Departures

“Where is my Oberfunkmeister?   Ah, there you are.   Get a message to the whaling station, right away.   I want the Pinguin readied for sea by the time we arrive, and they’re to get steam up on the trawler too.   Matrosenfeldwebel, get everyone into the tubes.   Don’t forget the frauleins in the canteen, and make sure you bring my radio officer with you when he’s done.   Oh, and find the ship’s cat.”   Otto von Luckner turned to Harold, “If you would come with me gentlemen, please.”

            The Kapitänleutnant led the trawler officers across the ravished concourse towards a set of check-in desks labeled Walfang-Hafen, gathering trawlermen as they went.   Kriegsmariners were already lining up neatly, and slightly less tidy groups of New Swabians in lab coats or boiler suits were gathering near the sliding doors to the pneumatic tubes.   The Kronstadt shore detail, led by Dark Flo, appeared from behind a pile of rubble, they laughing and joking, she sporting a puffy, almost closed eye.   She was limping and the left sleeve of her shinobi shozoko was torn away to reveal an angry graze on her elbow and purple bruising to the shoulder.

            “Thanks to one of your overzealous fishermen.   Took a swing at me from behind, with a barstool.   Can’t tell a ninja from a submariner.”

            Bamse, as was his wont, had rounded up the last of the stragglers.   With the company assembled the tube doors opened and embarkation began.  

            “Once you reach the whaling station get your people aboard your trawler and be ready for the off.”   Von Luckner was cradling Fotzenkatze, the lithe tabby mascot of the now crippled submarine Seeadler.   “I will be along soon as I know everyone is safe.”

The bow and ruptured freshwater tank of the Ancaster had been repaired in their absence, the boiler was nearly up to pressure and springs taken in so that only shortened bow and stern lines held her to the quay.   The crew stood, alert, at their stations.   Harold stood by the bridge window, his hand placed lightly on the highly polished new telegraph, its dials disconcertingly labeled in German.   Billy Tate held the spokes of the enormous ship’s wheel, awaiting instructions.   An Aldis lamp on the wing of the Pinguin’s bridge began to flash morse at high speed.   Easter Smurthwait and the Ancaster’s sparks eyed the twinkling light, then each other, and shrugged.   Yes, the trawler did have a radio officer.   Sparky, a lad hailing from the Midlands, had spent the entire adventure locked in his radio room trying unsuccessfully to contact Wick Radio, blissfully unaware and, as usual, totally forgotten.

            “’Spect he’s telling us to get going,” said Easter to his skipper.

            “OK.   Cast off fore and aft.”   He rang ‘Halbe Kraft Voraus’ on the engine room telegraph, “I hope that means what I think it does,” and Ancaster’s single screw began to churn the water into a fury beneath her stern.   She moved slowly away from the quay, picked up speed, was steered deftly around the breakwater by the third hand, and belching black smoke from her Woodbine funnel, the trawler proceeded out to sea.

            On the bridge of the Pinguin Otto von Luckner turned to his Signalsmaat, “Are you certain you sent Follow us… in English?   Ficken!”   He rang down to the engine room and the mighty diesels thumped into action.   He sprinted to the wing of the bridge and shouted, “Abwerfen der Liegeplatz-Seile.   Cast off fore and aft.”   Back in the wheelhouse he addressed his helmsman, “Follow that boat.”

With her thundering pistons producing nearly eight thousand horse power and her twin screws rapidly accelerating her up to seventeen knots it did not take the Pinguin long to outstrip Ancaster.   Von Luckner was on the VHF radio to Harold.

            “Follow us, captain.   Best speed.   We want as much open water as possible between us and Antarctica when whatever it is happens.”

            Easter had been looking astern, “I think it’s happening now, skipper.   You’ll want to see this.”

