Operation Orion - Kevin Dockery [60]
The lieutenant followed the sniper’s pointing finger and picked out another spot of warmth: a disk of pale red against the dark blue backdrop of the frosty landscape. Shutting off the IR screen, he studied the place, using the magnifying aspect to zoom in on it. “Looks like some kind of hatch, doesn’t it?” he mused.
“That’s what I was thinking, LT,” Falco replied.
“Well,” Jackson decided, thinking aloud. “Maybe we should go and see if anybody is home.”
Two hours later, the lieutenant was waiting for his recon teams to report back to the makeshift command post he had established at the crest of the ridge. Marannis and Sanchez, concealed by their ghillie cloaks, had moved as close to the hatch as they dared. Dobson, Robinson, Schroeder, and Mirowski had inspected the pool of liquid in the center of the bowl-shaped depression. It was the last two men who returned first.
“It’s water, sir,” Mirowski reported, shaking his head in amazement. “Good old H two O! About five degrees above freezing temperature.”
“Any sign of what’s warming it up?” the LT asked.
“Not yet, sir. We came back to give you the initial report. We could see a steady stream of bubbles rising to the surface on the far side. A quick scan indicated they were just air, so there must be a pressure source under the water, releasing air. Seems likely, if it’s warm air, that it could be enough to keep the water liquid.”
“Makes sense,” Jackson concurred. “Might be some kind of vent.”
Mirowski nodded. “Robinson told us about something they called the Polar Bear Club back in Minnesota; said he was going to qualify for the first interstellar membership as he jumped in. We’ve been busting the ice off him for a while now.”
Jackson nodded, worried but not entirely surprised. The Mark IV pressure suit was effective in many environments, water being one of them, and he reasoned that the best way to investigate the mysterious pool would be direct examination. Even so, there were so many things that could go wrong.
“Okay, good work,” he said. “Team, remember to keep your heads in the game. Be ready to move out.”
He raised his head slightly and looked at the pond. The surface was as smooth as before, rippled by the effects of the wind. From there, a kilometer away, he couldn’t see the bubbles Mirowski had described, nor could he see any sign of the other shooter pair. Robinson, he presumed, was still underwater. Dobson had concealed himself very effectively near the edge of the pond; there was no visual suggestion that he was there.
The two scouts were the next to report back, gliding over the crest of the low ridge, their cloaks matching perfectly the gritty white color of the snow.
“It’s certainly a metal hatch, skipper,” Sanchez reported. “The white color is a paint job. About as big as the door to a two-car garage. We saw a few peepers and periscopes around it, probably sensory stuff, although they could be weapons emplacements. Anyway, that’s got to be the front door to the place.”
“Good work. But I hate going in the front door,” Jackson groused. He didn’t bother to ask if the two men had been observed. If there were any humans who could effectively become invisible, it was the veteran pair of SEALS scouts. Furthermore, the pressure suits were very effective at masking an IR signature, and the ghillie cloaks made detection by vision almost impossible.
But if not through the front door, how in hell was his Team going to get inside this installation, thus far the only outpost of civilization they had discovered on the whole ice-covered rock?
It was the final team of scouts who brought the answer as Dobson and Robinson returned over the crest. Robinson’s suit still carried bits of ice on it in spite of the enthusiastic assistance of his Teammates. Still, his underwater foray had yielded promising results.
“It’s an exhaust vent for the installation,” he reported. “The warm air melts the snow, and that’s created the pond down there.”
“How come the water doesn’t drain down the vent?” the officer wanted