Chapter 1

f

McMurdo Research Station, Antarctica

The pilot craned his neck and yelled at the only two passengers in the noisy prop plane. "Thirty minutes till we reach the Americans!"

Inna Kuznetsov acknowledged the update with a nod. The small plane had departed from Vostok, the Russian Antarctic station where she conducted research, to join the US ice exploration team stationed at McMurdo. The two bases sit eight-hundred miles apart, and as usual, the south pole proudly displayed its rugged nature by tossing the small ski plane with strong winds and sudden drops all along the way.

However, Inna ignored the turbulence during the trip as she anticipated the rough ride and buckled in tight to study some recently received test data. She absorbed the information revealing a confusing chemical analysis from ice cores recently extracted by her team. No air pocket would dare interrupt her work and she slowly but steadily worked through all the results. And besides, a rough flight was a small but necessary inconvenience to gain access to the Yank's discovery near McMurdo.

The only other passenger onboard groaned, then vomited into a government-issued barf bag. "I hate this place so much, cold enough to freeze a man's gonads solid. And you don't fly down here. You ride the world's most extreme roller coaster at ten thousand feet." On cue, the plane lurched to left.

Inna did not look up from her papers and her face showed no sign of emotion. "This is the most fascinating place on the planet. You've lived in Moscow too long."

"I wish I was in Moscow right now!"

"That's your problem, Daniil, you are not in the present. We're almost there and you need to put on your best face for the Americans."

In most of the world, unfettered teamwork between the United States and Russia is rare. However, in this barren, frozen land, unhindered cooperation was essential.

Politics was put aside at the bottom of the world except for the lone "partisan" reminder sitting next to Inna. He was dressed like a soldier and his uniform was kept tidy thanks to the warm bag he now held in his hands. But while he wore military clothing, Daniil was no warrior. No, he was a modern-day political officer sent by Moscow to ensure Russia's interests were properly focused, and protected, on the remote Antarctic continent. In his mind, a meeting with the Americans was precisely why he was needed here.

The U.S. research team respected Inna's talents and they asked for her help with anomalies found by them in recent days. Bubba Schwartz headed the United States ice surveys, accompanied by Liz Chatham. The two U.S. scientists sported their own distinguished credentials much like Inna, and they too spent the bulk of their time outdoors in the bitter cold. Because of the extensive periods out on the ice sheet, the rest of the U.S. crew in McMurdo considered them loners.

On first glance, Bubba was the stereotypical Antarctic researcher. Thick like a well-insulated seal, he wore an overgrown shaggy brown beard and bushy hair. In stark contrast, Liz was dainty and thin with short red hair. It was a wonder to most of the McMurdo staff that she survived out in the frigid air that would commonly reach temperatures like minus fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. But Bubba knew the truth about Liz. She was sturdier than most and loved being on the ice, studying the wildlife.

The pair of U.S. researchers met the Russian ski plane on an improvised airstrip a mile outside of McMurdo, the largest United States research base in Antarctica. Daniil and Inna piled out of the small plane and received a short welcome from Bubba and Liz. Then, the odd team of two Russians and two Americans loaded up into a large track vehicle and they began their trip across the Ross Ice Shelf. After thirty minutes, they stopped at a site where a large drill rig and generators waited for them.

The four poured from the track vehicle and Bubba commenced a quick tour of the location. It was not long until he was just prattling on while staring into Inna's deep blue eyes.

At forty-four, Inna stayed fit with the demands of her work out on the ice. She possessed a natural beauty, pretty, keeping her long blonde curls tucked under a hood while working outdoors. Most women prefer short hair while working in the hardy Antarctic, but cutting her long locks was never an option in her mind. She knew what she liked and apologized to no one for it.

As Bubba continued his introduction of the worksite to Inna, he began to sound like a teenager bragging about his winning play for the high school's football team.

At the ridiculous sight of Bubba transforming into a slobbering puppy, Liz rolled her eyes, sighed, and took matters into her own hands. "Bubba, don't you think we should get the core rig started?"

He lurched to her words. "Um, yeah, … you're right. We don't have a lot of daylight left. Where should we drill next, Inna?"

The Ross Ice Shelf is thick, over two thousand feet in places. But the US team found a troubling spot where the ice thinned to only two hundred feet. And the bottom of the ice cores revealed trace chemicals that should not be there. Inna desired fresh samples to confirm their find and she selected a promising location. The group of four started the rig and began coring.

After forty-five minutes, the core drill made it through the bottom of the ice. And that was the precise moment the massive ice sheet heaved without warning, rising a couple of feet into the air then dropping back into place, hard. The event happened fast and violent, knocking all four of them to the ground, and tipping over the coring rig. Daniil popped up and snapped at Inna. "What did you do?"

Inna lived in and studied Antarctica for over twenty years. She knew this part of the world better than anyone. But she never experienced an event like this. Laying on her back, she threw her mitten-covered hands in the air and replied. "We did nothing. The drill hit something hard, like metal. Then whatever the drill hit moved, seemingly at high speed."

"Get up!" The political officer grabbed her elbow as she stood and dragged Inna off to one side for some privacy. He spoke to her in whispered, hurried Russian. "Submerged sub?"

"Not likely. Subs never remain stationary that close to the ice, particularly under a thin spot. Submarine captains hate ice, it's dangerous. And I don't know of a sub that can accelerate like a rocket or lift ice this massive."

"Maybe it's new technology?"

Inna paused a few seconds to think. "This thing was at most a few feet from the bottom of the ice. The drill went from ice to metal. You know we always stop when the core bit breaks out into water or soil. There's little doubt the object was almost touching the ice. If some country was trying out a new high-tech toy, the last place you take a shiny new piece of equipment is just under a thin spot in the ice. It would be too risky. A natural event, like an underwater eruption or explosion, is a more likely explanation for lifting the ice shelf. But what was the object we hit?"

Daniil pinched his lips to think, then said, "We should return to Vostok and see if they detected something."

Inna turned to start gathering her gear. "Give me a..." The six-inch-wide crack commanded her full attention. It went straight, far as she could see in the glare of the sun. "Now that's unusual, and it wasn't there when the drill rig started."

Daniil stared at the fissure. "What would have the ability to crack ice this thick, in a straight line?"

Inna shrugged. "I don't know."

Bubba approached and broke up the Russian's private discussion. "We have no idea what that was. And that fissure? It goes in a direct line towards the open Ross Sea. You have any thoughts, Inna?"

She studied the breach in the ice and replied without looking at Bubba. "I was just debating that very thing with my colleague here, and we conclude the same. We don't have a clue."

The soldier held up his hand like a traffic cop signaling stop. "Comrade, careful, this may be a sensitive matter."

Inna chuckled. "Easy, Daniil. Between the US, Russia, and their allies, who else would have this kind of technology? So, if our two countries don't know, I'm sure it's not military or a matter you would label as sensitive. Remember that time when we detected a US sub? Bubba's response wasn't we have no idea."

Bubba jumped in. "What are you trying to say? Are you insulting my ability to be diplomatic?"

"No, my fellow ice warrior, just the opposite. In that case, you simply said you couldn't comment. So, you obviously knew, but you were polite with your answer. Very diplomatic. This time, you said you don't know, and I believe you." Inna learned to be tactful when necessary, and in this instance, she decided she might need intelligence or data from the Americans.

Bubba's cheeks blushed. "You know I always tell you what I can, and today, Liz and I have no earthly idea what that was."

Inna finally took her eyes off the crack to look at Bubba. "We should take some pictures and make measurements. We need to also collect that core sample and then return to Vostok."

Bubba blurted out. "No, why don't you come back to McMurdo and stay awhile. We could use your input when we analyze the data."

Inna spun to glance at Daniil. "Is that OK with you?" She liked the idea of learning all that the Americans knew.

Daniil nodded to her. "It is if they have hot coffee. This barren place is soooo cold. And maybe some whiskey to spice it up. And don' take too long to snap those pics, I don't want to stay out here any longer than I have to."

Bubba smiled, putting his arm around Daniil. "I forgot you like Irish coffee so much. As it happens, I just might have some good Kentucky bourbon to share with you, my friend."

Safely back at McMurdo, Bubba confirmed that the United States' high-tech monitoring equipment dutifully did its job and recorded the incident under the ice. The base engineer, Blake, sat at a workstation attempting to identify what the state-of-the-art instruments recorded. Five monitors surrounded the flustered engineer to the front, and the four-member team from the ice coring operation enclosed Blake's rear looking over his shoulder. He smacked the side of one monitor as if it would fix a problem. "Our equipment must have malfunctioned or it has a virus. A submerged object can't accelerate that fast."

Inna shook her head no. "The equipment is fine. We felt the thing move under us, and it was indeed fast."

Blake shot back. "Well, then how do you explain the size? The largest known sub would be a dinghy next to this thing. Our equipment is on the fritz." He hit the monitor again.