            Even at the distance of two miles they could see the ice plateau on the continent behind them begin to dome.   The hump rose slowly at first and then burst in an explosion of rock and ice fragments.   There was an incandescent flash.   When vision returned a hemisphere of boiling atmosphere was visible, expanding at an incredible rate.   A rumble grew to a roar and to a screaming shriek that paralysed the onlookers.   The pressure wave tore fittings from the deck and cracked window glass.   The accompanying tsunami, however, passed them unnoticed.   In the open sea, travelling at 500 miles per hour it barely raised the fleeing vessels a foot or two.   As it approached the shoaling seabed around the southern tip of America it would pile up into a destructive wall of vindictive ocean, but out here it was benign.   Back on the Antarctic mainland snow clouds gathered above ground zero and lightening bolts flashed across the sky.   The trawlermen watched as powdered snow billowed and swirled; and out of the turmoil rose a vast, polished metal cylinder, its mirror surface reflecting the chaos that surrounded it.   The Andromeda Machine climbed serenely through the storm into the quiet sky above, performed a leisurely pirouette and accelerated away.   Within moments all was calm.  

            “Well, that was different,” said Easter to no one in particular.

A tinny voice crackled from the bridge loud speaker, Kapitänleutnant Otto Graf von Luckner was back on the VHF.

            “We will be heading for the Rio de la Plata in the Pinguin, but are more than willing to escort you across the South Atlantic, captain.   It will give us chance to compare notes and discuss the recent events.   I expect you will be wanting to proceed to the Ärmelkanal, your English Channel.   We may well catch you up on our way to the Baltic.   It rather depends on how long we loiter in Montevideo.”

            A wandering albatross tucked in behind the stern of the Lord Ancaster, skimming low over the restless swell of the Southern Ocean.   Sunlight glistened off the heaving rollers and dolphins played in the bow-waves of the two vessels as they pointed their prows towards the New World.

The Raid

A hearty group of Kriegsmariners had come into the concourse from the Unterseeboot Pens and was indulging in manly horseplay when the glass in one of the skylights shattered.   If they could have made out more than a vague mauve blur they would have seen Dark Flow running down the marble wall, paying out rope with one hand and frantically casting throwing stars with the other.   They scattered, rallied and returned fire with their Schmiesser MP-40s.   Bamse was abseiling, noticeably more slowly and cautiously than Flo, towards the distant floor, and the bullets chipping off chunks of stonework all around him were not making for a happy St Bernard.   To his amazement he was still whole when he reached the ground.   His survival was probably due in part to the distracting effect of an indistinct pink whirlwind that pirouetted through the ranks of mariners.   Sailors doubled over with an “Oooff!” or flew backwards, crashing into disintegrating furniture.   The disgruntled emperor penguins who had, until this moment, still been waddling around the vaulted hall, turned, gave out a communal squawk of disapproval and trudged towards the double doors of the main exit.   Bamse headed off to locate and liberate the crew of the Lord Ancaster.

            An alarm siren wailed, almost immediately Neuschwabian reinforcements burst onto the scene and the machine gun fire intensified.   Dark Flo became pinned down behind a Coca Cola dispenser.   The situation was looking decidedly desperate when there came the sound of two small explosions from the Submarine Pens and the Kronstadt sailors arrived.  They reached the top of the escalator already firing and immediately fanned out.   The battle was intense, and destructive.   As more and more lights were shattered by ricochets and an increasing gloom descended on the vast hall Dark Flo began to suffer the Purkinje effect.   In low light simian eyes become more sensitive to the blue end of the colour spectrum, this is Purkinje shift, or dark adaptation, her Plymouth Pink Ninja outfit was no longer working efficiently.   She was becoming visible.

Meanwhile Bamse was having difficulty rescuing the trawler crew.   They did not want to be rescued.   The third hand, Billy Tate teamed up with the St Bernard and they ushered the crew into an elegant, Art Deco wardroom.   Plans to organise a second front disintegrated.   The trawlermen were divided into two, almost equal factions.   One group wanted to sit it out in the wardroom, perhaps get a cup of coffee, and wait to see which side won.   The others had enjoyed their stay so much that were all for joining the fray on the side of the Neuschwabenlandians.   Billy was weeping with frustration.

            “T’ skipper seems pally enough wi’ that Kapitänleutnant chappy.   Thy squabble’s nowt te do wi’ us.”

            “Look,” barked Bamse, “Flo and I have gone to a lot of trouble to get you ingrates out of this mess.   Don’t you want to see your Yorkshire homeland again?”   He paused for dramatic effect, “The stigma of mutiny could get you all exiled to Grimsby.”

            “…”

            “Ay, and ‘tis starving cold here.”

