HEIMDAL'S HORN
By: CindyR
SkyDiver-1 was without a doubt the most advanced and versatile battlecraft in Earth's navy. SkyDiver prime was a submarine, designed and crafted under the highest security the Groton, Connecticut, dry docks could offer, and capable of plumbing the vast ocean depths deeper, farther and faster than any submarine anywhere on the planet. Sky-1, her perfectly melded aerial counterpart, was carried on her nose. Capable of rocket-assisted underwater launch from a depth of 90 feet, triple jets ignited in air, enabling Sky-1 to attain a height of over seven miles mean sealevel. Together they and their doubled replicas scattered in every hemisphere were Earth's second line of defense against the enemy she fought regularly - the advanced alien civilization that made constant raids against the inhabitants of this fragile biosphere. Without such defenses as SkyDiver, and the base/ arsenal located on the moon, Earth would have long ago succumbed to her enemy, existing only to be harvested for what was suspected to be the macabre fate of supplying replacement body parts to sustain the alien forms.
"Message from SHADO headquarters, sir," the pretty black woman at SkyDiver's communications board called, holding her headset a little closer to her ear. "SID is reporting a positive contact; it slipped past Moonbase defenses and is due to enter atmosphere within one hundred miles of our present location. Speed has dropped to Sol zero-decimal-seven, ETA twenty minutes. Sky-4 and -6 are also on alert."
Captain Lew Waterman, commander of SkyDiver, descended the metal stair from the navigation bridge to the dive station, moving his tall, rangy form through the cramped surroundings with practiced grace. "Do you have it on radar yet, Lieutenant?" he rapped, laying one hand on her shoulder to steady himself. His brown leather tunic draped across her light net one as he bent over the console himself.
Nina Barry shook her head, her auburn hair bobbing against her neck. "Nothing yet, sir, but Lieutenant Ford is triangulating a polar intercept, coordinates coming in now."
Waterman straightened in surprise. "Polar? Most Ufos skip in from equator to Northern Hemisphere so the atmosphere will bleed off their speed during reentry. Why are they deviating now?"
"Unknown, Captain, but Commander Straker is ordering a launch of Sky-1 with full recorders. He's interested himself."
"Looks like that's my cue, then. Bring SkyDiver to a forty-degree up bubble; I'd rather my rockets didn't straight-line me into that underwater mountain range." She nodded, and Waterman's strong features softened in a brief smile for the pretty officer, then he strode for the forward hatch, snagging up a helmet en route. "You have command, Lieutenant Barry. And I have a date with a Ufo."
***
Ex-astronaut, war hero and current head of Harlington-Straker film studios, Ed Straker braked his brand new, 1999 Quasar coupe under the carport at his studio's front entrance, and stepped out just ahead of the lot attendant, who leapt in to take the car to its conveniently assigned space. A perk of being studio head, he reflected with a wry smile, meaning he didn't have to walk more than a dozen feet to the front door of his facility. It was one of the few privileges he allowed himself, more part of the facade than personal desire, though one he enjoyed considering the often dreary, chill weather of this site a mere 100 miles north of London.
He nodded curtly at the guard inside the entrance, aware that the deceptively benevolent looking matron to his rear was scanning him head to foot in a sensor monitor, verifying his identity before he'd progressed more than a few yards. The glitzy lobby gave way to a main corridor leading from administration to several studios, a short hall off of that allowing him access to the executive branch and his own office.
"Miss Ealand," he greeted the attractive blonde occupying the receptionist's position in the foyer. She smiled warmly at him, using one painted nail to gesture at a woman sitting on the couch against the wall.
"Sir, this is Miss Lily Frankl. She says she was sent over by a Mr. DeBeers?"
Straker rested his briefcase on the secretary's desk, turning his head to examine the visitor openly. She was certainly worth looking at: her Nordic coloring was almost as pale as his own, though her hair was several shades darker than Straker's white-blond, and eyes a shade lighter than the azure through which he regarded the world. She uncrossed long legs and stood, adjusting the micromini skirt to greatest effect. "How do you do, Mr. Straker," she greeted him in a throaty contralto. "I've been looking forward to meeting you for a long time."
