At the Outpost of Fate

CHAPTER 10 — TO THE OUTPOST OF FATE

Dodge had always known he would return to the bottom of the world, but he had never imagined that it would be like this.

In some of his musings, there was a cadre of scientists from every nation of the world, eager to plumb the mysterious depths of the Outpost to find the answers to mankind's oldest questions or perhaps discover cures to dreadful diseases. Sometimes, in his daydreams, the situation was dire, with columns of soldiers lined up behind him, taking up positions to defend the place and all its secrets from a foreign belligerent or a madman bent on world domination. But no matter the circumstances, one part was always the same; he was always surrounded by his friends.

He wasn't alone now, but the three people who had now shared the austere cabin of the plane — his constant companions for the last fifty hours or more — were not the three he had always expected. And friends?

Well, Newcombe maybe, he thought, glancing over at the frizzy-haired physicist, who sat bundled up in his winter weather gear. The scientist would naturally have been among the first to be invited along, though Dodge had always imagined he would only go under protest.

But Newcombe's familiar presence only served to accentuate the fact that the people he cared most for were absent. There was every reason to believe that they were now the captives of an unknown, but no less diabolical, villain. Or worse….

No, he wouldn't entertain that possibility. They were alive and if indeed they were prisoners, he would somehow find a way to save them.

He shifted, trying to work out some of the kinks and cramps that came with long hours of inactivity. Newcombe appeared to be dozing, while the FBI agent was chatting away with the blond journalist. She was obviously used to getting her way with men, but Dodge had rebuffed her efforts to ingratiate herself with him. She was nice enough and unquestionably an attractive woman, but Dodge didn't trust her. She had blackmailed her way into tagging along and it was going to take a lot more than insincere flirtation to win him over.

Special Agent Fuller on the other hand appeared to be completely in her thrall. He laughed at all of her jokes and she at his and during their last stopover he had invited her to join him for a candle-light dinner. She had demurred, though in such a charming fashion that Fuller had immediately apologized for any embarrassment the offer might have caused. Still, there had been just a moment, just as she turned away from him, that Dodge had glimpsed something dark and angry in Fuller's eyes.

That had been several hours earlier and not long thereafter they had struck out across the tumultuous and windswept expanse of the Southern Ocean. Their new pilot, ostensibly an experienced polar flier, had ascended to the upper limit of the plane's operating ceiling in order to avoid the relentless pummeling of the winds — any higher and they would all pass out in the thin atmosphere — but the trade-off was a bitter chill that permeated right through both the insulation that lined the interior of the cabin and the layers of winter clothing the passengers wore.

They had been forced to change planes in Puerto William, a tiny town in remote Tierra del Fuego, Chile. Burton's float plane was poorly suited to the harsh frozen environment where they were headed, but the rough-looking pilot had helped them secure the use of an aircraft better suited to their needs. In this case, that plane was a Curtiss CT-32 Condor; an immense twin engine biplane airliner that had, according to its owner, been used as a cargo plane by the Argentine Air Force.

The new pilot, Stevens, seemed too young to have as much experience as he claimed, but Burton vouched for him — for whatever that was worth. The smuggler had even volunteered to be Stevens' co-pilot for the journey and the two of them had approached Dodge shortly before departing Puerto William to ask for details about their final destination. Stevens had produced a map of the southernmost continent, a map with far too many blank spaces, which well illustrated just how little was known about Antarctica and asked the question Dodge had been dreading. "Where exactly are we going?"

He had not revealed to anyone the means by which he would find the Outpost. He wasn't sure why he felt compelled to keep it a secret, but as far as everyone else in the party was concerned, the location of the Outpost was marked with an X on a map that existed only in Dodge's head. He had a rough idea of where it was relative to the southern tip of Africa and a spot on the map called Flat Island, but the reality was that he had no idea where it was in relation to fixed locations on the continent itself. His plan had always been to simply let unique homing characteristics of the Float Car guide them to their destination while maintaining the illusion that he was in control. In the end, he had chosen a place a location near where the Trinity peninsula — a long arm of land that seemed to be reaching out toward the tip South America — broadened into the main body of the continent. The map identified the region as "Palmer Land". Dodge had directed Stevens to land the plane as close to that location as he could, but the closer they got to that arbitrary starting point, the more he had reason to question the wisdom of keeping his plan a secret.

