Protocol 7

A Novel

By

Armen Gharabegian

Protocol 7: Part 1 of the Arctica Trilogy

Copyright © 2007 by Armen Gharabegian

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. No abridgement or changes to the text are authorized by the publisher.

Book Cover Design by Arctica Studios, LLC
www.arcticastudios.com

ISBN Number: 978-0-9888486-1-0

I would like to dedicate this book to my two beautiful sons Theo and Max, who have not only changed my life but are also the inspiration for why I love to create. I would also like to dedicate this book to my amazing wife, who has been nothing short of patient and has been a source of inspiration throughout the entire project. And to my sister Alina, who as a professor of British Literature flat out told me “good luck on this one, it’s not my thing,” but I love her nevertheless.

To Helen Rosburg, who originally gave me the strength and faith to continue writing. To Brad Munson for editing the project, to Grant Grinder for his invaluable assistance and love of the story. To David Kuhn, who I remember telling, “I am clearly not a writer, I just have story to tell,” to which his response was, “then what the hell are you doing writing five hundred pages?” To Shannon Woods for her passion of the story and her professional job in proofreading. To all my friends and family, whether avid readers or not at all, and to the ones who pretended they read the book, I thank them all.

“That’s insane.”

The violent blizzard was menacing—the most powerful storm Robert Donnelley had experienced in two years stationed in Antarctica. He could hear it screaming outside Station 3-27 as the murderous wind scraped a swarm of ice particles from the surface of the Ross Ice Shelf; less than twenty-two seconds later, the same ice particles pounded the walls of the modular scientific outpost, half-buried in the desolate terrain. According to Donnelley’s readouts, the wind speed exceeded 122 miles per hour.

Inside the tiny domed facility, Donnelley’s hand shook as his fingers tightened on the syringe he was about to plunge into his thigh. Ignore the shaking, he ordered himself as he took a breath and let the needle penetrate his flesh. He tried instead to focus on the label that read “INSULIN…EXP 11/2038.” He knew that this was the last of the med packs, and he knew it didn’t matter anymore. He would have all the insulin he needed soon enough. A two-year supply, he thought. All gone now.

Donnelley pressed the release mechanism on the syringe, and the chemical entered his bloodstream. He sighed as he pulled the syringe free and leaned back in his chair; he looked at the nearly transparent holographic screen perched precariously on a shipping cubicle and watched a dark-skinned man with a wide nose and a grim expression address a huge, colorfully dressed assembly.

“…and for these reasons, the United Nations Special Committee on Antarctica has voted in the majority to extend the terms of the Madrid Protocol for an additional twelve years, through December 31, 2051.”

“That’s what I mean,” his partner said. “Insane.”

The man on the holo-display continued. Donnelley knew it was Mohad Anan, the Secretary General of the UN. Everyone knew that, even in the remote outskirts of Antarctica. “During this extended interdiction,” Anan said, “as in the past, no nation, corporation, or non-governmental entity of any kind shall establish any installation or habitation of any kind; no exploratory or military action will be tolerated, and no development or exploitation of natural resources will be undertaken within the disputed territory as defined in Section I of the Protocol, understood to include the entire continent of Antarctica and the whole of its coastal waters.”

“Jesus.”

The roar of the Assembly broke over Anan, and the world leader pounded his gavel for quiet. Donnelley’s research partner, Brad Parkinson, sandy-haired and sharp-chinned, shook his head in disgust. “Jesus,” he said again. “What are they thinking?”

“They’re thinking if they end the Protocol and let every country on Earth come swarming in here to fight over the natural resources, it’ll cause World War Three,” Donnelley said, sounding weary. “And Four, and possibly Five.”

“That’s bullshit,” Brad said. “I think they’re just choking it off to try and keep the Chinese from taking it all. What do you think?”

“I think…” he glanced at the screen again. Anan was plowing ahead, despite the roar of the crowd and the howl of the wind outside. “Further,” he said, “as stated in Protocol 7 of the Antarctic Treaty, all established facilities now in operation in the disputed territory are to be immediately decommissioned, and all personnel are to be withdrawn to their home countries or declared neutral territory no later than March 31 of this year, 2039. The United Nations Enforcement Division will assist in the relocations and will remain in absolute and unilateral control of the disputed territory. During the extended interdiction, UNED will serve as the Territory’s only governmental authority, nationally and internationally. There will be no exceptions, no extensions, and no appeals.”

“I think it doesn’t matter what I think,” Donnelley said.

This had been coming for quite a while. Antarctica had been disputed territory since before he was born, twenty-eight years ago. The Protocols had stopped all that, and driven everyone except scientists and explorers from the continent a full fifteen years ago. But now even the scientists and explorers were being banned. Due to a war over territorial rights between Japan and China, the United Nations had been forced to enact a new protocol to the Antarctic Treaty in 2032. This new protocol, Protocol 7—which had finally been approved in 2035, had given the United Nations ultimate control over the Antarctic continent. Through Protocol 7, UNED would become the governing body and the policing force in the event that future tensions would break out over the continent. The protocol would allow UNED to enforce an immediate and absolute quarantine without question. Any nation that would not abide by the articles of Protocol 7 would face immediate military intervention from NATO.