He accepted her handshake reluctantly, releasing it immediately and returning his clutch to his briefcase. Even as he sought her eyes, seeking some clue as to her reason for being there, he was aware of the return being true, though far less analytically. She skimmed his six-foot height brazenly, starting with the well muscled shoulders and trailing down to trim hips. That accomplished, she returned her gaze to the smooth, virtually unlined features that made him look a decade younger than his forty-six years, her smile slipping a bit at the frost in his expression. "Miss Frankl." Straker's tenor was as cold as his gaze; he wasn't unaware of his attractiveness to the opposite sex, but rather than celebrating his looks, considered them more annoyance than asset for all that he worked out regularly and wore only the latest tailored fashions. He offered a brief prayer of gratitude to whoever might be listening that, since that East Indian designer Rajasthan Assam re-introduced Nehru jackets over turtlenecks as the zenith of masculine haute couture, spandex was no longer required dress at movie studios. "I'm only slightly acquainted with Mr. DeBeers at Whitehead Productions, but I know him well enough to wonder why he would send one of his top actresses to me."
She dimpled charmingly, recovering her aplomb in the face of rejection with practiced ease. "You recognize me! How very clever of you. I was afraid you hadn't." She leaned forward, taking on a conspiratorial attitude. "Did anyone ever tell you what a lovely American accent you have?"
Straker sighed, recognizing a scam when he heard one. Despite being a front for the military operation known as SHADO -- Supreme Headquarters, Alien Defense Organization -- to the world at large Harlington-Straker was no more than a film studio, with all the behind-the-scenes manipulations that premise entailed. Since becoming operational eleven years, six months ago, Harlington-Straker Studios had produced only a handfull of profit- making movies, accidents all, though that hadn't stopped rising young starlets like Lily from offering their services -- among other things -- for the opportunity at some employment.
"I'm a very busy man, Miss Frankl," Straker stated, using one hand to smooth the plain white tunic jacket he wore. "If you're looking for work...."
The woman's smile slipped again. She darted a quick look at the openly watching Miss Ealand, then batted patently false eyelashes in a demonstration of demurement. "As a matter of fact, I was hoping to read for a part in your new movie. Prehistoric Cave Women of the Planet Hooter is the fourth in the series, isn't it?" She drew her shoulders inward, producing another full inch of cleavage, native British accent thickening seductively. "Don't you think I'd look positively scrumptious in a leather tunic?"
"I'm sure you'd even look scrumptious in nothing at all," Straker returned so dryly that Nancy Ealand coughed over a laugh and even Miss Frankl couldn't miss the sarcasm. "However, I'm not doing the hiring for ... er ... Prehistoric Cave Women Part 4." He shuddered delicately; he'd actually had to watch footage from the second sequel, and hadn't managed to recover his self-respect. Having a sense of humor might help, he admitted frankly, envying his best friend Alec Freeman the luxury. "If you're looking for work, have your agent submit a request to the Director, Carl Mason. You'll excuse me."
He was through the sliding doors to his office even before they had fully opened, depositing the briefcase on the polished desk with a relieved sigh. He'd faced enemy pilots, aliens in inter-planetary war, Senate and United Nations' committees and angry superiors, but nothing affected him as badly as did the distasteful manipulations of the film industry.
He waited until the doors had slid securely shut before picking up the silver cigarette case on his desk and opening the lid. "Straker," he snapped loudly despite the fact that the sensitive microphone would have picked up the barest whisper. A computer generated voice responded instantly,
"Voice identification positive. Commander Straker."
The title coaxed a smile out of fine, elegant lips. The room moved smoothly on oiled gears, dropping him eighty feet in a matter of seconds, then the door opened again of its own accord, admitting him to the military command structure of SHADO HQ. Straker breathed deeply, absorbing the very essence of the complex; this was his element and his life, and had been since he'd seen his first U.F.O. fifteen years ago, when he and British astronaut Craig Collins were flying top secret missions in NASA's space shuttle.
"Good morning, Commander."
"Commander Straker."
"Hello, Commander."
Straker acknowledged the greetings of the day crew with a curt nod, flowing through the collection of white-uniformed men and catsuited women with barely a glance, inured by now to the ordered efficiency of his team. Only the best and brightest worked for SHADO, most of these people having been with him over five years; when the only way to resign from a highly secure organization consisted of death or, in rare occurrences, complete personality erasure, one didn't tend toward a high employee turnover.
He strode from the elevator/office past the spiderweb of corridors criss- crossing the sprawling complex, to the command hub, stopping beside a console manned by a nondescript man of thirty. "Anything going on, Ford?"
The man exchanged a look with a dark-haired girl on his right, then jerked his head toward the office to his rear. "The photos Sky-1 took over the Pole yesterday are ready, Sir. Colonels Freeman, Lake and Foster are waiting for you."