Burton crawled over the crates of supplies that filled the cramped cabin in order to deliver the bad news. "We're about to hit some weather. It's going to be… ah, challenging. You folks should probably buckle up. And hang on to something."

"You can land us safely," Fuller interjected unexpectedly. His comment sounded more like a command than either a question or a vote of confidence.

Burton nodded. "Yes, sir. But we're going to get bounced around. There's nothing I can do to prevent that."

As if to underscore his warning, the plane shuddered and Dodge felt his stomach roll over as Stevens performed some kind of aerobatic maneuver to keep them aloft. Burton was thrown up against the ceiling, then crashed down on top of Dodge, who quickly gripped the pilot's arms to prevent him from being further tossed around. It was not the first instance where they had hit some turbulence, but this time it did not abate. The fuselage creaked and groaned under an almost constant assault from the elements.

Dodge looked Burton in the eye. "Are we going to crash?"

The pilot's expression seemed inappropriately calm as he answered. "We might. You can let go now. I should get back up front."

Fierce winds and turbulence continued to buffet the plane and Dodge's self-doubt grew with each lurch. Had he, by not revealing the secret of the finding the Outpost, set in motion events that would destroy them all?

It was impossible to tell if the plane was descending, but the shuddering grew worse and so did his certainty that they would crash. Whether they could survive that crash and successfully load onto the Float Car was anyone's guess.

The Float Car! Of course.

Dodge glanced over his shoulder at the metal contraption which dominated the open cargo area in the rear of the cabin. Like everything else, it was shaking violently, straining against the nets and straps that held it in place.

"Fuller. We've got to get in the Float Car now."

The FBI agent gaped at him.

"If we crash, it's the only way to survive." The situation wasn't getting any better and Dodge knew there was no time for further explanation. He unclasped his safety belt and began cautiously making his way through the aisle, informing the others as he went. Newcombe, like Fuller, seemed unable to comprehend the possibility that the flight might not end well, but Amelia Dunham reacted without question. She loosened her safety restraints and moved with the grace of a ballet dancer through the pitching cabin. The message finally seemed to sink in with the others, but for Newcombe and Fuller, the short traverse was like trying to ride a bucking bronco through a carnival fun house.

Suddenly a different kind of vibration, accompanied by a sound like a tree splitting in two, rippled through the plane.

"That can't be good!" Dodge shouted.

Fuller gave Newcombe a none too gentle push into the makeshift chassis of the Float Car and pulled himself in after. Only then did he realize that Dodge was moving in the opposite direction.

"Come on!"

"I'm going to get the pilots."

If Fuller answered him, he didn't hear it, because at that instant a tempest exploded inside the cabin. Cyclonic winds ripped at Dodge, battering his exposed face with splinters of wood. Squinting through the stinging rush of air, he saw that a section of the fuselage had torn away. He realized with a sick sensation that the chair he had just been sitting in was gone along with a sizable portion of that side of the plane.

With renewed urgency, he heaved himself forward into the cockpit. "The plane is breaking up. You've got to come with me."

Burton looked at him, incredulous. "Who's going to fly the plane?"

"It doesn't matter. The Float Car's shields will protect us."

Burton had seen Dodge and the others arrive in the strange flying contraption, so there should have been no reason for him to hesitate, but that's exactly what he did. He just sat there, looking first at Dodge and then at Stevens, as though waiting for someone to give him permission.

"Come on!"

Dodge felt a hand on his back; Fuller had made his way forward and now shouted in Dodge's ear. "What the hell are you doing? Somebody has to land this plane. It's our only way back."

Dodge ignored him and focused his words on the recalcitrant pilots. "If you stay here, you'll die!"

