by David Meyer
“I don’t know. It just didn’t sound right.”
Only a few minutes had passed since the Grueler’s strange disappearance. While the others caught their breath, I’d remained at the rock. Muscles tensed, I’d kept my eyes peeled for the creature.
It had hunted us across the island. It had been relentless, even chasing us over the boulders. Then, at our weakest moment, it had disappeared. Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. It hadn’t disappeared. Instead, it had paused in its tracks. Then it had retreated in orderly fashion.
But why?
The creature had no problem killing Stevens. So, why had it hesitated with us? Had it caught another scent? If so, what?
I shifted my gaze to the large rock. It was flattish, rising about eight inches off the ground. It was roughly rectangular in shape and I estimated its size at ten feet by eight feet.
Reaching down, I touched the surface. It looked jagged, but felt smooth to the touch. Shifting my finger, I traced a small ridge. “It’s definitely rock,” I said. “And it feels pretty sturdy.”
Rooting through the soil, Akolo found a small stone. Then he banged it against the rock. A pinging noise rang out.
“You’re right.” Beverly’s brow scrunched up. “It does sound funny.”
Graham took up position behind me. Gun drawn, he scanned the forest. Freed from watch duties, I dug my hands into the soil. It was firm, so I took out my machete. After less than a minute of chopping, I was able to confirm the rock extended at least six inches beneath the surface.
I shifted my grip to its edges. After a bit of searching, I discovered a small gap. Using my fingers, I felt the gap’s smooth surface.
My eyes widened.
The Grueler forgotten, I flung myself to the ground. Flopping onto my side, I stared into the gap.
“Find something?” Beverly asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Some kind of mechanism.”
She lay on the ground. Looking upward, she peered at the gap. “It looks like an electronic locking system.”
“Can you beat it?”
“Not without tools.”
I studied the gap for another minute. Then I drove my machete into the soil and began digging dirt away from the rock.
Two minutes later, another surface appeared. It was attached to the rock, but not a part of it. “It’s metal,” I said slowly. “A metal wall.”
Using her fingers, Beverly dug up some soil on the rock’s eastern side. “There’s another wall over here.”
“I know what this is,” Akolo said excitedly. “It’s a hatch.”
I glanced at him.
“You know. To go underground.”
Shifting my gaze, I saw he was right. The metal walls appeared to form a tunnel, slanting into the ground. A fake rock had been mounted on top of the tunnel. An electronic locking system sealed it shut.
“It must lead to the old tunnel system,” I said slowly.
“And this pathway leads to Pagan Bay.” Beverly’s eyes traced the stone-lined trail. “Eco-Trek must use the hatch to access it.”
Looking south, I studied the trail. Small stones marked it. Trees lined either side of the pathway, enclosing it like a corridor.
“How advanced is the locking system?” Benigno asked. “Could it date back to the 1940s?”
“Not a chance,” Beverly replied slowly. “It’s brand new. It must be Eco-Trek’s work.”
I frowned. Simona’s people had discovered the old tunnel system, probably during excavations for the research station. The hatch indicated they were using at least some of the tunnels.
But for what?
Chapter 52
Heart pounding, Alan Briggs leaned out of the conference room. Checking both directions, he saw no one.
Normally, he prided himself on his control, on his mastery of any and all situations. But for the first time in years, he felt like a puppet, controlled by competing puppeteers in a play he didn’t fully understand.
Simona controlled one side of him. She had created an ingenious climate model. It existed in a state of flux, constantly changing itself to fit the never-ending flow of information. It was a brilliant feat. But it also contained a dark underbelly. And after many hours of research, Briggs had begun to realize a disturbing truth. Simona had used the sheer complexity of her model, along with its fluid nature, to hide something. A secret no one would ever suspect.
A secret she might kill to keep.