Bubba scratched his bearded chin. "It might be a natural phenomenon. Blake, you said diagnostics checked out, but run them again. Inna, can I speak to you in private?"

Inna nodded yes and then left with Bubba to find an empty room.

After folding her arms, Liz tilted her head to one side while watching them exit the room. "You think we can trust Bubba to be alone with her?"

Daniil chuckled. "He better behave. She's far tougher than he is." Both Liz and he laughed at the truth in his statement.

Bubba and Inna located an empty room. Inside, she found a chair and sat. He closed the entry, pocketed his hands, and leaned on the shut door. "We both have to report our findings up the chain. What the hell do we tell them?"

Inna shrugged. "The truth."

"No one is going to believe it. Both of us will be assigned to counting snowflakes in this desolate place for life!"

"That's fine by me. I spend too much time away from the ice dealing with bureaucracy in Moscow."

Bubba smiled. "I forgot. You're more comfortable on the ice than a penguin. I guess I am too, but I also like getting back the states. I don't see myself as part of this place like you do."

She studied him for a few seconds, wondering if he intended the comment as a put-down or praise. "So, as I said, I'm reporting what I saw and heard to Moscow, no matter how strange. What are you going to do?"

Bubba looked at the floor for a second, then scuffed it with the toe of his shoe. "I'll do the same. Tell D.C. the truth, even if it's bizarre. To be honest, I don't have another choice. But I know the brass back in Washington isn't going to believe something metallic was sitting just under the ice and that it lifted the entire shelf when it moved. Plus, it was so fast our instruments didn't measure the speed accurately. Oh, and don't forget, it was the size of a soccer stadium."

She smiled at him. "For a man that could be the offspring of a walrus, you have a good heart and respect the truth like a true researcher. You could almost be Russian."

"Well, let's not start insulting walruses and Russians!" They both laughed and the sight of her smile made Bubba warm and happy.

Inna then blurted out, "We should see if Blake found something. Hopefully, we can learn a little more about what happened. And don't forget the coffee for Daniil. He'll never let it go if you don't let him have some of your whiskey bourbon, or whatever it's called. By the way, you know Liz has a crush on you, don't you? I can see it in the way she looks at you."

Bubba threw his hands in the air. "Ouch! You sure know how to kill a friendly conversation." And with the moment officially gone, they returned to find Liz, Daniil, and Blake.

After another day of scouring mountains of data, photographs, and core samples, the ice researchers learned nothing new. Blake ran equipment diagnostics five then six times and found nothing wrong. So, Inna and Daniil thanked their hosts and eventually returned to Vostok.

Chapter 2

Russian Yasen Class Submarine, Ross Sea, Antarctica

Commander Alexander Lebedev ordered the Lipsov to a depth of twenty feet. Situated near the Ross Ice Shelf, this was a dangerous maneuver since shifting ice was all around them and icebergs could appear without warning. Fortunately, his submarine was a state-of-the-art ship, with classified upgrades, operated by the best sailors in the Russian Navy. And the transforming ice was just one of the commander's concerns.

Vague commands bothered the captain. The Kremlin ordered the Lipsov to search for a large unidentified submerged object ("USO") and to learn everything they can about it. According to reports, the USO ran close to the surface in the Ross Sea. So, they needed to patrol these shallow, ice-filled waters. From time to time, the Commander briefly speculated on what they might be stalking, but he understood that was a waste of time and without delay returned focus to the tasks in front of him. For now, ensuring they missed the icebergs was enough excitement.

However, another danger loomed. Lipsov's current course in the Ross Sea brought them close to McMurdo, a large American research station on the edge of this sea. Yanks patrolled the area to protect their cargo ships and other interests. A Russian sub this close to the facility constituted a threat. The commander understood this, as did the crew. But these men were hand-picked, the best. So, with no idea of what they hunted, or why they dodged icebergs and American patrols, they pursued their mission. Lebedev's well-seasoned crew obeyed their orders, no matter how odd.

Early on the second day of patrol, the sonar technician interrupted the calm of their daily routine. "Der'mo! If this is correct, something big just parked on our stern, one thousand meters out. And it moved into position fast, maybe at four-hundred knots."

"Battle stations!" The commander moved to his sonar man. "Show me."

"There." The sonar operator pointed to the large blot displayed on the left side of his screen.

Commander Lebedev rubbed his right eyebrow and asked, "Are you sure? That's not a blip, it's a continent. I've never seen a vessel even close to that big. Something that large must be an ice mass?"

"Commander, it's submerged twenty meters. Ice floats. And it moved really fast into this position, not like drifting ice. It was almost as if it just appeared." He paused. I'll test the equipment for errors, but yes, I think it is that big."

Lebedev scanned the screens. "It moved at four-hundred knots?"

Sonar nodded yes. "Yes, sir. Maybe faster."

The captain huffed. "Nothing can move that fast submerged. Maybe its size is throwing off our instruments."

The sonar operator threw switches and typed furiously. "I 'm checking on that commander."

Turning away, Levedev shouted, "Sparks, fire up your radio and open a channel. I want to speak to them."

She replied, "Yes, sir. Ready to transmit on your command." The commander picked up a mic and nodded to the radio woman. She replied, "Transmitting, sir."

"This is Commander Lebedev of K-562 Lipsov, Yasen Class Submarine, Russian Naval Operations. We're on patrol protecting research facilities here on Antarctica. Identify yourself and your intent." The long silence was worse than any reply. The crew observed the commander once again rubbing his right eyebrow, a nervous tick, making him an easy mark when his poker hand was poor. Thankfully for the crew, an enemy is blind to a commander in a submerged sub. Levedev eventually repeated. "Identify yourself and your intent. If you don't reply we will assume your intent as hostile."

The voice that responded was peculiar with an unfamiliar Russian accent. But the commander and everyone in the control room understood. "Given the heavy armament you carry, hostilities appear to be your intent, not ours."

"We're ready to protect ourselves, if necessary. Please identify yourself." The silence returned, so the commander continued. "If you don't identify yourself, we will open fire."

"That would be a mistake. We were here long before you, and it's you who are encroaching on our territory."

"Then identify yourself." "We are the ones who built the Pyramids, the Colossus of Rhodes, the Alexandria Lighthouse, and the Hanging Gardens of Babylonia."

"That's nonsense. Are you taunting me?"

"No, simply answering the direct question."

And then they were gone. The unidentified ship moved away so fast it rocked the sub, jarring the men and forcing them to grab for support to stay upright. The commander bellowed, "Someone tell me what that ship was and what the hell just happened!"

A voice drifted over the top of a monitor next to the commander. "Sir, electronic scans came up empty, no electronic signatures. And no heat signature. The only thing we saw was the active sonar reflections."

Lebedev turned to his sonar man again. "Could you tell the heading, or guess where it went? Maybe we can chase it."

Sonar shot back. "Best guess, straight out into the middle of the Pacific ocean. At, well, high speed. It's fast, really fast. Our equipment can't give you an accurate speed since this is off the charts. Hundreds of knots."

"That's your best guess? Then we know nothing is what you are saying."

The sound man was strangely quiet while hugging the headphones to his ears but finally took the headset off. "I heard no sound, not even when it moved. I can identify most subs just by the sound of props, but this thing was completely quiet. We're dealing with something new."

The commander spoke loud and firm for all to hear. "So it's big, moves fast with no sound and leaves no heat or electronic signatures. I want everyone to review this encounter non-stop and add whatever you can to that pathetic description."

The control room crew replied in unison. "Yes, sir!"

The commander turned to his second-in-command (the "XO") and spoke in a lowered voice. "Moscow is not going to like this news, but send them an update on the encounter and what we know for now, even though it's not much. And make sure to tell them we are working hard to expand our knowledge of the USO. We'll send updates as soon as we have more info. I need to go check something out."

The XO transmitted the message as ordered. Once in his cabin, Lebedev reviewed the classified reports, written by Inna Kuznetsov, detailing two strange encounters. He remembered entries referring to a large, high-speed USO under the ice with incredible power. After the Lipsov's recent confrontation, he wanted to reread those lines.

A quick reply from the Kremlin, in the form of new orders, interrupted his reading. Moscow ordered the captain to mine the waters. The Lipsov carried a top secret array of sensors and sophisticated explosives that waited like mines but could move like torpedoes on detecting a target. Once deployed, the area was impassable. Russia called it the Gordian Array. Using it in international waters, though, posed problems. Most notably, a possible incident with the U.S. patrol subs.

However, in an unprecedented move, the Russian generals anticipated the dilemma and contacted the U.S. Admirals, telling them of the situation and their intent. The Americans acknowledged the predicament and agreed that they, as well as their allies, would avoid the area while the Lipsov engaged the USO. So with the United States' consent, the Russian brass ordered the Lipsov to deploy the Gordian Array.

The crew expertly positioned the weapon, armed it, and then they waited. The day passed without further incident as the commander and crew worked into the night trying to get some answers.

