by Kathryn Hoff
Ginger gazed thoughtfully after the helicopter. “I don’t think Butterick flew here to evaluate the project—he was sent to find ammunition to kill it. He’s going to write a report saying we’ve used millions of taxpayer dollars on an ultra-secret project to breed the mammoth equivalent of a Shetland pony. The army’s going to pull our funding.”
“But future generations . . .”
Ginger’s lips tightened. “Future generations don’t vote. Homesteaders do.”
Anjou blew out a breath. Ginger had warned him months ago that the homestead movement was gaining traction and that Project Hannibal might become a casualty to political expediency. Once again, she’d proved her information network was damnably efficient.
Ginger placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Don’t despair, Henri. I have a plan.”
CHAPTER 2
Urgent meeting
Luis Cortez courteously scraped the dung from his boots before entering Project Hannibal’s headquarters. A slender man with dark, shaggy hair and a neat mustache, he would have preferred to shower and change, but Ginger had said the meeting was urgent. She’d have to take him as is, despite the lingering odor of mosquito repellant and mammoth.
Inside, Luis bypassed the laboratory with its gene editors and microscopes and the gestation room with its huge incubation vats, now empty. At the executive office, he didn’t bother to knock.
Anjou’s chair was vacant, his glass-topped desk bare. Just as well. Anjou had the golden touch with genetics, but in everything else, Ginger was the clever one.
Luis flopped into the leather-and-steel guest chair. “What’s up, Ginger?” She was built like a cushy easy chair, lots of padding under that white lab coat. Her coal-black hair was squared off in a no-nonsense bob. The only feminine things about her were her red-painted fingernails and a pair of sparkly red reading glasses that slanted upward in a style popular in 1960.
Ginger’s nose wrinkled as she looked up from her notes. “Ah, Luis. Have you decided where the herd should be released?”
That was the reason for the urgent meeting? “Far eastern end of the Brooks Range,” he answered, “near the border with Canada. There’s a huge tundra area on the south slope of the mountain range: grid Hb27 on the topographic map. Satellite images of the area show warming ground temperatures and the advance of forest vegetation. It’ll be an ideal place to document the difference that mammoths can make.”
She bit her lip. “Are you sure that’s remote enough?”
“It should be. It’s part of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. That refuge is bigger than a lot of states in the lower forty-eight, so the whole area should be free of development for the foreseeable future. There are no roads, of course. To get to the target area, I’ll have to truck the mammoths up the Dalton Highway to a point north of Coldfoot. There, we’ll unload the herd and strike east for a hundred and fifty miles. When we get to Hb27, I’ll use the satphone to call the bush pilot to pick us up. Brandon says the whole expedition should take two to three weeks.”
Ginger nodded slowly. “Excellent. About the timing . . .”
“I’ll start in mid-July, once Opal’s calf has arrived and is walking well.”
Ginger frowned. “I’m afraid that may be a problem. We want you to deploy the herd now—as soon as possible.”
“Now? Why?”
She tapped a legal pad that bore scrawls in English and Korean. “With the election coming, my sources tell me the administration has decided to cater to the homesteaders. They want to open more Alaska land to settlement, and mammoths would be competing for that land. That’s why Major Butterick was here—the army’s planning to terminate Project Hannibal.”
Luis’s stomach sank. “Terminate? They can’t. What will happen to the mammoths?”
Ginger’s eyes glinted. “Who knows? A zoo? Someplace where they’ll be exhibited as scientific curiosities? As failed experiments?”
Monstrous. The mammoths weren’t experiments, and for damn sure they weren’t failures.
For the last seven years, from the time Project Hannibal’s first infant mammoth had spilled out of its incubation vat, Luis had mothered the herd—bottle-feeding them, training them, even sleeping with them. Getting the genetics right was only one part of the equation. As an animal behaviorist, Luis knew that what happened after birth was just as crucial. To survive in the wild, mammoths needed a herd. That meant learning the rules of herd life—and Luis had been the one to teach them.
Raising the mammoths had been the most fulfilling part of Luis’s life, but now that Project Hannibal’s herd had reached adulthood, they could raise their own young without a human nursemaid—but only if they were allowed to roam free.
Voice raspy, he asked, “What can we do?”
Ginger leaned forward, her face earnest. “With careful planning, I think we can reverse this terrible decision. You must deploy the mammoths as soon as possible, but very discreetly. Get them away before the army realizes we’re moving them and keep them out of sight.”
Luis chewed a fingernail. Keeping the mammoths out of sight was what he’d planned to do anyway. He’d trained the mammoths to respond to all sorts of dangers, but the greatest peril they’d face would be from humans.
“If we must move them,” he said, “we’d better go right away. The last thing I want is for Opal to go into labor while we’re on the road. But how are you planning to get the army to reverse its decision?”
“Once the herd is free to wander in the wild, they’ll be safe—at least for a time. Without the tracking signatures, it will take weeks for the army to find them. By then, winter will make searching for them impractical. Meanwhile, we’ll arrange for a strategic leak to the press.” She smiled. “A few photos of mammoths in their natural environment will take the internet by storm. Soon the world will buzz with the news that mammoths once again roam the wild, with a pro-environmental purpose. People will fall in love with them. After that, any move the short-sighted politicians make to recall them will raise a public outcry.”
Luis began to feel more hopeful. Ginger might look like a plump Persian cat, but underneath, she was all panther: cold, calculating, and ruthless. She reminded Luis of his mother.
He nodded toward the labs. “And what about all the equipment? The government paid for it—they’re bound to want it back.”
“We’ll tell the staff we’re moving to larger quarters. We’ll give everyone the summer off and put the equipment in storage. Henri and I will . . . take a holiday. Someplace no one expects. How do they call it? ‘Off the grid’?” She twitched a feline smile. “If the army is determined to close us down and recover the equipment, they’ll have to find us first.”
Luis raised a brow. “How long do you think you can keep out of sight? As soon as either of you uses a charge card or a cellphone, you’re traceable.” The idea of Anjou forgoing restaurants and comfortable hotels was laughable.
“We’ll manage. It won’t take long for a ‘save the mammoths’ movement to begin. But the first step is to move the mammoths to the wild.”
“All right.” Luis drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking of the logistics of moving the herd six weeks earlier than he’d planned. “I’ll call the trucking company. Brandon can round up the camping gear . . .”
“About Brandon . . .” Ginger cocked her head like a chubby sparrow. “I know he’s your friend, but we’d like to keep the mammoths’ location secret.”
“Sorry, I need Brandon.” As her eyebrows rose, he added, “Not just for personal reasons, but for safety. I’m not experienced in wilderness camping. He is. It wouldn’t be smart for me to go charging off, hundreds of miles from the nearest town or doctor, without some backup.”
Ginger nodded. “Very well. But you must keep our funding difficulties confidential, even from him.”
Luis waved away the concern. “Don’t worry. I can handle Brandon.” Their relationship had about run its course anyway.
“I’m sure you can,” Ginger
said sweetly. “One more thing—Silver and Gold will not go with the rest of the herd.”
Luis’s head jerked up. “Why?” All the females had been impregnated with Anjou’s specially engineered embryos. Most were only a few weeks along, but Silver and Gold were both halfway through a year-long pregnancy.
“It’s always wise to have a backup plan,” Ginger said. “We’ll move Silver and Gold to someplace out of the way. Should there be difficulties with deploying the main herd for any reason, we’ll have two mammoths and the calves they are carrying as the core of a new herd.”
“Not ideal,” Luis mused. “But I suppose it’s a reasonable precaution.”
It occurred to Luis that with the project’s funding in jeopardy, he needed a backup plan, too.
He fixed Ginger with a steely stare. “So, the mammoths go into the wild while you and Anjou hide out until the government sees the light and reinstates the project. In the meantime, what am I supposed to do?”
Ginger blinked, eyes wide. “My dear friend, this will be only a temporary setback, I’m sure. As soon as the funding is restored, we’ll be in touch.”
