It had taken five hours for the crew to get the testing equipment out to the crash site. The location necessitated the use of helicopters to drop off the personnel and vehicles twelve kilometers deep into the Shawnee State Forest. The snow was not fresh, but still thick as the cold grip of winter held on to the woods. Each member knew it would be of the utmost importance that they keep their mission classified, but until they arrived none could understand the urgent secrecy pressed to their chests. It was unmistakable. The oblong slopes of the aircraft were smooth, unbroken by any wing, fin, or airfoil, and it held an unnatural sheen despite its damage from impact. Dr. Bhatia broke the heavy silence left by the fading engines.

“There’s no impact crater. I believe this means the craft must have been operational, in so far as it could decelerate, until it crashed.”

Dr. Murakami nodded.

“I would agree with that assessment,” she said, “I estimate the mass is somewhere near one hundred and eighty thousand kilograms. Though exact figures will have to wait until we can identify the metal in the fuselage.”

Dr. Pabine nodded in turn. He turned to Dr. Bhatia, “supposing it could slow down sufficiently, would there be any survivors in the wreckage? The structure appears to be intact.”

The three considered this possibility. Without knowledge of who manned the craft, and what their objectives were, the highest caution would be necessary.

Dr. Bhatia motioned for the captain. After heated discussion, Capt. Barnes arranged a group of three soldiers, Dr. Pabine, and the linguist. On the helicopter ride it was the subject of much speculation why a linguist would be sent with the rest, but it appeared that the top brass suspected it would be First Contact all along.

The craft sat at the end of a gash in the earth, seven hundred meters in length, and despite landing ten hours prior it radiated steam as the snow and ice directly around it melted and evaporated. The craft itself was three hundred meters long, two hundred meters wide, and one hundred meters thick. From afar the doctors presumed the smooth body was largely intact, but the advance team noted several tears approximately two meters in diameter. Dr. Pabine felt uneasy at the sight of the breach. The bends in the metal suggested to him that the holes were impacted from inside the vessel, not from tearing and grinding along the ground. He did not share this observation with the others. A circling of the perimeter took thirty eight minutes, and yielded only the knowledge of seven hull breaches. No visible windows, doors, or vents were identified. Dr. Pabine grew impatient, but still felt resentment when Huxley, the linguist, suggested that they enter through a breach.

Dr. Pabine radioed to Base Camp.

“No conventional entryways have been located, we are entering through a hull breach. Any progress?”

“Entering the craft through breach, confirmed,” Dr. Murakami replied, “as of now, the metal has not been matched to any known alloys. The forensics are still processing the results.”

The interior held more questions as the men were plunged into a cramped and dark system of rounded tunnels roughly one and a half meters around. The soldiers lit the lights on their helmets, and one passed a flashlight to Dr. Pabine from a pouch on his belt. The tunnel walls were as smooth as the outside, no doors, light sources, control panels, or other devices were visible. Huxley was growing antsy. The quiet bothered him, and the smell reminded him of old carpets.

“I wonder, perhaps they don’t use sight the way we do?” Huxley said.

“I’m sure you can elaborate on that. Do you dabble in evolutionary biology?” asked Dr. Pabine, a tinge of condescension in his voice.

Huxley paid it no mind, “Well, it would explain the lack of any visual markings anywhere on the outside, and especially these walls. How would one expect to navigate these tunnels by sight alone? The only lights are from the outside and our flashlights.”

“It could very well be. It could also be that the inside is only lit when the craft is powered. We could also be not in a hallway, but a ventilation system of some kind. We can make no assumptions.”

One of the soldiers used a marker to draw on the ground, periodically stopping to kneel and graffiti an arrow indicating the way they came. By the seventh arrow, it was clear that this search was yielding nothing of value. Aside from the bending turns, there was no distinguishing features along any of the walls. Dr. Pabine called out on the radio once more.

“So far nothing has turned up inside the vessel. How is the progress outside?”

After a moment, the answer came. The speaker emitted a sound like scraped chalkboards.

“You don’t suppose that the hull is interfering with the signal?” Huxley offered.

“There’s no way,” a soldier spoke up, “these radios could reach the ISS.”

“Perhaps we’re being jammed deliberately,” Dr. Pabine scowled.

Then, a loud and deep scouring reverberated through the walls. All five men stumbled as the metallic floors shook. After ten seconds it subsided, and they righted themselves. Without a word, the three soldiers raised their rifles and began retracing their path to the entrance, and the academics followed. Adrenaline prevented either of them from reaching the end of a thought. At each tunnel intersection the four lights danced wildly to each hallway in a frantic search for any figures. There were still none, and after reaching the first arrow the crew could smell the fragrance of pines and elms in the surrounding valley, and they knew they were nearly out. Dr. Pabine tried the radio again.

“Base Camp, do you read me?”

“…” came the reply.

“Still jammed,” Huxley said, dejected.

“No,” said the doctor, “there’s something wrong here.”

The men covered their eyes as they readjusted to the sunlight. Then the scene before them settled into their retinas. The position where the helicopter had landed with the equipment was obscured by thick black smoke. The bodies of their compatriots were strewn across the snow and debris in a bloody mess. Huxley fell to his knees and cried out. Dr. Pabine likewise slumped to his right and leaned against the wall. The three soldiers maintained their composure, but lowered their rifles.

“What.. what do we do?” Huxley choked out.

“Perhaps nothing.”

“No, there’s two things we can do,” said a soldier.

“Pray tell, what’s that?” Dr. Pabine asked.

“The first, is hope whatever’s here stays out there. The second, hope that this thing,” he motioned to the vessel around them, ”can hold up to a carpet bombing.”