His employer, Secretary Barney Samuels, controlled the other side of him. The man directed his actions, incentivizing him to inspect the model, to find problems with it. But why? What was Samuels’ true purpose in all this? And how would he react once he discovered Simona’s secret? Would he merely shut down Eco-Trek?
Or would he kill everyone who knew about it?
Briefcase in hand, Briggs stepped into the corridor and quietly shut the door behind him. He took a moment to smooth his shirt and adjust his tie. Then he ran a hand through his oily locks, steering it into a semblance of a hairstyle. But after a few seconds, he messed it up again. He didn’t want to look too neat, lest he draw suspicion from Tessie or Simona.
As Briggs walked down the long corridor, his gait felt unusually stiff. He tried to will himself to walk normally, to swing his arms in rhythm, but it only made him feel more awkward.
Much remained hidden from his eyes. But through research and speculation, Briggs had begun to understand the sequence of events that had led to this moment.
Simona had developed a revolutionary climate model, one that predicted near-term tipping points and resulting catastrophe. Then she’d gone to Samuels and pitched him with an audacious plan, namely a global solar radiation management project.
Using a fleet of drones, she’d dumped CN-46 into the upper atmosphere, thus blocking sunlight from reaching the earth. Based on the model, this would lower global temperatures in the near-term and substantially reduce the risk of climate upheaval in the long term.
Strange weather phenomena started to occur across the globe. At first, Samuels had probably paid little attention to it. But over time, he must’ve gotten nervous. He’d hired Briggs to investigate the situation, to make sure the long-term benefits were worth the short-term costs. And now, Briggs had an answer for him.
They weren’t.
Not because the plan was infeasible. And not because a sprinkling of unfortunate weather events—droughts and dust storms in some areas, tsunamis and floods in others—weren’t acceptable costs. No, there was one simple flaw in Simona’s otherwise brilliant model.
It didn’t work.
And it wasn’t a simple programming error. Simona had deliberately manipulated the model’s internal mechanisms to keep climate predictions in a tight range. Without those internal guidelines, the model’s forecasts were all over the map. Its predictive powers vanished into the ether.
Briggs paused outside the reception area adjoining Simona’s office. He tightened his tie. Then he loosened it.
He lingered for a few seconds, gathering his courage. Then he stepped to the doorframe. “Hello, Tessie. I need …”
Trailing off, Briggs studied the empty reception area. Evidently, Tessie had left her post for the day. She’d probably gone back to the bunks.
Briggs strode into the reception area. He started to close the door. Then he hesitated. Did Tessie usually leave the door open? What if a guard happened along and saw it was closed?
Deciding to leave it open, he ventured to the second door. Lifting a fist, he rapped gently on the metal surface. “Simona? Are you in there?”
When she didn’t answer, he tested the knob. It turned easily in his hand.
Briggs cracked the door. Seeing a dark interior, he entered the office. Shutting the door behind him, he exhaled in relief. Then he headed for the private elevator car.
He pressed the call button. The doors dinged and opened wide. He stepped into the car and spotted the key, still in its lock.
A slight smile crosse
d his face. The research station was outfitted with an array of impressive security devices. But they were useless unless paired with common sense.
He strode into the elevator and turned the key. Next, he tapped the keypad, duplicating what he’d seen Simona do the previous day. The elevator doors closed over. The car descended into the ground.
Simona had perpetrated a deliberate scam, probably designed to steal taxpayer dollars. Still, questions nagged at Briggs. She’d already had ample opportunities to skim money from the research station. So, why did she continue to stick around? Why not blow up the computers systems and fake her death in the process?
He suspected the answers to those questions lay beneath his feet. Simona had been reluctant to show the production facility to him. And when he’d finally visited it, she’d kept an unusually close eye on him. He was pretty sure she was hiding something down there.
And he needed to find it.
The car jolted. Startled, Briggs jumped. His heart began to pound all over again.