Straker brightened interestedly, studio unpleasantness already forgotten. "Excellent! Carry on, Lieutenant." He made his way up the single step, double doors sliding open to admit him to the circular chamber that served as his personal Lair. There three disparate individuals waited in a cluster around his desk; they straightened respectfully at his appearance. "Judging by your expressions, am I to understand Sky-1 sent something interesting back?"
The youngest of the three nodded at once. He was a confident young man in his late twenties, a half-inch taller than Straker and as leanly muscled. The boyish face was deliberately impassive under the thatch of longish brown hair, but too naturally open to hide the eagerness in his blue eyes. "We received the laser transmissions only a few hours ago. I think you'll find the footage interesting."
"Interesting, Paul?" Straker quoted, eyebrow rising again in what was to him an expression of extreme humor. "More interesting than seeing another Ufo ..." He'd quickly adapted the British habit of slurring the initials into one word. "... disintegrate under Sky-1's missile?"
The young man's mouth quirked on one side. "Nearly as interesting, perhaps, sir."
"More than interesting, certainly, Colonel Foster," a cool female voice corrected. "This could very well provide us with vital data." Straker paused mid-step to meet the heavily-made-up eyes of Colonel Virginia Lake, chief designer of the eutronics based sensor equipment incorporated into all of SHADO's long-range monitors. What was less widely known was that she was also one of the designers of the hydrogen cooled A.I.S.C.G. -- Artificial Intelligence Sensor and Cybernetics Grid -- that provided ninety percent of SHADO's computing and surveillance capabilities. Looking no older than the 28-year old Foster though she was seven years his senior, 'Ginnie' Lake was a sculptured ice princess, poised and unflappable as Straker himself. With shoulder length platinum hair framing china doll features, and a figure rounded perfectly in all the right spots, she was considered by the staff to be the most beautiful member of the SHADO team. Unlike Straker, she used her looks as a weapon, plying her sexuality as a persuader when it suited her needs, but not unless. "If you'll check the photographs, sir, I think you'll see why."
Straker left his briefcase on a visitor's chair in the corner and approached the desk, stepping around the third man in the room. His greeting was another nod; he didn't have to look to know the expression that would be decorating the man's hawk-like face, or the twinkle that lit Alexander Freeman's sharp brown eyes. They had been friends nearly twenty years now, co-workers at SHADO since its inception.
Freeman stepped aside to allow him access to the desk. Unlike Foster, who admired and imitated his commander's impassivity, there was no pretense of stoicism on his craggy features, the Welshman's temperment being as different from Straker's as the proverbial fire was from ice. "We got something, Ed," Freeman exclaimed, stabbing his forefinger at the photos littering the desk "This time we've really got something. Sky-1 took these shots over northern Greenland."
He turned it around until Straker could see a black-and-white representation of the arctic icepack broken regularly by upthrusts of volcanic rock. Straker accepted the picture, large blue eyes scanning it in a flash. "That volcano still active?"
Freeman shook his head. "Not since the time of the first Viking explorers. They called it 'Heimdal's Horn.'"
"Heimdal?" Foster asked, a frown creasing his dark brows.
The question was clearly intended to be rhetorical, but the older pilot treated it as genuine. "Heimdal," he began in a hearty voice, "was the guardian of the bridge Bifrost into Asgard. When he tooted his horn it meant there was a battle brewing." He jerked his head at Straker. "The glacier you're looking at sources about twenty miles to the north."
Straker traced the long gray line barely visible against the white, freezing on the rounded blob in the lower corner. "What's that dark spot?"
Freeman winked at a visibly excited Foster. "Told you he was a quick study, didn't I? That, my old friend, is the question."
Lake handed him a second, larger photo, this one gridded as a series of reds, blues and purples. "This is the same image computer enhanced along thermal and magnetic lines. Notice particularly the purple magnetic. From all indications we have--"
"A Ufo," Straker finished, startled into revealing a modicum of the pleasure he was feeling. "A Ufo frozen in the ice!"
"Right on the money!" Freeman crowed, slapping the desk with an open palm. "According to our geologists, that glacier was split wide only a few days ago by a slow moving, underground magma flow. They estimate the age of that ice at 2,000-plus years."
"A preserved U.F.O.," Straker murmured with satisfaction. "If we get there soon enough, we might be able to actually enter a Ufo before Earth's atmosphere turns it to space dust."
