The Fifth Codex Page 2

  Aside from the pilots and eight well-trained, well-armed companions, I have sighted no other signs of life since leaving the Falklands. Every one of my soldiers handpicked by me and in my employment for at least the past decade – I know each as well as a sister does her brothers. They act as the guardians of four ancient ‘siblings’ who patiently wait for us to find the fifth. Safe in their vaults, if we do indeed find the fifth codex, these priceless treasures will surely join us in our joy.

  Able to support over a thousand residents – as far as Antarctica is concerned – McMurdo Station is a sprawling city. Over a hundred buildings scattered about its three airfields; at one time, it even drew power from its own nuclear reactor. Our Globemaster III now circling this frozen metropolis, six daring snowboarders coasting down Observation Hill offer quite the cheery surprise.

  The landing is a bit rough, but taking in the iced runway, probably as gentle as one can hope. I and my contingent of retired, but still lethal, French Legionnaires, US Navy SEALs, and UK SAS soldiers exit from the rear of the C-17. Our cargo – both precious and not so much – exits with us.

  The heliport my wandering eyes latch onto is easily the most impressive sight I have seen thus far. Atop each of these four helipads sits a gleaming Sikorsky CH-53E. A most handsome – they are not called Sea Stallions for nothing – and safe-looking transport, we divide ourselves up into three of them. Four of my soldiers load up half of our cargo into the first Sikorsky. The other four load up the rest into the second helicopter. With mounds of supplies to keep me company, I will ride in the third.

  Suddenly gusty winds give fair warning that these flights by Sea Stallion will be even rougher than our flight in the C-17. The command given, one after the other, this trio of transports lifts off.

  “Pilot, are we headed for Russkaya Station?” I ask about thirty minutes after take off.

  “Russkaya? No ma’am,” the American pilot replies. For as noisy as the helicopter is, our voices sound surprisingly clear through my headset. “Discovery Point is what they’re calling it. Now all built up, a few months ago it was little more than a bunch of nerds and their tents. I have no clue what ya’ll are searching for, but it must really be worth gettin’!” He lets out a loud laugh and then continues. “Russkaya is close, but not in use. And even if the Russians still used it, that old station is too close to the coast. Not long ago, they were too busy with Lake Vostok to care about anywhere else. Now? There are so many of them there, Discovery Point might as well be little Moscow. They are the only ones who have both the knowhow and equipment to drill through more than a mile of this crazy ice.” He pauses for a bit as I take this in. “And make a big enough hole to not collapse in on itself.”

  “As it is more than 900 miles to Discovery Point, how does an aircraft with a range of 700 miles fly the distance? Will we stop to refuel?”

  “No worries, ma’am,” the pilot answers with a laugh. “Although we do cut it rather close, these Sea Stallions are retrofitted for both cold and extended range. About 1,000 miles is the farthest my bird can fly before dry. Because of this, gotta be careful concerning the weather and all.”

  No more words spoken and five jarring hours later, I sleepily gaze upon a settlement more fitting for a colony on Mars than the shoddy buildings that make up McMurdo Station. Lit up as if a Christmas tree – even with the midnight sun shining down – it is a beautiful sight. Fittingly, concerning the time, it is close to midnight London time. Five massive half-spheres rising from the ice now work to awaken my heavy-lidded eyes.

  Drenched in blood red and directly in the center of it all sits the largest of these ‘bubbles’. The other four are the exact same distance apart from both each other and the middle bubble. Intrigued by this, I gaze at the compass on my watch. Sure enough, they match exactly the four cardinal points. The colors of the outer quartet of bubbles are as such: north awash in blue, east a canary yellow, south painted a forest green, and west glowing as orange as would the setting sun.

  Lights of a pale blue color shine in every direction skyward as if desperately trying to catch a UFO’s attention. From each of these four bubbles extends a tunnel, appearing as if made from glass, into the largest red one. Just to the south of all this lays scattered equipment more massive than any I have ever seen. Enough floodlights, a few of them lit, to light Wembley Stadium tower above these machines. To the east of Discovery Point is a heliport with eight helipads – twice as many as at McMurdo. And to the west – what in the world?