He knew his life hung by a thread. If Simona didn’t kill him, Samuels would probably do the job. His only option was to obtain proof of Simona’s true intentions. Then he’d leave the island and blackmail her for a quick payoff. He’d use his newfound fortune to change his identity, maybe move somewhere nice.
The doors dinged and opened wide. Briggs perked his ears. He heard the telltale sounds of machinery—whirring, clunking, and rattling—but no voices. Stepping quietly, he walked into the giant underground facility.
Two large cylinders, constructed from thick glass, dominated the space. They rose more than twenty feet off the ground. Pipes connected them to the ceiling. Additional pipes, positioned about ten feet off the floor, drifted backward. They connected the cylinders with the production area.
A frown etched its way across Briggs’ face. Oblivious to everything else, he approached the reservoirs. He studied the mixture inside them as well as the many pipes that helped direct it to the hangar.
His frown deepened. Simona had committed fraud. But it was a masterful fraud, a true work of art in its own right. And that mystified Briggs.
Why had she taken the deception so far? Why had she created such a revolutionary compound? Why had she taken such pains to build a state-of-the-art facility?
Briggs slid between the reservoirs. His eyes traced the second set of pipes as they shot toward the production area. He saw a few people working inside the area. Fortunately, none of them saw him.
He walked to the edge of the room. Then he circled the space, keeping a close eye on the concrete walls.
He’d studied the production area on his previous visit. It appeared fully functioning and he’d seen no obvious problems with it. Yet, he still felt like Simona was hiding something from him.
On the opposite end of the room, he noticed a thin crack in the concrete. Widening his gaze, he saw the crack continue above his head before angling back down again. It continued in an unending line, forming a giant oval.
Tentatively, he pushed the concrete. Slowly, it gave way, spinning on a center axis. He pushed harder. The right side of the oval shifted farther away from him. The left side shifted toward him. Looking through the gap, he saw a dimly lit tunnel, shaped like a tube.
Taking a deep breath, he walked into the tube. He stepped softly, but his footsteps sounded deafening to his ears. Gritting his teeth, he walked slower, softer.
His leg muscles protested and he realized he was walking on a slight incline. The tube twisted a bit. Then it twisted back again, continuing on a general northeastern heading.
The tube widened. Apprehensively, Briggs strode into a larger space. It wasn’t as big as the production and storage facilities, but it still took up a decent amount of real estate, roughly the width of four or five tubes.
Separate tubes shot away from the space. One continued to the northeast. Two others veered off to the north.
Against the east wall, he saw a cleanroom. It was almost an exact duplicate of the production facility. Several large generators, hooked up to the cleanroom, purred softly.
He walked to the outer partition. Oval-shaped windows, illuminated by orange and yellow lights, lined its surface.
He peered into a window. His eyes scanned some strange objects situated inside it. They, along with the surrounding equipment, baffled him.
He glanced at a series of printed materials stacked near the window. They read, Project Miasma. Shifting his gaze, he scanned a few lines.
His hands started to shake. He didn’t fully understand Simona’s plan. Nor could he explain her motivation. Didn’t even want to. He just knew he needed to report it.
And fast.
Lowering his briefcase, Briggs grabbed a satphone from his pocket. Given to him by Eco-Trek, it was one of the few working phones on Pagan. Pressing numbers, he started to dial his contact number. But he paused at the last second.
Was this really a good idea? Sure, it was the so-called right thing to do. But the moment he told Samuels about his discovery, he was in trouble. He couldn’t imagine a scenario where his life would be spared.
But if he didn’t call anyone, the consequences would be enormous. People would die. Lots of people. Could his conscience handle that?
Taking a deep breath, he punched a button, initiating the call. The line picked up almost immediately.
“This had better be important, Briggs,” Barney Samuels said.
The connection was scratchy and Briggs could hardly hear the man. He started to reply but his words came out in a rush. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down. “We’ve got a problem,” he said. “The model … it’s a fake. This entire place—”
A loud blast rang out. It reverberated in Briggs’ ears.