"We'll have to be quick about it." Foster took a step closer, folding his hands behind his back in a military parade rest. "The closeups are showing tips of it rather clearly. It's possible it was exposed to atmosphere by that last uprising, and that was nearly twelve hours ago; if so, it could disintigrate at any time."
"Photos. Tests. We'll finally be able to study their space technology!" Freeman scratched his pointed chin. "I assume you want to leave immediately, Commander?"
"Sooner," Straker snapped with a touch of good humor. "Can we reach the site by air?"
"Not possible, sir." Straker cocked a brow at Virginia Lake's interruption, one hand automatically hitching his white slacks up at the knees, allowing him to sit. "Meteorology reports high winds blowing off those mountains -- too high for a helicopter."
"VTOL?" the American suggested hopefully.
She shook her head. "The area is highly volcanic -- saturated with underground magma pools. The ice pack can't be trusted to support the weight of any aircraft heavy enough to withstand the high-velocity gusts."
"She's right, Commander." Paul Foster tugged at the bottom of his maroon tunic until it hung millemetrically straight from the strong shoulders down past his lean waist; the new styles suited him as well as they did Straker. "Our geologists recommend the use of only our lightest mobiles within a ten mile radius of target."
Straker considered, feeling uncharacteristic excitement welling within. This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for -- the chance to learn something new about the enemy he'd fought so tenaciously for the past decade and longer. "Prepare snowcats gamma, delta and zeta for transport; have the volcanologists and terrain specialists plot an overland course to the Ufo from the closest landing site possible. Alec, see to the arrangements; you'll accompany me in Mobile gamma."
"All right! Time to see if all that cold weather survival training the RAF spent on me was worth the money. ... Not that I'm hoping we'll need it," Freeman amended quickly, rubbing his hands together as though cold. "As to additional personnel, I can suggest Lieutenant Ali Mehdi and Captain Peggy Chapman as part of the field crew." Freeman rattled off the names, ticking them one-by-one on his fingers. "They're checked out highest ratings in the light mobiles, and both have an engineering background. Jocko Duval's degree is in astrophysics, and...." He was interrupted by a chirp from the radio on the desk.
"Commander?"
Straker pushed a button. "Yes, Ford?"
"Communique from Moonbase, sir. They're advising us of an imminent communications interruption. Solar activity is on the rise, projected time of intermittant microwave blackout forty-eight hours. They'll be on emergency laser frequency Mu-thirty-seven in event of sighting."
Annoyance tightened Straker's smooth features then was gone. "That'll knock out radio for the mobiles, too. We'll need to maintain visual contact via satellite. Colonel Lake?"
"I'll take care of it, sir."
Straker nodded. "Who else did you have in mind for the mission, Alec?"
Foster shuffled his feet, the desire to volunteer plain on his lips. As the youngest and newest in SHADO's top command echelons, the priviledge of discovery should have belonged to another with more seniority, Colonel John Grey, perhaps, or even Virginia Lake, with her cybernetics experience. But Straker had come to know the young man quite well over the past year and a half and could easily read the barely restrained eagerness beneath the military stance; besides, he'd grown to respect the boy's highly developed combat instincts and the fierce loyalty that had placed those instincts staunchly on Straker's side. With equal perception, Freeman noticed it too, mischief sparking in his eyes. "How about Foster, here? You're pretty good at land combat, aren't you, Paul?" he asked innocuously, winning a hastily restrained, grateful smile.
"I manage, Colonel."
As Executive Officer, Alec was more familiar with the human resources than anyone in the organization, and the Commander bowed to his judgement without hesitation. "Personnel approved. Colonel Lake, you'll take over here. With possible communications disruption, satellite surveilance will be all you have to monitor our progress."
If Lake was disappointed at being excluded from the exploration, it didn't show on her lovely features. "No problem there, sir," she replied tonelessly, brilliant mind already lightyears ahead of the problem. "I'm going to divert SID's tertiary camera mounting earthward; when static orbit takes it out of view, we'll switch to the Russian SpySat-4. I'll have Ford inform the Commissar."
It didn't occur to Straker to question how or why Virginia Lake had memorized the paths of every satellite in that particular orbit; her efficiency rating was the highest in his command. "Very good, Colonel. Gentlemen? Are we waiting for something?"
Foster and Freeman exchanged a smile and the doubled, "No, sir."
"Then get going." Straker rested his palms flat on the desk. "We leave for Greenland in two hours."