  Small hills of steel and other sturdy materials rise out of the glacier. Another army of floodlights even larger than those to the south stands guard. As to what all this is for, I will ask not the pilot, but Admiral Vanderbilt.

  The excitement of our trip cannot hide one obvious truth. Beautiful, pristine, majestic in spots and its own special way, Antarctica owns a dreary dullness with seemingly no end. And just as I realize this, our flight does end.

  After a perfect landing, I thank my pilot for a safe trip and we exit the helicopters. The swirling air bone-chillingly cold, I gather with my eight companions. We now huddle together in a tight circle as if penguins trying to keep our eggs warm. After a minute or two of this, the leader of my soldiers, retired UK SAS Major Gavin Sinclair, points over my shoulder and we turn our heads to follow. An older woman bundled up tight meets our warmth-craving stares. Saggy skin around her peeking eyes gives away her advanced age. No badge, no logo, no indications of rank; for all I can tell, she might be a maid or might be in charge of everything. She points to her left, but says nothing and walks in that direction. Despite such an aloof greeting, as there is no one else around, we swiftly follow.

  She takes us to an open door that leads underground. After some words with another using a pink (really?) walkie-talkie, a small group – just as tightly bundled up as she is – marches passed us and through the shielding door. My soldiers watch warily as these workers bring our precious cargo safely inside. Everything accounted for and the nine of us desperate for sleep, the woman closes the door and takes off her outer clothing above the waist. To describe her as homely is a very kind description.

  “We have accommodations ready for you and your soldiers. Follow me, please.” In her husky tone – distinctly Aussie – this sounds more like a command than a suggestion. She does not offer her name, and we do not ask for it.

  Horribly disoriented after a handful of loopy turns, she leads us into a dreary, gaping room. Still, washing areas and decent looking beds await our exhausted selves. Not home, but good enough – this is Antarctica after all. As she watches, we begin to unpack our personal belongings.

  “Food is on the way. It is a good bit past midnight London time, but as Discovery Point follows UTC minus 6 hours, it is now,” she stares at her timepiece, “1845. Adjust yourselves accordingly.”

  I hurriedly rip off my cheap travel watch and pitch it aside. The luxurious feel of my favorite Patek Philippe around my wrist exudes a sense of normalcy and calms me. As I set my beloved timepiece to the correct hour, with a grunt, our unsightly guide takes a few steps back as if to leave us.

  “Excuse me,” I say somewhat loudly. “Upon landing, I noticed five large half-spheres of different colors. Which one is this?”

  “You are in none of them, Madame Rothschild. This is the underground bunker. Concerning you and what your men guard, security is important is it not?” My sleep deprived head nods weakly in agreement. “Even in Antarctica, bad things can happen to those who fail to prepare for them. At 0900, Admiral Vanderbilt will call on you to meet your peers and begin work. More than enough time between now and then to eat and sleep, I very much suggest you be ready when he does so.”

  Her quick departure leaves us all both together and alone for the first time in three days. Curiously, blank stares are the best way we can think of to celebrate. Our dinner, well, I suppose you can say it was edible, arrives fifteen minutes later. Upon picking through what we deem safe, my men and I at least own half-stuffed guts.
The first night of our next adventure finally here rekindles the delightful thrill only a new quest can. This excitement as if charges of lightning sparking through the air, six hours pass with the feel of one.

  March 1st quickly becomes March 2nd – it is now 0120 Discovery Point time. This passing of time suddenly realized and eager to fall asleep quickly, we tuck ourselves into our foreign beds. My alarm set for 0800, its whiny ring comes within moments of actually dozing off.

  *****

  At exactly 0900 enters not the Admiral, but this Aussie woman once more. Uninvited, unannounced, she opens our door and steps right in. Motionless and with vacant eyes that look me over from head to toe, you would have thought I had walked in on her. I feel for my darkened glasses to ensure they are on – they are – and stare straight back at her.

  “A slight change in plans, Madame,” she drawls as she melts out of her frozen stupor. “You will be staying with the other scientists in the barracks on the west end of Discovery Point. As for your men, this will be their permanent housing.” My mouth agape in prepared protest, she closes it tight – “Admiral’s orders.”