            “Bleaker ‘n a February afto’ on Top Withens.”

            “C’mon lads, lets stick it to the Hun.”

            Bamse took a nifty step back to let them pass, but the unsuspecting young Tate was knocked to the ground and trampled in the rush.

Von Luckner and Harold emerged from the subway tunnel as the firefight was reaching its peak.   The hall echoed to a cacophony of swearing (in German and Russian), cries of anguish and anger, the percussion of small arms fire; and it was filling with clouds of smoke and dust.  Glass shattered and bullets zipped through the air like gnats.   The duo instantly drew fire from both sides and dove behind the check-in counter, where they were joined, cowering, by the first mate and chief who were crawling on their hands and knees.

The Ancaster’s crew burst into the foyer, roaring out a battle cry:

            “Tigers, Tigers, burning bright!” all bravado and slightly squeaky apprehension.

            The Kapitänleutnant glanced disbelievingly towards his companions.

            “It’s a Hull City supporter’s chant,” replied Easter Smurthwait, “…Football…   I’ll explain later, when things quieten down a bit.”

            Albert Fleck leaped to his feet, “Go the three-day millionaires!" and then ducked down again as the round from a Schmeiser plucked at his tea-cosy hat.

            The trawlermen fell upon the Neuschwabenlander troops with fist flailing.

            “This’ll ney tek long.   ‘Sney rougher’n a Satdi-night scrap in Rayner's on t’Hessle Road.”

            Taking advantage of the added confusion, Dark Flo ducked out from the cover of the soft drinks dispenser and tucked in behind the wave of fishermen.   She skipped lightly up the back of the nearest deckie, tripped across the heads of three successive Kriegsmariners, became airborne and tossed a Happo egg into a light machine-gun nest as she passed overhead.   Her 3 Inch diameter, hollowed out black egg contained a disabling mixture of itching powder and concentrated Naga Ghost Chilli sauce.   Flo adopted the ‘Flailing Squid’ pose as she hung briefly in the air then plummeted, feather duster in hand, into the midst of the battle.

“THIS WILL END… NOW!”   A voice like an intervention from the patriarch of all thunder gods reverberated above the crouching combatants.   The hunched and wizened oriental master had materialized in the open no-man’s land that separated the warring factions.   He drew himself up to his full height of four feet two and a half inches, shoulders back and ramrod straight.   His eyes glistened and his tall orange hat quivered as he glared about the room.   The shooting slowly petered out until only the intermittent crack of a sniper’s round broke the silence.   Otto von Luckner broke cover and approached his men.

            “Nicht mehr!   Aufhören zu schießen!”

            The Himalayan envoy waited patiently for a bleakly expectant peace to descend across the scene.

            “This is intolerable… and futile.   A machine that is secret, a truth that is hidden, are now known to all.   The Andromeda Gerät will depart.   We will depart.   And it would be wise for you to be not here when we leave.   I recommend you utilize the high-speed pneumatic tubes to your whaling station and there take ship.   You do not have long.”   He stalked over to his colleagues who turned and followed him back into the subway.

Ambush!

Flo passed her 8x30 field glasses to Bamse, “Do you see the Kronstad sailors approaching in open order?”   

            He did.

            “And the New Swabian ski patrol, half way between them and us, hunkered down for an ambush?”  

            Yes, Bamse saw them too; hidden behind wind carved pinnacles of ice either side of the path that the ever-nearing sailors would take.   The Neuschwabenlander Hauptmann, pointing a 9mm parabellum pistol skyward in his right hand, was waiting for the precise moment to signal his troops to open fire.

            “We must warn them… but they’re well out of ear shot.   If only I’d brought the flare gun.”

            “I could try barking very loudly, or a wolf like howl,” suggested Bamse.  

            He had just coughed to clear his throat and was taking a deep breath in preparation for his record-breaking yowl, when Flo shouted, “What’s that?”

            The Hauptmann dropped abruptly to the snow and almost instantaneously an Oberjäger collapsed nearby.   Gone, without so much as a 'Kiss me, Hardy.'   Moments later two loud reports echoed across the landscape.

            “That sounded like SVT 40 Tokarev rifles,” said Flo, “The Kronstadt troops have snipers out.   Cunning little buggers.”

