The Himalayan Codex

by Bill Schutt

  —Pliny the Elder

  Metropolitan Museum of Natural History

  Fifth Floor

  July 18, 1946

  “Dr. Nesbitt, the pleasure is all mine,” the smiling naval officer said, holding on to her right hand for what she considered a beat too long. Nesbitt noted that the accent was unmistakably Bostonian, while the attitude that accompanied it spoke of something else—money.

  Of course, Nora Nesbitt had recognized the famous last name. She also had to admit that “Just Call Me Jack” was as handsome as advertised. Although on the seriously scrawny side. But this too was to be expected. Nesbitt knew as well as anyone that when the curtain finally dropped on the Pacific Theater, thousands of Allied servicemen returned home with an array of unwelcome souvenirs that spanned many of the invertebrate groups she had come to love.

  Nesbitt flashed a warm smile of her own and nodded. Intestinal parasites, she thought, before recalling the slight tremor in the man’s hand. Maybe even scrub typhus.

  “All right, break it up, you two,” Major Patrick Hendry said, initiating a pair of scowls for completely different reasons.

  The major seemed to savor the moment, before continuing. “I presume you both know why I’ve called this little meeting.”

  It was clear that they did but it was Nesbitt who responded. “Can I assume that there’s nothing new on the status of Captain MacCready, Lieutenant Delarosa, and Yanni Thorne?”

  “That would be a correct assumption, Dr. Nesbitt.”

  “But Mac being Mac, that’s no real surprise, is it, sir?”

  “No, it’s not, Lieutenant,” Hendry continued. “You of all people should know that Mac has weathered some serious shit storms in the past.”

  It had quickly become clear to the invertebrate zoologist that neither the man with the Boston twang nor the redheaded major was at all convinced about MacCready’s demise.

  “Sir,” the young officer said, “I am wondering why Dr. Nesbitt is here?”

  Nesbitt decided to respond herself. “Well, Lieutenant, because of the scientific nature of this mission, it’s been decided that I’m going with you to Tibet.”

  The young officer shot Major Hendry a piercing look, as if to see if this was all some sort of joke. But the major’s expression told him it wasn’t.

  The lieutenant instantly changed gears, flashing another thousand-dollar smile. “Dr. Nesbitt, have you ever jumped out of a plane before?”

  “No, I haven’t,” she replied. “Have you ever jumped out of a plane more than twenty-five thousand feet above sea level?”

  “No, ma’am, can’t say I have.”

  “Well then, I imagine it’ll be a new experience for both of us,” Nesbitt said, confidently. “And please, Lieutenant, just call me Nora.”

  Major Hendry cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt the fascinating banter you two are shoveling but I need you to look at these.” He broke the wax seal on a large envelope and removed a pair of photographs. “A recon plane took these at thirty-six thousand feet over an especially mountainous section of southern Tibet. We think this is where Mac went in.”

  “What are those pairs of spokes?” Nesbitt asked.

  “Helicopters,” Jack replied. “Two of them, right, Major?”

  “That’s right. Sitting on a shelf of rock.”

  Jack squinted at his photo. “But those choppers don’t look like ours.”

  Hendry smiled. “That’s two for two, lieutenant. They’re Russian. