I can't blame you guys. I've met Dr. Christie. She's a babe, but not my type, really. I like 'em a little softer, not so hard around the edges, know what I mean? She's been working pretty hard, too. Wasn't she doing something with an orca pod? What's this about a penguin?"

The two stared at Barringer. He'd just butted in and they didn't trust strangers. McMurdo is huge by Antarctic research station standards, but it comprises a number of smaller tribes, each devoted to their own interest area. Barringer was way outside their tribe and trust level.

"Nothin', nothin' really. She does work with marine life, and that includes orca studies. But we don't know anything else. Besides, we was just jokin' around. Nothin' to it; nothin' at all, really. C'mon, Jones, we gotta get back to work. See ya around, mister. Forget we said anything. It was just a bad joke."

The two men rushed away, too quickly and nervously, Barringer thought. Jones had run his mouth off and they both knew they'd tipped over a bucket of it.

"Okay, Commander, spill it. What the hell is this about a message in a bottle that was delivered to Dr. Christie, and why did the idiot who let it slip react like he'd stuck his foot in a bear trap when I asked him to explain his remark?"

"I don't feel I'm at liberty to discuss something outside normal procedures, Mr. Barrington. I admit, we have a report of an unusual nature, but it amounts to little more than what might be an anomaly, nothing that could be considered conclusive. I've ordered a follow-up, of course, but other events have overtaken and overshadowed what might be seen as pure speculation. We ... I ... feel it is completely irrelevant and a waste of valuable time and resources over a trivial incident."

Barringer's bullshit meter pegged its dial. This was a heap of it, a stinking pile of crap.

"Enlighten me, Commander. You do know that the agency has been studying Siple Island based on an anomaly as you phrased it? And that New Zealand chartered survey flight was following up on that same anomaly? The man rescued from there was the survivor of a survey party sent there to investigate that anomaly. Now you tell me that I—the agency—would have no interest in your little anomaly?"

Commander Blevins sat stone-faced. Okay, this isn't working, he berated himself. I can't deny it. I'd like to send a marine to shoot those two clowns, but that wouldn't prevent what's coming.

"Very well, agent. We had an incident involving Dr. Christie while she was out taking deep water samples. A penguin leaped into her raft and dropped something. The nature of the object is a matter of some concern. Taken with the circumstances, it leads to more confusion than answers. Since the P-3 pilot's discovery, the whole incident has been rendered irrelevant. We continue to follow up on it, but it's no longer a priority, nor do we think it germane to anything involving our mission here. Satisfied?"

"Hell, no, Commander, not even a little! Where can I find Dr. Christie? I need to hear her version, first hand!"

The commander's stare was so cold and penetrating it could have dropped a lesser man to his knees. Agent Barringer stared right back at Blevins. He'd sit and stare all damned day if that's what it took. Something was being concealed here and he would uncover it if he had to peel this Navy commander down to his skivvies!

A moment passed. It seemed like hell was about to freeze over as another moment passed and the two men stared each other down. Finally, realizing the futility of his resistance and knowing damned well that Barringer had only to use his satellite phone and call Washington to get his way, resistance seemed pointless.

"Very well. Stay in your chair. I'll call for Dr. Christie."

"Yeh, chief, you heard me right. A damned penguin, of all things. She was out on the bay in her Zodiac, pulling water samples, and this big penguin flopped into her raft. It dropped a metal cylinder at her feet and then did a double-somersault backwards into the water and was gone. Just like that!

"Well, that's weird, yeh, but the next part is where we got trouble, pure trouble. You think that guy Hawthorne getting discovered on the island was a screw-up, hang onto yourself. First, you need to know that I've ordered everything about this incident sealed and stamped eyes only top secret. And the two clowns who were sitting in the chow hall joking about it are in the brig for violating Commander's orders. I agree with him on that one, except privately, we owe those two jokers a big one for tipping us off. I hear they'll be released about the time tulips start blooming in the Antarctic sunshine!

"Here's the part you need to know, and the reason I'm calling on the scrambler. That damned bird delivered a metal cylinder with a printed message inside. It was a detailed position and status report on one Michael Hawthorne stranded on Siple Island, nearly out of supplies, who needed rescue!"

"Hell, no, chief. It was before our pilot took off from New Zealand to make the survey. It was a whole day earlier!

"There's more. I've got the cylinder locked up in the office safe, and I changed the combination so nobody but me can get at it. The commander ain't a total dummy, even if I think he's the one who oughta be shot for trying to cover this whole thing up. Dr. Christie? No, she's just a tight-assed scientist who loves her orca and gets confused by penguins when they don't act like penguins. She's harmless ... I think.

