The 707 bringing Connors, Wedderkind, and the research group from Ohio landed at Glasgow just after midday. An aircrew bus took them over to the officer’s mess for lunch. Greg Mitchell was there, packed and ready to ride the 707 back to Washington. He told Connors that Allbright’s group was on the Ridge and that the CIA ‘front office’ operation was already in position on Highway 22.
‘It couldn’t be better,’ Greg concluded. ‘On a busy day, you get all of two cars an hour going past the front door. The only security problem you’re likely to get is from the few light planes in the area. There’s a dirt strip at Jordan, and an air-taxi outfit based at the Miles City airport. I think they do some control work for the State Fish and Game Department.’
‘Well, you have a three and a half hour trip ahead of you,’ said Connors. ‘See if you can come up with some ideas before you get to Washington. Have you met Allbright?’
‘Yes,’ said Greg. ‘Before he rose to be head of SAC, he commanded one of the B-52 wings that carpet-bombed Cambodia for Nixon and dear old Henry K.’
‘While pretending to be elsewhere…’
‘That’s right. The Menu raids.’
Connors gave Greg a raised-eyebrow look as the details of this shabby, and ultimately futile, venture flashed through his mind.
The Viet Cong had been using the cross-border trails to bring supplies and reinforcements down from the north. They’d also set up bases on Cambodian territory from which attacks were launched against South Vietnam. It was a clear violation of Cambodia’s neutrality but the government in Phnom Penh, lacking the political will and the military muscle to throw its unwelcome visitors out, turned a blind eye to what was going on.
Code-named Menu, the raids were designed to deny the VC sanctuary by destroying these bases and supply lines but Nixon knew that any extension of the war into Cambodia would trigger a new storm of protest from the domestic anti-war lobby and fellow-travellers the world over. To get around this, the Air Force was ordered to cover its tracks with an impenetrable layer of fake paperwork. The bombing, which began in February 1969, continued under a cloud of secrecy and a barrage of denials from the White House until April 1970 when units of the US and South Vietnamese army staged an abortive invasion.
Once again, American technology and firepower failed to halt the rice-bowl and bicycle battalions of Hanoi. South Vietnam collapsed in disarray as the US of A finally decided to cut its losses and sailed for home while next door, the blank-eyed teen-age killers of the Khmer Rouge came out of the jungle and took over the smoking ruins of Cambodia.
An unknown number of Cambodians had died in the raids; upwards of three million more perished when Pol Pot’s regime turned back the clock to Year Zero and proceeded to impose their homicidally-insane brand of Marxism upon the luckless population. An entire country was transformed into one vast concentration camp as a direct result of a ‘let’s go bomb the hell out of them’ cry from a frustrated US President.
And an embarrassed world had looked the other way.
Greg read Connors’ mind and smiled, tongue in cheek. ‘I know. Not exactly your kind of person. But his record shows he’s a man who does what he’s told and knows how to keep a secret. And as the head of SAC, he’s obviously a man who can be relied on to keep a cool head when the chips are down. What more could you ask?’
‘What more, indeed,’ said Connors. ‘Have a nice day.’
After lunch, Connors, Wedderkind, Wetherby, and Brecetti left the base in a rented car. Two miles down the road towards the town of Glasgow, a yellow MRDC helicopter was parked on an empty stretch of ground. They climbed aboard and headed south towards the Fort Peck reservoir.
As they crossed the huge expanse of water, Wetherby tapped Connors on the shoulder and pointed downward out of the window.
‘Did you know this is still the largest earth-fill dam in the world?’
Connors nodded. Tremendous… He decided that next time he would ask the pilot to take the long way around.
About thirty minutes later, they landed on a bare patch of ground at the junction of Highway 22 and the dirt road that led up to Crow Ridge. It had been decided not to risk any landings nearer the Ridge until the full extent of the cutout zone had been carefully charted.
Behind a sign which read ‘MRDC – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY’ four of the base camp’s prefabricated shacks had already been positioned on Bodell’s land, a short distance from the road.
On the other side of the highway a lineman was busy at the top of a telephone pole.
One of Allbright’s cadets from Colorado Springs was waiting with a yellow four-door jeep. He wore a blue hard hat and had the name LARSEN stencilled on the breast tag of his olive-drab fatigues. He handed out four yellow hard hats. Connors got into the front seat of the station wagon. The others got into the back.
‘Has General Allbright arived?’ asked Connors.
‘I don’t think I’m able to answer that, sir. To the best of my knowledge there are no military personnel associated with this project.’ Larsen gave it an absolutely straight delivery.
Connors looked over his shouder at Wedderkind, then back at Larsen. ‘You are right, of course. Perhaps I’d better rephrase the question.’
‘I think the best thing is for you to talk to the site organizer, sir. He’s up on the Ridge.’
