Thanks to Man of Steel, I now know more about Ellesmere Island, its geography, and its weather patterns than I ever did before. Yep, I do my homework.
I ticked off my list of supplies in my head as I sat, tense and expectant, in the helicopter. In a few minutes I'd be getting off, setting foot on Canadian soil and military territory. Any immediate connection with American conveniences and luxuries would be cut off the second I was on the ground.
Phone, check. Nikon, check. Laptop, check. Duffle bag, check. Sanitary pads . . . umm, yeah, check. That was important, almost as important as the Nikon. I wasn't just the first American reporter to investigate the site; I was also going to be the only woman on this NORTHCOM base. There'd be no running to the drugstore if That Time Of The Month decided to kick in.
"Please keep your seatbelts fastened until the helicopter makes a complete stop," the pilot said over his intercom. I glanced around, saw the contractors and workmen lean forward in their seats. A few of them had been friendly to me during the flight from Alert, the nearest town, though one old geezer scowled at me like he already expected me to be a hindrance to the work on the base.
In spite of myself, I felt nervous. This certainly wasn't the most dangerous assignment in my eight years as an investigative journalist, but I had never gone toe-to-toe with any military officials before, either.
After the mysterious object was discovered, NORTHCOM had fiercely opposed the requests of any and all reporters or scientists not directly associated with the United States government to visit the base. As Perry had told me in his office, that was understandable—but only to a certain point. NORTHCOM was concerned with terrorist threats. A huge buried object in the ice wasn't exactly a pressing threat. The appellate court knew that, and had ruled accordingly.
"Remember," Perry said just before I left Metropolis, "those guys up there are gonna see you as an intruder. Don't be a smartypants, but let them know you've got the courts on your side."
Don't be a smartypants. Right. Easier said than done. I bit down on the tip of my tongue and prayed I could keep it in check. I wasn't exactly known for my tact. My mother could've told anyone that.
The helicopter came to a smooth landing on snowy ground. It was March, and my research over the past week taught me that from September to February, Ellesmere was plunged into pretty much total darkness. Right now a milky sun reflected off the thick snow, and in its light I caught my first glimpse of the base through the window.
Nestled in the shadow of a huge ice shelf lay rows of barracks, a main hub, a laboratory. Atop the ice shelf loomed a tower-like structure—a meltdown generator, I thought, recalling my diligent research—surrounded by water pumps and the tiny, fast-moving figures of workers.
Someone outside pulled the door open and I unbuckled. I waited for the men around me to exit first, but one of them smiled, motioned for me to go ahead. I smiled back at him and stood up, breathing in the icy air that had just blasted into the helicopter; it burned my lungs and made my face tingle.
The broad-shouldered man who'd opened the door watched me while I measured the distance from the helicopter to the ground. When I stepped down with clumsy caution, he caught me by the waist and gently swung me to the ground.
"Thanks," I said, straightening my parka. He smiled quietly and nodded.
"Miss Lane?" a voice shouted behind me. I turned, saw a shorter, thinner man approaching; he, like everyone else on this island, wore a heavy parka and a wool beanie over his head. He extended a gloved hand to me.
"Miss Lane, how're you doin'?" His Southern accent was warm and my hopes soared. Maybe this wasn't going to be such a cold-shoulder welcome after all. I took his hand and smiled as best as I could in spite of the fact that the sun made me squint painfully.
"I'm fine, how are you?" I shouted over the whirring chopper blades.
"Great! Jed Eubanks, Arctic Cargo. We're a private contractor helping NORTHCOM out with the excavation site. Colonel Hardy sent me to pick you up and escort you into the base."
"Oh, good," I said, swallowing my disappointment. So this wasn't Colonel Hardy after all.
"Joe will take your bags," he said. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the man who'd helped me out of the chopper reaching for my duffle bag and my laptop bag. A slight panic rose up in my throat; that laptop was my most prized possession, and the duffle bag, it held all my stuff . . .
"Careful with those, they're heavy!" I shouted. He looked at me and nodded again, swinging the duffle bag carefully over his shoulder. I was impressed; that bag weighed sixty pounds. I'd had to pay the airline extra to carry it on the plane from Metropolis to Newfoundland.
Mr. Eubanks motioned for me to walk alongside him as we approached the base. To my relief, he was a conversationalist; it helped soothe my continuing nervousness. He also handed me a pair of sunglasses, for which I thanked him profusely.
"Gotta confess, Miss Lane, I've never been a fan of The Daily Planet. I'm much more of a Wall Street Journal guy myself. But those pieces you wrote when you were embedded with the First Division . . . well, they were pretty impressive."