Luis wasn’t quite that naive. Ginger’s loyalty was to Anjou, and Anjou’s only loyalty was to making himself rich and famous.
“I want six months’ pay,” Luis said, “in advance, for both me and Brandon.” Their relationship wouldn’t last six months, but if Brandon had a financial cushion, he’d be less resistant to the coming breakup.
Ginger’s smile wavered. “We can give you three months, through the end of the summer.”
“Not enough. Six months, and in the bank by tomorrow—or your mammoths stay here.”
After a pause, Ginger nodded. “Very well. How soon can you leave?”
Luis ran through his mental to-do list: hiring livestock carriers for transporting the mammoths; stocking the trucks with food and water for the overnight journey to a carefully selected drop-off point; and packing everything he and Brandon would need to spend up to three weeks in the bush guiding the herd to the target location.
Releasing the mammoths to the wild was the goal Luis had worked toward for years, but the moment would be bittersweet—saying goodbye to the family Luis loved better than his own.
Luis sighed. “Give me five days. We’ll be ready.”
CHAPTER 3
The uselessness of being sorry
On the patio of a scenic lodge nestled among Alaska’s Wrangell Mountains, Estelle Dupris glared at her niece, ignoring both their cooling coffee and the majestic vista of snow-capped peaks. Like a mirror from twenty years ago, Serafina reflected Estelle’s own bronze Creole coloring, upturned eyes, and delicate chin—and the stubborn set to her jaw.
Estelle banged her mug onto the table. “You planned this all along, didn’t you? ‘Go visit Aunt Estelle, do some sightseeing’—and all the time you were planning not to go back to New Orleans?”
Blast the girl. When Sera had arrived in Fairbanks with three huge suitcases for a two-week visit, Estelle had just assumed she’d overpacked like a typical teenager, imagining Alaska would be freezing even in June.
Sera ducked her chin and sucked her lower lip. Estelle felt a pang of pain—Marie used to look just the same when Estelle caught her little sister trying on her clothes or sneaking a peek at her diary.
“I didn’t exactly lie,” Sera said. “I did want to see Alaska. I didn’t say anything earlier because I wanted to see if we’d get along—and we do! Please. I won’t be any trouble.”
No trouble? Just when Estelle had been congratulating herself on being a good auntie. She’d played tour guide, showing the seventeen-year-old the high points of Fairbanks. They’d visited the Museum of the North and admired the huge blossoms and giant vegetables at the University of Alaska’s botanical garden. They’d stood in line at Hot Licks for the city’s best ice cream. They’d strolled through Pioneer Park till midnight to watch the sun go down, leaving a dusk barely dark enough to trigger the streetlights. Through it all, Sera had been interested and pleasant in public, uncomplaining and helpful at home.
Encouraged, Estelle had embarked with Sera on a road trip. At Denali National Park, they’d spent a day at the grand monarch of North American mountains. They’d ogled bear and moose from the safety of the park ranger bus and even watched wolves flit by.
To cap off Sera’s visit, Estelle had arranged for an even more adventurous jaunt: flying by small plane into Wrangell-St. Elias National Park to stay two nights at the charming Kennecott Glacier Lodge. They’d spent an afternoon touring the eerie ghost town left by an abandoned copper mine and even hiked over the glacier’s ice.
And now, the day before returning to Fairbanks and what Estelle had thought would be Sera’s last days in Alaska, Sera confessed that she didn’t want to go home to New Orleans. She hadn’t even bought a return ticket.
“Oh, Sera.” Estelle gazed at the snow-topped line of ancient volcanos, looking for inspiration—or rescue. “We talked about this after the funeral. We all agreed you’d be better off staying with Gran and Gramps.”
“I tried.” Lips tight, Sera stirred milk into her coffee. “But having me around is making it harder for them. Gran keeps saying how much I look like Mom, and then she starts to cry. Then Gramps gets mad and goes to sneak a drink in the kitchen. Then in the evening, they both drink and start to argue about whose fault it is.”