Six miles from the highway, Connors caught sight of some more cadets through the trees. They were driving in a line of marker stakes around the Ridge. There was a temporary barrier of dirt-filled oil drums where the marker stakes hit the road. It was manned by four more of the look-alike cadets. Two of them had shotguns. All of them had the peaks of their blue hard hats pulled down over their eyes in the best drill-sergeant fashion.
‘Connors, Brecetti, Wedderkind, and Wetherby,’ said Larsen.
A cadet checked the names against the list on his clipboard, and handed out four plastic name tags that included a mug shot. ‘Please put these on and wear them at all times.’ He stepped back and waved up the barrier.
They drove through, rounded a curve and parked in between the pines alongside several other vehicles.
‘We have to walk from here,’ said Larsen.
Ahead of them, across the dirt road, was a line of red stakes. Beyond them, Connors could see Volkert’s patrol car, the tow truck and the Air Force Rescue truck, still parked where they had stalled over a week before.
Connors turned to Larsen. ‘Do the stakes mark the edge of the cutout zone?’
‘Only approximately, sir. We haven’t driven up any further than our parking point back there. We put the stakes in halfway between there and the stalled vehicles to serve as a basic reference point.’
Connors felt a tingle of excitement as he followed Larsen through the line of red stakes. He looked back at Wedderkind and saw that his eyes had taken on a new shine. Brecetti was rubbing his hands together. Wetherby had stopped to take in the whole scene along with a few deep breaths of pine-laden air.
On the windshields of all three vehicles were taped notices: ‘DO NOT TAMPER WITH OR ATTEMPT TO MOVE THIS VEHICLE.’ The hood of Volkert’s patrol car had been left open.
Connors took a peek at the engine, then turned to Wedderkind. ‘Has anybody examined these?’
‘Yes,’ said Wedderkind. ‘I went over them all when we were up here last week. Before you went to see Bodell.’
‘You were taking a risk, weren’t you?’
‘He was too busy shooting at Weissmann,’ said Wedderkind.
Connors turned to Larsen. ‘Has there been any word on the converted diesel trucks?’
‘Yes, sir. We anticipate receiving the first batch this evening. Would you like to move on to the plateau?’
‘Sure, let’s go.’ Connors exchanged an amused look with Wedderkind, and fell into step beside Larsen. The others tagged along behind. Connors looked back over his shoulder at Wedderkind. ‘Now that I think of it, how come you know so much about automobiles?’
‘This may surprise you,’ said Wedderkind, ‘but twenty-five years ago I was still doing my own hot rod conversions.’
‘That was before he became ambitious,’ said Brecetti.
The dirt road degenerated into the dried mud tracks of Bodell’s old Dodge. Above them, they could hear the sound of another helicopter bringing in more people from Glasgow.
Connors looked back at Wedderkind. ‘We’re going to have to get this road cut through to the plateau.’
‘I think the plan is to get started on that tonight, sir.’ It was Larsen being helpful again. He angled off to the right of the tyre tracks. A band of white paint on the tree trunks marked the way through.
‘How old are you, Larsen?’
‘Twenty-three, sir.’
‘This must be a whole lot more fun than walking in right angles and eating at attention, right?’
‘You only do that as a freshman, sir,’ explained Larsen patiently. ‘In addition to our military training, upperclass cadets are required to complete a Bachelor of Science degree course and a program of enrichment studies. We are also called upon to perform command and staff functions within the Cadet Wing.’
And we also learn how to put down wheeler-dealers from Washington without being insubordinate, thought Connors. Full marks, Larsen.
The ground became littered with broken branches. There were more hanging in the trees. Ahead of them, they could see shattered tree trunks and the open sky.
They stepped out into the semicircular area of devastation. The ground was covered with small splinters of wood – as if someone had emptied a million matchboxes. The rim of the crater was about a hundred yards away. The ground was heaped up around it just like the sugar in Wedderkind’s demonstration bowl.
Connors looked at Larsen as they walked towards the crater. ‘How big is this thing?’
‘About thirty yards across, sir.’
Connors turned to the others. ‘There were three hours between the time people reported seeing the fireball over Broken Mill and the time Volkert got up to the top of Crow Ridge and found this crater. How the hell could it have buried itself so fast?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Wedderkind. He stooped down and picked up a handful of wood splinters. He looked around him. ‘There’s no sign of a fire.’ He showed the splinters to Brecetti. ‘They’re not charred. You see? It looks as if they have been shredded. Look at how the wood fibres have disintegrated. The pressure from the blast must have been tremendous. One would have expected it to devastate the whole plateau, but as you can see, the rest of the trees are still standing.’
‘The damage could have been caused by ultralow-frequency sound waves,’ said Brecetti. ‘The right wavelength could set up a resonance in the timber that would blow it apart. Remember the experiments the French carried out at Marseilles in 1964?’
‘Was that the “Jericho Trumpet?”’ asked Connors. ‘They split concrete apart with a sound gun.’
‘That’s right,’ said Brecetti. ‘Lower frequencies are even more destructive. At 3.5 hertz the sound waves create subsonic vibrations that can literally shake humans apart.’