He pushed past Fuller and made his way through the chaos. The wound in the side of the aircraft seemed larger, as if the entire rear of the plane might break off at any moment. Many of the obstacles that had made movement through the cabin difficult only moments before were gone now; the crates containing canned food and jugs of water had tumbled out through the hole. The plane was nosing down, but whether it was a controlled descent or death dive, Dodge would never know. Using the seatbacks for handholds, he hauled himself up the sloping deck and into the driver's seat of the Float Car. Fuller and Burton were right behind him.

"Where's Stevens?"

"He's going to try to land," Fuller explained. "We need this plane."

"He's not going—" Dodge's sentence went forever unfinished even as the prophecy he intended to utter was fulfilled.

There was a tremendous tearing noise as the aircraft broke in half. The tail section, where the Float Car and its occupants now sat, tilted back and began tumbling through the sky.

Movement within the gyre was almost impossible. It was all they could do to hang on and avoid being flung out into space. And yet their tenacity would count for little if they were still in the plane's tail when it finished its downward journey.

Dodge jammed his knees under the Float Car's steering wheel, but it took all his willpower to unclench his grip so that he could open the compartment where the exoskeleton was stored. With fingers numbed by both cold and adrenaline, he slid the halves of the belt clasp together.

The change was instantaneous. A crackling envelope of static electricity sprang into existence around them, shutting out the maelstrom of the descent, but their situation was not greatly improved. The Float Car was still strapped down to the deck and the energy field did little to protect them from the centripetal force of their downward spiral.

It was conceivable that the protective energy would absorb the impact of that final collision with the ground, but Dodge wasn't inclined to put that hypothesis to the test.

"The cargo straps! We have to cut them!"

Fuller reached into the depths of his heavy coat and brought out his service revolver. Simply extending his arm to take aim at the strap which secured the front end required a Herculean effort, but the G-man took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The shot rang in their ears, but the bullet missed the strap and thudded impotently into the energy field. Muttering a curse, he corrected his aim and tried again. The second shot struck the edge of the strap. The heavy canvas started to fray, but it wasn't enough. It took two more shots before his efforts were rewarded. The front end of the Float Car began to whip and bounce, but the back end was still tied down.

Fuller glanced over his shoulder at the taut strap. He struggled to turn his body in order to aim the weapon behind him, but then shook his head. "I can't—"

Another shot rang out and another. Dodge looked back and saw Burton, wielding a Colt M1911 automatic pistol, taking shots at the strap. Just that quickly, the Float Car began living up to its name. It drifted free for a moment and then began to bounce off the bulkheads, picking up energy with each collision. Dodge got his hands back on the steering wheel, but before he could take any other action, the Float Car burst free of the tail section and flew out into the storm.

The ruined section of the plane was swallowed up by the night. The air inside the bubble of protective energy was still, but they were still spinning crazily. There was no telling which way was up, whether they were rising, falling or simply being swept along by the wind, so Dodge simply stomped on the brake pedal.

Suddenly, everything was still.

For a few seconds, all Dodge could do was grip the steering wheel to keep his hands from trembling.

A light flickered to life behind him. He turned and saw Newcombe holding a dry cell lantern, shining a beam almost as powerful as an automobile headlamp. The light stabbed out into the darkness, briefly catching bits of ice borne on the wind. The scientist played the beam in all directions, but the view was the same.

The scattering of ambient light illuminated the faces of his fellow survivors. Newcombe looked simply relieved to be alive. Amelia and Burton both wore blank expressions, while Fuller seemed barely able to contain his anger.

"Damn it." The G-man's oath was subdued, like his rage. "We needed that plane."

Dodge had to fight back his own ire. As happy as he was to be alive, he was acutely aware of his own role in the circumstances that caused the crash and in all likelihood, the pilot's death. He had done everything, short of dragging Stevens bodily from the cockpit, to save the man.

And Fuller hadn't backed him up. The FBI agent had been more interested in saving the plane.

"We can travel in the Float Car," answered Dodge. His voice was taut, straining to break loose, like his emotions.

