The Case of the Arctic Anomaly

(September-December 2012)

3-North to Alaska

Postcard from Stan Pines to Mabel and Dipper Pines, mailed in Nome, Alaska, September 20, 2012: Hiya, kids! Ford and me are heading North today. We have what Soos would say is a cool boat. We have a long ways to sail, after that maybe two-three days to look for the anomaly, then back to warmer weather. Hope you are doing good in school. Drop me a line at the M.S. Don't know when I'll be in range of a post office again. Mush and stuff, Grunkle Stan

"I had to write real small to say everything," Stan said as they cast off. "Hope they can read it."

"You've become quite the sailor," Stanford told him. "In that last storm, you only threw up once."

"Yeah, yeah, who used to puke on the roller coaster, smart guy?" Stan leaned back and stared at the sky. "Real heavy clouds."

"But no fronts are expected to push through for the next week," Ford said. "If we make good time, we should be able to get to the mainland and find shelter if there's another blow."

"You not worried about us runnin' out of fuel?"

Ford glanced into the stern, where four barrels had been lashed as tight as they could manage. "We should have a range of about three hundred and twenty miles with the extra. If necessary, I have confirmed that we can refuel at Little Diomede, though I hope that we won't have to use the engine very much until we're in the search area. My big worry is that we have to be very careful lest the surplus drums explode."

"Yeah," Stanley agreed dryly. "That would be bad."

It was not an immediate concern, though, because at least for the time being the wind was favorable, a steady fifteen to twenty knots and coming out of the west by southwest. It was also relatively warm. By the time Nome and the mainland had receded to a faint gray suggestion on the eastern horizon, Ford was ready to cut the engines. "Stanley, if you would, raise the mainsail."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n," Stan said. The winch winched, the sail rose and they trimmed the course. "How's that?"

"Excellent," Ford said, glancing at the GPS readout. "Eighteen knots and a bit. If the wind holds in this quarter, we should be able to reach Little Diomede in nine or ten hours at the outside. We should have good daylight left for our anchorage."

"So we are gonna run into port there?"

"Depends on conditions," Ford said. "There's no actual harbor. The entire population is about seventy—"

"Any babes?"

Ford blinked at his brother. "Probably not the type you mean. There is an inlet to the southwest, just south of the only settlement on the island, but if the wind gets any stronger, I'd prefer to find shelter in the lee of the eastern cliffs. If it gets tricky, we'll remain at sea."

"This is the place where you can see Russia, right?"

"You can see the island of Big Diomede, which belongs to Russia. It's less than three miles away."

In a disgusted tone, Stan asked, "Hey, how come the Russkies got the big one?"

"It's no bargain. Except for some unhappy Russian soldiers, Big Diomede is uninhabited. Nothing much there—some military shelters, a few storage buildings, a wrecked Russian ship, a crashed airplane. When we set out for the anomaly, I'll chart a course around Little Diomede, preferably on the eastern side. The Russians have been known to fire warning shots if they feel that any vessels are approaching their island too closely."

"Good thing you packed your quantum dismemberment thingy."

"Quantum destabilizer, but God forbid we fire it." Ford shook his head. "No, I don't want to be responsible for an international incident. Anyway, if we overnight at Little Diomede and get an early start tomorrow, we'll arrive in the area of the anomaly before astronomical noon. The seas can sometimes get quite rough, but the forecast is for relatively calm weather until Wednesday. We'll check for the anomaly tomorrow and Monday and if we haven't had to push our fuel supply, we'll plan to fire up the engine to dodge the hell out of there on Tuesday."

"The phrase is 'get the hell out of Dodge,' Brainiac. Dodge as in Dodge City? Wild West? Marshal Dillon?"

"Right, right." Ford leaned back and studied the sky. The clouds were heaviest off to the east. At the moment those overhead were a bright, almost translucent pearly gray.

"Whattaya think of the weather?"

"It's cloudier toward the mainland than here. I don't think it's really clearing, though. That's all right as long as the swells don't become alarmingly large and the chop is no worse than it is now."

"Yeah," Stan said, "I understood most of that. Well, some of that. I know what 'clouds' means, anyway. When should we get to this Diomede place?"

"At this speed and on this heading . . . by eighteen hundred."

"Oy! It'll be dark by then!"

"No, it won't," insisted Ford.

"Eighteen hundred? Ain't that like midnight?"

"No, no, six o'clock," Ford said. "And you're under the misapprehension that night in the Arctic is very, very long."

"Six months, ain't it?" asked Stanley.

"Not at this latitude. Even in mid-winter there's a kind of muted daylight, but we're not into winter yet. Trust me, Stan, because of the island's position, solar noon is at three p.m."

"So twelve noon is three in the afternoon, huh? That," said Stanley, "is nuts."

Ford smiled. "Even more nuts, when it's one minute after three A.M. on Little Diomede tonight, it will be one minute past midnight

tomorrow on Big Diomede Island."

"Say what?"

"The two islands are only about two and a half miles apart. The International Date Line runs right through the strait between the islands. Big Diomede is twenty-one hours ahead of Little Diomede. Technically, the bigger island is a full day ahead, but the local time zones are a little odd. Little Diomede is on Alaska time, and Big Diomede is on Anadyr time."

"By the time we get back home, you're gonna have taught me more about everything than I want to know. Date line runs between them. So three miles from where we'll be, it's tomorrow already, right?"

"Roughly, yes," Ford said.

Stan brightened at that bit of news. "Then if the Russian guys have tomorrow's newspaper already, any chance I could get 'em to look up the results of all the horse races?"

"It . . . doesn't work that way."

"Yeah?" asked Stan with a shrug. "In that case, I won't plan to remember all that."

That afternoon Stanley took his turn at the wheel while Ford prepared a quick meal—they were eating only two meals a day, an early and big breakfast, and then what Stan had termed a lunchinner, a combination of lunch and dinner, in mid-afternoon. Stanley could just about manage to cook a breakfast, but Ford was the better hand at the later meal.

The compact galley stove was electric, originally run off a generator powered by the engine, but now adapted to one of McGucket's inexhaustible DC electric suppliers. There was less chance of a fire that way, though admittedly the small power source had to be kept inside a blast proof container, just in case. Anyway, that day Ford prepared spaghetti, meat sauce (canned but fairly good), and what Stan called a hot salad: butternut squash, red onion, braised salad greens, and some other ingredients all heated in a skillet. Their main goal was simply to make a filling meal. They also had stowed a month's supply of survival rations, unappealing high-protein bars, unappetizing minced canned meat (though during Weirdmageddon Stan had developed a taste for it), and candy bars that went heavy on peanut butter.

As they had worked out the routine, Ford ate first, having cooked the meal, then relieved Stan at the wheel. Stan went below deck, ate his share, and then cleaned the dishes. They used seawater for that, conserving the fresh water for drinking. No showers until they got back to a reasonable port, but as Stan said, "Eh, we're twins, and twins stink alike, anyways."

Their run north to the island went well. Ford spotted it on the horizon with his binoculars and with some glee announced that they were exactly on course. Late in the evening, though the sun was still up, they hauled into the inlet. They anchored in the shelter of a breakwater, and to their surprise three men walked out along it and hailed them.

They were all Native American, and they spoke a blunt sort of English. The eldest spoke to Ford, who leaned on the rail and responded, and they talked for some time before the three went back to the village, a few tiers of houses with small windows. The whole settlement perched on a considerable slope, and it did not look very lively. In addition to the houses, there was also a gasoline-storage facility and, possibly a shop or two. The roofs tended to metal sheeting, and the inhabitants didn't seem to be curious enough to come out and take a look at the boat from the south.

"What was your chit-chat all about?" Stan asked.

"They're islanders, as you'd expect. They wanted to see if we needed food or help or were only crazy or something," Ford said. "They don't often get visitors. If anybody from the mainland wants to visit, they almost always come by helicopter."

