The Well - an Original Story - [for Conspiracy Creative Writing Contest II]

There was not an ounce of warmth in the room: not in the air, not in the blank white walls, not in the face of the American major tapping his way through the briefing. He hadn't been expecting roaring fires and bearskin rugs but even a smile would have raised the temperature a little.

The major clipped the wall map with his pointer, snapping McClair’s attention back to the presentation.

‘The first well, located here on the eastern boundary of the Ross ice shelf, was discovered on April sixteenth by a supply plane heading out to the Vostok research centre. At least, that's the story the Russians are selling. The differentials in edge melt suggest it had been there for almost two weeks prior to that date. Dr Jeffrey and his colleagues were our first team to reach and inspect the site. This was two days later on April eighteenth. Our SEAL team had the site quarantined and covered by fifteen-hundred hours on April twenty-first. No mean feat given its size.’

McClair looked across at the only other man in the briefing. They wore the same bulky layers and hooded parkas but the cardinal seemed comfortable in the outfit, somehow retaining his air of dignity, while McClair found himself constantly needing to adjust the vents and zips. He wondered what The Church’s interest was in the matter. He still hadn’t a clear idea why he was there himself.

‘As you can see from these aerial photographs, the first well is almost perfectly cylindrical. Exactly one kilometre in diameter and approximately 650 metres in depth, it descends vertically through the ice sheet to the seawater below. Hence the term ‘well’. Although there is no evidence that it was constructed with the traditional purpose in mind. In fact we consider the idea unlikely. As such you may also hear the official designation used: Test site one.’

McClair stared at the projector screen. Viewed from above the well formed a perfect black circle surrounded by an untouched expanse of white ice. He leaned forward as the major swiped through to a series of close-ups. The well was now a clear blue cliff arcing away into the distance, dwarfing the soldiers standing on its edge.

‘Dr Jeffrey’s preliminary assessment, that the phenomenon is not natural in formation, is now universally accepted. It is not a crevasse or sinkhole. There are no hydrothermal vents affecting the temperature of the underlying seawater. The edges have been formed with extreme precision. I say ‘formed’ but, even now after three months of investigation, our best minds have limited idea of the creation process.’

The cardinal raised his chin from where it rested on his clasped hands. He gave a small cough, as if in preparation for speech but then seemed to think better of it. Instead he raised his eyes to the ceiling. McClair thought he might be praying.

‘Test site two is located exactly one kilometre west of site one, as measured at their closest point. It represents a significant increase in capability, with a length exactly three times that of the original. Given the other dimensions are identical, Dr Jeffrey's team have speculated that the same process has been applied but with an additional shift along the east-west axis during formation, resulting in the elongated, lozenge shape you can see here. This second well appeared overnight on Thursday of last week, we estimate at between zero-two-hundred and zero-three-hundred hours. We have no register of activity in the area at that time. None of our guys were out there. There were no traces of vehicle tracks. No footprints. No evidence of snow melt around the perimeter. Nothing.’

The major paused for a sip of water. He looked momentarily worn. ‘I'll admit, gentlemen, that at this point we’re at a loss. The president wants to know if we're under attack. The press want to know what our buildings are hiding. We’re fighting speculation of everything from oil drilling to alien crash sites. And we don’t even know what it is we’re covering up.’

McClair ran the figures in his head. ‘The second well. That’s around one and a half billion cubic metres of displaced ice. If it wasn't melted, and it's not strewn around the perimeter, where did it go?’

‘That, Professor McClair, is what we're hoping you will tell us.’

---

The plane flew lower to the ground than he would have liked. The monotony of the landscape made it hard to determine their speed, or if they were moving at all. Inside his gloves his hands were clammy. Flying had never been his favourite pastime.

The cardinal leaned across the aisle, no doubt sensing McClair's discomfort. ‘I do not think that God would bring us all the way out here and then deprive us of seeing his work.’

‘But all bets are off for the flight back?’

The cardinal smiled. ‘Science clouds your faith. You know, one does not necessarily preclude the other.’

‘You are a scientist?’

‘I am versed in the sciences. I have numerous doctorates. But my religious title takes precedence.’

‘And one of these doctorates has got you drafted onto the research team?’

‘No, I am not part of the team. I am here at the Pope's request. His reach is still long, even if it is not what it once was. I am to investigate whether a miracle has occurred.’

McClair hesitated, trying to decide if the man was pulling his leg. He looked perfectly serious. ‘You may be disappointed. I do not think you will find a miracle here.’

‘We will see, my friend. Perhaps you will be surprised. And what expertise brings you to the team, may I ask?’

‘My recent work on black holes.’

‘Black holes? Ah, well there you also risk to be disappointed. I do not think you will find a black hole here.’

This time it was McClair's turn to smile. ‘I've been asked to look for distortions in the space-time continuum. My team has produced probes that measure such phenomena and capture any residual effects.’

The cardinal looked puzzled. ‘The hypothesis being that someone is reaching across time and space to spirit away billions of tonnes of ice?’

‘Broadly, that's the theory, yes.’

‘And, for you, this would not count as a miracle?’

---

A touch on his arm jolted McClair awake. The cardinal pointed to the window and moved across to sit in the empty seat behind him. The plane was banking left. They were turning to land, McClair assumed. But instead of a gentle descent they were climbing.

‘There are reports of a large number of new wells in formation,’ said the cardinal. ‘The major wants us to gain altitude to see the lie of the land. We’ll circle until the situation is clear. You may be in luck. Few are those that are chosen as witnesses of the Lord's work.’

McClair peered through the thick glass. He saw nothing but white snow in all directions. Then, as they banked again, shouts erupted from the seats at the front of the plane. A whole row of wells lay directly beneath them. He counted eight, no nine black circles and dashes strung precisely across the landscape; a direct line leading to the buildings covering the first two sites. As they circled and ascended, three more rows gradually appeared, parallel to the first.

‘It’s a pattern,’ said McClair.’

‘It is a message,’ said the cardinal. ‘You see the dots and dashes group together. Each grouping is a letter. Each row is a word. It is a message. Written in Morse code.’

McClair stared at the pattern. The groupings were clear now that he looked again.

‘So what does it say? Who is it from?’ McClair asked.

‘On the second question I will need to ask for guidance.’

‘Yes, but what does it say?’

It says: ‘STOP USING FOSSIL FUELS.’

---

I really wanted to call this piece ‘Global Warning’. But I felt it would ruin the surprise!

This is an entry for the Conspiracy Creative Writing Contest II.
You can find the original post ---> here.

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