"Anyway, the commander sent the cylinder to some of his lab people to have a look. Look but don't touch. Don't scratch or cut or damage it in any way, he told them. So they examined it every way from sideways. They've only got some sketchy ideas, but guess what they do say, for certain?

"It isn't from here. Not from earth. It's unlike anything they've ever seen. And the real kicker is this: it's heavy, heavier than it should be for its displacement. And it's not magnetic. No reaction at all. But the really odd thing, they say, it's not reactive to magnetic lines of force. They just go around it. No, not through it, and it doesn't absorb them. They just go around. So does that give us a clue why that monstrous big mystery on the island doesn't show up as more than a fuzzy blob on our survey or satellite gear?"

"Yep, I thought you'd agree. Okay, getting back to that penguin's message about Hawthorne. Something stinks. It creeps me out. What is the connection between Hawthorne, our huge blob, an alien metal cylinder containing a message printed on alien paper ... yeh, you heard me. The paper is alien too. They made it out of seaweed fiber. And the message gets delivered twelve hundred miles by penguin courier to McMurdo. You can start laughing now, chief. It's too cheesy for a cheap science fiction plot, yeh.

"I know somebody who's not going to be laughing. I've reinforced your order that Hawthorne be put under 24-hour watch in his hospital room. The minute they give him a medical release, we're grabbing and holding him as a material witness. We can hold him until that thing, whatever the hell it is, with his penguin friends inside rises out of the ice and agrees to talk to us!"

Escape plans

Michael was resting. The doctor had left moments before, pleased with his examination of Michael's leg. He was slightly puzzled that it had healed so well. He did have to admit to himself that the first aid treatment and home-brew stitching job was a big factor. If all my patients were that capable, I'd have more time for sailing, he thought to himself.

Two nurses paused to chat in the hallway just outside his door. They weren't visible, but he could hear then clearly.

"Those two give me the creeps! I know they are CIA, I can just smell it. I've been ordered to give them morning and afternoon reports on Mr. Hawthorne's condition, and they're to be notified immediately when he's released. I don't think they mean any good, I really don't. I've been ordered to say nothing to Mr. Hawthorne, and the chief administrator confirmed that we could be in serious trouble if we do say anything. I don't like it, Charlotte, I really don't. Those damned Yank spooks think they own the world, bloody beggars!"

"Sarah, there's nothing we can do, right? Just tend to your duties and let other matters be. Mr. Hawthorne looks like a decent sort to me. I can't imagine what those two men want with him. If he were involved in something serious, our police would be here, wouldn't they?"

Their voices dimmed when they moved down the hallway, chatting between themselves. Michael had overheard enough. He couldn't guess exactly why the agency wanted to put their hands on him, but considering that they'd abandoned him, left him to die, and only learned he was alive when their contracted survey flight discovered him—his paranoia alarm began ringing! That had to be it! He was a dangerous loose end, an embarassment, and there might be other issues he was not aware of yet. Damn, he'd better stop laying back and start tending to his own safety.

His netbook lay packed in his duffle bag, stashed in his room's closet. He pulled his privacy curtain closed and checked for a wi-fi network. Yes! But it needs a key to log on. Very well. It's time for a little charm.

Nurse Sarah looked up from her work to find a smiling Michael peering down at her from the counter.

"Mr. Hawthorne, you really shouldn't be up and walking about. I don't have instructions, but I'm sure Dr. Jeffers would not be pleased to see you on that leg without supervision."

"Sorry, Nurse ... Thomas," he read from her name tag. "I only need a simple favor, and I'll hop right back to my room and bed. I must send a message to my family. I'm sure they're worried that they haven't heard from me, so if I could just log onto the hospital net, I could email them and put their worries to rest."

"That is a bit irregular, Mr. Hawthorne. You are aware our wireless net is secured?" She looked thoughtful for a moment. He was such a nice, polite man and he'd nearly died in that frozen wasteland, she'd heard from the grapevine. She snatched a notepad and penciled a word on it.

"I think this will help. If you would please say nothing, and destroy this little scrap, I'd be very grateful." She palmed the scrap and extended her hand to him. He clasped her hand and retrieved the note in one smooth motion, while shaking her hand gently.

"Thank you. You are very kind! You've been a comfort and a joy, Nurse Thomas."

He composed a quick report to his friend Rhys Jacobs, requesting that a trunk-size crate of high grade thorianite crystals be gathered and packed for shipment. He'd explain more later, on his arrival in Idaho. He was in no mood to take chances. He used their usual code for encrypting the message, and then he did something unusual: he embedded the message in the code of a digital photo, and attached that to a plain-text email of the "I'm fine, glad to still be alive" sort of message. He did include an innocuous phrase that would tell Rhys to find the real message hidden in the photo.