‘Insane,’ said Connors. ‘I can never understand why you guys fool around with that kind of thing.’
‘Ultrasonic high-frequency vibrations was another possibility we discussed back in Ohio. Crusoe could have buried himself by shaking the ground loose around him – rather like the way insects burrow into sand.’
‘This fireball that people saw,’ said Connors. ‘Could that have been retro-rockets firing, to slow its rate of descent before landing?’
Wedderkind shook his head. ‘Not possible. The heat would have burned or scorched this area. There’s no sign of that.’ He tossed the handful of wood splinters away.
‘At least we now know Crusoe isn’t invisible,’ said Connors.
‘Don’t count on that.’
Connors stared at Wedderkind. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Bob, if Crusoe can alter the physical properties of his surface structure so that it fluoresces on a wavelength we can see, he must be able to reverse the process to get himself out of trouble.’
‘Oh, tremendous…’
‘Bob, all we’re doing is tossing a few ideas around. You might as well get used to it because there’re going to be a lot of sessions like this. We don’t have one single reference point from which we can begin to work out what this thing is or what it does. And when we dig it up, we still may not know. So if you’re waiting for a set of blueprints and a service manual, forget it.’
‘I know what the problems are,’ said Connors. ‘And I am not expecting any miracles.’
‘Not expecting any? You’ve got a miracle.’ Wedderkind waved towards the crater. ‘Down there. Something conceived by intelligent life beyond Earth. Maybe even containing it. Something that’s travelled across our galaxy past the billions of other stars to the one we circle every year. Why ours? As a star, our sun is way down the list. A shmendrick. And yet Crusoe’s here – not only on our planet, but on our part of it! If you were to try and calculate the chances of something like this happening, they’d be – ’
‘Out of this world?’ suggested Connors.
‘Exactly,’ said Wedderkind. ‘Forget the problems. We can find a way around them. Just be grateful. A chance like this comes once in a million – no, what am I talking about? Not even that – once in a billion years!’
They walked up on to the rim of the crater and looked down into it. It was twelve to fifteen feet deep, with shallow sloping sides of loose earth and scattered stones.
‘You’ll probably notice a slight tingling inside the head after a few minutes,’ said Larsen. ‘It occurs in the immediate vicinity of the crater.’
‘Yes, that makes senes,’ said Wedderkind.
‘Some people are more affected than others,’ said Larsen.
‘How?’ asked Connors. He could already feel a faint prickling inside his head. Like tiny needles. Ice cool. It wasn’t unpleasant.
‘Mild dizziness. Disorientation. Temporary loss of balance,’ said Larsen. ‘It clears up once you leave the area of the crater.’
‘What causes it, Arnold? Crusoe’s magnetic field?’
‘Yes. You have minute but measurable chemically-created electric currents flow through the brain, triggering off signals that are translated into thoughts, speech, body functions, or movement. Once you step inside Crusoe’s cutout zone, a surge starts to build up in those currents – just like any other electrical circuit.’
‘Does that mean my brain is going to blow a fuse?’ asked Connors.
‘No,’ said Wedderkind. ‘But it might stall.’ He walked down the slope towards the centre of the crater with Brecetti.
Connors followed with Wetherby and Larsen. He still found it hard to believe that Crusoe was buried somewhere underneath them. ‘What do you think he’s going to do?’
Wedderkind looked at him. ‘Do? The big question isn’t what, but when. You have to remember that he could be operating on an entirely different time scale to us. He may have taken a thousand, ten thousand or ten million years to reach us. He may not be in a hurry to do anything.’
‘You mean there might not be any activity in our lifetime?’
‘It’s possible. We can either wait and see, or we can let him know that we know he’s down there.’
Connors felt as if he was about to float. ‘I’m getting some real vibrations, Arnold. Do you feel anything?’
‘A slight dizziness,’ said Wedderkind. ‘How about you, Phil?’
‘I’m getting a sensation of imbalance,’ said Brecetti.
Connors nodded. ‘Yes, me too.’
They all looked at Wetherby.
‘I feel as if I’m going to be sick.’
‘Sir?’
Connors looked around. Beyond Larsen, on the rim of the crater, was General Allbright. He was dressed in spotless olive-drab fatigues, with a bright blue scarf tucked in the open neck, and one of those curvy-brimmed stetsons that the Guam and Thailand-based B-52 crews had made fashionable during the Vietnam War. And he was sitting on a horse – a magnificent, long-maned palomino.
Behind him, wearing blue hard hats, were two young aides, also mounted, but on lesser breeds.
Allbright looked down at Connors and the others with deepset prairie farmer’s eyes two shades lighter than his scarf.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, in a way that somehow robbed the word of all respect.’ Welcome to Crow Ridge.’
Given the fact that no motor vehicles could operate on the Ridge, Allbright’s choice of personal transportation was immensely practical. Nevertheless, it still took Connors by surprise.