***
By: CindyR
SkyDiver-1 was without a doubt the most advanced and versatile battlecraft in Earth's navy. SkyDiver prime was a submarine, designed and crafted under the highest security the Groton, Connecticut, dry docks could offer, and capable of plumbing the vast ocean depths deeper, farther and faster than any submarine anywhere on the planet. Sky-1, her perfectly melded aerial counterpart, was carried on her nose. Capable of rocket-assisted underwater launch from a depth of 90 feet, triple jets ignited in air, enabling Sky-1 to attain a height of over seven miles mean sealevel. Together they and their doubled replicas scattered in every hemisphere were Earth's second line of defense against the enemy she fought regularly - the advanced alien civilization that made constant raids against the inhabitants of this fragile biosphere. Without such defenses as SkyDiver, and the base/ arsenal located on the moon, Earth would have long ago succumbed to her enemy, existing only to be harvested for what was suspected to be the macabre fate of supplying replacement body parts to sustain the alien forms.
"Message from SHADO headquarters, sir," the pretty black woman at SkyDiver's communications board called, holding her headset a little closer to her ear. "SID is reporting a positive contact; it slipped past Moonbase defenses and is due to enter atmosphere within one hundred miles of our present location. Speed has dropped to Sol zero-decimal-seven, ETA twenty minutes. Sky-4 and -6 are also on alert."
Captain Lew Waterman, commander of SkyDiver, descended the metal stair from the navigation bridge to the dive station, moving his tall, rangy form through the cramped surroundings with practiced grace. "Do you have it on radar yet, Lieutenant?" he rapped, laying one hand on her shoulder to steady himself. His brown leather tunic draped across her light net one as he bent over the console himself.
Nina Barry shook her head, her auburn hair bobbing against her neck. "Nothing yet, sir, but Lieutenant Ford is triangulating a polar intercept, coordinates coming in now."
Waterman straightened in surprise. "Polar? Most Ufos skip in from equator to Northern Hemisphere so the atmosphere will bleed off their speed during reentry. Why are they deviating now?"
"Unknown, Captain, but Commander Straker is ordering a launch of Sky-1 with full recorders. He's interested himself."
"Looks like that's my cue, then. Bring SkyDiver to a forty-degree up bubble; I'd rather my rockets didn't straight-line me into that underwater mountain range." She nodded, and Waterman's strong features softened in a brief smile for the pretty officer, then he strode for the forward hatch, snagging up a helmet en route. "You have command, Lieutenant Barry. And I have a date with a Ufo."
***
Ex-astronaut, war hero and current head of Harlington-Straker film studios, Ed Straker braked his brand new, 1999 Quasar coupe under the carport at his studio's front entrance, and stepped out just ahead of the lot attendant, who leapt in to take the car to its conveniently assigned space. A perk of being studio head, he reflected with a wry smile, meaning he didn't have to walk more than a dozen feet to the front door of his facility. It was one of the few privileges he allowed himself, more part of the facade than personal desire, though one he enjoyed considering the often dreary, chill weather of this site a mere 100 miles north of London.
He nodded curtly at the guard inside the entrance, aware that the deceptively benevolent looking matron to his rear was scanning him head to foot in a sensor monitor, verifying his identity before he'd progressed more than a few yards. The glitzy lobby gave way to a main corridor leading from administration to several studios, a short hall off of that allowing him access to the executive branch and his own office.
"Miss Ealand," he greeted the attractive blonde occupying the receptionist's position in the foyer. She smiled warmly at him, using one painted nail to gesture at a woman sitting on the couch against the wall.
"Sir, this is Miss Lily Frankl. She says she was sent over by a Mr. DeBeers?"
Straker rested his briefcase on the secretary's desk, turning his head to examine the visitor openly. She was certainly worth looking at: her Nordic coloring was almost as pale as his own, though her hair was several shades darker than Straker's white-blond, and eyes a shade lighter than the azure through which he regarded the world. She uncrossed long legs and stood, adjusting the micromini skirt to greatest effect. "How do you do, Mr. Straker," she greeted him in a throaty contralto. "I've been looking forward to meeting you for a long time."