"And how long will that take? Days to get to our destination, weeks to get back! Time we don't have."

"But at least we're alive." Unlike Stevens. Why had the man stayed at the controls? He must have known the plane was beyond saving. "We've got some food and water here. If we ration it, it should see us through. We might be able to add to our supply if we can find the wreckage." Maybe Stevens is still alive down there, he didn't add. He wasn't sure if that was something he should even hope for. If the pilot had survived the crash, he would surely perish from exposure before they could reach him. Which was the kinder death?

Fuller made a cutting gesture with his hand. "There's no time to waste picking through the debris, Dalton. We have to get to the Outpost."

Dodge took a deep breath. "You're probably right."

There was nothing he could do for Stevens, but the fate of the world — not to mention his friends — might depend on whether he could reach the Outpost ahead of their enemies. With Newcombe's light pointing the way, the Float Car began moving through the windswept night.

It didn't take long to determine that the wind was pushing the Float Car like so much flotsam caught in the current of a swift river. The force was likely greater than the attraction that would draw them to the Outpost, so Dodge was forced to fly higher above the storm in order to make headway. Up there in the clear air, with a sliver of a moon drifting above the northern horizon, they got their first glimpse of the southern polar region.

There dark and light were in stark contrast, like yin and yang in an endless swirl of conflict. The ice below was a silvery blue, while to the north, the inky black of the ocean absorbed the scant illumination from the moon. After a while, a hazy white ball of light rose into view and hovered just above the horizon. Daylight, such as it was, had come to Antarctica. Dodge turned the Float Car away from the sun and depressed the accelerator pedal.

The distant orb yielded no warmth and while the force field offered some protection from the bitter cold, it was only enough to keep them alive, not comfortable. Soon the occupants of the Float Car lapsed into a shivering lethargy. The daylight lasted only a few hours, but time seemed to stretch out into infinity. No one had the energy for idle conversation that might have made the minutes go by a little faster.

Newcombe remarked that they were now traveling parallel to the course of the sun, almost due east "if my calculations are correct." Dodge had no doubt of the scientist’s ability to navigate by dead reckoning, but was not entirely pleased to see Burton studying his air chart of the continent. Like it or not, it seemed the secret location of the Outpost would not be a secret much longer.

As the sun finally dipped back below the edge of the world, Burton volunteered to take over the controls. "You're going to sleep soon. If you'll show me where we're headed, I'll keep us on course while you catch forty winks."

Dodge glanced at the map, noting the grease pencil marks that charted an almost perfectly straight line from where the plane had gone down. He might not be able to prevent the pilot from officially recording the location of the Outpost, but he might be able to keep secret his means of finding it again.

"Just keep us on this heading," he said, as he surrendered his chair. But even though he was completely exhausted, sleep eluded him for a long time.

After so much effort and loss, their arrival at the Outpost seemed almost anticlimactic. It was during the second night, about six hours after sunset, that Dodge felt a subtle change in the way the Float Car was moving. He asked Newcombe for the lamp and cast the beam ahead of them as they began descending.

The ice held onto its secret right up until the last moment. They caught just a glimpse of the gaping hole in the ice before it swallowed them up.

The Float Car swooped through the tunnels like it was some kind of carnival ride. Despite the protection afforded by the force field, the riders all drew in, huddling low as if afraid that the smooth ceiling above would drop suddenly and decapitate them.

Dodge was surprised by his own sense of familiarity with the place. The tunnels and junctions evoked memories of his one and only previous visit and he began to anticipate what they would see next and more importantly, when the journey would end. They were approaching the central chamber — the source of the unknown attraction that had drawn them more than a thousand miles across Antarctica.

If their enemies had indeed arrived ahead of them, then there might be a nasty surprise waiting for them in that chamber. He eased his foot off the accelerator pedal and applied the brake, steering into the next siding.

"Gentlemen…and lady, we've arrived," he announced theatrically as the Float Car settled onto the ice. "Welcome to the Outpost."