Connors decided it was the horse that had thrown him. The palomino was too good-looking, too photogenic. It wasn’t a solid, US Fifth Cavalry type of horse, it was the type Gene Autry and Ronald Reagan used to ride. It threw an interesting sidelight on Allbright’s character.
Allbright dropped easily out of the saddle as Connors led the others out of the crater to meet him. Although he topped six feet, once they were face to face, Connors found Allbright less overpowering than he had expected. Like so many heroic figures, he looked a lot taller in the saddle than he did on the ground.
Connors shook his firm right hand, then introduced the others. If he was expecting sparks to fly, he was disappointed. Allbright was attentive, courteous and briskly efficient. He also possessed the easy amiability of a bridge player with a handful of trump cards.
He led the way to a vantage point on the peak of the ridge and pointed out the proposed locations for the housing, workshop and research facilities. ‘The boundaries of Bodell’s land are being staked out now. They’ll be patrolled day and night until the high wire and chain link fence go up. We have a civilian contractor starting in on that tomorrow. They’ll be working three shifts from a base camp down by Highway 22.’ As if reading Connors’ mind, he added, ‘Don’t worry. None of them will get any further than the fence.’
‘I’m counting on that,’ said Connors. ‘But while they’re around, I think it would be a good idea if your people could keep the hardware out of sight. The two I saw riding shotgun on the gate looked as if they were guarding the Treasure of the Sierra Madre. I know we can’t afford to take any chances on the security of this project, but we don’t want to create a situation where people on the outside start asking the wrong kind of questions.’
Allbright nodded politely. ‘I think I get the idea.’ He signalled to his aide to bring up the palomino.
‘If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’d like to check the progress of the work in hand. Some temporary tented accommodation has been set aside for your use over on the south flank of the ridge.’ Allbright pointed over their heads. ‘You’ll find your luggage there.’
‘Before you go, General, did you experience any reaction at the crater?’ asked Wedderkind.
‘Yes. A slight coolness – here.’ Allbright put a thumb and forefinger to his temples.
‘A tingling sensation?’ asked Connors.
Allbright nodded. ‘Yes. Not at all unpleasant.’
‘Yes, rather like a mild high.’
Allbright took hold of the palomino’s reins and put a foot in the stirrup. ‘I’m familiar with the terminology of the drug culture, Mr Connors, but not the experience.’ He swung up into the saddle. ‘Let’s say a slight feeling of elation.’
Connors smiled. ‘That would be about it.’
Allbright patted the neck of his restive horse. ‘I’ve arranged a briefing session for the project leaders at 19:00 hours. There will be food and drink available. Mr Larsen will accompany you till then. You can also contact me through him if the need arises.’ Allbright gave them a casual salute, then wheeled his horse around and cantered off down the slope followed by his two wingmen.
Connors exchanged a look with Wedderkind, then turned to Brecetti. ‘These, er – vibrations that people are getting from the crater. Could they cause any permanent damage – I mean, to the brain?’
‘I’m not really competent to answer that,’ said Brecetti. ‘I know the brain currents can vary between fifty and one hundred and fifty microvolts but I don’t know the maximum level of tolerance.’
Wedderkind turned to Wetherby. ‘Do you still feel sick?’
‘No, I’m okay…’
‘Would it be possible for us to generate a field as powerful as this?’ asked Connors.
‘It’s theoretically possible,’ replied Brecetti. ‘We are already producing immensely powerful magnetic fields for our researches into plasma.’
‘I’ve told him about Princeton’s Large Torus,’ said Wedderkind.
‘Ah, yes, that’s quite something. You’ve seen the way the light glows down the middle of a neon tube? Well, in the PLT, a line of plasma, pure molten energy, is held away from the sides of a circular tube by this magnetic field.’ Brecetti shook his head. ‘The problems – ’
‘He doesn’t want to know about the problems,’ said Wedderkind.
‘Arnold said the operation was burning up a lot of electrical energy,’ said Connors.
‘Enough to heat and light a whole city,’ said Brecetti.
‘One thing that no one has mentioned so far is super conductivity,’ said Wetherby. ‘You can generate enormous field stengths with quite small units – and with very little electrical energy.’
‘Hell, yes, of course.’ Wedderkind turned to Connors. ‘Do you know what we’re talking about?’
‘Vaguely. Is it a low temperature magnet?’
‘Right. We’ve been opening up this whole field over the last ten years or so. The electrical resistance of a metal decreases as its temperature drops. When certain metals – like lead, tin, vanadium, and alloys such as niobium and tin – are cooled to a few degrees above absolute zero, their resistance suddenly vanishes. All you need is a ring of one of these metals cooled to the transition temperature – introduce an electrical current, and wham! It creates a fantastically strong magnetic field.’
‘Got it,’ said Connors. ‘While you were talking, a thought occurred to me – could Crusoe harness the Earth’s magnetic field to form a shield around itself?’