  With a fake smile much too wide to be real, I spin around to gather my personal belongings. My equipment and precious wares will stay safely behind with my soldiers. For now, this is fine. I will not need them until later.

  “Here are your access cards.” She starts handing these cards out to the nine of us. “They give each of you complete access to all areas aside from the Command Information Center in the blue igloo. If and when necessary, your soldiers will have the chance to set up their equipment in the CIC. As each of you surely noticed from the air, the four outer igloos all join the red one at the center. If you get lost, just start going about in circles … you will find your way again.”

  Every one of us chuckles at this ‘helpful’ hint, yet her warped face appears perfectly stern.

  “Your quarters, Madame Rothschild, will be in the orange igloo. Do you need help with your belongings?”

  “No thank you,” I answer back. “I think we have everything under control.”

  From here, two of my men wheel my luggage behind me as I follow our grumpy guide. After they escort my trunks and me to the orange bubble, the two soldiers depart. The strange woman about to do the same, I simply cannot help myself.

  “We do not have access to the CIC?” I ask. “Not sure if I heard you correctly – is this true?” She slowly turns toward me as if in disbelief I can be so bold.

  “Admiral Vanderbilt has access to the CIC. One person aside from him likewise has access. And none others. Did you hear me correctly this time?”

  A battle of wits underway, I choose to holster my tongue. Too weary from my long trip to clean up the mess – this one is just not worth the time it would take to do so. My face as blank as hers is ugly; I spin around and approach my trunks. No more words spoken, the wrinkled loon thankfully departs. Now alone, I inspect my rather well-appointed barracks and quickly realize these cozy surroundings are for me only.

  Ah … the benefits of being a woman in a male dominated field!

  Just as my imagination carries me off to cradling in my hands the fifth codex I dearly hope awaits me, an ear-splitting ring from my tablet returns me back to reality.

  “Dr. Rothschild!” Major Sinclair crows joyfully. “No idea what you told that Aussie boiler, but take a look at this!”

  My nose scrunches up as the grizzled Scot points his tablet’s camera at a regal bounty of scrumptious food. The banquet he taunts me with appears to have no end! A pile of croissants – so warm the steam still rises from their doughy deliciousness – practically mocks me through the screen. More attacking this bounty than eating it, starving wolves with the run of a butcher shop have nothing on these ravenous men. Seeing this, drooling at this, I suddenly realize I am starving as well.

  “Breakfast?” I whisper dreamily as if recalling a great delight I once knew, but have not partaken of in ages. “I want breakfast!” Ready to dash back to the bunker, I rush to the doorway, swipe the access card, the door whisks open ––

  Oh, pour l’amour de Dieu! Will this hobo woman please stop stalking me!

  “Oh – we meet again,” I say with more fake cheeriness. Her usual loopy stare is the best greeting she can muster. “C’est froid,” I gasp as she shoves the ice-cold plate into my free hand. On this plate sits a bagel with a smattering of cream cheese. “I’m sure the bagel is just as cold,” I growl a bit too loudly.

  The hobo woman raises her right eyebrow. No doubt pleased to hear these frustrated thoughts escape my mind, that blank stare then turns into a sly smirk.

  “Your fellow scientists are waiting,” she says in a syrupy sweet voice. “Please follow me.”

  Chapter Three

  FIRST IMPRESSIONS

  As would a lost puppy, I tail behind the breakfast grinch. Somehow, I can tell we are walking north, in the direction of the blue bubble. The video to the tablet clutched in my left hand still on, I peer into it.

  “I am busy, cannot make breakfast,” I mumble in misery and then turn the tablet off. Positive the bagel is as cold as the plate, I do not even bother to check.

  Why this and not a croissant with jam for heaven’s sake? It is not as if she does not know I am French!

  Recalling I am about to see Admiral Vanderbilt; with each step, my annoyance lessens and the excitement for my journey’s purpose grows. During my lifetime of adventure, I have undertaken dozens of separate journeys much more dangerous. Four codices already in my possession, this wasteland we call Antarctica promises the chance to reach for the fifth and most important one. How to describe my desperate desire to grasp it – hunger without end, thirst to die for….