He accepted her handshake reluctantly, releasing it immediately and returning his clutch to his briefcase. Even as he sought her eyes, seeking some clue as to her reason for being there, he was aware of the return being true, though far less analytically. She skimmed his six-foot height brazenly, starting with the well muscled shoulders and trailing down to trim hips. That accomplished, she returned her gaze to the smooth, virtually unlined features that made him look a decade younger than his forty-six years, her smile slipping a bit at the frost in his expression. "Miss Frankl." Straker's tenor was as cold as his gaze; he wasn't unaware of his attractiveness to the opposite sex, but rather than celebrating his looks, considered them more annoyance than asset for all that he worked out regularly and wore only the latest tailored fashions. He offered a brief prayer of gratitude to whoever might be listening that, since that East Indian designer Rajasthan Assam re-introduced Nehru jackets over turtlenecks as the zenith of masculine haute couture, spandex was no longer required dress at movie studios. "I'm only slightly acquainted with Mr. DeBeers at Whitehead Productions, but I know him well enough to wonder why he would send one of his top actresses to me."
She dimpled charmingly, recovering her aplomb in the face of rejection with practiced ease. "You recognize me! How very clever of you. I was afraid you hadn't." She leaned forward, taking on a conspiratorial attitude. "Did anyone ever tell you what a lovely American accent you have?"
Straker sighed, recognizing a scam when he heard one. Despite being a front for the military operation known as SHADO -- Supreme Headquarters, Alien Defense Organization -- to the world at large Harlington-Straker was no more than a film studio, with all the behind-the-scenes manipulations that premise entailed. Since becoming operational eleven years, six months ago, Harlington-Straker Studios had produced only a handfull of profit- making movies, accidents all, though that hadn't stopped rising young starlets like Lily from offering their services -- among other things -- for the opportunity at some employment.
"I'm a very busy man, Miss Frankl," Straker stated, using one hand to smooth the plain white tunic jacket he wore. "If you're looking for work...."
The woman's smile slipped again. She darted a quick look at the openly watching Miss Ealand, then batted patently false eyelashes in a demonstration of demurement. "As a matter of fact, I was hoping to read for a part in your new movie. Prehistoric Cave Women of the Planet Hooter is the fourth in the series, isn't it?" She drew her shoulders inward, producing another full inch of cleavage, native British accent thickening seductively. "Don't you think I'd look positively scrumptious in a leather tunic?"
"I'm sure you'd even look scrumptious in nothing at all," Straker returned so dryly that Nancy Ealand coughed over a laugh and even Miss Frankl couldn't miss the sarcasm. "However, I'm not doing the hiring for ... er ... Prehistoric Cave Women Part 4." He shuddered delicately; he'd actually had to watch footage from the second sequel, and hadn't managed to recover his self-respect. Having a sense of humor might help, he admitted frankly, envying his best friend Alec Freeman the luxury. "If you're looking for work, have your agent submit a request to the Director, Carl Mason. You'll excuse me."
He was through the sliding doors to his office even before they had fully opened, depositing the briefcase on the polished desk with a relieved sigh. He'd faced enemy pilots, aliens in inter-planetary war, Senate and United Nations' committees and angry superiors, but nothing affected him as badly as did the distasteful manipulations of the film industry.
He waited until the doors had slid securely shut before picking up the silver cigarette case on his desk and opening the lid. "Straker," he snapped loudly despite the fact that the sensitive microphone would have picked up the barest whisper. A computer generated voice responded instantly,
"Voice identification positive. Commander Straker."
The title coaxed a smile out of fine, elegant lips. The room moved smoothly on oiled gears, dropping him eighty feet in a matter of seconds, then the door opened again of its own accord, admitting him to the military command structure of SHADO HQ. Straker breathed deeply, absorbing the very essence of the complex; this was his element and his life, and had been since he'd seen his first U.F.O. fifteen years ago, when he and British astronaut Craig Collins were flying top secret missions in NASA's space shuttle.
"Good morning, Commander."
"Commander Straker."
"Hello, Commander."
Straker acknowledged the greetings of the day crew with a curt nod, flowing through the collection of white-uniformed men and catsuited women with barely a glance, inured by now to the ordered efficiency of his team. Only the best and brightest worked for SHADO, most of these people having been with him over five years; when the only way to resign from a highly secure organization consisted of death or, in rare occurrences, complete personality erasure, one didn't tend toward a high employee turnover.
He strode from the elevator/office past the spiderweb of corridors criss- crossing the sprawling complex, to the command hub, stopping beside a console manned by a nondescript man of thirty. "Anything going on, Ford?"
The man exchanged a look with a dark-haired girl on his right, then jerked his head toward the office to his rear. "The photos Sky-1 took over the Pole yesterday are ready, Sir. Colonels Freeman, Lake and Foster are waiting for you."
