looked at Yeats, who let the dig slide. “The Vatican?”
“Actually, I’m here as a representative of the Australian Antarctic Preservation Society and an adviser to the environmental committee of the United Nations Antarctica Commission. This land belongs to Australia, you see, according to Article Four of the Antarctic Treaty, of which the United States is a member. All members are required to give notice of expeditions, stations, and military personnel and equipment active in Antarctica. You haven’t stated your business on our territory, General Yeats.”
Conrad’s mind was reeling, trying to take in her mysterious appearance in this frozen hell, let alone this bizarre exchange with his father about arcane minutiae in international law.
Yeats cleared his throat. “Article Four, while recognizing that some nations lay claim to territory, expressly states that those claims do not have to be honored by other nations,” Yeats said evenly. “In other words, seventy nations instead of seven could have territorial claims here, Sister Serghetti, but the United States does not recognize their validity.”
“Maybe so,” Serena replied. “But there’s no ambiguity to Article One, which clearly and forcefully bans any measure of a military nature, which is tough luck for you.”
“Unless such measures are for scientific purposes.”
“And what purpose is that, Conrad?”
Conrad realized she was addressing him. And he said the first thing that popped into his head. “We’re mounting a salvage operation.”
He studied her reaction as she looked around and took in the command center doors down the corridor and soldiers with polar-protected M-16s.
“You mean for that C-130 that crashed?” she asked. “I saw the wreckage when I landed on your runway.”
Conrad glanced at Yeats, who seemed impressed. Not only wasshe Mother Earth. She was also the Flying Nun. No wonder Yeats’s jaw was on the floor. “You landed a plane?” Yeats asked.
“Your base is hard to miss with a fissure as wide as the Colorado River snaking around it. Did you cause that crack?”
“It was already there,” Yeats said defensively.
“Then you won’t mind if I have a look,” she said. “The Antarctic Treaty provides for the right of access and inspection to all bases. Consider us official inspectors.”
She stepped aside and Conrad saw behind her four well-built young men with dark, deep-set eyes. Video and sound equipment rested heavily on their broad shoulders.
Conrad said, “Who are they?”
“My camera crew. As long as we’re making an inspection, I assume we can take pictures?”
“Sure,” said Yeats, who motioned to the MPs to relieve the men of their equipment. “You can inspect everything from the brig.”
Conrad watched Serena and her crew in their respective cells on two monitors in the command center. The men were sitting quietly on the floor like caged foxes. Serena, meanwhile, was stretched across her bunk like Sleeping Beauty.
“You can’t just lock up Mother Earth,” he told Yeats. “The world’s going to find out.”
But Yeats was focused on the other monitors that showed various grainy images of the P4 Habitat and a drill rig atop the flat summit of P4, where a work crew was tunneling down the north face of the pyramid as Conrad had instructed.
“You better pray your hunch about a shaft pays off, son. Or I just might lock you up too. And, frankly, in your case, the world won’t give a shit.”
Conrad opened his mouth to say something when Colonel O’Dell walked up with a file. Conrad caught his disapproving glance and realized he was the only civilian running loose on the base. O’Dell looked itchy to toss him into the brig with the rest of them.
“Here’s that NSA report on Sister Serghetti, sir.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
Conrad watched as Yeats scanned the file. “The NSA keeps files on nuns?”
“Nuns who develop a universal translator based on the Aymara language,”