            There was a puff of snow close to one of the ski troopers’ ear and he slowly raised his hands as the delayed crack of the rifle shot rang out.   Cautiously his comrades stood up and followed suit.   Soon the Kronstadt Unit had them disarmed and kettled into a submissive huddle, the snipers were trudging in from their hiding places and Flo and Bamse were walking in towards the group whilst waving white hankies.

            “Comrades?” enquired the doubly puzzled Starshina; puzzled at the unexpected appearance of a Saint Bernard with a flag of truce and equally bemused by the accompanying, vague, pink shape that he could not quite make out.

            “Long story,” said Flo, removing her headgear so that her face suddenly popped into view; not a reassuring sight as it floated in space with a black grease-paint slash across the eyes and Yves Saint Laurent Rouge Pur Couture #101 Violet Singulier defining her lips,  “Your support ship and crew is taken.   Bamse, you know from the voyage down.   He’s been sort of spying, I’m a spy too, a proper one, with a code name and everything, but today I’m a one-woman International Rescue, and you’re going to join in and help.   I have authorization from Larry and from here on in I am in charge.   I should think one of your prisoners would be willing to tell us where we have to go, if you ask nicely.   What happened to your transport, by the way?   Bamse said you had snowmobiles.”

            “They were rubbish,” said the Comrade-Starshina, “One never made it off the sea ice; threw a con rod.   Mine was so noisy the whole continent must have heard us coming.   So we detached the machine gun and ditched the aerosled.”

Bereft of their officer and sergeant, it took only a little persuasion for the Ski Troop grunts to co-operate with their captors and provided a detailed description of the location and layout of the Submarine Base.   Relieving them of their weapons and skis the Kronstadt shore detail left the New Swabians to make their own way back, their slow progress hampered by the deep snow.   Bamse had made a sketch map from their description of the terrain and was prepared to lead the way to their target.   The sailors checked their equipment, oiled their weapons and hung bandoliers of ammunition across their chests.   A brisk march soon brought them within sight of the sprawling base.

            “Bamse and I will go in first and create a diversion.   Give us ten minutes and then you bring your men in via the submarine pens.   Disable what you can on the way through, spike the guns and booby-trap the subs.   Let’s create a bit of mayhem,” said Flo to the Comrade-Starshina.

A History Lesson

Within the entrance chamber of the Andromeda Machine the Merovingian Lizard Kings’ diminutive ambassador was in full flow and warming to his subject.

            “Back then the grandparents of these people here were investigating a magnetic anomaly on the plateau above and mapped out a shape beneath the ice.   Huge it was, and not of a natural form.   Tunnelling down they were, until they reached the outer hull of the structure within which you stand.   Their proximity triggered a response from the Andromeda Geräte.   It sent a distress message.

“Received the message was, by the Lizard Lords.   Tell you I cannot, of what the Merovingian Lizard Kings already knew regarding the Mother Ship.   But tell you I can, that there is little that the Lizard Kings do not know.   One with The Chaos they are, and The Chaos is aware.

“Instantly despatched was I, with my companions, to contain the situation.     Neuschwabenland was isolated and the expedition to disappear was made.   A busy time in Europe this was and a few missing scientist soon forgotten were.   The descendants of those with the foresight to embrace our mission are still here.”

            “And those without the foresight?” enquired Easter Smurthwait.

            “The Merovingian Lizard Kings see only the bigger picture.   Those who did not embrace did not continue.   They were of no consequence.
            “You earthlings think you are so important.   You strive, and it is noble to strive, right that you strive.   But you influence nothing.   The weirdy web is spun.   It warps and quivers, pulled and shaken by dark tides – glistening dewdrop universes dancing on its threads.   And you, tiny animated specks on one tiny rock, circling one tiny star, on the outer rim of one tiny constellation, in a cosmos so vast that it is beyond your comprehension think that you can hang on, get noticed?   All is The Chaos, everywhere is The Chaos.   It carries you along or tosses you aside without reason.   It is tumult, and the Lizard Kings embody its deepest nature.”

            “You are all servants of evil,” spluttered Albert.

            “Servants of the Lizard Lords we are, and the Lizard Lords are The Chaos.   The Chaos is not evil or good, it is what it is.

