Deep
in the
The
cliffs at the edge of the ice shelf, the largest on the continent, are normally
quite barren, but on that particular day, a lone penguin lurked at the
precipice, a mere black dot against the gray horizon from the view of an approaching
ship.
And
there was a ship approaching.
It,
too, was only a speck on the horizon, from the view of the rockhopper, and at
first the creature merely stood there, studying it through narrowed, red
eyes. The penguin didn’t look away until
a weak ray of sunlight caught the steel gray hull of the ship, giving it a
metallic gleam. Its eyes, far keener
underwater than above land, could not yet decipher the four initials stenciled
on the side, but it had seen enough.
This was the ship it had been waiting for.
Without
further delay, the penguin waddled to the very edge of the cliff on which it
stood, and, inches away from toppling over the side, suddenly threw back its
head and let out three very distinct, shrill squawks.
Fifteen
meters below, from its perch on a floating pancake of ice at the base of the
shelf, a second rockhopper responded, sounding two cries of its own. Then it plunged headfirst into the freezing
water.
Like
a small torpedo, the penguin streaked through the sea. Ahead of it loomed the massive form of an
iceberg, its craggy bottom jutting miles below the surface, into the cold,
black waters. But the penguin went the
opposite direction, powering up to the surface and poking its strangely crested
head above the waterline.
Seemingly
unintimidated by the mountain of ice towering over it, it swam straight up to
the berg, to a place where the ice seemed to have cracked in an elliptical
shape, and tapped its beak against the ice three times.
At
once, the ice began to move, giving way from the rest of the berg as it swung
in, revealing an opening. The penguin
scrambled inside, and the ice door shut again almost immediately, camouflaging
itself in the berg once more.
A
pair of hands reached down to scoop up the penguin, and the rockhopper soon
found itself being carried in the arms of a man whose black and white braided
hair sort of resembled its own spiky, yellow crest. The odd-looking pair moved swiftly through a
network of vaulted, glimmering hallways, all carved out of the ice, to a
chamber with a tall, arced door. The man
knocked sharply on the door, and a voice from within called out dramatically,
“Enter!”
In
they went, finding themselves in an impressive chamber where nature met modern
technology and luxury. Though made of
ice, this lair held all of the comforts of home – a colossal bed made up with
many down pillows and warm-looking blankets, all in deep purple; a large,
wrap-around desk seated with the biggest executive chair the man (not to
mention the penguin) had ever seen; a walk-in closet filled with heavy coats,
warm furs, fleece pullovers, and cozy sweaters.
A large, polar bear skin rug was splayed over the ice floor, and rigged
inside the thick ice walls were a series of TV screens, each showing a
different view from the surveillance cameras positioned all around the ice
fortress and, indeed, also from the FANS base in the swamps of Florida.
The
man with the braids shivered as he put down the wet penguin; oh, how he wished
he could be back in the hot, humid
Standing
just inside the doorway, he cleared his throat.
“Dr. Rough, one of your scouts has returned to tell us the Russian ship
is in sight.”
The
executive chair swung slowly around to reveal a small man, whose head had been
invisible behind the tall back of the chair.
“Excellent,” he smiled, his large white teeth gleaming, and pressed the
tips of his fingers together sinisterly.
“Thank you, Chris Kirkpatrick.”
“At your
service, Dr. Rough,” answered Chris with a little bow, but Dr. Rough was no
longer looking at him.
Reaching
out both hands, he made his voice go high and sweet as he called out, “Come
here, Michael Jackson! Who’s Dr.
Rough-Rough’s good little spy?”
The
penguin let out a cheerful squawk and skidded across the floor to its
master. Dr. Rough picked it up and
tickled it playfully under its beak.
“Such a good, smart boy, Michael Jackson, yes you are!” he cooed.
Chris
blinked, watching the evil genius he idolized so much coddle the penguin as if
it were his own child. “Why did you name
that one Michael Jackson?” he couldn’t help but ask.
“Because
he’s both black and white and does the moonwalk,” answered Dr. Rough
matter-of-factly, without looking up at Chris.
“Come on, Michael Jackson, let’s do the moonwalk!” he commanded the
penguin, and the rockhopper instantly shot up and out of his arms, landing on
the smooth ice floor. Chris watched in
amusement as the animal started to glide backwards, performing a perfect penguin moonwalk.