I smiled, trying not to swell with pride. "Well, what can I say? I get writer's block if I'm not wearing a flak jacket."
He threw back his head and laughed. "You won a Pulitzer for that, didn't you? You deserved it, that's for sure."
Thank God for a friendly face and voice, I thought. I glanced over my shoulder once more, just to check on my luggage; sure enough, Joe followed close behind, carrying it all with a conscientiousness that I appreciated.
Mr. Eubanks led me into the base's main hub, a large, heated building that looked like it had been reinforced to withstand a nuclear blast, let alone an Arctic blizzard. My skin tingled again when it made contact with the warmer air, and I shivered as I glanced around. The whole place bustled with activity; most of the men around me wore the uniforms of either the American or Canadian armed forces.
"Miss Lane," Eubanks' voice broke into my thoughts, "I've gotta run now. I'm leaving Joe with you to help you move your luggage into your new quarters. That's the man you need to meet, right there. I'll see you later—nice to meet you."
He pointed in the direction of a stern-faced officer in American uniform who was approaching at a brisk pace with another man, a scientist type, in tow. I managed to thank Eubanks before taking a deep breath and drawing myself up to my full but still unimpressive height. The officer reached me just as Eubanks returned to the frigid outdoors.
"Miss Lane," the officer said in a firm, no-nonsense voice. No calming Southern accent here. "Colonel Nathan Hardy, US-NORTHCOM. Dr. Emil Hamilton, from DARPA."
I had snatched off my mitten and offered my bare hand to Colonel Hardy as soon as he came up, but he coolly ignored it and gestured instead towards his companion, a sixty-something man who looked like the kind of guy who got a kick out of geology books and moon rocks. Hamilton, at least, took my hand with a small, kind smile.
"You're early," Hardy said, almost snapping. "We were expecting you tomorrow."
"Which is why I showed up today," I retorted, and tossed my head before I could stop myself.
Hardy cocked his head, his grey eyes clearly expressing his contempt. That riled me more than anything else. Even his dismissal of my proffered hand wasn't as bad as that.
Don't be a smartypants, but let them know you've got the courts on your side.
"Look, let's get one thing straight, okay?" I said, rubbing my hands together and looking from Hardy to Hamilton and then back to Hardy. "The only reason I'm here is because we're on Canadian soil, not American, and the appellate court overruled your injunction to keep the press away. So if we're done trying to prove who's the toughest guy on the block, can you have your people show me what you found?"
A sudden flicker of amusement cracked Hardy's steely demeanor; he blinked and turned to Hamilton, who chuckled under his breath. Hardy drew a breath, jerked his head to the side.
"Sure, Miss Lane. Right this way."
For this base to be in such a godforsaken location, it sure was technologically advanced. Hardy and Hamilton led me to a tactical operations room where rows of computers monitored everything from the heating systems on the base to the huge generators and radars focused on the excavation site. A staff sergeant, upon learning from Hardy who I was and why I was there, eagerly offered me a seat. I pulled a notebook from my parka's front pocket and starting taking notes in my small, neat shorthand.
"NASA's EOS satellites pinged the anomaly in the ice shelf first," he explained, pulling up
the sonar images on one of the computers. "The ice shelf plays hell on the echo soundings, but there's definitely something there."
I squinted at the screen. The sergeant pointed out some large, dark object on the image that, without his help, would've been indiscernible to me.
"Pretty cool, huh?" he asked, grinning a little.
"Yeah," I said, discreetly fishing for an opinion. "Everything I've heard suggests it might be a Soviet-era submarine. Maybe the Russians were looking for a way to infiltrate Canada way back when?"
"Doubtful," Hardy said. I whirled to look at him; I hadn't expected him to contradict what I had thought the official government narrative. He looked me in the eye as if he read my mind and added quietly, "That thing's about a thousand feet long. Considerably larger than anything we know they built back then."
"Not to mention an unusually large submarine even by today's standards," Hamilton added.
"But here's the spooky part," the sergeant said, pulling up a new image. "The ice surrounding the object? It's thick. We're talking thousands-of-years-old-thick."
I frowned. "Thousands?"
"Thousands," he repeated.
Colonel Hardy suddenly cleared his throat roughly. "I think that's enough for today, Sergeant. Miss Lane, let me show you to your quarters. Tomorrow I'll have a man show you around the excavation site itself."
Everything in me wanted to argue and press the sergeant for more questions, but he looked a little shamefaced, as if he, too, realized he'd said too much. He'd probably clam up if I pressed him. I'd interviewed enough people to know when someone wanted to spill and when they were too scared to say another word.