Straker brightened interestedly, studio unpleasantness already forgotten. "Excellent! Carry on, Lieutenant." He made his way up the single step, double doors sliding open to admit him to the circular chamber that served as his personal Lair. There three disparate individuals waited in a cluster around his desk; they straightened respectfully at his appearance. "Judging by your expressions, am I to understand Sky-1 sent something interesting back?"
The youngest of the three nodded at once. He was a confident young man in his late twenties, a half-inch taller than Straker and as leanly muscled. The boyish face was deliberately impassive under the thatch of longish brown hair, but too naturally open to hide the eagerness in his blue eyes. "We received the laser transmissions only a few hours ago. I think you'll find the footage interesting."
"Interesting, Paul?" Straker quoted, eyebrow rising again in what was to him an expression of extreme humor. "More interesting than seeing another Ufo ..." He'd quickly adapted the British habit of slurring the initials into one word. "... disintegrate under Sky-1's missile?"
The young man's mouth quirked on one side. "Nearly as interesting, perhaps, sir."
"More than interesting, certainly, Colonel Foster," a cool female voice corrected. "This could very well provide us with vital data." Straker paused mid-step to meet the heavily-made-up eyes of Colonel Virginia Lake, chief designer of the eutronics based sensor equipment incorporated into all of SHADO's long-range monitors. What was less widely known was that she was also one of the designers of the hydrogen cooled A.I.S.C.G. -- Artificial Intelligence Sensor and Cybernetics Grid -- that provided ninety percent of SHADO's computing and surveillance capabilities. Looking no older than the 28-year old Foster though she was seven years his senior, 'Ginnie' Lake was a sculptured ice princess, poised and unflappable as Straker himself. With shoulder length platinum hair framing china doll features, and a figure rounded perfectly in all the right spots, she was considered by the staff to be the most beautiful member of the SHADO team. Unlike Straker, she used her looks as a weapon, plying her sexuality as a persuader when it suited her needs, but not unless. "If you'll check the photographs, sir, I think you'll see why."
Straker left his briefcase on a visitor's chair in the corner and approached the desk, stepping around the third man in the room. His greeting was another nod; he didn't have to look to know the expression that would be decorating the man's hawk-like face, or the twinkle that lit Alexander Freeman's sharp brown eyes. They had been friends nearly twenty years now, co-workers at SHADO since its inception.
Freeman stepped aside to allow him access to the desk. Unlike Foster, who admired and imitated his commander's impassivity, there was no pretense of stoicism on his craggy features, the Welshman's temperment being as different from Straker's as the proverbial fire was from ice. "We got something, Ed," Freeman exclaimed, stabbing his forefinger at the photos littering the desk "This time we've really got something. Sky-1 took these shots over northern Greenland."
He turned it around until Straker could see a black-and-white representation of the arctic icepack broken regularly by upthrusts of volcanic rock. Straker accepted the picture, large blue eyes scanning it in a flash. "That volcano still active?"
Freeman shook his head. "Not since the time of the first Viking explorers. They called it 'Heimdal's Horn.'"
"Heimdal?" Foster asked, a frown creasing his dark brows.
The question was clearly intended to be rhetorical, but the older pilot treated it as genuine. "Heimdal," he began in a hearty voice, "was the guardian of the bridge Bifrost into Asgard. When he tooted his horn it meant there was a battle brewing." He jerked his head at Straker. "The glacier you're looking at sources about twenty miles to the north."
Straker traced the long gray line barely visible against the white, freezing on the rounded blob in the lower corner. "What's that dark spot?"
Freeman winked at a visibly excited Foster. "Told you he was a quick study, didn't I? That, my old friend, is the question."
Lake handed him a second, larger photo, this one gridded as a series of reds, blues and purples. "This is the same image computer enhanced along thermal and magnetic lines. Notice particularly the purple magnetic. From all indications we have--"
"A Ufo," Straker finished, startled into revealing a modicum of the pleasure he was feeling. "A Ufo frozen in the ice!"
"Right on the money!" Freeman crowed, slapping the desk with an open palm. "According to our geologists, that glacier was split wide only a few days ago by a slow moving, underground magma flow. They estimate the age of that ice at 2,000-plus years."
"A preserved U.F.O.," Straker murmured with satisfaction. "If we get there soon enough, we might be able to actually enter a Ufo before Earth's atmosphere turns it to space dust."