Chapter 3

f

Vostock Research Station, Antartica

Once back at the Russian research station in Vostok, Daniil and Inna dutifully reported to Moscow and relayed the strange events encountered out on the ice shelf. Three days later, they received an unusual response.

It came in the form of a twenty-man tactical response team. Inna tracked down the commander and confronted him. "Why weren't we informed you were coming? And how are we going to support this many people? Vostok is in an Antarctic research base, not a Black Sea Resort. Our provisions will not sustain additional people."

The commander took off his beret, folded it and tucked it under his arm. "I appreciate your concerns, but these men are the best, trained for this kind of mission. They don't need your food or infrastructure. We came fully prepared and are self-sufficient."

"Fine. And stay out of my way. I have important research to finish and don't need you or your men interfering or breaking something."

"We wouldn't think of it. We're here to help, and to protect you, comrade."

Inna was unsure how to respond, but she knew he told the truth about his men being the best. She watched the team unload and stage their gear. They were well trained and performed the tasks quickly, with no mistakes. It was impressive. Noticing that the troops spent a disproportionate amount of time fussing with something, she spotted a weapon that resembled a cannon decorated with excessive electronics, like something out of a low-budget science fiction movie. Inna only glimpsed it a couple of times because the tactical team kept the odd-looking piece out of sight, fighting with the wind to keep it covered up with tarps most of the time.

The commander started to leave, but stopped and turned on his heel. "Oh, and one more thing. I'm sure it will be in your new orders. But to be clear if anyone asks, my tactical team was never here. You never saw us or our equipment."

"It's just us researchers and military escorts here. Who would ask us anything?"

"But if they did?"

Inna shrugged her shoulders. "I have no interest in anything other than my research. The only thing I've seen is lots of ice and cold water that supports some amazing flora and fauna. That's always my answer and the truth. I do my best to ignore and forget everything else."

"Good answer. I like you and would like to offer you some helpful advice. Don't interact with the Americans again unless you first check with Moscow. I'm not sure why, but many at the Kremlin are nervous. You might even say terrified about what was under that ice you drilled. Be careful."

"And I have some advice for you, never give me advice I didn't ask for."

"Stubborn as hell. Just like your file stated. You have a good day, Inna Kuznetsov. Oh, and one more thing. Where should we set up camp? I am told the ground here is not like any other place on the earth."

"That's exactly the problem, the supposed ground is mostly ice and snow that is constantly shifting and moving. You need solid ground and I know a spot that would be good for you."

Inna eventually identified solid ground to the north of the research base that would support the tactical response team and its equipment. The troops took her advice and erected modular buildings there, in effect creating a small neighboring village. After completing the structures, numerous dishes and antennas sprouted from the roofs.

Inna took special note of the guards posted to patrol the new camp. She was accustomed to military personnel, and up until now, they were part of the base and always friendly. And they never patrolled on foot. However, this tactical response team was something different. Inna hoped their stay would be short.

That night, a blizzard engulfed the base and strong winds made odd sounds that echoed throughout the camp. Inna lied in bed, her mind preoccupied with the highly unusual coring operations, and along with the constant interruptions from the howling wind, she could not sleep.

Just like the Americans claimed, odd chemicals were present on the bottom of the ice core she extracted with them. Heavy metals were detected, and while slightly unusual, that wasn't what bothered her. It was the trace radiation. Background radiation did not account for the finding. And there was another element present she could not explain, astatine-210, the rarest element on earth. It is remarkably unstable. At any point in time, scientists estimate thirty grams, total, in the entire earth's crust. In most cases, the compound decays instantly to bismuth and polonium. Simply stated, it should not be present on the bottom of a core from the Ross Ice Shelf.

Her eyes drooped with exhaustion but she continued running the bits of information through her mind, somehow trying to make them all fit together. She stared at the small porthole of a window in her room and listened to the wind. Then she wondered out loud, "Are you trying to praise me or scold me. I can't tell."

After an hour of tossing and turning, Inna found sleep and dreamed. The vision placed her as a little girl in a museum, standing next to her dead mother. In a strange floating display case in front of her, she inspected a glowing rock that spun slowly in mid-air. It was a piece of a meteorite collected from Siberia. Her mother tried to explain the exhibit but Inna ignored her, and instead contemplated what new substances may have come to earth from space. Then a nearby museum patron yelled, "Earthquake!"

Men outside her room shouting "Earthquake!" tore Inna from the dream. She felt the bed rumbling and heard a strange sound emanate from the floor as she forced herself awake. She needed to take action.

As Inna rose, her feet found a shaking floor, causing her to fall and crunch her left arm on the ground. Holding the injured limb with the sound arm, she worked to cross the shaking building over to the small window. Outside, she saw the vibrating ground excite snow chunks into dancing, like game pieces skittering about on a giant electric football table.

And then the awful sounds and shaking reached a crescendo and she watched it all through the window. Inna saw a teal beam of light stream straight up into the night sky, north of her base. Everything in the research station glowed with an odd blue-green light as if being irradiated. She estimated the cobalt colored ray lasted about ten seconds, then it ceased, and the ground stopped shaking as well. She forced herself to move and began to think about what had to be done; she was sure there was significant damage to their base.

Inna moved out into the hall and shouted. "Get your gear on! We need to get out there and figure out what the hell that was and how bad our infrastructure has been damaged." Inna thought she might still be dreaming, but her aching arm told her differently. Her voice showed a slight quiver as she barked orders and dressed hastily, favoring the injured arm. Once suited up, she and a few men headed out into the minus fifty-five-degree Celsius air.

Wind and snow resisted every movement, so Inna moved lethargically. Heavy breathing fogged her goggles, and along with the blowing snow, visibility was poor. Inna managed to spot Daniil, accompanied by a few men, and waved to them. She signaled with her good arm that they should move briskly to the north, to the area where she witnessed the light streaming into the sky.

She pushed on, leaning into the wind and leading the way north. With effort, she made slow progress until abruptly, a horrific sight appeared, causing her to stand still and stare.

The tactical team's visit proved to be short, just as she hoped. Their camp was now gone. In its place, the edges of a massive, deep crater glowed red while blue-gray smoke drifted from the center of a large hole in the center.

Chapter 4

f

Eventually, late into the night, Lebedev sought his bunk for some brief shut-eye. He stripped to his skivvies, lied down, and closed his eyes. The officer-in-charge appeared in his private cabin and woke the commander, requesting he come to the control room. A groggy commander grumbled, "Really? I just fell asleep. Well, what is it? Just tell me."

"It's best if you come to see for yourself, sir."

Lebedev put his favorite tattered robe and slippers, then took the familiar path up to the control room. On his arrival, he surveyed the white faces and wide eyes. His XO, Vasili, also driven from his bed and still in pajamas, waited for the commander. Vasili said, "Commander, someone, or something, compromised the Gordian Array. It's been reconfigured and is now, in effect, a cage keeping us trapped here."

The commander surveyed the room. "Is this some bad joke? Are you trying to piss in my vodka?" He waited for an answer but perceived the quiet stillness of his men. "How's this possible? How could someone do that without us knowing?"

The tired second-in-command answered. "It should be impossible, commander."

"But it wasn't. Find out what happened and how we can turn it off. We can't stay trapped here."

One man at a workstation spoke. "Sir, we have been trying, but none of the controls or sensors respond to our commands. We're working on alternatives."

The commander spun to weapons. "WEPS, can we destroy the array? Or clear a path with torpedoes?"

Weapons winced. "Sure, but the odds are great that we will sustain damage."

The commander's voice boomed so everyone would hear. "These are not the answers I want people. Understood?" A few men nodded while everyone scurried to seek a solution. They worked all night, with the commander's help, but the situation remained unchanged.

Early the next morning, the USO reappeared, this time one thousand meters off the bow. The commander ordered battle stations and the crew made double time to take advantage of the second chance to learn more about the strange ship. Then the odd voice echoed through the air inside the sub. "Do you understand now, we don't want conflict. We hope to reach an understanding."

"I understand I'm trapped by my own weapons. And I still don't know who you are."

"Yes, you do. We told you. You chose not to believe."

"The Egyptians built the Pyramids. You make no sense."

"Did they? The did much of the labor, yes, but the design and technology used to build them came from us."

"And who is us?"

"Your language has no proper name for us. But we have been called aliens."

"So you're from another planet?"

"Yes. Now, if we free you and let you go, is it agreed to keep your submerged vehicles away from this place?"

"No, we have research teams and interests here to protect. What planet are you from?"

"Your bases are safe as long as we are here. You need not worry about them, but you need to leave these waters and not return. You have two hours to consider what we have told you and whether or not you will agree with our proposal." And with that, they again disappeared.

Commander Lebedev barked. "Nav, start a two-hour countdown. Well, someone speak. Did we learn anything new?"

Sparks responded, but her voice was sheepish. "Their transmission came out of the ships hull, not our speakers. Somehow they used the walls of the ship as a speaker to talk to us."

The commander spun around a few times, scanning the hull. "I just realized, I didn't use the mic. But they heard what I said like they were here."

