by Bob Mayer
Sammy snaked her hands inside his jacket and retrieved the pistol as he belatedly tried to stop her. She dove away as he blindly struck out with a flurry of punches. She held the gun in front of her with her manacled hands and pulled the trigger.
There was no sound of a shot—just a sickening thud as the side of the man’s head exploded in a spray of brains and blood, adding its own gory mark to the wall beyond. His body crumpled to the ground; an arm briefly twitched and then he was still.
Sammy felt her stomach flip, but the nausea quickly passed and a black sense of calm swept over her. After taking a few deep breaths, she went over to the body and searched the pockets until she found the key for the handcuffs. Holding the key in her teeth, she freed herself. She grabbed a thermos the man had brought and washed out her mouth and cleaned the blood from her face. She took his wallet and key ring and strapped on his shoulder holster. Then she retrieved her crumpled leather jacket from a corner of the room and put it on. Without a backward glance, Sammy left the room and headed out of the abandoned tenement.
AIRSPACE, WESTERN UNITED STATES
Two and a half hours out of San Francisco, and Conner was still working on her laptop, summarizing and organizing the data Miss Suwon had drawn out of the SNN computer. All those pages and pages of notes would result in maybe three minutes of airtime in a fifteen-minute spot if she did find something.
“Do you know all you ever wanted to know about Antarctica now?” Vickers interrupted her thoughts.
“Not yet,” Conner answered tersely.
“Want to tell me about it?” Vickers asked with a smile.
Conner looked at him. “Tell you about what?”
Vickers pointed at the computer. “Antarctica.”
“Why?”
Vickers shrugged. “I’ve never been there or really seen or read anything about it. Besides, it will do you good to verbalize all this information. I’ve always found that putting thoughts and ideas into words clarifies them.”
Conner realized this was a chance to show him that she wasn’t just another pretty face, and he would undoubtedly relay that information to the rest of the team. Sometimes she grew very tired of having to prove herself. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, for starters, why is it named Antarctica?”
Conner started tapping keys on the computer, but Vickers interrupted. “How about from memory?”
Conner stopped and looked at him, considering the subtle challenge. “All right.” She turned off the power, shut the lid on the computer, and put it under the seat in front of her. “Arctic comes from arktos, which is the Greek word for bear, referring to the northern constellation Ursa Major, the Great Bear, more commonly known as the Big Dipper. As you know, the region surrounding the North Pole is called the Arctic region. Well, the prefix ant means opposite or balance, so basically Antarctica means opposite Arctic or, literally, opposite bear.”
Vickers didn’t seem overly impressed with her mastery of language. “Tell me about the continent.”
Conner mentally sorted through all the numbers and facts she’d been steeped in for the past hours and imagined herself facing the red light of a camera. “Antarctica is the fifth largest continent, encompassing more than five and a half million square miles.”
“Is that land or ice?” Vickers asked.
“Almost the entire place is ice covered,” Conner replied. “The extent of the land underneath is at best a guess. A lot of people don’t realize it, but the North Pole is ice on top of the Arctic Ocean, not a land mass. Antarctica is a true land mass, and it holds ninety percent of the world’s ice and snow. It is the only continent not to have its own native population.”
“How many people are at McMurdo?”
“It’s the middle of the short summer down there, so there will be about seven or eight hundred folks—mostly scientists working on a variety of projects.”
“How about at this Our Earth base?”
Four people are there every winter. How many are there in the summer, I don’t know.”
“How well mapped is Antarctica? I mean how could this Eternity Base, if it’s there, have remained hidden for twenty-five years?”
Conner didn’t appreciate the “if it’s there” qualifier. “If you wanted to hide something, the best place in the world would be Antarctica. Although it’s the size of Europe and the United States combined, less than one percent of it has been seen by man.”
Vickers was skeptical. “Even with overflights?”
“Even with overflights. From 1946 through 1947 the U.S. Navy ran a mission called Operation High Jump, using more than five thousand men, thirteen ships, and numerous helicopters. They took so many pictures that some of them were never developed. Despite all that equipment and manpower, their coverage of the interior was very limited and they managed to photograph only about sixty percent of the coastline.”
“What about satellites?”
Conner nodded. She’d thought about that herself. “Satellites weren’t as significant back in ‘71, but even then it was the same situation as now. Satellites are either in synchronous orbits, which means they move at the same speed as the rotation of the earth, thus staying relatively over the same spot, or they have their own orbits. As far as I know, there are none in a synchronous orbit above Antarctica—no reason for one to be. There are no weapons allowed down there, thus no military presence.
“Some satellites run the north-south route and cross the poles, but two factors work against their picking up much. First, quite simply, no one has been that interested in Antarctica, so the satellites don’t often scan that part of their orbit. Second, the weather is terrible down there and it’s rare that the sky is clear.”
Vickers leaned forward. “Have you factored the weather into our search?”
“Yes.”
Vickers seemed to wait for more, but Conner said nothing. Finally he spoke. “Well, what did you find in your computer about the weather?”