As soon as I entered my new quarters, I had to wonder if they'd been planned as a sort of subtle revenge. The tiny building was nothing more than a well-used, heavy-duty storage container, with boxes and metal safes lined up on one wall. In the center of the room stood a cot not much longer than I was tall, with a couple of pillows and several heavy blankets folded on top of it.
Joe, who had followed me in faithful silence with all my luggage, stepped in ahead of me and Colonel Hardy. I watched him set the laptop bag on the cot beside the pillows and slide the duffle bag underneath the cot.
"Thanks," I murmured again as he passed me on his way out, then turned to Colonel Hardy. I tried to suppress my frustration and embarrassment when I caught a somewhat amused look on his face.
"Try not to wander any further than the mess hall after the sun goes down," he said, glancing out the open door at the meltdown generator high above us. "It might be the beginning of May, but the temperature can still drop as low as negative thirty at night. If a blizzard were to roll in, we wouldn't find your body until next spring—if the snow melted even then."
"So sometimes the snow doesn't melt at all?" I asked, astounded.
"Nope. Last summer the temperature never got above freezing."
I shuddered, looked again at what would be my bedroom and workplace for the next week. "What if I need to tinkle?"
Colonel Hardy smirked. "There's a bucket in the corner. See you at supper, Miss Lane."
And with that he slammed the heavy metal door shut. Now that he was gone, the excitement I'd had when I got on the helicopter this morning came back in a rush. Yeah, the storage room wasn't exactly Buckingham Palace, but I could make it do. I plopped down on my cot, rubbed my knees for a minute, and then proceeded to make the tiny room a bit more home-like.
I dragged one of the metal safes closer to the cot; that would be my work table. I pulled out my laptop and opened it, set it on top of the safe. My Nikon came next; I fastened a lens to it and set it proudly beside the laptop. I made my bed and even tried out that bucket for the first time. It wasn't too bad. I couldn't say the same for the toilet paper.
When I was done, I leaned my back against the door and surveyed the place. I felt a satisfied smirk slide across my face as I crossed my arms over my chest.
"If you thought you had a sissy on your hands, Colonel Hardy, you just might want to think again," I murmured.
The next morning after breakfast in the mess hall, a reticent young officer took me to what was known around the base as "the Chasm," the huge hole bored into the ice by the meltdown generator. I was able to get up close and personal with the Chasm, but peering down the seemingly bottomless hole made me queasy. I probably stepped away more quickly than I should've, if I wanted to keep up my tough-girl image.
I didn't see Colonel Hardy anymore, so I spent my time talking to the men at the work site instead. Some were talkative, especially the Arctic Cargo workers; they didn't really have anything invested in this job other that the prospect of good pay, and were willing to tell everything they knew or had heard. The military personnel were much more tight-lipped, but I nailed a few who offered me their opinions on what the mysterious object could possibly be.
"Flash-frozen super-whale," one guy said, and in complete seriousness. "Y'know, back when the Ice Age hit? Poor dude probably got caught in the sudden freeze-up of the North Pole. Bet you any amount of money that's what it is down there."
"A thousand-foot whale?" I asked, smiling a little.
"Sure, why not? Everything was bigger back then, right? Look at the dinosaurs!"
I wasn't so sure about that theory, but I took it down nevertheless. Another man suggested the object was a UFO and I almost laughed out loud at that, but most surmised it was a submarine and there was something wrong with the theory that the ultra-thick ice automatically meant the object had been buried for centuries.
To be honest, I couldn't think up another logical explanation myself.
After lunch, again in the mess hall, I ventured out to the work site by myself. I didn't get up close to the Chasm this time; I stayed at a safe distance, leaning against a metal railing set up around an observational deck that looked down into the hole. I fiddled with the Nikon strapped around my neck and peered up at the towering, always-roaring generator.
"Well, you must be the little lady from that newspaper down in Metropolis!"
I whirled, saw a man I didn't recognize mounting the steps of the observational deck. He was a heavy-set fellow with a flaccid, chapped face. As he drew closer, my sharp sense of smell detected cigarette smoke and beer.
"Found an interesting story, sweetie?" he asked, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose.
"Yes, very interesting," I said, trying to remain civil but not necessarily friendly. I turned from him, changed a setting on my Nikon so I'd look busy.
He leaned against the railing and scooted closer to me, his voice lowering. "I can tell you a little bit about that there hole if you've got a spare minute, little lady."
A chill ran up my spine. There was something about this guy and the way he looked at me that made me uncomfortable. Even the Big Ag representative in Washington hadn't made me this uneasy, probably because there'dbeen a mahogany desk between us. Mere inches separated me from this much larger, much stronger man.