"Yes, sir, I suspect they hear everything we say." The confused radio woman joined the commander and also examined the hull.

"So now we're trapped, and bugged." The commander paused for a moment and rubbed his eyebrow. "Can we still communicate with Moscow?"

Sparks nodded. "Yes, sir, I believe so."

"Send them the raw data we have on both encounters, unaltered. I will send them a report summarizing events, but the techs in Moscow should review the data, too. The more eyes on this, the better."

The crew silently worked as the commander exited the control room, heading for his cabin. The commander suspected Moscow would never give up access to Antarctic waters. But he had time to think and develop his response, a rare occurrence in this profession. Making good use of the wait, he arranged for an encrypted call to the Kremlin. Lebedev possessed excellent judgment, but this was a big decision. He welcomed advice from the Admirals.

The extraordinary conference call lasted twenty minutes. And to everyone's surprise, the Russian President, Dmitry Alexeev, joined them. The Admirals dominated the conversation, expressing anger over the USO demands. Even with the Lipsov trapped in the minefield they deployed, the military leaders wanted to respond with force if asked to leave the international waters. Remaining quiet for most of the discussion, the Russian President ended debate when he spoke to Commander Lebedev. "Give me a few minutes to talk the Admirals to think things through, and see if there is a peaceful solution. I will send revised orders shortly." And with that, the call ended. Lebedev left his cabin, making way for the galley. With only a couple of hours of sleep over the last two days, plus the stress of a situation that involved aliens with superior technology, a hot cup of coffee was in order.

Sitting at a table, Lebedev sipped his cup of black mud and chatted with Vasily, the ship's doctor. The loudspeakers screeching interrupted, "Commander to the control room." It could mean only one thing, the arrival of the new orders from the Kremlin. Lebedev chugged the last inch of sludge and Vasily added one last thought. "You're a good man and the crew respects you. But this situation brings us into dangerous, uncharted waters. Take things slow, don't drink too much coffee, and get some sleep if you can."

The commander rose and patted the doctor on the shoulder. "Thanks for the advice. If we get through this, I promise to follow the doctor's orders. But you have to share some of that good vodka you have hidden under your mattress."

Vasily chuckled. "That's why you're the best commander in the fleet. You never miss a thing going on inside your sub."

Back at the control room, Lebedev read the transmission containing his new orders. The remaining time passed quickly. Lipsov's crew made what preparations they could, making modifications to equipment in hopes of learning more about the USO on its return. Ten minutes before the anticipated deadline, the commander reordered battle stations. And exactly two hours from their last departure, the large USO was back, one thousand yards off the bow of the Lipsov.

Once more, the voice filled the inside of the entire submarine. "You and your superiors have decided. But it's impossible to share these waters. It's too dangerous. We must insist you leave and not return. Do you agree to these terms."

Commander Lebedev took a deep breath. "Let's not be hasty and talk this through for a moment. There may be another solution. We would like to propose a truce. Let's work together. If we can partner, we can learn from each other and avoid conflict. The Russians can also help you assimilate with earth, become part of our culture."

"We have tried to work with your people for thousands of years. You are a difficult species who communicate poorly, prone to rash decisions, violent at times and unpredictable. Our past failures with your ancient cultures taught us that it's best to stay hidden and avoid interaction. But now, in this part of your world, your advancing technology makes that difficult. For your protection, we ask you to stay clear of these waters. We will ensure the research bases of all countries on Antarctica stay safe. It is a fair exchange."

"I can't agree to let an alien species, one that we know nothing about, become the guardians of our interests. That's just not possible. It's best if we work together."

"You have not heard our message. It's too dangerous. No. You must abandon these waters for your protection. We are peaceful and will work with the people of earth by protecting your bases on Antarctica."

The commander pinched his lips. His training taught him to follow orders, even if it meant the life of everyone on board. "Weapons, load tubes four and five. Await my command to fire."

"That's a mistake commander."

"Probably. But you seem to know more about us than we know about you. So you likely know I have to follow my orders."

"As do we. But you can still choose, make an independent decision."

"True. But then my life becomes useless. I will be court-martialed and imprisoned for the rest of my life."

"That's likely. But it's an option where your crew survives."

"Sure, in Siberia. Do you know what that means?"

"Hardship, not a pleasant life. But it's still life."

"Yes, but it's a life sentence. Existence in a prison camp is just a slow form of death for warriors like my crew. I'm sorry, but if we can't come to an agreement..."

"YOU'LL FIRE ON US!" The strange voice interrupted in a louder, penetrating tone, echoing in the skull of every man.

The commander rubbed his temples to cope with the pain in his head. "Yes. … We will fire."

"We sense you've made your decision and we're disappointed. But we need to hear you say it aloud."

Still rubbing his temples, Lebedev spoke with a slight tone of resignation. "I can't surrender these waters. My orders are clear. Russia must have access to the Antarctic seas. I must follow orders or slowly die in prison." The commander paused, stroked his right eyebrow, and scanned the control room. He read it on the crew's faces. Everyone there understood what he meant — and that he was correct. The commander stood straight and spoke firmly. "One last time, can we form an alliance to share these waters?"

"No."

Without hesitation, Lebedev replied. "So be it. Weps, fire tube four."

The powerful explosion tore open the port side and rolled the submarine. Then the Lipsov sank fast, drowning the lucky souls who survived the blast on the cold ocean floor.

Chapter 5

f

St. Petersburg, Russia

After lunch, Vicky inspected her prized houseplants and supplied any needed care. Her husband, Commander Lebedev, brought specimens from all over the world and the flora provided a spiritual connection to him while he was at sea. Pink orchids were her new centerpiece. However, they were also the ones that resisted her efforts while she struggled to understand them. As she inspected one flower, a vile sensation swarmed her being. She collapsed in her favorite armchair and the pain intensified until she lost consciousness.

In her coma-like state, a vision appeared to Vicky. The submarine was her husband's ship, the Lipsov, and it was damaged and sinking. After a while, a consoling voice addressed her. "This was not necessary. We are truly sorry for your loss. It was unavoidable, your husband's choice, however, his sacrifice will not be forgotten or for naught."

The voice paused, then resumed. "The world is at a breaking point. The masses must understand a simple truth. All people share more in common than they do differences. They love their children and want a good life for them. They love to laugh. And with few exceptions, they avoid war. The people of earth, on every continent, show promise. But they must stop bickering with one another and work together. A new era is at hand. All cultures must learn to cooperate. They need to remove the barriers of language and distance. We are not the first to ask for peace and harmony around the world. It is nevertheless an important message we give you now, and in many ways, it is the most important in the history of men. We ask that you serve as our ambassador, someone who has suffered great loss, to deliver this message to your leaders. They will resist and doubt you, but you must make them hear. It's vital if the people of earth are to survive." The voice faded into silence.

Vicky's daughter, Klara, returned home to find her mother unconscious in the chair. Klara wet a towel and wiped the sweat from her face. Vicky responded and opened her eyes, then spoke in a monotone voice. "Klara, sweet child. Your father is dead." The words were hard to say but flowed like she was on autopilot.

"Mother! How could you say such a thing? Father's probably chasing dolphins in that monstrous submarine of his."

"I witnessed the Lipsov sink. He's gone. And I might be going mad. But a strange voice spoke to me about his death and something about saving the earth."

Klara tilted her head and eyed her mother. "We should get you to the hospital, Mother. Have a doctor look at you."

After few minutes, Klara gathered up her mother and the two set off for the nearby hospital. Because she was a commander's wife, it took only thirty minutes to see the doctor, a short wait in Russia. And after a thorough examination, the physician found nothing wrong except for some slight dehydration. From what Vicky told them, they figured she blacked out after lunch till Klara found her when coming home from work, at about five p.m. Heavy sweating for four-plus hours explained the dehydration, so the doctor sent her home with instructions to rest and drink lots of water.

Back at Vicky's apartment, two uniformed men waited near her door. They appeared bored and leaned against the wall, chatting with each other. Vicky addressed them. "I already know why you're here. My husband is dead."

The two men snapped off the wall and stood up straight, assuming a proper military posture. The officer with the most ribbons took a small step toward her. "How could you possibly know that. Commander Lebedev is on a classified mission?" He noticed the tears swelling in Klara's eyes.

"I saw his sub sink in a vision. One whole side was practically missing and it sunk fast."

"Mrs. Lebedev, listen to me carefully. It is important you answer my next question as accurately as you can. Which part of the sub was missing?"

"The left, or as you navy types say, the port side. It was blown wide open."

The two officers eyed each other, eyebrows raised. The second man stepped toward her and asked, "Do you know anything else about the sinking?"

Vicky looked at the floor. "Sort of, but I need to sit down. Why don't you come inside? We can get something to drink and talk more comfortably."

