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But there are other cases, often dark, often furtive, that I must by rights keep close to my chest. This is not because they are too alarming or disturbing for my good friends, but purely because if I did tell anyone, I would in all probability meet my end in a dark cell on bread and water for the rest of my natural life. That is, if I did not see the end of a hangman’s rope first. Matters of national security are tricky things at the best of times, and when they call for my peculiar area of expertise, they tend to become even more peculiar still and even less available for public consumption.

My friend, Dodgson, has written elsewhere of my infrequent encounters with the extraordinary Mr. Winston Churchill, and the matter I will relate here begins, and ends, with one such meeting.

“The plot thickens,” Banks whispered to himself. He needed to know more, but before he had time for that, he needed to know what was beyond the big double door.

A leather satchel sat on the floor at the dead oberst’s feet, and Banks quickly gathered up all the papers and notebooks and stowed them away, before stowing the satchel itself in his backpack, feeling the weight of history on his shoulders.

While Banks was stowing the papers, Hynd had been checking the desk drawers.

“Nothing important in here, Cap,” he said. “Fresh paper and ink, frozen solid. There doesn’t seem to be a log or report book.”

“It’ll be around somewhere,” Banks replied. “And that’s something we’ll definitely want.”

He had a last look at the officer in the chair — he still couldn’t believe the man wasn’t going to get up and walk. There was only one other thing of note, a calendar hanging on the wall by the door with one date circled heavily in red pencil.

4th of January, 1942.

* * *

McCally and his team arrived from across the chamber as Banks and Hynd left the officer’s room.

“Anything, Cally?”

The corporal shook his head.

“More dead men in their beds. Looks like whatever did it took them nice and quiet in their sleep. It’s a fucking mystery all right.”

So far, they had not found a single sign that there had been any warning at all given to the residents of the base. It appeared they had all died in the same moment, some going about whatever their business might be and others, possibly a different work shift, being taken in their beds. Banks hoped an answer might be forthcoming on the other side of the big double door.

Before broaching it, he walked over to the generator room doorway and called out to the two men working inside.

“Any joy, Wiggins?” he asked.

The private looked glum.

“Nothing doing, Cap,” he said. He pointed his light at the thicker wiring that ran through the wall. “We thought the generator might be here to feed power through yon cable there. But it’s the other way round. It’s all dead in here, and any juice to run this beastie would be coming from wherever that goes.”

On the other side of the double doors.

“Saddle up then, lads,” Banks said. “Let’s find out what these buggers were all so busy at before they died.”

- 3 -

The double doors weren’t locked and opened easily enough, although the creaking of the hinges echoed like a wailing siren around the chamber and brought the hackles rising at the back of Bank’s neck. His gut was telling him to run away, and over the years, he’d learned to trust it. But he had a job to do here, and a team to lead.

“Cally, you’re on point. Parker and Wiggins, watch our backs. We don’t know what killed these Jerries, so if you see anything squirrelly, you have my permission to shoot it.”

McCally led Hughes, Patel, and Wilkes into the darkness beyond the door, with Banks and Hynd following right behind them.

It became obvious quickly that they were in a long, enclosed tunnel. There were no doors to either side, just an alley of darkness stretching away beyond the range of their lights. It was colder still in here, and the darkness felt heavier, more oppressive. The floor rose upward at a slight incline, and Banks’ mental map of the area told him that they must be travelling up toward the domed area of ice they’d seen from the outside.

The corridor was made of the same metal plating they’d seen throughout the facility, and again Banks was reminded more of the interior of a boat than an under the ice base. The heating costs in fuel while the place was operational must have been enormous. That had him wondering, not for the first time, what was so important to the Nazi effort that could lead them to such secrecy and expense.

And in a project that has obviously failed.

He hoped to find an answer at the end of the corridor.

* * *

The corridor itself continued for fifty more paces. There were no more corpses, but as they approached another double door, they saw thin, watery, light coming through the small eye-level windows in the doors themselves. Banks didn’t have to give the order; all of the squad unslung their rifles into their hands and their level of alertness went up a notch. They moved as one toward the doorway.

Banks stepped forward to try to peer through, but the windows were frosted over. He managed to clear his side, but the inside was still too milky and opaque. He could make out a large darker shadow beyond, but nothing to say what might lie on the other side. He motioned for silence and they stood quiet, listening, but all he heard was the team’s own breathing. He motioned for McCally to come forward, and covered the corporal as he slowly pushed the door open.

Once again, a creaking wail of old hinges echoed loud all around them. All attempts at secrecy were now moot. Banks gave the signal, and the squad, as one, moved forward through the double doors.

* * *

Almost as one, they stopped, dumbfounded by the sight before them.

They had arrived in a high-domed circular chamber some fifty yards across. Thin watery light came in from above where a vaulted ceiling of girders and glass let in sunlight through a layer of thin snow and frost. There were more corpses here, a score of men lying on the floor, almost equally split between civilians in overalls and uniformed airmen. Again, they all appeared to have fallen where they stood, then just gone to sleep and been frozen. Everything was covered in more frost, which felt crisp underfoot. The only sound in the chamber was the crunch as Banks took a step forward, and he winced at the noise, wondering what he would do if any of the dead men woke at that point.

The main thing, the elephant in the room he was trying not to think about, the thing they couldn’t drag their eyes from at first, was the silver metal saucer that sat almost exactly in the middle of the chamber. It was twenty yards in diameter, and the only thing breaking the expanse of shining metal was a large red circle at its highest point, with a five-foot-tall, black-on-white Swastika in the center.

The saucer sat flush to the ground, and rose to a maximum height of ten feet at the center of the Swastika. There was no sign of any doorway or window, no method of ingress that Banks could see from where he stood by the doorway.

“Fucking hell,” Wiggins said softly, and Banks realized he had nothing of any greater import to add to the statement just then.

* * *

It took Banks ten seconds to be able to drag his gaze from the saucer. It commanded attention, catching the eye and refusing to let go. The silver surface had avoided all ravages of time — there was none of the otherwise ever-present frost covering the metal, which was polished to a high shine, reflecting the girders and glass roof above in a most disorienting manner that was almost hypnotic.