‘Good question,’ said Brecetti.
‘It’s possible, but he would have to find some way to intensify it.’ Terrestrial magnetism fell within Wetherby’s scope as a geographer. ‘The Earth’s field is normally rated as being about ten thousand times weaker than an ordinary horseshoe magnet.’
‘That’s right,’ said Brecetti. ‘My guess is that Crusoe’s probably generating his own field. It will be interesting to find out how he does it.’
‘And why it jams our radar,’ said Connors. ‘If we can crack that problem and find some way to use it ourselves…’
Wedderkind gave him a pitying look. ‘You really do have a one-track mind.’
‘Arnold, let’s get one thing straight. Regardless of what my personal views may be, if all we’re going to get out of this encounter is a blueprint for a brave new world, forget it. The people in Washington won’t want to know – nor will the people in Akiak, Alaska, or Zanesville, Ohio.’
‘You don’t really believe that.’
‘I wish I didn’t. For anything that affects our national security, money is no problem. But you know the government’s policy on pure research. There have to be spin-offs. The right kind of spin-offs – like the military got from the space program. The private foundations may take a more altruistic point of view, but the US Navy doesn’t pay people to play around with dolphins just because they like fish – ’
‘The dolphin isn’t a fish,’ said Wetherby.
‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ said Connors. ‘They’re laying down good government money because they think the dolphins are going to produce a sonar breakthrough that will be bad news for Russian submarines.’
‘Bob, we know all that. But this is different.’ Wedderkind pointed towards the crater. ‘Somewhere under there could be the answers to the questions that Man has been asking for centuries. That some of the greatest minds have spent a lifetime trying to answer. Is there intelligent life elsewhere in the universe? Is Man unique – or has the seed of Man been sown throughout the universe? Are we a purposeless evolutionary accident, biological freaks? Or do we have a higher purpose?’
‘Arnold, we all want to know the answers, but nobody else does. Look what a big yawn the space program has turned out to be. The television networks soon found that out. I don’t think the world is ready yet – and the way things are going, it may never be.’
‘But Man has to know,’ said Brecetti. ‘That’s what distinguishes him from the rest of the animals. He searches for knowledge, for truth. It’s a fundamental drive one cannot suppress.’
‘You haven’t been in government,’ said Connors. ‘Aren’t we concealing this project?’
‘Yes, but only temporarily – for practical reasons,’ said Wedderkind.
‘Don’t count on that,’ said Connors. ‘We’re in business just as long as we come up with the right answers. No one is going to let Crusoe upset the apple cart.’
‘Bob, the process is irreversible. You can’t stop technological progress. You can’t hold back knowledge. The Luddites went around smashing mechanical looms but they didn’t stop the Industrial Revolution.’
‘Perhaps they should have tried harder,’ said Wetherby.
‘This is hardly the time to start opening that can of beans,’ said Wedderkind.
‘Just what kind of knowledge would you consider unwelcome?’ asked Brecetti. ‘I don’t mean you, personally.’
‘Well,’ said Connors, ‘it could be argued that it serves no useful purpose for us to know that there is intelligent life in a star system a thousand light years from here – or even one that’s nearer. It’s a totally irrelevant piece of information. To know he is not alone in the universe is not going to improve the quality of Man’s existence. It doesn’t help solve any of the problems that face us here on Earth. Maybe that’s where all our energies should be directed. After all, 99.999 per cent of the population isn’t going anywhere else.
‘As for bad news, I’m sure we could all make out a list, but I’ll throw in three ideas straight off the top of my head – supposing Crusoe was found to contain the secret of everlasting life, would we want that? Would the Vatican want irrefutable proof that they’d been handing down the wrong message for the last two thousand years? Would we want to be told how to run things by a bunch of Soviet-type spaceniks fresh off a collective in Cassiopeia?’
As Connors asked the question, they all became aware of a deep-throated roar. They looked down the ridge and saw a heavy yellow truck come grinding up through the pines and on to the plateau. There were about a dozen people hanging on to the outside of the cab and the back of the truck, all waving orange hard hats. As the truck pulled up near the crater with its motor running, the men on it gave a ragged cheer of triumph.
Connors and the others walked down towards them. Wedderkind took hold of Connors’ arm briefly.
‘Robert, you and I need to have a talk,’ he said. ‘Just to make sure we’re on the same side.’
‘I thought we were,’ said Connors.
Max Nilsson jumped down from the cab as they approached. Max was a big, broad-shouldered blockbuster whose body seemed charged with the compressed energy of a Superball. He smoothed down his extravagant black moustache and swaggered forward with a broad grin.
‘Bob Connors?’
‘Yes.’
‘Max Nilsson, CIA. I’m MRDC’s Operations Manager on this Project.’
‘Good to meet you. This is Arnold Wedderkind, head of the research group – Phil Brecetti – Al Wetherby.’ Connors nodded towards the diesel. ‘Is that the first of the converted trucks?’