Over the clinking of teacups, Vicky told them all the details of her vision, and to her surprise, they listened intently. She assumed they would call her crazy, but these men wanted every fact and took her seriously. When she finished, the junior officer took out a cell phone, placed a call, and relayed Vicky's story. He listened for a minute and replied, "Understood." He clicked the phone off, glanced at his counterpart, and said, "We have a change of plans." Turning to Vicky, he asked, "Are you well enough to travel?"

Vicky's head leaned to one side. "What? Why do you ask?"

"You need to come to Moscow and tell the Admiral your story. They want us to bring you to the Kremlin."

"Why can't you just tell them. In fact, I believe you just did over the phone."

The two uniforms chuckled. The senior officer added, "They'll want to hear it directly from you. And if you have another vision or message, they'll want to hear it immediately."

Vicky locked eyes with Klara, her jaw hanging. "Can my daughter come, too?"

"Of course, it would be good to have her there to care for you. Now if possible, we would like to leave, now. How quickly can you pack? You don't need much. We will supply whatever you need in Moscow, food, clothes, a place to sleep. Pack only medicine and important provisions."

Vicky held up one finger. "Give us a minute."

The mother and daughter went into the kitchen and Vicky grabbed her blood pressure medicine. Klara gasped at the sight. "Mother, you're not seriously going to leave with these men, now, this late are you?"

"Yes, and I would appreciate if you would join me. I could use your help. It would honor your father's sacrifice."

The tears again streamed down Klara���s cheeks. "I just found out my father is dead. And in the middle of the night, you want to drag me to the Kremlin? That's insane!"

"I know it's bizarre. But somehow, I know it's what we need to do. Please? They won't keep us long. You know the military, they're too cheap. We'll be home soon. I could use your companionship on this trip."

"I love you mother, and I can tell you're intent on making this trip. You know I always want to be there for you. But this is crazy." She wiped a few tears from her cheeks and sighed. "If this is what you want. And I think father would also want me to respect your wishes."

"I love you too, solnyshko." She hugged her daughter. "You know he's so proud of you, how you honor the family. I am too."

Klara wiped her cheeks with one hand and held her mother with the other. "So, I guess we are going to the Kremlin."

"Thank you. I couldn't bear the separation from you during this time."

Klara grabbed them both jackets. Vicky pocketed her medicine along with a photo of her husband. Then the four of them left. A car was waiting on the street and took them to the nearby air force base, Levashovo. Outside of pictures, Vicky never saw a propeller driven plane this small, let alone fly in one. Her face was blank as she climbed in, took her seat, and put on the headphones. She solved the talk button problem while they taxied to the runway and pressed it on. "Is it safe to fly with so many people in such a small vehicle? How can it lift all of us into the air?" As she spoke, the wheels lifted off the ground and the others threw off their headphones when Vicky screamed with the button still engaged.

The four-hundred-and-fifty-mile flight was turbulent, taking a little over three hours. The rapid decent frightened Vicky, however, she refrained from screaming again. They landed smoothly at Kubinka Air Force Base in Moscow to find another car waiting for them, which briskly took them to the Kremlin.

Once inside the famous building, soldiers separated Klara and her mother. An officer escorted Vicky to a new room, for a private meeting with a waiting admiral. With care, she retold the story while he diligently listened. When she finished, he spoke with a low booming, authoritarian voice. "Before we discuss anything, you must agree to complete secrecy about your vision and everything I am about to tell you." He slid a piece of paper across the table for her to read. Vicky did not understand it but signed the agreement since she had no other choice. She wiped the signature with her fingertips then slid the paper back to him. The Admiral continued, "Thank you. Now, first, other than your daughter and your doctor, is there anyone else who knows about the vision?"

"No."

"Good. Keep it that way. Your doctor is quite unhappy, but it is necessary to keep him detained to prevent anyone from learning of your experience. Now, this might be hard for you to believe, but you need to know we were waiting for your information. As we monitored the progress of your husband's ship, we received a message, in Morse code of all things. It told us they would choose an ambassador for the earth who would deliver a message to earth's leaders."

"I'm not sure that's me. Husbands and wives sometimes have a psychic connection or some other weird way of sensing when the other has died."

The admiral spoke in a softer tone. "I know this isn't fair. We lost a good commander, and you your husband. But we may be facing a threat. One we know so little about, other than they seem to be capable of things like telekinesis. And for some reason, our enemy chose to speak to you. They showed you the confrontation in the Ross Sea and told you specifically to deliver their message to us. And they called you ambassador in your vision. It's clear you're the chosen one and Russia now needs your help."

"I'm just a housewife who likes plants. I'm not sure I can help. Bu...but I'll do whatever I can. It's what my dear Alexander would want me to do. And I will do everything I can to honor his sacrifice."

The Admiral put his hand on her shoulder and lowered his head. "We've reserved a room for you at a nearby hotel. You and your daughter should be comfortable there. If you need anything, call this number." He slid a card across to Vicky. "And if you have another vision, you must tell me immediately. We are dealing with an unknown entity. You may be the only way we have to receive messages directly from them."

Vicky gasped. "There have to be better ways to communicate with our government?"

"Maybe, but they talked to you, and your husband, just before his ship was destroyed."

"How could you know that?"

"For some inexplicable reason, we heard the communication between Commander Lebedev and the USO in real time, right up to when the torpedo exploded in its tube."

"That is amaz…wait. Are you saying the Lipsov's torpedoes destroyed his ship?"

"It appears so, yes."

Vicky broke down and sobbed, just for a few seconds, then forced herself to regain composure. She refused to believe Alexander would make a mistake, but the pain and anguish were real, attesting to the fact that her husband was dead.

"You should spend some time with Klara. Get something to eat and make yourself comfortable at the hotel we've booked for you. Try and get some sleep. We all need to be strong now, for what we must do in the coming days and weeks. I will have you escorted back to Klara."

After a long walk through endless halls, Vicky rejoined her daughter. The two of them returned to their temporary home in Moscow. Once settled in the hotel room, Klara and Vicky discussed the long night's details while snacking on some cookies. The travel and meetings kept them busy all night. As they chatted, the sun began its daily rise and questions piled up with no answers. But Vicky kept returning to one particular issue. What did the Admiral mean we must be strong and what must we do? Russians were always strong. But what was it that she would have to do?

"Mother, we should get some sleep. I'm exhausted. You must be tired, too."

"Yes, that's true. Good night, my little bee."

"Good night mother. By the way, are you feeling better?"

"I honestly don't know. I feel weird like I'm not quite myself."

"I'm sorry. Let me help you get to bed." Klara turned down the blankets and boosted her into the high, fluffy bed. As she tucked her mother in, she stared at the scar on her mother's neck, the one from when she was a teenager. During a deep-breath dive competition, a safety line wrapped Vicky's neck and injured her. She nearly died. But tonight, Klara barely noticed the scar. She struggled to recognize her mother without that ugly, swollen blemish.

Chapter 6

f

Office of Naval Intelligence, Suitland, Maryland

Ozzy Harper scratched the bald spot on his head. Information streamed across multiple screens while he listened to the audio feed playing in his headset. Large amounts of data were necessary to track Russian submarines, especially ones that their military toiled to keep secret. Recently, events in the Ross Sea warranted scrutiny, so he studied sonar data indicating a classified Russian submarine sunk to the ocean floor. The cause eluded his efforts. Losing a high-tech classified submarine created a problem for the Russian Admirals, and therefore, it created a problem for the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI). He adjusted the headset microphone and dialed Admiral Zach Grant, a freshly appointed member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. With a sheepish tone, he said, "It's me, Ozzy. Something occurred you should know about."

"How did you get through to my secured phone? You know what, I don't want to know right now, I'm busy. But remember, you got knocked down to tracking subs for your extracurricular use of intelligence. Don't push your luck, Ozzy, you can't just play around with Naval intelligence and classified information."

"First, my demotion happened because I took the necessary actions to prevent a terrorist attack. You know that. And second, I didn't break any rules to call you. I just exploited weaknesses in our phone system to relay vital intelligence ASAP to the right person — you. No red tape."

"Well, smartass, I want a report on my desk by Monday morning identifying these supposed communication weaknesses in such a way that comm techs can start fixing them. So what it is now? Frito-lay is on strike and you need some time off." The Admiral liked Ozzy and admired him. It was Harper's talent to decipher data into meaningful information that helped him to become a member of the President's Joint Chiefs of Staff. The admiral appreciated the actionable intelligence, but sometimes Harper's tactics flaunted the rules.

"No, sir. I was trying to be resourceful and do the right thing. I knew you'd want to know the Yasen Class Lipsov went down."

"I will bust you to dusting monitors if you don't get serious. That sub is brand new, and an impressive ship at that, with one of the best commanders in the Russian fleet. You better be sure."

"I am. It's why I called you directly."

"When?"

"A few minutes ago. An onboard explosion maybe, something that crippled her and then she shot to the bottom suddenly. If the Lipsov sunk, and I'm sure it did, Russia is going to look for how, and who, sunk her. We might like to know that, too. It would be an advantage if we know before they do."

