The Curse of Medusa

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Max Henriksen tightened the hood of his Parka and stamped his feet against the hard Arctic snow. It was a vain attempt to warm up, but he did it all the same.

He sighed and scanned the bleak horizon. This was one hell of a place to build a listening station, but what the National Security Agency wanted, the National Security Agency generally got.

He watched with growing impatience as Frank Laurie began to lower the hollow drill-head into the hole in the ice. It had gotten stuck somewhere a few thousand feet below the surface and the young scientist from New Jersey was now attempting to lubricate the process with some drilling fluid. He wasn’t making a very good job of it.

“It’s not budging, Max,” he said.

Max scratched his beard. “What’s the depth?”

“Seven thousand feet.”

“Let me get a look in there, kid,” Martinez said, moving Laurie aside and pushing his way to the drill. Like Henriksen, Tony Martinez wasn’t a scientist, but part of the NSA team assigned to scout the area for its suitability as a listening station. “You’ve got no strength in you. Let a real man do the job.”

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