"They gonna let us alone?"

Ford blinked. "Of course, Stanley. They're nice people. However, we will definitely avoid Big Diomede. The soldiers there are known to fire their weapons in the air and shout at anyone in a ship or boat who ventures near. Interestingly, no matter what the nationality of the intruding vessel is, they yell in English."

"Funny," Stan said. "I always thought bullets were the international language."

That afternoon Ford and Stan checked the anchor lines and in a chilly breeze they stood and gazed at the bleak contours of the island. It was mostly light-charcoal colored monolithic granite, with fields of scattered, lichen-splotched boulders. The village seemed to be the only spot where the cliffs did not rise straight out of the sea. Here and there on the steep slope mats of moss or tough grass grew among the rubble. No trees. A variety of birds, though, soared, swooped, screeched, and creaked.

"Warmer than I thought it was gonna be," Stan said. "I expected like ice and snow."

"Normal weather for this time of year," Ford told him. "The high today was 8.9 degrees, and the low won't be much different, probably 5.6. Don't look at me like that, those are Celsius temperatures. The Fahrenheit equivalent is 48 degrees high, 42 low. Next month it starts to turn really cold, though."

"Yeah, the daylight lasts longer than I'd have thought, too." Stan stretched and yawned. "OK, Poindexter, we got here. On the way up you didn't have time for yakking, and you said once we got to Little Diomede you'd come clean about this whole business. So now before we try to get some shut-eye, explain to me what the anomaly's supposed to be. You did promise."

"Ah, so I did." Ford paused. "I'm not sure I can be specific. To put the matter briefly, the readings indicate a strange fluctuation in reality, not as extreme as Weirdmageddon, not on that scale, but it's as if something is a bit wonky about time and space within an area of about two square kilometers."

"And what does that mean? Another freakin' rift we gotta close?"

"Not exactly," Ford said. "Weird creatures can show up on Earth from time to time without having come through an actual dimensional rift. It's more like they just . . . find a thin spot and seep through it. Gravity Falls demonstrates that quite well. The Gnomes and Manotaurs didn't come through a rift, and yet there they are."

"So is anything dangerous comin' through the thin spot up here?" Stan asked.

"Maybe yes, maybe no."

"Yeah, that reassures me big time."

"I just mean that I can't say for certain, Stanley. From the nature of the satellite readings—oops, you're not supposed to know I have access to those, please forget it immediately."

"Forget what?" Stan asked. "Now you're not making sense. Go on, you were talking about whether or not we're gonna face some monster or whatever."

Ford puffed out his cheeks. "Well . . . the indications are that there might be—might be . . . a PEOUS involved."

"Um, Ford, if you're trying to spell the word for 'male member,' I think you swung and missed."

"No, no, it's a technical term, like the ornithologist's LBB. It's short for 'Paranormal Entity of Unusual Size.'"

"Like King Kong."

"Or a remnant aquatic reptile from the age of dinosaurs, perhaps," Ford said. "Since the affected area is at sea with no land within miles, that would be more likely."

Stan nodded sagely before quietly asking, "And we're gonna do what? Harpoon it?"

"No, Stanley. The harpoon gun is just in case of emergencies. If anything actually threatens, there's always the QDR. However, I don't think anything will be a menace to us. Probably."

"Uh-huh. So what about tonight, huh? You think it's gonna be OK for both of us to sleep?" Stan asked. "We ain't gonna do watches with one of us always on guard?"

"I think we'll be fine. The people in the village aren't even interested in us, the Russians have to keep their distance by international treaty, I've already switched on the alarm system, and we're sheltered from bad weather in this little cove."

"OK, then. See ya in eight hours." Stan had developed a knack of going to sleep quickly, but never for long enough—at least for the past couple of weeks. This time he slept deeply until the alarm woke him and he reached for his glasses. "That clock's gotta be fast," he grumbled.