“Amazing,
isn’t he?” said Dr. Rough with a smug smile as he patted the penguin on its
crested head. “Good boy, Michael
Jackson, well done.”
Momentarily
distracted by the penguin antics, Chris suddenly remembered the reason he was
here and said, “Dr. Rough, the ship must be getting close by now.”
A
look of alarm flickered on Dr. Rough’s face, and he stood up abruptly, the
penguin hopping out of his way. “Of
course. I’ll go to meet it.”
“Should…
should I go with you, sir?” asked Chris hopefully, but Dr. Rough ignored the
request.
“Take
Michael Jackson back to the penguin paddock,” he ordered. “I’ll see to it myself. Come, Dr. Twitches!”
Dr.
Rough’s favorite minion, even more prized than Michael Jackson, instantly poked
his head out of his small, purple padded bed and slinked over to his
master. Dr. Rough knelt down, allowed
the ferret to climb onto his shoulders, and left the chamber without a word,
Dr. Twitches draped happily around his neck.
Watching
them go, Chris sighed. “Well, come on,
MJ,” he said glumly and beckoned to the penguin, who waddled obediently out of
the room after him.
± ± ±
Dr. Rough
strode through the hallways of his fortress with purpose, emerging on a
different side of the berg, where he’d designed a large loading dock. Several more of his agents waited there,
where he’d stationed them, ready to help unload the special “shipment” they
were about to receive.
“Fischetti,
Timmons, let down the ramp,” he commanded, and the two minions scrambled to
their places on either side of the dock, powering two large cranks that slowly
lowered a large slab of ice from the side of the berg, extending it outward
into the water so that it formed a bridge from the sea into the fortress.
As
they did so, the ship appeared. It was
big, but unremarkable, except for that it flew the Russian flag and had the
letters t.A.T.u. stenciled on the
side of the hull. A triumphant smile
spread across Dr. Rough’s face as he watched the ship glide slowly through the
ice-strewn waters to dock at the ramp.
“Go
help tie them off!” he commanded his minions.
“Yes,
Dr. Rough; right away, Dr. Rough,” replied the well-trained agents, Brad
Fischetti and Jeff Timmons. Both were
well-built, suitable for tasks that required manual labor. They slid down the ice ramp and waited for
the ship to pull up, then caught the ropes that were tossed down and tied them
tightly to a couple of metal posts imbedded in the corners of the ramp,
anchoring the vessel in place.
Tucking
Dr. Twitches into the warmth of his fur-lined purple parka, Dr. Rough strode
down the ramp to meet the commanders of the ship. They emerged a few moments later, climbing
carefully down a steep set of metal steps.
Once their feet were planted firmly on the ramp, they joined hands and
turned to face the three men awaiting them.
Dr.
Rough couldn’t help but smile again as he drank in the sight of his two newest
allies. They were both beautiful young
women, equally gorgeous, though in different ways. The taller of the two was curvy beneath her
quilted winter gear; she had fair, porcelain skin, large blue eyes, and long,
dark red hair that cascaded down her shoulders in tight curls. Her partner was petite and dark, with tanned
skin, brown eyes, and short, spiky black hair.
“Ahh,
ladies,” said Dr. Rough warmly, turning on the old Dorough charm. “Welcome to my humble ice fortress.” He turned and gestured to the towering
iceberg behind him before returning his attention to the women. “You must be
“
Dr.
Rough took her hand, but raised it to his lips and kissed it instead of
shaking. He did the same with
Yulia. The two girls smiled, though the
smiles did not quite reach their eyes.
Clearing
his throat, Dr. Rough decided to get down to business. “Well,” he said brusquely, “I assume you have
the weapon we spoke of?”
“Of
course,” answered
“Excellent. Let me just have my agents here help unload
it, and then we can head inside for some hot cocoa.”
Dr.
Rough blinked. “Pardon?”
“Yulia
prefers her cocoa vith vodka,” explained
“Ahh…
of course, of course. Yes, I think we can
manage that, can’t we, Dr. Twitches?”
Dr. Rough reached into his coat to stroke the head of his ferret, and
Dr. Twitches chattered happily in response.
Meanwhile,
Fischetti and Timmons were already sliding open the door to the cargo
hold. Looking past the two women, Dr.
Rough set his sights upon something even more beautiful… the weapon which they
had smuggled to him.
His
eye began to twitch with anticipation.
± ± ±