            “Homo Credulous – programmed to see patterns in the turmoil.   Everywhere you little men find order and purpose, discover rules and laws and think this is how the universe works, but deluded you are.  You marvel at fractals that derived can be from a tiny equation yet are infinitely complex, you puzzle over a π without end.   You invent Æther to carry your light and radio waves, postulate Dark Fluff in the vacuum of space to make a random universe conform to your sums.”
            Harold was not convinced that he did any of these things; he had not really grasped algebra at school.   He could find a shoal of coleyfish in the vast Arctic ocean and navigate his aging tin tub through mountainous seas that should swallow the 500 ton sidewinder whole, but maths…

            “Wanting it all to make sense you are.   But it does not.   Not your kind of sense, anyway.”   

            One of the saffron men coughed and leaning in to the sage’s ear he spoke quietly to him.   The old man turned to von Luckner.   “You must return to the complex, Kapitänleutnant.   Be gone quickly.   You are about to be attacked.   We will follow directly.”

Dark Flo

“Kapitänleutnant, an aircraft has been spotted flying over the base.”

            “Stand the anti-aircraft crews to, but don’t do anything to attract attention.   It’s probably just the Yanks doing some stunt to get in the Guinness Book of Records again.”

            At last, thought Bamse, this must be Larry’s response to my call for help.  

            The day after sending out his radio message, not being one to waste time waiting, he had climbed onto the plateau above and behind the whaling station and had marked out a landing area with a large yellow X in the snow.   For good measure he had drawn a prominent yellow arrow pointing to the cross and written ‘Over here’ in joined up writing.   Each day he had revisited the spot and refreshed the markings.   And now help was at hand.   The Norwegian sea dog made his way through the back alleys, out of the camp and up to the landing site.

Beryl flew the Loening in a wide circle round the New Swabian whaling station, satisfying herself that they had reached the correct destination.   She could see the coleyfishtrawler Lord Ancaster in the harbour below.   Then she commenced a straight run directly over the harbour, trailing Red-White-and-Blue smoke.   Throwing the bi-plane into a series of loops and tight turns she sky-wrote Hi Folks across the heavens.

            “Might as well be obvious.   They’re bound to have seen us,” Beryl called down to Flo who, was kneeling over the Elsan.

            The Loening turned south, heading towards the pole until Beryl was reasonably sure their audience would have lost interest.   Then she climbed to ten thousand feet and turned back towards the coast.    In the cabin Dark Flo had changed into her new Class A1 16TOG ninja outfit.   It was dyed Mountbatten Pink – a Greyish-mauve all but invisible to simian optical sensors.   Over it she pulled on an X-Bird 3 wingsuit of mottled blues.   Her minimalist katana, devoid of decoration, and her Fukiya blow pipe were across her back, daisho and feather duster tucked in her waistband, and she carried a haversack filled with assorted Shuriken throwing stars, darts for the blowpipe, her war fan, and Happo eggs filled with Metsubushi blinding powder.

            “Ready to go, Flo?”

            “All set.   Keep her steady.”

            Flo clambered out onto the wing, there was a loud crack as her wing suit stretched out in the slipstream, and without a word of farewell, she was gone.   As the Loening continued northwards Flo swooped over the polar terrain, a tiny blue dart invisible from below.   Her speed sucked the breath out of her and an icy wind pressed her goggles into her face.   Looping above the barren land she took stock of her surroundings, spotted a line of despondent emperor penguins trudging inland and then noted a group of men – sailors, judging by their visorless caps - a few miles from the whaling station, proceeding in an open, skirmish formation.   Back tracking, Flo identified Bamse’s fresh yellow X and dove towards the landing area, deploying her chute at the last possible moment and ploughing into the snow with a thud.   She quickly wound in the parachute, unzipped her wing suit and buried the ensemble.   For good measure she kicked clean snow over the landing markers.   When she looked up Bamse was strolling across the snowfield towards her.   Being a dog, he could just make her out despite the camouflage pink.   Canine rods and cones differ significantly from those of monkey descendants and are less likely to be confused by weird colours.

            “Let’s get under cover and out of the cold.   I’ve built a bit of an igloo back there amongst the drifts.   It’s fairly cosy.”   He had also brought a thermos of builders’ tea and some pickled cabbage sandwiches.