All that work. All that knowledge…

“The world is getting too hungry,” he said, as much to himself as to his partner. “And too desperate.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Secretary General said, almost shouting to be heard. “This is not done lightly, not without serious and continuing appraisal and debate. However, given the current level of international tension, the continuing and worsening political and economic instability in both hemispheres, and the undeniable willingness—even the overt threat—of so many regimes ready to bring devastating military and economic might to bear should this new continent be made accessible, there is only one option available to the Committee and the world: initiate Protocol 7—continued isolation…or Armageddon!”

Donnelley wondered what the old man had been thinking when he gave this speech. Was he worried? Elated? Afraid? He couldn’t tell by looking. He could barely recognize him and his fellow “world leaders” as human. They seemed that distant, that alien.

“Thank you,” Anan said and turned away from the podium.

“Turn the goddamn thing off,” Brad said. “They just keep playing the same clip over and over. I’m sick of it,” he continued after tossing the small servo that was in his hand on the table immediately in front of him. “First it was the Patriot Act that gave the US unfair control over our citizens, and now this Protocol 7 bullshit.”

Donnelley passed a hand over the remote control and deactivated the live streaming image. It was replaced by an updated version of the same message they’d been receiving for more than a day—white letters trundling across the invisible screen, floating in thin icy air:

You are required to evacuate your station. Please gather your
personal belongings and prepare to leave immediately. This is
an official mandate by the United Nations; noncompliance is
punishable by law.

“What do they expect us to do with the equipment, just let it freeze here?” Brad made a fist. “It took me four months to get approval to set up the damn station, and now they want to shut it down?”

Donnelley shrugged. His eyes traveled across the interior of the stuffy, low-ceilinged, dank little dome, called Station 3-27, which had been his home for so long. Every inch of it was crammed with carrying cases, data blocks, trunks, and suitcases of every size. It smelled even worse than usual. He hated it, and he was going to miss it like hell. He wondered what would become of the scientific explorations throughout the continent and all the personnel that had to evacuate immediately.

All he knew was that by dawn tomorrow there wouldn’t be a living soul on the entire icy landmass—just unmanned drones patrolling the perimeter, and specialized satellites peering down from above to keep—

There was a knock at the door.

It was brisk, distinct, edged with a metallic click, as if someone was beating a chain-mail fist against the hatch.

The two scientists froze, speechless. Finally, Brad Parkinson blinked.

“Evac team early?” he said sarcastically.

“Did you hear the chopper?” Donnelley said. It should have been clearly audible, even over the howling of the storm.

“No. Did you—”

There was another violent knock.

Donnelley turned and put his cheek against the small round circle of the observation port. He could feel the impossible cold, even through the two plates of half-inch lexan and the insulating layer of inert gas between them.

There was a hunched, hooded figure in the entrance alcove—a single human shape. Pellets of rock-hard ice peppered the figure like a hail of white ball bearings. Each one of them, Donnelley knew, was sharp enough to cut, traveling fast enough to leave a bruise.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. “He’s not even in a suit.”

“Then he’s a dead man,” Brad said.

“Well at least he can die inside.” He shifted to the left, put his eye to the retinal scanner, and thumbed the broad latch-panel.

Parkinson jumped up. “Wait a minute, Donnelley! We don’t even know who he is!”

The panel beeped just as it was supposed to. “Who cares?” he said over his shoulder. He put his hands on the huge, old-fashioned wheel and spun it, cursing the design. Damn engineers, he thought as he dragged at it. “There aren’t two hundred people left on the whole damn continent, Brad. It’s not exactly a home invasion robbery!”

It took all the strength he had to pull the door open six inches. The man outside pushed as well, using his shoulder with tremendous strength. A moment later, the opening was just wide enough to let the visitor spill in and tumble to the floor. Donnelley reversed his effort and struggled to get the hatch shut and locked. He barely managed.

After the latch chunked home and the panel gave its happy beep, he leaned against the cold door to recover his strength. “Son of a bitch,” he said again, panting from the exertion. “What the hell were you—”

Something jerked at the collar of his suit, right at the nape of his neck, and pulled him back hard. A fist slammed into his face as he fell, hitting him just below his nose and driving him even more painfully to the ground. An instant later, the man who had knocked on the door was on top of him, knee on his chest, holding him down.

His attacker’s entire head was covered in a twisted mass of silver, heat-insulating Mylar, duct tape showing at odd corners and sealing a pair of goggles over his eyes. There was a tiny slit where his mouth should have been. His hands—the ones pinning Donnelley’s arms to the floor—were covered in two pairs of gloves, one inside the other.

“Shut up,” the man said. His voice was rough with cold and desperation.

He freed one hand long enough to reach inside the massive black peacoat he was wearing. Donnelley barely had time to think, that shouldn’t have worked; he shouldn’t have gotten ten feet in that get-up, before the glove came out again, holding a huge, slab-sided Glock 17 hand gun.

He pointed the pistol at Robert Donnelley and shot him in the forehead—one 9-millimeter bullet, dead center. After a long moment, a bubble of blood welled up in the hole and dribbled thickly down one temple.

The taped head came up and pointed its black lens at Brad Parkinson. The gun came up with it and pointed steadily at a single, small spot on the researcher’s chest. “You don’t have to die,” the visitor grated, his voice muffled by the wrapping. “Listen carefully.”

Parkinson stared at him. He could barely comprehend what had just happened.

“I’ll take this man’s suit and ID. You will stand in the corner and watch me. When the chopper gets here, we will fly out together. If you tell them I am not who they think I am, I will kill everyone.”