His body jerked to the side. The satphone spilled out of his hands and clattered against the concrete floor. He tried to scream. But the only thing that came out of his mouth was blood.
“Briggs?” Samuels’ voice sounded fainter, scratchier. “What was that? Are you okay?”
Rubber soles padded softly against concrete. Briggs angled his eyeballs upward. Through dimming vision, he saw Jeremy Pascal stoop down and pick up his phone.
Pascal pressed a button, ending the call. Then he knelt next to Briggs.
Briggs felt a pistol dig into his forehead. Tears flooded his eyes as he tried to plead for his life. But again, his mouth refused to operate.
“Sorry.” Pascal squeezed the trigger. “But you shouldn’t have come down here.”
A second blast rang out. Briggs felt a single moment of excruciating pain. A duller ache spread through his body. Then his vision began to dim.
Clothing swished. Rubber thudded against concrete.
Briggs tried to lift his head. When that failed, he tried to lift his arm. Then his hand. And finally, just a single finger.
His vision blinked out. Unable to move, he lay on the ground, feeling the dull ache spread across his body. His brain experienced one final moment of clarity. And then the ache, along with his life, came to an end.
Chapter 53
“I’m not going to mince words.” Barney Samuels took a deep breath. “We’ve got a problem.”
Soft chatter halted as the room’s occupants fell silent. Despite the gravity of the situation, Samuels couldn’t help but enjoy the moment. The Separative members liked to talk and more importantly, to be heard. It was rare to see them reduced to silence.
Samuels cast his gaze across the room. An overhead LED fixture shone brightly, sending blinding rays of light to all four corners. The room was on the small side, measuring just ten feet by fifteen feet. That was how the Separative preferred it. Debate and discussion called for intimacy, not ample space.
The room was located in his basement, near his office. It contained no windows. But otherwise, it was almost an exact replica of Simona Wolcott’s old living room. Even the furniture—two long couches, one rocking chair, one easy chair, two metal folding chairs, and a rickety coffee t
able—was the same, having been donated by Simona many years earlier.
Although deliberately designed as a replica, the room wasn’t entirely a sentimental gesture. Yes, the Separative had first met in Simona’s living room all those years ago. But they were also interested in retaining the lively energy of those meetings. And while none of them were interior designers, they suspected her original setup was no accident. Somehow, it had brought out the best in them.
Janet Baker, Secretary of Agriculture, broke the silence. “Does this problem have something to with that gentleman who showed up at your party?”
Samuels rubbed his eyes. It was early morning and he’d barely slept a wink since Hooper’s visit. “His name is Ed Hooper,” he replied. “He’s a special agent with the U.S. Secret Service.”
Janet looked genuinely puzzled. “The Secret Service?”
“Agent Hooper doesn’t deal with protection. He investigates financial crimes, specifically major fraud.”
Bert Bane, Secretary of Defense, lowered his hairless scalp to his hands. “What does he know?”
“Obviously, he knows about us. He also knows Patricia …” Samuels nodded at his wife, a tall woman with a clenched face, “… infiltrated the Columbus Project’s systems.”
“It doesn’t make sense.” Patricia, CEO of Fizzter Computers, shook her head. “Our digital footprint is covered. I made sure of it.”
“And yet, he still knows.”
“But does he know?” Secretary of Transportation George Kaiser leaned forward in his easy chair. “I mean does he know about Pagan?”
“He didn’t mention it. But he’s threatening to go to the press. If that happens, it’s only a matter of time before the whole world knows about Pagan.”
“He wants money, I take it.” Carly Nadas, Executive Director of PlanetSavers, exhaled. “How much?”
“One million dollars,” Samuels replied.
“That’s it?” Casually, she waved her hand in the air. “I say we give it to him and move on.”
“If we pay him now, we’ll be paying him forever,” Patricia said.
“We could just kill him,” Bane suggested. “It wouldn’t be hard to make it look like an accident.”