"Remember, this is tricky. We agreed the Russians would deal with this USO incident on their own. But our deployment of covert listening buoys should have supplied you with some data. Did you detect any other ships in the area?"

"Maybe. An anomaly suggested a large USO near the Russians when they went down. And the USO took off like a bat out of hell after the incident. But from what I can tell, no torpedoes fired from either boat, and the minefield deployed by the Lipsov didn't detonate. The problem, whatever it was, seemed to happen onboard the Lipsov. I can't be sure of what caused the explosion, but I'm sure it went to the bottom fast. I'm trying to get more sonar data from the area. Plus I'm reviewing satellite imagery. But there isn't enough listening equipment in the remote waters of the Ross Sea. And we both know satellites are pretty much useless with submerged submarines. I'm using the sparse data I have to conclude it's an onboard explosion, albeit the source is unknown. We could use eyes on this to confirm my analysis and maybe identify what caused the blast. Who's in the area?"

"Contact 'Stache. He's in Argentinian waters and could take a look."

"How did I not know that. That's an unusual spot, what's he doing there?"

"As you know, we had an arrangement with the Russians. But, they were acting odd about that incident on the Ross Ice Shelf, and more recently these reported USO encounters spooked them. We quietly placed provisional assets close by in case they were needed. And it looks like they are." Grant paused for a second. "Look, Ozzy, I'm glad you understand the importance of getting vital information up the chain fast. But you need to follow orders and don't think you can ignore protocols. Please use proper channels unless there is a good reason not to. With that said, Ozzy, keep me posted on this one. The Lipsov was an important ship to the Russians, so they are going to boiling mad and difficult after this."

"Yes, sir, I understand. And I'll get that report on the phone system to you by Monday. I promise."

"You better." The admiral clicked off.

Ozzy scanned the many screens in front of him for further data. He noted intercepted messages from the Russian naval command discussing a large USO. Plus, Bubba Schwartz, stationed at McMurdo, reported a USO that split the Ross Ice Shelf. This part of the Schwartz report caught his attention. What had the energy to crack a massive ice shelf? Ozzy's mind leaped to secret weapons testing. History showed Russian military tests did go wrong and losing subs happened. They liked their secret weapons and experimented with unusual designs. Maybe the recent events were an excuse to try a new minefield, the Gordian Array. A chill shot up his spine when he realized it might be an unknown weapon. One with the power to lift and cleave an Antarctic ice shelf. That would be a game changer. Did the American research team stumble across something the Russians were testing under the ice?

Ozzy was glad that Captain Mark Benson, or 'Stache, would conduct the mission. In Ozzy's opinion, the United States never had a better submarine captain. 'Stache possessed a knack for stealth and wrote the book on how to conduct covert submarine reconnaissance. With a sense of urgency, he punched in the codes, sending a requisition to Naval Command. Understanding the admiral enough to assume that command anticipated his message, a detailed request was unnecessary. But to be thorough, he presented a strong case for a secret survey of the Lipsov wreck by Captain Benson.

Ozzy's superiors appreciated his ability to combine intelligence bits to present clear, reliable pictures of evolving predicaments. Using advanced computer algorithms, he cross-referenced data and found links others miss. Ozzy put the trusted programs to work on the Lipsov sinking. Instead of a sharp picture with a clear story, his analysis produced a Jackson Pollock. And like abstract art, the events in the Ross Sea were open to interpretation. The USO accelerated like it was in a vacuum, while submerged in water. It strained belief. Plus he had questions. How could a high-tech submarine, as powerful and advanced as the Lipsov, sink with nothing fired at her? Why the increase in top-level encoded messages by the major military powers? Was the other odd event on the Ross Ice Shelf related, or a coincidence?

Another intercept caught his eye. The British decoded a Russian transmission containing the words "alien from another planet." Could that be a reference to the large USO detected near the Lipsov? As he reviewed his many screens, a Morse code message began to click in his headset. He struggled to identify the transmission source, but he confirmed the signal emanated from every one of the earth's communication satellites. Scurrying to remember Morse code, he jotted down the repeating message. Getting into this particular orbiting network, on this channel, should be impossible for the best hackers. Even more curious, why risk twenty years in prison to employ Morse Code to state an ambassador for the earth will deliver a message to the planet's leaders? Safer, less elaborate, methods existed to pass a simple notice.

The odd communique dominated Ozzy's thoughts. Why does Earth need an ambassador? And what or who could be the ambassador for the entire planet? Who still uses Morse code? He worked feverishly using all his tricks and added this new intercept, plus many other tidbits of information, into the algorithms, then waited. The analysis finished but the clouded results continued. Ozzy feared the unthinkable. Was there a mistake in one of his programs? Suddenly, the words "message for earth" and "aliens" cross-referenced multiple times on one screen. The sight made Ozzy chuckle. When he first encountered the references to extraterrestrials, he moved on to find a better explanation. That was foolish. He knew better than to let preconceived notions get in the way. He preferred programs, for this reason, they were unbiased. He paused, acknowledging this event was different. Could it be? Occam's Razor is a theory stating that among competing possibilities, select the solution with the fewest assumptions. An alien hypothesis for this event fit, with few assumptions.

He wrote up his findings, encrypted the update report, and sent it through secure channels to Admiral Grant at the Pentagon. The prompt reply caught him by surprise. Top brass never responded immediately to his summary reports. He decoded the short message:

The Ross Sea incident, and all associated activities, are top priority. You are instructed to collect all data possible and analyze all possible scenarios.

DEFCON has been raised to Level 4.

Ozzy stopped eating his chips and rubbed his greasy hands on the well-worn Star Wars t-shirt. Raising the DEFCON level for this incident meant one thing. The sinking of the Lipsov, along with the USO appearance, made the top brass nervous.

Chapter 7

f

White House, Washington, D.C.

After a hard-fought campaign, President Chad Martin occupied the Oval Office for three months and was beginning to get comfortable in his new position. Sitting at his desk, he read Ozzy Harper's report, hand-delivered to him by Admiral Grant. Then he checked it against two other intelligence reports. "Are all three of these people reliable?"

Admiral Zach Grant nodded yes. "The best. During training, Ozzy Harper was the only one ever to decode the encrypted CIA test message."

Chad glance back at Ozzy's report. "I was told about that. Caused quite a stir at the CIA, hurt some egos over at Langley."

"Luckily, the Navy signed him before the CIA. Although he's a little rough around the edges, he's a valuable civilian analyst working in Suitland now."

"Seems that the word alien has come up a lot today."

"Yes, sir."

Chad peeked at Grant like he was glancing over imaginary glasses. "Is that a real possibility?"

"Um … yes. With what we have right now, albeit it's still developing, events could fit an extraterrestrial scenario. However, there are other possibilities like the Russians testing a new weapon as suggested by Ozzy. We need to learn a little more before drawing any conclusions."

"I understand. But even your Ozzy guy suggested the USO/alien scenario as the most likely. I'm in office for a few months and have to deal with a possible alien crisis." Chad paused for a moment, examined the information in front of him, and snorted at the absurdity of the situation. "Well, so be it. What are we doing in response?"

"Your academy buddy, 'Stache, is on his way to take a look at the Lipsov wreck, which is the same locale where this USO was reported to be detected. We'd like to see what we can learn from the wreck. And if we're lucky, we may also see this USO for ourselves, up close, and learn more about it."

"'Stache is perfect. No one knows how to keep a low profile better than him. And if there is something to find, he uncovers it. I hope he knows to use his best discretion. If this USO sank the Lipsov, this is a dangerous mission."

"Stache is one of the best to ever captain a sub and a smart to boot. He'll be fine. Also, you should know the joint chiefs recommended Defcon Level 4 per standard protocol. But the final call is yours."

"I was already informed. Thank you." A door popped open, and an aid scurried over to the President's desk. He handed a packet to President Martin. The Admiral saw the red flagged envelope meaning it was urgent and classified. Chad opened it and removed a single piece of paper. It only took a few moments to read. "Seems Defcon should remain at Level 4, and we may need to raise it. An observation buoy tracked a large USO moving at Mach 2 near the Marina Trench."

"That's impossible! The buoy must be broken."

Chad stood and stretched, then rested his hands on the flat surface to lean forward and loom over all the reports on the Resolute desk. "Maybe so, but it's clear there's something highly unusual going on under the waves. Till we know what it is, and if it's a threat, I want us on our toes ready to protect the American people. I'm guessing you have red-flagged envelopes waiting for you, too. You have some work to do."

"Yes, sir." Admiral Grant rose and saluted. "Thank you, Mr. President."

Chad stiffened to attention, responding with a passable salute. The complexities of a proper military salute alluded the new President, even as a young cadet at the Naval Academy. However, as a retired Marine officer and commander-in-chief, Chad Martin took his duties more seriously than any of his civilian predecessors. While he was in charge, his administration would employ every measure possible to protect the American people.