“Not yours, chérie. And they always drank too much.” One of the reasons Estelle had left her New Orleans home at eighteen and never moved back. Could she really blame Sera for wanting to do the same?
But there were limits. Estelle and her sister Marie had bickered all the way through their adolescence. Estelle suspected that living with Marie’s daughter would be just as trying. As an intern in Chicago, Estelle had shared an apartment with two other young doctors. How well she remembered the stress of sharing living space with other women—waiting for the shower, the mess in the kitchen, the noise in the night. And weren’t all teens hair-obsessed, spending hours in front of the mirror?
“Living together long-term isn’t like a vacation trip,” she said. “My apartment would get awfully cramped for the two of us.” Estelle had lived in her one-bedroom-plus-study for years, and every closet was full. Even finding space for Sera’s luggage—at the moment taking up half the living room—was a challenge.
Sera stirred her café au lait in endless circles. “I know I’m asking a lot. But being at Gran’s house is like living in a mausoleum. They put me in Mom’s old bedroom, can you imagine? I feel like a ghoul, sleeping in her bed. All around, they still have her books, her pictures, her basketball trophies—even her prom dress is still hanging in the closet. Like she might magically reappear and be mad at me for messing up her room. At least with you I won’t be forced to look at pictures of Mom every time I turn around.”
Estelle murmured sympathy, feeling guilty that she hadn’t hung up a couple of photos of her sister.
Sera slumped deeper into her chair. “You don’t know what it’s like. Gramps is angry all the time. He keeps asking if there wasn’t some warning sign or if something happened that day. Like maybe if I’d noticed something or said something or done something it wouldn’t have happened. Like it’s all my fault.”
Poor kid. She must have been asking herself the same questions. “I’m sure he doesn’t really think . . .”
“And those nosy old cats who Gran calls friends? After church, they all come up to me to get a little fuel for their gossip.” Sera’s voice rose to falsetto. “How are you holding up, dear? As if I’m about to cry on their shoulders.”
“They mean well, I’m sure . . .”
Sera’s words tumbled out. “You know what I hate? The way people tiptoe around it. Like a bomb’s about to blow up if anyone says the word ‘dead’ or ‘suicide.’ Especially Gran and Gramps. They talk about ‘the accident’ or ‘when your dear mother passed away.’ Sometimes I want to scream at them. Mom didn’t ‘pass away’ and it was no accident. I wi
sh they’d just come out and say it. She killed herself. Jumped off a damn bridge.”
Estelle sighed. The last thing a grieving child needed was having to pussyfoot around her grieving grandparents. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, everybody’s sorry.” Sera stared unseeingly at the sun gleaming off the mountaintops. “For the last month, that’s all I’ve heard. Sorry, sorry, sorry, like a bunch of damn parrots.” Sera’s hand slapped down, sloshing coffee onto the table. “One word! One goddamn word! What kind of suicide note is that? Her last chance to tell me something, anything, and all she could say was ‘Sorry.’ What use is that to me?”
Estelle was quiet a moment. “No use at all.” Far in the distance, a plume of volcanic steam wafted into the blue sky. A light breeze bore it away, to be lost in the afternoon sun.
Sera shut her eyes and took a breath. “I know, I know. Everyone feels bad. Everyone wants to make it all better, but she’s gone. Nothing will change that.” She looked up, eyes pleading. “At least in Alaska, I could have a fresh start. Nobody whispering behind my back about my mother. Nobody being sorry.”
Christ on a crutch, why does anybody have children? There were so many ways to screw them up, and her sister had chosen one of the worst. Suicide. Self-extinction. What a legacy to leave your kid.
Estelle’s resolve began to slip. “We have to be practical. I’ve got a demanding job. I travel—every other week I spend three days away, seeing patients in one of the village clinics.”
“I’m not a child. I’m fully capable of taking care of myself.”
“The cold in winter . . .”
“It can’t be worse than New Orleans in summer. Please, Aunt Estelle. I just have one year of high school left. All I need is a place to sleep and to be left alone.”