Max shook his head. ‘They’re still being worked on. We decided not to wait. I thought you might want to get started with this.’ He waved at the stack of girders and equipment on the long trailer.
‘What is it?’ asked Connors.
‘A light drill rig. We’ve brought enough pipe to go down two thousand feet. Got a core sampler as well.’
‘What do you plan to use for power?’
‘Steam.’
‘Steam?’
Max grinned. ‘It was good enough to get this whole industry started back in 1859 – has to be better than a pick and shovel – right?’
‘Right,’ said Connors. ‘Away you go, Max. Arnold here will tell you where he wants the rig spotted.’
‘Okay. It shouldn’t take us too long to get set up. We might even make contact before midnight.’
The heavy beat of the truck’s motor faded as the driver took his foot off the pedal to ease the cramp out of his right leg.
Max spun around and shouted. ‘Keep it running, keep it running!’
The motor roared back into life.
‘Back it up to the edge of that hole and get that rig unloaded!’ yelled Max through cupped hands. He turned back to Connors. ‘I guess we were kind of reluctant about driving up here. Nobody wanted to stall halfway and be left standing around with egg on their face. Now I know how easy it is, I’ll get some more trucks up with the trailer units.’
Max snapped his fingers and pointed to Wedderkind, ‘Oh, yeah, one thing you may want to know. We had all our lights on as we drove up. They cut out just past that line of red stakes.’
‘Where the other vehicles are.’
‘Yeah. Otherwise no problem.’
HASKILL, one of Allbright’s aides, cantered over to see what was going on. ‘Are you going to be bringing up more equipment on to the ridge?’ he asked Max.
‘Yeah, I’m going to start shipping in the trailer units first. I’ like a few of your boys to trim out some of those pines.’
‘Okay, we’ll get going on that.’
‘Our tyre tracks’ll show you the route,’ said Max.
Haskill nodded and larruped his horse into a canter from a standing start.
‘Hey, cowboy!’ yelled Max.
The horse’s back legs almost slid from under him as Haskill pulled up short.
‘Give me a good ten feet on either side!’
‘Wilco!’ yelled Haskill. He rode off across the plateau like a Junior Rough Rider.
Max gave Wedderkind a friendly thump on the shoulder. ‘Okay, Einstein. You wanna show me where you want this hole?’
Wedderkind rolled his eyes at Connors, then walked off with Max. Brecetti and Wetherby followed.
Connors turned to Larsen. ‘If anybody wants me I’ll be over on the south side. I’ve got some paperwork to do.’
‘Very good, sir. You’ll find one of the tents has your name posted outside.’ Larsen signed off with a snappy salute.
By the time Max Nilsson’s first truck had been unloaded, news of its safe arrival had been sent down to the base camp with instructions for more big diesels to load up and head for Crow Ridge.
The crew of roughnecks got the drilling platform levelled up in the centre of the crater and rapidly assembled the prefabricated sections of the rig. The first thirty-foot length of drill was locked into the rotary table just after six o’clock. Steam hissed out of the valves of the engine and it thumped away smoothly as Max, with a show of ceremony, threw the lever to connect the drive. The rock drill began to bite into the loosely-packed topping of gravel.
Max patted the vibrating engine housing and grinned broadly at Connors. ‘Hear that sweet sound? Who’d think this little lady’s more’n eighty years old?’
‘Where did you dig it up?’
‘Borrowed it from a private museum. Belongs to an oil millionaire down in Texas who owes me a favour. He’s got all kinds of junk there, and it all works. Does most of the repairs himself.’
Two more heavy trucks ground their way up through the trees. Ever since the late afternoon there had been a constant background roar from their heavy engines as the drivers obeyed Max’s injunction not to cut the motors.
The trucks were bringing more accommodation units. Some were already in position on their jacks, and with the arrival of the fifty Air Force technicians from Kirtland AFB, and the rest of Wedderkind’s people, Crow Ridge suddenly seemed to come to life:
Wedderkind came over to the rim of the crater where Connors now stood watching the drilling. ‘I’ve just heard there’s now a phone down by the red stakes. It’s hooked up to the base camp. Allbright’s going to get us wired into the SAC landline system to give us a direct link with Washington. How’s it going here?’
‘They’re down to about eighty feet. Max had to pull one of his guys off the platform. Same trouble as Wetherby.’
‘Nausea?’
‘Yes.’
‘How about the others?’ asked Wedderkind.
‘Varying degrees of dizziness. They’re taking turns manning the rig.’
‘How do you feel yourself?’
‘Me? I feel fine. Although for all I know this field could be quietly dissolving my brain away. Maybe I’m about to discover that I’m only running on two microvolts instead of fifty. It could be embarrassing.’
‘Well, I think you should back off for a while,’ said Wedderkind. ‘My guess is that it’s harmless, but that’s all it is – a guess. Like almost everything up to now.’
‘Did the medical team from NASA get here?’