"I'd love to take your thoughts down, sir, but I've got a deadline to meet," I said, trying to back away. "I need to get some of these pictures emailed to my editor—"
His hand clamped down on my wrist; he took a step closer so that he towered over me, his eyes taking on a wild, drunken light. "Oh come on, honey, don't be shy . . ."
"Chuck!"
The voice was like a gunshot in the thin air. I whirled and so did my companion. A tall man in a coat and a baseball cap beneath his hood stood with one foot on the bottom step of the observation deck. In spite of the glare he didn't wear sunglasses, and his young, chiseled face was covered in dark scruff.
Joe. The name flashed through my head. The quiet guy who carried my duffle bag.
"Let her go, Chuck," Joe called in a commanding voice, the kind you didn't dare disobey unless you wanted trouble.
"Oh, stick it where the sun don't shine, Wilder," Chuck spat.
"I said, let her go," Joe said, and this time it sounded like he spoke through clenched teeth.
My heart felt like it had decided to stop beating altogether; I didn't want to be caught between two fighting men in this confined space so many feet from the ground. A moment's hesitation passed over Chuck's face . . . a moment too long. Joe sprinted up the metal steps, and before either Chuck or I could react, he had the man's collar in both hands. I staggered back against the railing as he jerked Chuck away from me.
"Terrorize her again, Chuck, and I'll make you wish you hadn't," Joe snapped. "And don't let me catch you drinking booze during working hours again or I'll recommend Eubanks fire you on the spot. Get out of here before I decide not to go so easy on you."
He gave Chuck a hard push down the steps; Chuck yelped, grabbed the railing, and waddled away rubbing the back of his neck and cursing under his breath. Joe turned towards me, his face softening with concern.
"Are you all right, Miss Lane?"
I allowed myself to breathe again. "Yeah. Thanks for getting me out of that tight spot."
Joe shook his head. "Chuck's one of those guys who can't go more than a few weeks without
female company or alcohol. I'd avoid him if I were you."
"I wasn't exactly seeking his company," I said with a small, wry smile.
"I know, but . . ." He hesitated, seemed to choose his words with care. "Too many of these
guys go absolutely crazy at the sight of a woman. They've been stuck on Ellesmere too long. For your own sake, I wouldn't come this close to the work site without an escort."
Under any other circumstance, I probably would've bristled and asked if he thought I couldn't take care of myself. As it was, I simply nodded, didn't even think about challenging his advice.
"I'll be more careful after this, I promise. Thanks again, Joe . . . ?"
"Wilder," he said. "Joe Wilder."
"Lois Lane—but you already knew that," I said, and offered my hand. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gently shook it.
"How long have you been working on Ellesmere, Joe?" I asked.
"Three months."
I gestured with my head towards Chuck's retreating figure. "You seem to have some authority around here."
Joe shrugged. I realized he was very broad in the shoulders; that parka must've been hiding one heck of a body. "I'm the foreman of his work crew. We have one of the day shifts."
"You must've proved yourself pretty responsible for Eubanks to put you in charge of a work crew in such a short amount of time."
His smile deepened, though it didn't necessarily broaden. "Are you interviewing me, Miss Lane?"
I laughed. "I've been interviewing all day, although some of it's been more to satisfy my own curiosity than for my actual work. It's fascinating to think men like you would come up to this wasteland simply for an ample paycheck."
Joe said nothing, just smiled thoughtfully at me. I nodded towards the dig site.
"What do you think's down there?" I asked.
Joe drew the bill of his baseball cap a little further down his forehead. "If I told you, you'd probably laugh at me."
"No, I don't think I would," I said with a dry laugh. "I've been told it's everything from an Ice Age-era whale to a UFO. There's not much left to laugh at once you've heard stuff like that."
Joe hesitated, slammed his hands in his pockets, and gazed around. His eyes were a deep blue and I saw a few dark curls peeking out from underneath his cap. He was a good-looking guy and distinctly American, judging from his clear Midwest accent.
Wouldn't I love to know what brought him all the way up here.
"Your guess is as good as mine, Miss Lane," he finally said, drawing his gaze back to me. "I don't really have any ideas worth mentioning."
That was that; I knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that he wasn't going to trust me with his opinion, no matter how long or hard I pressed him. I offered an understanding nod. He held his hand out to me again.
"Want me to walk you back to the base?"
"Sure," I said, glad for the company and the protection. Even if Chuck or any surly characters like him were lurking around, I had a feeling they wouldn't dare come near me if Joe was there to ward them off with one cold, commanding glare.