"We'll have to be quick about it." Foster took a step closer, folding his hands behind his back in a military parade rest. "The closeups are showing tips of it rather clearly. It's possible it was exposed to atmosphere by that last uprising, and that was nearly twelve hours ago; if so, it could disintigrate at any time."
"Photos. Tests. We'll finally be able to study their space technology!" Freeman scratched his pointed chin. "I assume you want to leave immediately, Commander?"
"Sooner," Straker snapped with a touch of good humor. "Can we reach the site by air?"
"Not possible, sir." Straker cocked a brow at Virginia Lake's interruption, one hand automatically hitching his white slacks up at the knees, allowing him to sit. "Meteorology reports high winds blowing off those mountains -- too high for a helicopter."
"VTOL?" the American suggested hopefully.
She shook her head. "The area is highly volcanic -- saturated with underground magma pools. The ice pack can't be trusted to support the weight of any aircraft heavy enough to withstand the high-velocity gusts."
"She's right, Commander." Paul Foster tugged at the bottom of his maroon tunic until it hung millemetrically straight from the strong shoulders down past his lean waist; the new styles suited him as well as they did Straker. "Our geologists recommend the use of only our lightest mobiles within a ten mile radius of target."
Straker considered, feeling uncharacteristic excitement welling within. This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for -- the chance to learn something new about the enemy he'd fought so tenaciously for the past decade and longer. "Prepare snowcats gamma, delta and zeta for transport; have the volcanologists and terrain specialists plot an overland course to the Ufo from the closest landing site possible. Alec, see to the arrangements; you'll accompany me in Mobile gamma."
"All right! Time to see if all that cold weather survival training the RAF spent on me was worth the money. ... Not that I'm hoping we'll need it," Freeman amended quickly, rubbing his hands together as though cold. "As to additional personnel, I can suggest Lieutenant Ali Mehdi and Captain Peggy Chapman as part of the field crew." Freeman rattled off the names, ticking them one-by-one on his fingers. "They're checked out highest ratings in the light mobiles, and both have an engineering background. Jocko Duval's degree is in astrophysics, and...." He was interrupted by a chirp from the radio on the desk.
"Commander?"
Straker pushed a button. "Yes, Ford?"
"Communique from Moonbase, sir. They're advising us of an imminent communications interruption. Solar activity is on the rise, projected time of intermittant microwave blackout forty-eight hours. They'll be on emergency laser frequency Mu-thirty-seven in event of sighting."
Annoyance tightened Straker's smooth features then was gone. "That'll knock out radio for the mobiles, too. We'll need to maintain visual contact via satellite. Colonel Lake?"
"I'll take care of it, sir."
Straker nodded. "Who else did you have in mind for the mission, Alec?"
Foster shuffled his feet, the desire to volunteer plain on his lips. As the youngest and newest in SHADO's top command echelons, the priviledge of discovery should have belonged to another with more seniority, Colonel John Grey, perhaps, or even Virginia Lake, with her cybernetics experience. But Straker had come to know the young man quite well over the past year and a half and could easily read the barely restrained eagerness beneath the military stance; besides, he'd grown to respect the boy's highly developed combat instincts and the fierce loyalty that had placed those instincts staunchly on Straker's side. With equal perception, Freeman noticed it too, mischief sparking in his eyes. "How about Foster, here? You're pretty good at land combat, aren't you, Paul?" he asked innocuously, winning a hastily restrained, grateful smile.
"I manage, Colonel."
As Executive Officer, Alec was more familiar with the human resources than anyone in the organization, and the Commander bowed to his judgement without hesitation. "Personnel approved. Colonel Lake, you'll take over here. With possible communications disruption, satellite surveilance will be all you have to monitor our progress."
If Lake was disappointed at being excluded from the exploration, it didn't show on her lovely features. "No problem there, sir," she replied tonelessly, brilliant mind already lightyears ahead of the problem. "I'm going to divert SID's tertiary camera mounting earthward; when static orbit takes it out of view, we'll switch to the Russian SpySat-4. I'll have Ford inform the Commissar."
It didn't occur to Straker to question how or why Virginia Lake had memorized the paths of every satellite in that particular orbit; her efficiency rating was the highest in his command. "Very good, Colonel. Gentlemen? Are we waiting for something?"
Foster and Freeman exchanged a smile and the doubled, "No, sir."
"Then get going." Straker rested his palms flat on the desk. "We leave for Greenland in two hours."
***