Conner sighed. “It’s usually bad. Very bad. Antarctica is the highest, driest, coldest, windiest continent. Wind gusts of a hundred and fifty miles an hour are not unusual.”
“What do you mean driest?” Vickers asked.
“It hardly ever snows or rains there. But a layer of snow covers the ice, and the snow gets blown about a lot, causing white-outs and blizzards.”
Vickers pointed at her computer. “Lallo said you have all that stuff in hard copy. Would it be possible for me to look at it?”
Conner pulled out her briefcase, retrieved the binder, and handed it over. Anything to keep him quiet. She didn’t want to talk about negative what-ifs. For the next two hours, she worked in silence until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She closed her computer and repositioned her pillow to try and catch some sleep. The last thing she saw before weariness claimed her was Vickers leaned over the binder in the darkened aircraft, slowly turning a page.
EAST ST. LOUIS, ILLINOIS
“Damn!” Sammy slammed down the pay phone in disgust. SNN had confirmed that Conner had already departed on her trip, but the woman on the other end wouldn’t divulge her sister’s itinerary. Sammy also knew that telling Conner what had just happened wouldn’t deter her in the least; on the contrary, it would whet her appetite for the story.
Sammy leaned against the wall of the Minute Mart as she considered her next move. She knew she was in East St. Louis because she could see the Gateway Arch in the distance against the setting sun. The van that had been used to kidnap her was parked nearby; using the keys taken from the dead man, she’d driven the van to the first phone booth she could find.
The thing that scared Sammy the most was not knowing who the man she had just killed was working for. That fact had kept her from immediately calling the police. Sammy knew she needed help, though, and that gave her the first positive thought of the evening. She pulled out her wallet and searched for a business card she’d been carrying for years. She dialed the home number that had been penciled in below
the business number.
“Pike here.”
“It’s Sammy Pintella.”
The gruff voice mellowed. “Sammy, how the hell are you?” Colonel Pike had been her father’s team leader during his first tour in Vietnam. After her dad was reported MIA, Pike had helped the family in every way he could and had stayed in touch over the years.
He had taken a special liking to Sammy and had tried to help make her missing father a peaceful ghost. He was the one who had given her the names of the other Americans on her dad’s team, but he had had no explanation for why the two were listed as lost on separate dates.
Hearing her friend’s warm voice, tears welled up in Sammy’s eyes. She steeled herself, knowing that she couldn’t let her emotions take over. It was difficult enough to think clearly in the aftermath of the drugs she’d been given. “I need help.”
“What’s wrong?”
Sammy gave a quick synopsis of the events of the day, and Pike was quick to agree with her initial assessment. “You’re in deep shit. For all you know he could have been working for the U.S. government, so you did right not calling the police. The spooks would be hooked into them for info. Don’t go back to your apartment either. Is there a place you can wait until I get someone up there?”
“I’ve got a van I can stay in for a while.”
“All right. Go to the airport. Once you get a parking space, call me back with your location. I’ll have my man meet you in the parking lot. He should be there by midnight. Once you two make contact, we can try and figure out our next move.”
“OK.”
“I’ll talk to you soon.”
Sammy hung up the phone and headed for the van.
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
The ribbon charge blew in the center of the door, leaving the edges still attached at the hinges and lock. Four figures, clad in black, slipped through the seam, splitting left and right into two-man teams. The men wore black balaclavas covering their faces and were armed with M16 rifles.
“Clear left!” the lead figure yelled.
“Clear right!” the second man confirmed.
The right team moved out of the foyer and headed down the hallway, rifles pointing across each other’s front. Reaching the first door on the right, one man used a sledgehammer to break the lock; the other man kicked the door, and they entered. The second team moved up the hallway and did the same thing on the first door on the left. More men were coming in the front now, taking up the vacated positions.
“Clear!” the first team yelled as it came out of the room. The two moved to the next door. Again the lock was slammed out, and they sprinted through the door and froze.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” A young woman dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt ran toward them. Another figure was lurking in the shadows near a door on the far side of the room.
“Down!” yelled one of the men, but the women continued to the door. He grabbed her and shoved her behind him. “Freeze!” he screamed at the other figure in the room as he and his partner leveled their Ml6s.
The roar of automatic fire just behind them caused both men to start and turn. The woman stood there, Uzi in hand, a smile on her face. As the brass from the blanks tinkled onto the floor, she said: “Bang. Bang. You’re dead.”
“Everyone down and cuffed. Everyone!” Riley came out of the shadows, shaking his head. There was a look of frustration on his face, visible even beneath a three-day growth of beard. The two policemen lowered their weapons. Their faces were red as he walked up to them.
“Bring everyone in.” Riley slumped down in an armchair to await the gathering of the rest of the members of the Nashville Police Department HRT Team—or what the Nashville police were trying to make into a Hostage Rescue Team. As evidenced by the recent exercise, they had a long way to go.
Riley looked at the woman. “Good job, Luce.” He wearily rubbed his eyes as the ten policemen he and his partner had been training for the past week gathered together in the abandoned building they’d been using for practice.