The igloo was compact, inconspicuous, beautifully crafted, a handy bolthole and sufficiently warm for Flo to feel the need to remove much of her ninja kit.   While they drank their tea, Bamse launched into his report.

            “We got the shore detail away before we were captured so I don’t think anyone knows they are here.   The Lord Ancaster’s down in the harbour, but a bloody big sub took Harold and the crew off somewhere.   This whaling station is just an outpost - from what I’ve gleaned in my time here the main operation’s elsewhere.   And they all think it’s something special”

            “I believe I saw your Russians down the coast,” said Flo, “I wonder if the New Swabians have a submarine base over that way.   We need to locate the rest of the crew and find out what’s going on.   Sounds as if it’s every bit as big as Larry reckons.

“Don’t suppose we could manage the trawler on our own so it looks like we’re on foot for now.   Best save the sandwiches in case we need them later.   Let’s go and explore.”

Andromeda Geräte

 “All crew to their stations.   Prepare to surface.”   The distorted voice of Otto von Luckner crackled over the ship’s Tannoy system.

“Kapitän Entwhistle, if you would like to join me at the periscope.”

            Minutes later Harold appeared on the Command Deck accompanied by his Chief Engineer, Albert Fleck, short and skeletal in a boiler suit that had once been white, hob-nail boots, a dish-rag round his neck and a woollen tea-cosy on his head.

            “Ah Kapitän, and you have brought your stoker.   Would you like to take a look at our destination?”   Von Luckner ushered the trawlermen to the periscope and Harold peered into the eyepiece.   He could see ice and snow – pretty much like all the ice and snow they had been surrounded by since coming south.   Dead ahead was a low black rectangle sheltered beneath an overhang in the cliff.

            “Can I see too?” asked Albert.   As he surveyed the desolate scene a lonely wandering albatross waddled over to the funny stick protruding through a hole in the lightly frozen ocean and blocked out the view.   Distorted goggle eyes peered in at the startled artificer.

            “What the f… …is that?

            “The entrance to our U-Boat pens,” the Kapitänleutnant turned to his ensign, “Take her up.”

            “Bow planes ten degrees, rudder amidships, blow all tanks.”

            The Seeadler surfaced, breaking through the thin layer of barely formed ice and startling the inquisitive seabird into panicked flight.

            A queue of ship’s officers formed at the bottom of the conning tower ladder whilst the Oberfähnrich climbed up to open the hatch.   Von Luckner took two paces back and, with a hand pressed against Harold’s chest, indicated that the trawlermen should do the same.   Seawater showered through the hatchway onto the up-turned faces below.

            “This happens every time.   They never learn.”

The submersible’s deck officers were clustered outside on top of the conning tower when Harold and Albert joined them and the Seeadler was gliding silently towards the cavernous entrance.   As they entered the submarine pens the crew lined the deck to take a salute from stevedores gathered on the nearest floating quay; a small brass band with a glockenspiel played ‘Edelweiss’.   While Seeadler navigated alongside and was made fast Bert Fleck observed a Cuban, Foxtrot Class submarine and a Type VIIC/41 Flak U-Boat on neighbouring pontoons.   The sleek Cuban vessel appeared to be making ready to sail.

            “Stop engines.   Prepare to disembark.”   Once the trawlermen had been rounded up Easter joined Harry and Albert with von Luckner, Billy Tate remained with the crew who were quickly escorted ashore.

            “Your men will be treated well, Kapitän.   You may check on their wellbeing in a little while.   But I wish to be with you when you first set eyes on our establishment here.”   The Kapitänleutnant indicated the gangway.   They proceeded along the pontoon to a short ramp and then ascended a long escalator.   Globe lamps on patinated bronze mounts lit their way, the architecture was modernist with a severely Teutonic twist.

            They emerged into a spacious concourse.   Half-moon skylights, pierced through the sea-green ceiling high above, cast shafts of daylight into the scene below, the polished Carrera floor shone like water, the walls glowed with warm beige marble cladding.   A mahogany cased clock dominated the far end of the hall and dwarfed figures scurried purposefully wherever the Yorkshiremen looked.   Just ahead a sulky line of king penguins shuffled past, heads down and shoulders hunched.   Intermittently each in turn would squawk a mumbled complaint.   Nearby stood a group of self absorbed men in tall orange hats, with faces of wrinkled, walnut leather; their saffron robes all but hidden by too large, wrap around yak-skin coats, secured at the waist by string.