Ford had already cooked a sort of breakfast, scrambled powdered eggs with freeze-dried sausage crumbles, cheese toast, and good, strong hot coffee. "When'd you get up?" Stan asked as they sat at the narrow fold-down table.

"Hours ago. I learned during my time in the multiverse to sleep efficiently."

"Lucky you. Well, this garbage is edible, anyhow."

"Edible is all I ask for," Ford said with a grin. "In the Multiverse, I sometimes had to eat things I couldn't stand even to look at when they were alive."

"Coffee's good, anyways," Stan said. He raised his mug. "Here's to chasin' down the PEOUS, whatever it is, findin' the family fortune, and then a safe voyage back home."

Ford clinked his mug against Stan's. "I will drink to that."

They had become used to cloudy skies, and that morning brought no exception. Clouds ranging from charcoal to a washed-out gray showed that at higher altitudes the wind was strong—they raced along, still mostly from west to east, but at the surface it still blew between fifteen and twenty knots. They started out due south, turned north, and circumnavigated Little Diomede without incident. Meanwhile, day didn't break so much as seep in, like a silent creature from some other dimension. North of the two islands, the ocean grew choppy, the waves streaked with dull white foam.

About thirty miles north, a turboprop plane roared up from behind the Stan O' War II and circled them at some distance and an altitude of maybe two thousand feet. It was painted a nondescript cloudy green. "Who's that?" Stan asked.

Ford had taken up a pair of binoculars and gazed through them. "It's a Beriev Be-12. Anti-submarine warfare plane, Russian, of course. But it's all right. We're well outside of Russian waters. They probably picked us up as a radar blip and they're just checking us out."

Sure enough, after two orbits, the plane flew back the way it had come.

And not long afterward, Ford started the engine and they began to sail in a circle themselves, while three or for anomaly detectors began to click and clatter. "Trace readings," Ford murmured. "But we are in the vicinity. Keep it at this speed. We need to head . . . east and then when the signal begins to fade, turn to the northwest."

"It's gonna rain," Stan said.

"Yes, fine."

With a sigh, Stan pulled his toboggan cap lower over his ears. Ford became so preoccupied with his instruments that Stan started to sing, an old song he remembered from his youth. Funny the things that lingered after the memory wipe, even without prompting. That was one. He sang about hoisting the sails to see how the mainsail set, and sending for the Captain ashore. The chorus went, "I want to go home," and the whole thing ended with "This is the worst trip I've ever been on."

And it did begin to feel uncomfortable. The water grew rougher and a dismal rain started to fall, not hard, but a miserable cold shower that made Stan hunch deeper into his coat and wince as a trickle of freezing water went down the back of his neck. The Stan O' War II pitched, and at Stan's insistence, Ford broke out the lifebelts and they each strapped one on. "We're very close now," Ford said, returning to his instruments. "I'd guess within one or two miles."

"And still out of Russian waters?" Stan asked.

"Oh, yes, by a good thirty nautical miles."

"I don't wanna sound pessimistic or anything, but when we get there, do you think we'll see anything?"

For about the twelfth time, Ford wiped water from his glasses. "Why not?"

"Look around you, genius," Stan said.

Ford tore his attention from the instrument readouts. "My word, the weather has closed in, hasn't it!"

Indeed it had. Though thin, the rain carried a sea-fog with it, and their horizon was only about a football field's length away in all directions. "It's been gettin' worse for the last hour," Stan grumbled. "What do you expect this thing to look like, so's I can keep an eye out, too?"

"I can only surmise that we will most likely know it when we see it," Ford said. "Hang on, hang on . . . cut the throttle a little and turn twenty degrees to port."

"Like this?"

"A little more . . . there, steady now. Slower. Slower. That's good. Whatever it is, it should be directly ahead of us and almost within sight."

And at that moment the whole ocean seemed to scream at them, a horrible, high-pitched wailing, keening sound that rose and fell, rose and fell . . .

And second by second it became louder.