{ { {

Admiral Grant phoned Ozzy as he left the White House. "You still have that hidden cot in your office I'm not supposed to know about?"

"Of course."

"Better break it out. Appears this sinking is just the tip of this iceberg. We could be on duty twenty-four, seven for a while with this one."

"Guess I should have someone pick up more chips. I can go non-stop, as needed, you know that. But not without chips."

The admiral sighed. "If your belly gets any bigger, you won't be able to reach your keyboard."

"It's not big. My pot belly is graceful, classic. Plenty of stored energy for working round the clock."

"Ozzy, all kidding aside, we need your best on this one."

"I knew that as soon as I saw your number, plus you're calling back after meeting with the President."

"How in the blazes can you see my number … and you know where I was? You can piss me off like no one else. I should have you arrested and charged. But right now I don't have time for this nonsense, and I need you. So shelve that report on the communications weaknesses for now, and anything else you're working on. We need you focused one-hundred and ten percent on the Lipsov sinking, and these pesky USO sightings. Now get me some answers with no mistakes. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Plus don't think for a minute your worthless civilian ass is off the hook, you will get me that report on our communication systems, just a little later than planned. And one more thing, for now, do me a favor and don't have any freaking classified numbers show up on your caller id. Someone might see them. Now, get to work!" The admiral tapped the cell phone screen. He missed old-fashioned telephones, wanting to slam down a hand-held receiver to highlight his point with Ozzy. For Grant, modern technology was not always superior.

Ozzy grimaced as the line went quiet. The two men respected each other but they related in their own, odd way. No matter how often it happened, he failed to understand the military's need to bark at each other and make such a fuss. Then he spotted a new piece of intelligence pop up from a covert observation buoy in the Pacific. He read, and reread, the transmission regarding a USO near the Mariana Trench. When he reviewed the recent USO sightings, he wondered if the submerged object seen in Antarctica was the same one detected near the trench. To travel that distance in the given time frame, though, it would have to move at Mach two while submerged in the Pacific. Incredibly, that was the reported speed from the Navy's secret monitoring station. After scratching his bald spot one more time, he decided cheese curls were also needed to get through this one.

Chapter 8

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USS Sentinel (SSN-X), Ross Sea, Antarctica

The old timers who fought in WWII submarines would not recognize the control room in today's modern subs. Sonar, combat control, navigation, ship control, special operations and reactor watchstanders, plus some others, all together in one room operating at high-tech stations under the watchful eye of the command workstation ("CWS"). Monitors glaring from every direction scroll stacks of constantly updating information. This tight integration allows each department to deal with issues quickly while being well advised by others. On the Sentinel, the ship's commander, 'Stache Benson, took his responsibilities to heart and habitually manned the CWS, supervising from his spot in the center of the control room.

Mark Benson was an average looking man, till he took command of his Virginia class fast-attack nuclear submarine. His comfort as the ship's commander, along with his leadership skills and knowledge of the sub, earned respect from every crew member. They all called him 'Stache, short for the thick bushy mustache that grew during their six month deployment, and the younger crew members thought it was his actual first name.

'Stache always sported a clean shaved upper lip when they shoved off. But shaving the mustache ended once on patrol, leaving it untouched except to clean and comb it out of the way. After completing their deployment, usually six months later, he shaved the overgrown mustache as a sign to the crew; it was time to go home. It was a ship tradition and the crew eagerly anticipated the event, going so far as to develop a shaving ceremony that included a raffle. These lottery tickets became so popular that the shaving committee treasurer began selling them after halfway night (a special meal and pranks marking the exact middle of their tour) and tickets were considered currency on board the Sentinel.

The current mustache was cartoonish long and the men were tired, ready to go home. But their tour was not done, there remained one more mission to complete in the Ross Sea at the bottom of the world. 'Stache disliked being in a marginal ice zone, or MIZ in Navy speak. This fear was odd for a man unafraid while trapped in a steel tube with over 100 men, submerged hundreds of feet underwater for months at a time, and relying on construction done by low bidders. But he scorned ice and what it did to ships like the Titanic. So, he took extra precautions to ensure this operation would go smoothly.

From the CWS, the commander checked with all tactical and platform watches. He knew the Russians were watching the area closely, agitated over the sinking of Lipsov. As they drew close to the reported crash site, the commander ordered the crew to silent mode. When submarines want stealth, they shun use of active sonar, which emits pings, because it acts as a beacon and gives away their location. Instead, covert subs operate using passive sonar, simply listening for the sounds emanating from another ship. Consequently, the clandestine submarine game is rather simple, if keep quiet and you remain hidden. American submarines run remarkably silent when necessary, and as they neared the last known location for the Lipsov, 'Stache ordered the men to use extra care. He strongly suspected the Russians would watch the wreck and promised that anyone making loud sounds would be scrubbing heads and floors for weeks.

A voice popped over the usual chatter on the port side of the control room. It was Sonar, listening intently to his headphones and scanning sound captures displayed as a green waterfall on one of his LCD screens. Sophisticated hydrophones were installed all over the Sentinel's hull, with an additional hydrophone array towed on a cable behind them. Any sound in the water would be heard, even from great distances. The alert from Sonar meant a new contact was acquired and from the CWS, 'Stache asked, "What ya got?"

The sound man, nicknamed Silk since sound men were called ping jockeys and jockeys wore silks, pushed off his headphones then leaned in to get a good look at the information displayed on the screen. "Commander, a high frequency hydrophone isolated a 'buzz' a few minutes ago. The pattern it picked up was relayed to audio capture and the computer identified it as an activate Gordian Array, three-four-eight relative, sir. I need some time to accurately triangulate and estimate distance, but the mine field distance is around two thousand yards."

The commander looked to the stern, and then starboard. "Nav, Spec Ops, Combat, you got the data so from Sonar?"

"Yes, sir." They all replied.

"Combat, ready anti-mine measures."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

The commander returned his attention to port. "Silk, you hear anything that might be a sub out there?"

"No, sir. I detect nothing except the sensors in the mine field and some wild life."

'Stache leaned over towards the port side, to get closer to the sonar watch, and spoke low for privacy. "Silk, keep listening. I'll get you five additional raffle tickets if you can find a sub out there. It's there, you just haven't found it yet."

Silk smiled. "You're on." The sound man swiveled in his seat to face Spec Ops, on the opposite side of the control room, and boasted. "Did ya hear that, Iris, five tickets if I find the sub that the commander thinks is out there." The others on watch heard the deal and let out a collective groan. Five tickets for doing a job he was supposed to do was a bit much. But 'Stache knew a sub was out there and he wanted to know where it was, well worth five tickets in his opinion.

While Sonar diligently searched for new contacts, the pilots at ship control were steering an odd course. Plotted by navigation to maximize the chances of getting a view of the Lipsov wreck, their path was first and foremost charted to avoid discovery by the Russians. Plus now, Nav needed to dance around the deadly mine field. If a sensor from the Gordian Array locked onto them, this new hybrid weapon would fire what was part powerful mine and part torpedo straight at them. Nav alerted.

The XO, second-in charge, responded from the CWS. "What's up?"

"Sir! The Lipsov is supposedly on the ocean floor under the mine field. We can't pass over the wreck, too dangerous because of the mine field, but we can circle around it."

The commander jumped in. "Can you get us close enough for a visual?"

"Not sure, Sir. I can get us within five hundred feet, off to the side of the wreck. That should put us at about one thousand feet from the mine array diagonally above us. It's close, but we should be safe. But then I'm assuming it's close enough for Spec Ops to get eyes on it."

The commander and XO shot looks over to the starboard side of the room. 'Stache asked, "You heard that, Iris, we'll be five hundred feet out, can you get a visual?"

Spec Ops teams are standard on Virginia class submarines, but this particular team was unique, handpicked for assignment on this extraordinary ship. Sentinel is the only SSN(X) submarine in existence, the "X" designating it as an experimental sub. According the United States government, the Sentinel does not exist and as a ghost she is free to collect intelligence using unique, classified ways and means. And that included a highly capable special operations team.

Iris, the Spec Ops watchstander, shrugged. She was called Iris because she used so many different kinds of cameras to collect visuals and the iris is an integral part of most cameras. "We can always get a visual, sure, but it's hard to do with conventional techniques without drawing attention. We'll need to get closer than five hundred feet and could use a small amount of light this deep, even with night vision, to get the quality I know Intel will want. The water here is pretty clear so we should be able to get a good visual if we get the cameras close enough. Divers are iffy this deep, so, to stay hidden I would recommend towing the seal ROV and let the currents drift it to the wreck."

'Stache put his hands in his pockets. "Sounds like a piece of cake by Spec Ops standards. Nothing fancy, let's keep it that way and don't do anything that will give our location away." The commander took out his right hand and pointed randomly at the hull. "And Iris, there is a Russian sub out there, even if we haven't found it yet. We have to exceed even your high standards on this one, or we may join the Lipsov on the bottom. Understood?"