‘Yes.’ Wedderkind smiled. ‘They’re rolling bandages now. I’ve told them I want regular checks on everybody working on the site starting tomorrow morning. That includes you.’
‘That’s fine, as long as I’m first in line,’ said Connors. ‘I’ve got an early plane to catch.’
‘I’m sure we can fix that. Oh, there is one piece of bad news.’
‘What’s that?’
‘No pretty nurses.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Connors. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m glad there aren’t any women around.’ He broke into a laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I was just thinking – have you ever noticed how, in all the old science fiction movies, there’s always a girlfriend, wife, daughter, or a niece on holiday, who stumbles across the monster and starts screaming her head off. And when it’s time to run, they’re always wearing high-heeled shoes, and they always fall down and twist their ankle.’
Wedderkind gave him a look of mild reproof. ‘I fear you’re in the process of becoming what is called a male chauvinist pig.’
‘From way back,’ said Connors.
The seven o’clock meeting was held in one of the empty, forty-foot-long prefabricated units that had been brought up during the afternoon. All fourteen members of the research group were there along with the leaders of the Air Force specialists from Kirtland AFB and the cadet squad commanders. Allbright had had a folding table rigged at one end of the room with three chairs and a briefing board on an easel. Connors was invited to take the middle chair, with Allbright on his left and Wedderkind on the other side. Everybody else sat on the floor or leaned against the walls.
Even though they were all, nominally, civilians, and although Allbright wore no badges of rank, he was still a commanding figure. When he stood up, everybody went quiet. He welcomed them all to Crow Ridge, introduced Connors as head of the project, and Wedderkind as head of the research group, and then asked Connors to say his piece.
Connors kept it brief and to the point. ‘Gentlemen, you all know why you are here. Each of you has been briefed on the reasons why we need to keep this project secret and secure. I hope you will all accept the restrictions on your personal liberty that are required to make our security measures effective. We will try to make your temporary imprisonment as comfortable as we can. We have an opportunity to participate in an historic event. Something which may never happen again during the total life span of Mankind and of Earth. It’s almost impossible to overestimate its importance to us and future generations. At the same time, we should not underestimate the dangers. They may be complex – and considerable.’ He smiled. ‘In case I don’t get another opportunity, I’d like to thank you on behalf of the President, for volunteering for this assignment, and he asked me to say, and I quote, “In serving this nation you serve all nations, and may God bless you and enable you to bring this enterprise to a successful conclusion.” Thank you.’
Connors sat down. Allbright got up to explain the organization and layout of the site, the duties of the various groups of Air Force personnel, the backup they would provide for the scientists, and the services that were planned to be available. A lot would depend on how Crusoe behaved. He was still the big question mark that hung over everything.
After he’d finished, there was a brief session of questions and answers to clear up some points of procedure, then the session broke up into informal groups so that everyone could get to know each other and find out the really important things like which were the most comfortable trailers, how to get an extra blanket, where to get cigarettes and booze, and the chances of getting laid.
On outside work details, the Air Force cadets wore blue hard hats. Each group on the project had been given a different identification colour. The Air Force technicians were green, the research group yellow, and the CIA ‘front-office’ employees down at the Highway 22 base camp, orange.
‘Have you decided whether you will stay here tonight?’ asked Allbright.
‘Yes, I’ve told Larsen,’ said Connors. ‘He’s organizing something for me.’
‘It may be a little rougher than you’re used to.’
‘I’m not too worried,’ said Connors. ‘As long as there’s somewhere to sleep and a chance of some action, I prefer to hang on here and fly back to Washington tomorrow.’ He smiled. ‘I’d like to be able to give the President some hard information. Up to now we’ve been neck-deep in scientific theories and hypotheses, possibilities and probabilities. It will be a relief to know that something – anything – is actually down there, and that this whole thing isn’t just some electronic mirage.’
‘The interference on our radar and communications networks is real enough.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Connors. He was struck by Allbright’s eyes. They didn’t flicker about nervously, they fastened on to a face or object with the predatory stare of a falcon. ‘How do you feel about all this?’
Allbright frowned. ‘Do you mean my reactions to this particular mission?’
‘To the whole situation.’
‘I’m just a serving officer, Mr Connors. The whole of my service life has been directed towards the defence of this country and its institutions. I regard my involvement here as an extension of that commitment.’
‘That’s not really an answer to my question, General. We’re all obeying orders.’
Allbright smiled and his eyes lost their hard edge. ‘I’m not unaware of the philosophical implications generated by this encounter, and I am not unconcerned. Nevertheless I regard such abstractions as being outside the bounds of my professional competence. My primary function here is to provide and maintain total security on this project – from without and within.’
‘I know what the job profile is,’ said Connors. ‘I helped write it. But apart from that – no curiosity? Surprise? Dismay?’