  Oh, what shallow words are these!

  Our surroundings remind me of the eerie tidiness I have already seen more than enough of. Even for a borderline OCD sufferer like me – yes, it took quite a long run of therapy before I could admit this, thank you – everything is far too clean, as if dust and dirt do not exist in Antarctica. About to pass by a much too modern disposal bin more befitting a futuristic movie than the bottom of the world, I stealthily dump both the bagel and plate into it. Finally, we arrive at a door that appears as secure as the one that keeps safe my library in London. It is also bigger than any other door I have yet to see.

  “So you are the ‘other’ with access to the CIC,” I say enviously. The hobo opens the access door, turns toward me, and actually smiles. As she stuffs the access card into my hand ––

  Did she just wink at me as well?

  “No, Madame Rothschild … you are. I depart within the hour and wish you a very fruitful expedition. You can dispose of the other access card I gave you yesterday when you wish. Just maybe,” her steady tone morphs into cheerful sarcasm, “it can keep your hot bagel and non-disposable plate company in the rubbish tin.”

  With these words and my shocked look having only her wide backside to offer a reply to – a reply no amount of wit can dream up – she is gone.

  As if just beyond the open door is a portal to another world, I peer through it. With a few steps into the portal, this world then comes into view. I practically tiptoe through the corridor and now stare wide-eyed at the many computers and gadgets that peek back at me. Five pairs of human eyes stare back as well.

  “There she is!” Admiral Vanderbilt bellows merrily as he leaps to his feet and bounds toward me to give me a squeezing hug. I squeeze him back just as hard. Only after he winces do I let him out of my giddy grip.

  “Great to see you, Grandpa Van –,” I say quietly before speaking louder to correct my mistake, “I mean, thank you, Admiral Vanderbilt … sir!”

  The other four men look at me as if they have not seen a woman in years – they have not been stuck in Antarctica that long!

  I suppose I am just a little prettier than the witty hobo breakfast grinch they no doubt have met as well. Let known I am a woman of France, perhaps they expect a Parisian stick figure? Sorry to d
isappoint if so, but I refuse to likewise spend my birthdays gorging on Big Macs whilst every other day of the year gagging on granola and apples. Yes, I am a bit taller than most women are – okay, men as well – but I refuse to apologize for being a lifelong athlete and keeping my physical self as such. Usually, however, decent, well-fitting clothes – always black – and my oddly round, friendly face disarm those men who have trouble keeping their eyes above my neckline. Happily, at least for now, these strained stares have nothing to do with my appearance.

  “Um … y’all know each other?” Dr. Chance Saddlebirch drawls.

  He is the most youthful of the gathered five. Even if I had not noticed his handsome felt hat, oversized silver belt buckle, and white button down shirt, from his accent, I know from where this cowboy hails. Going for the John Wayne look I suppose, the renowned American linguist is close to halfway there. Well-pressed jeans and boots owning too fine a shine in need of roughening up, however, fail to complete the look properly. As well, his eyes brown, not blue, a few too many kilos around the middle, and needing a bit more height – maybe he is farther away than I first thought.

  “Oh, how glorious – another Yankee! And yes, we know each other quite well.”

  “Gentleman, this is Alexys Élisabeth Rothschild … Vanderbilt,” the good Admiral announces. “A little over a year ago, she married my eldest grandson, Philip!” A pondering pause after these words does not last long.

  “Rothschild?” growls a Russian as crusty as he is pale. The very brilliant, very prejudiced Slav others had warned me of in my travels – but who I have yet to meet until now – takes a few steps toward me. “Rothschild you say? The House of Rothschild?” Obviously, my marriage prowess does not impress our Russian peer. Eyes the same color and coldness as steel do their best to burrow into me as if two biting drills he had molded himself.

  “For the most part, yes,” I fire back through gritted teeth. A good six inches shorter than me, Dr. Victor Korzhak is not a physically overpowering man. His hard appearance, however, topped off with shoulder length grey-white hair tied in a ponytail make up for his lack of height. This long hair failing to cover the deep scars on his forehead makes him look even scarier.