She nodded. "Aye, aye, sir. We'll begin prepping the ROV. I'll get Nav what they need to put the 'bot into position so the remote will ride the currents right up the wreck's nose."

'Stache chuckled. "We don't need the ROV inside the wreck, just close enough for eyes on the hull."

The military loved their acronyms and ROV stood for remote operated vehicle. The remote they chose for this mission was a small robot, equipped with multiple cameras and scanning devices, and the complex ROV was controlled by a cable hardwired to the sub. For this operation, mos of the remote's propulsion would be turned off, in fears it would make noise that could reveal them. So the control cable was now relegated to a basic tow line, to drag the robot into position where the current takes over, guiding it towards the Lipsov. Since the remote for this mission was a robotic tiger seal, Spec Ops anticipated the remote would move through the water in a fairly predictable manner while it was being towed and drifting. Plus, the simulated fins could be moved quietly, allowing the operators some control.

Nav plotted a revised course close to the sea bottom, which the pilot and co-pilot then steered, using joy sticks and touch screens to guide the sub into place. At the right moment, special technicians using the trunk lock out room released the tiger seal robot into open water. Then the ROV was towed till it was allowed to drift toward the Lipsov as planned.

'Stache moved towards the Spec Ops watch on the starboard side. "We have a visual yet?" Iris worked a few controls and an image popped onto one her screens. The commander studied it. "Zoom in, that's pretty good, but we need to get closer. And can you stop that shaking?" It took a few minutes, but Iris finally pointed to her monitor. A clear, stable image now filled the screen. The commander raised his eyebrows. "It looks like we found the problem. That's a mighty big hole."

Iris adjusted the ROV a little to further improve the view, then she added, "Looks like something exploded inside the sub, port side. All the damage is pushed out and away from the hull." Iris made a few more tweaks to the remote. "No doubt about it, something exploded inside the Lipsov." Then Spec Ops turned on equipment that scanned ultraviolet, infrared, x-ray and other classified spectra. "Looks like they went down fast. Bodies are present near work stations and crew quarters. Basically they drowned where they were when the explosion occurred. No time for anyone to move to an air pocket."

'Stache shook his head, put his hand over his mouth for a moment, then sighed. "With a hole that big, I'm sure it went down like a boulder. God rest their souls. Enemy or not, they all had families." He studied the images for a while. "That's good work. Make sure you get high-def pictures in addition to the video, and any other evidence you can."

"Commander, I might be able to get a piece of the wreck from the bottom. The remote should be able to grab some debris."

"Do it if you can, but don't make a scene. And by all means, no noise. If you even think it'll make noise, don't"

"Yes, sir."

'Stache went to the horizontal large screen display ("HLSD") just behind the CWS and hovered his finger over the top of the large navigational chart glowing on its surface. Nav understood and plotted a new course as indicated by the commander. Then the commander folded his arms and waited. It was Spec Ops' show now. And they did not disappoint. It took some time, but the remote acquired a piece of the debris and the control cable was recalled, bringing the ROV home. Once the lock out trunk was secured with the ROV inside, Spec Ops gave the commander thumbs up and the pilots started the sub along the new course.

But after only a few minutes, Sonar alerted. "Contact, possible sub, zero-four two relative."

'Stache was right and to his dismay they were not alone in the cold depths. The commander ordered, "All stop! Rig for ultra quiet." The Sentinel was fitted with special yellow lights that came on, indicating an order for extreme silence.

Until now, they were operating in silent mode. On a ship this big, sound is somewhat contained, and natural background noise from the ocean provides good cover. So running in silent mode does not require extreme measures, but the men still wore special sneakers to prevent loud footsteps and items like tools or canned food were secured, to preclude loud noises from falling or shifting. Talking was allowed, but voices were kept low with no yelling. But now, close to another submarine, yellow lights meant ultra quiet was ordered and that took things to a different level. The best move in this deadly cat and mouse game is to stop and stay still, for both sub and man. Anyone not working returned to their bunks and stayed there. Those on-duty spoke in whispers and remained at their stations unless it was vital for them to be relieved. The galley shut down and even the beloved soft serve ice cream machine was shut off. If a particular task was needed that made any kind of sound, it required prior approval directly from the commander. The crew even checked the heads to make sure toilet seats were down, since if one was left up and fell, it caused a distinct crashing sound giving away their location. The rules of this game are simple, if found, you die.

'Stache waited in the control room, watching for the other submarine's reaction. Of course he hoped the other sub was blind to his presence, and if so, he could stay put and use passive sonar to track them. Passive sonar, as simple as it is, can be a powerful tool when used correctly. But it only informs about the direction of the contact, forty degrees relative to your position for example. It does not provide distance or heading on initial contact. However, as your opponent moves, multiple contact points do form a plot to reveal their travel path, or heading. 'Stache looked over to the Sonar station and whispered. "Well. Update?"

"Contact is now stationary, bearing zero-three-niner relative. Course estimated as three-five-two magnetic while she was moving."

"Damn it, they saw us. Battle stations!"

There was no sound or announcement over the speakers, just the bright shine of magenta lights meaning battle stations. With both magenta and yellow bulbs illuminated, the spaces of the sub flooded with an eerie red light, just as the engineers intended. But the crew hated the red glow, it meant danger was close and a fight was possible, if not probable.

'Stache thought for a moment, then whispered an order to Combat Control. "Weps, get two fish ready in the tubes."

The Mark 48 torpedoes they loaded are high-tech, explosive missiles, but take time to prepare. 'Stache knew their chances improved with every fraction of a second gained by preparing ahead of time. Better to load tubes with the partial knowledge you have now, and update the data as you learned more. They were not engaged in a war and he hoped no torpedoes would be needed, by either side. But just in case, he wanted the ability to put fish in the water on command, even if the information was less than required by the firing manual. Then he waited.

Spec Ops alerted, but in a timid voice. The commander turned to Iris, "Are you clearing your throat or do you have something to report?"

"Commander, I'm not sure, but there may be something else out there. And I think the other sub stopped for it, not us."

"Why do you think there's a third ship?"

"While putting eyes on the wreck, I saw some anomalies in the ultraviolet spectrum. So I set up a program to check the UV spectrum periodically, and well, it's showing the same anomalies in an area just in front the of the sonar contact."

"That's pretty thin!"

"Yes sir, but it' so consistent, I think it's a stealthy ship."

Then Sonar flinched, almost coming up off his seat. "Commander, the contact just turned on active sonar. It's a sub for sure, sounds Russian."

'Stache spun to face Sonar. "Silk, are they pinging us, or the UV anomaly in front of them?"

Spec Ops interupted. "Sir, UV anomalies have stopped. I think it's gone."

'Stache threw his hands in the air. "That was brief. Well, what are the Russians doing now?" No answers came back. They all froze, waiting to see what happened next.

After a few moments, Silk answered, "Sir, contact, zero-two-eight relative. Russians resumed course three-five-two. And they seem rattled. I've never heard a Russian sub make so much noise. I don't think they know we're here."

"How can that be, we were pretty close from what I can tell. The SHT panels are good, but I'm not sure how active sonar pings could miss us, even with sound absorption on the hull."

"We're operating ultra quiet. With the background noise, maybe they didn't see us. Sir."

"That's possible, but not probable. What's the background noise now?"

"90 decibels, on the high end. Sir."

"Well, let's not look a gift horse in the mouth. Once the Red's sub is clear of us, resume course, quarter stick. Maintain ultra quiet, and for now, maintain battle stations."

Once they felt safe enough, they resumed course as ordered and after traveling for ten minutes, the commander rescinded battle stations. 'Stache took a seat at the Spec Ops watch, next to Iris. "That anomaly you located, could it have been the USO referred to in our initial orders?"

"Sure, that's what I assumed, I guess. I knew we're looking for a USO, so anything unusual jumped out."

"Do you know where it went?"

"Best I can tell, heading all zeros true. They shot due north, straight up the middle of the Pacific Ocean. But as it moved away from us, the water masks the anomaly and tracking was only possible for a short time."

"Did you find anything else?"

"No, sir."

"O.K. Nice work, Iris." The commander rose and walked over to Sonar. "Silk, when they employed active sonar, did you hear any reflections from the area of the UV anomaly?"

"Yes, sir. I was just analyzing that data. It's weird. The reflections indicated something really big, if the data is right. But it makes no sense. No one builds a sub this big."

"How big is big?"

"Like four-hundred and forty yards long, and two-hundred fifty yards wide."

"A quarter mile long? And nothing that wide can move submerged. Really?"

"I am checking, but yes, sir, it looks that way."

He paused for a moment, then turned and moved to the entrance to the communications room. "FM, are you picking up any transmissions?"

FM was short for AM/FM, the officer on-duty at Comms, who replied. "No, sir. But I'm scanning all channels for … wait. The sub appears to be transmitting in Russian. They're trying to hail someone."

"Well, what are they saying?"

"They seem to be hailing … commander this is bizarre. They seem to think they are speaking to aliens. That's the word they are using to address them."