Riley was hung-over and tired. He’d spent a late night the previous evening in the lounge of the Sheraton Hotel, his temporary home, trying to figure out consecutively better approaches to the female bartender. She’d deflected every attempt while slapping the beers on the mahogany and picking up his money. In the end she and the alcohol had won, and he’d staggered off to his room alone in the early hours of the morning. He wished he could get a drink of water now, but the building had no water.
A day that had not started well wasn’t going any better. Luce had practically kicked the door down this morning to rouse him from his deadened stupor. Then they’d been at it all day long, practicing their entry procedures until they had them down pat in the daylight. Now they were getting in a little night work.
Riley swallowed, trying to draw up a little moisture. His throat hurt like hell: “All right,” he rasped. “First. Luce show them where the gun was.”
The compact woman lifted the back of her sweatshirt and slid the mini-Uzi into the harness strapped around her body. She smiled demurely and swiftly drew the submachine gun back out. Then she put the gun down on the ground and lifted the right leg of her jeans. A small automatic was cinched to her right calf. She lifted the front of her sweatshirt slightly. Unsnapping her belt buckle, she folded out the knife on the reverse side.
Riley bowed in her direction. “I won’t even begin to tell you what she has in her bra.”
The cops laughed nervously, not sure if he was joking.
He walked over and stood next to her. “Just because she’s a woman doesn’t mean she can’t kill you.” He slashed forward with his left hand in a karate strike for her throat. She easily blocked it, grabbed his hand, and then twisted underneath, locking his elbow over her shoulder, the pressure on the joint lifting him up to his toes. Riley tapped her with his free hand and she released him. “In fact, studies have shown that female terrorists are much more ruthless than men. Thanks, Luce.” She turned and left the room.
Riley shook his head. “Rule number one. Everyone gets cuffed. Everyone. Hostages included. The easiest thing for a bad person to do if they want to get out alive is play the victim in this situation. It doesn’t look good on the news to have cuffed hostages, but it beats being dead.” He coughed and cleared his throat. After a brief glance around, he walked over to the window and spit.
“All right. The entry was good. Let’s remember something though. We’ve got to work this up to where you can do it not only at night but wearing gas masks. Your normal crook in a hostage situation is going to be relatively unprepared, so it’s to your advantage to gas your objective. That’s why we’ve designated your blooper man and had him practice putting his tear gas rounds through windows out on the range.
“But let’s also worst-case things. If your intelligence indicates you’re up against professionals, then you have to expect they’re wearing gas masks too.” Riley’s head hurt. Every time he taught this stuff he started getting into this worst-case cycle. “So then you’re back to square one. But that’s what—”
“What have you done?” A burly policeman, his bulk enhanced by the flak vest he wore, had asked the question.
“Excuse me?”
The cop’s gray mustache twitched as he spat the words out. “We’ve been listening to you prattling on for four days now about what we should and shouldn’t do. Well, I’ve spent eighteen years on the streets here. I’ve been in three shoot-outs, and I just want to know what your qualifications are.”
Riley sighed. “I spent three years in the 10th Special Forces Group. Then three years in a classified counterterrorist unit overseas. I’ve been to—”
“Yeah. I heard all that the first day,” the cop interrupted. “But what I want to know is if you’ve ever been shot at or if you ever shot anyone. Eh?”
Riley looked at the man for a long time as he considered his answer. Finally he lied. “No.”
The cop nodded. “I thought so. Well, I h
ave, and you can tell us all this, but it don’t make a bit of difference when the shit hits the fan. You stand there and—”
“Riley.” Luce was in the doorway with the portable phone in her hand. “The colonel’s on the phone for you. He wants to talk to you now.”
“All right. You take over. Do another run through.” Riley could feel the eyes of all the occupants of the room on his back as he took the phone from his partner. He walked down the hallway and stepped out into the brisk fall weather.
“This is Riley, sir.”
Colonel Pike wasted no time on pleasantries. “I want Luce to finish out the contract. I’ve got a friend in trouble and I need your help.”
Riley didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.” He knew the colonel was worried about him and that Luce had been assigned as his partner to keep an eye on him, but Riley felt that he did his job well enough. What he did in his off-duty time was his own business. He’d been at this job for a little more than a month now, and although it had kept him busy, there were still times when there was no work and the four walls of the hotel room closed in. Those times were the worst. He wondered what the colonel had conjured up for him now.
“Your tickets will be waiting at the Delta counter at the airport. The flight takes off in forty-five minutes, so get moving. Give me a call when you get on the ground.”
AIRSPACE, PACIFIC OCEAN
AS the western coastline of the United States disappeared behind them, Conner allowed her mind to drift ahead to the landing in New Zealand and then back in time. She wondered if Devlin would be the same as she remembered him from Chicago more than a year ago.
She’d first seen him chained to the outlet pipe of a factory that poured thousands of gallons of polluted water into Lake Michigan every hour. Devlin and three other members of Our Earth had stayed there for four hours, letting the filth pour over them, while other members of the group held banners and protested nearby. Finally, even the security men for the plant couldn’t take it anymore and they had moved in with bolt cutters to break the chains.