‘Curiosity?’ said Allbright. ‘Yes, naturally. Surprise? Only that it’s taken so long to obtain the first example of what I suppose people will call a flying saucer. When you think that the Air Force compiled literally thousands of sighting reports during Project Blue Book – ’
‘But failed to come up with one indisputable piece of photographic evidence,’ said Connors. ‘There were rumours that the Condon report was a whitewash. Did the Air Force suppress any of the evidence?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Most of the sightings could be accounted for, but, if you dismiss the lunatic fringe and their little green men, there still remains a small hard core of detailed observations by trained aircrews that defy rational explanation.’
‘Did you ever see a flying saucer?’
‘Not once in the nine thousand seven hundred and eighty-three hours I’ve spent in the air.’
Faced with a tally like that, Connors saw little purpose in mentioning his own modest log of five hundred and thirty-two hours. Allbright had probably spent more time taxiing to dispersal.
‘How about dismay?’ he asked.
‘Dismay?’ The pale blue eyes fastened on him again as Allbright considered the question. ‘Not really. Let me put it this way. This encounter, like any significant event, can either have a benign influence on our lives or an evil one. If we are to believe the computer forecasts, we are already heading towards food, energy, and pollution crises, any one of which could trigger a global catastrophe. But even if we survive those, that’s not the end of our problems. It’s only a matter of time.’ Allbright smiled again. ‘I don’t know how familiar you are with the Bible, Mr Connors, but if we are to believe St John the Divine, most of us don’t do too well on Judgement Day.’
Max came into the hut, edged his way through the groups of people, culled a drink off a passing tray, and tapped Wedderkind on the shoulder. ‘We’ve got some core samples. Wanna take a look?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Wedderkind. ‘Hang on.’ He introduced Max to the group he was with and went over to Connors and Allbright.
‘Excuse me, am I interrupting anything?’
‘Only contemplation of the Apocalypse,’ said Connors.
‘That’s what comes of reading the New Testament. We’ve got some core samples. Can you spare a minute?’
‘Yes, sure.’ Connors shook hands cordially with Allbright and left the others to finish the K-ration sandwiches.
The core samples were laid out in neat rows on a folding table, and labelled to show drilling depth and composition.
Max tapped the cores from eighty feet. ‘We’re well into the solid rock that underpins this whole area. I brought a sample along with me.’ Max picked up a fist-sized chunk of rock and showed it to Connors. ‘That’s what it should look like. See the difference? The rock in this core sample has been liquefied and then fused together, like volcanic lava.’
‘Could it be a natural feature of this area?’ asked Connors.
‘No,’ said Max. ‘I checked with the Duchess.’
The Duchess, it turned out, was Max’s instant nickname for Alan Wetherby, the English geographer.
‘What do you think, Arnold? Could Crusoe have melted his way through this rock?’
‘It’s feasible. That’s assuming he made this hole in the first place.’
‘But to melt that rock, wouldn’t he have to become practically incandescent himself?’
‘Not necessarily. It could cook the rock like you cook steak in a microwave oven.’
There was a shout for Max from one of the roughnecks on the platform as the needle on the drill loading gauge whipped around past the danger point. The crew on the rig whacked the rotary table out of gear and raised the string of drill pipes ten feet clear of the hidden obstacle.
Max ran down the slope of the crater and went into a huddle with his men. Connors and Wedderkind waited on the rim of the crater till he returned.
‘Trouble?’ asked Connors.
‘Maybe, but it looks like paydirt. We’ve got something really solid at just over one hundred and thirty feet. The pressure on the drill head was pretty fantastic – if we hadn’t lifted it clear, it would have twisted the shaft into a corkscrew.’
‘Has the drill burned out?’
‘Could be. We’re pulling it up to have a look,’ said Max.
Behind him, the relief crew was already scrambling on to the platform to help raise the five lengths of drill pipe.
When the drill bit came up, they found that the complex array of tungsten-tipped teeth had been burned smooth. Max supervised the fitting of a diamond-tipped drill and the two crews started to sink the string back down the borehole on the double.
Allbright and one of his aides rode over to join Connors and Wedderkind as the fifth section of pipe was locked into the spinning rotary table. The drill sank down to – and past – the previous point of contact.
Max cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, ‘Let it ride all the way down to one hundred and fifty!’
As he spoke, there was a deep rumbling roar. The drilling crew leaped off the platform as a tall plume of brown steam burst out of the borehole and enveloped the rig.
‘Goddammit, you son of a bitch!’ yelled Max. He yanked off his helmet and threw it down so hard it bounced twice.
The steam boiled out for a couple of minutes, then the pressure faded away. The crew clambered back on to the platform and started to pull up the drill once more.
‘What was it that boiled up?’ asked Connors.
‘It’s what we call “mud,”’ said Max. ‘It’s a mixture of clay, water, and chemicals that lubricate the drilling bit. Did you see how we went right through that point we stuck at before? That bastard must have moved sideways and left us to boil in a bath of molten rock. Lucky we didn’t get any of that in our faces!’
Max retrieved his helmet, rammed it back on his head and ran down to join his men on the rig.