            “Lizard men?” enquired Harold Entwhistle of his host.

            “None of us will ever meet the Merovingian Lizard Kings, my friend.   That is not their way.   These men of the Himalayas are envoys.

“Let me show you to your quarters, and on the way I will point out the officers’ mess.   I will meet you back there in…   Shall we say one hour?”

The officers’ mess was done out with a great deal of chrome and had the feel of an outsized American diner.   Harold, Easter and Albert were sat at a cramped Formica table and had given a food order to a well-rounded fraulein in a short blue gingham dress and dinky, matching forage cap by the time they were joined by Kapitänleutnant Otto Graf von Luckner.   Albert removed his tea cosy, stuffed it in a pocket and ran his fingers through his greasy hair.   The waitress appeared with three All Day Breakfasts.

            “Good, you have ordered.   I will have an Americano, two shots of expresso, not too much water… and a small piece of your excellent schwarzwälder kirschtorte, if I may, my dear.”

            Easter scowled at his surroundings, “All seems very clean - for a secret Nazi UFO base.   Where’s the Storm Troopers.”

            Otto sighed, “To business then.   First I must explain to you our situation, we will postpone the small talk, pleasant as that would be, till later.  

“There were never many Nazis here; our original expedition was, after all, a scientific survey.   Those first comers were not intending to become colonists.   There were not many women on the original expedition either but somehow, three generations later, we are still here.   Our ancestors established a small base on this spot, claimed the land for the Greater Germany, began surveying the area and then made a discovery that changed everything.   You had better come with me and I will show you…   The secret you have come to uncover…   The reason you can never leave.”  

            “Never…   What?”   Albert shot to his feet, banging his knees on the table, which was, fortunately, securely bolted to the floor.

            Easter joined in with, “Now look here, captain...”

            “Please.   Just come with me.   We can discuss your future circumstances later.”

The Yorkshire trio were still protesting vehemently as they crossed the concourse to one of a number of departure gates.   Four of the mysterious, saffron clad orientals formed up silently behind them.   A discoloured sign in a Gebrochene Schrift black letter typeface indicated AG Gate23 and below it an attendant, inspecting von Luckner’s pass, nodded them through.   They entered a tube-like chamber lined with benches and settled down together whilst the mute envoys sat nearby, yet pointedly apart from the sailors.   The doors slid shut with a whoosh, there was a sharp Plop, a hiss and a sensation of rapid acceleration.

            “We are travelling in a pneumatic tube subway.   First proposed, I believe, by your excellent Herr Brunel, though it has taken German vorsprung durch technik to make it work.”

            “Not Isambard, for once, George Medhurst, a Kentishman,” muttered Bert Fleck, “but I bet he half inched the idea off a Yorkshireman.”

            The travelers were contemplating the engineer’s observation as their transport stopped with an uncomfortable suddenness and the doors slid open.   Otto stood back to let the Himalayan envoy disembark first, then he and the trawlermen followed along a gently sloping ice tunnel.   At its end the oldest and shortest emissary, with the tallest hat, approached a small glowing tablet, placed his right palm upon it and a door swung open.   The four monk-like beings entered first, followed reluctantly by Easter and Albert Fleck.   Harold and the Kapitänleutnant brought up the rear.   They found themselves inside a bare reception area.   The curved outer walls were comprised of an alloy that Harold could not identify.   There was no corrosion or decay, though there were signs of wear and an impression of great age.   The inner bulkheads and floors were transparent and, disconcertingly, they could see down through several floors beneath their feet.   In the room below were parked two foo fighters under plastic sheeting.     

            “Schoonfryder,” whispered von Luckner, “but there are many different types of what you would call UFO in neighbouring bays.”

            “Great,” said Albert, who was pressed against the only wall that looked solid and was very deliberately not looking down.

            The diminutive monk turned to address the company, “Discovering this the great grandfather of young Otto was.   Lying here undisturbed for many millennia it had been.   Under the ice.   A secret it was, and must remain.   The Andromeda Machine.   Within a UFO mother ship you are.”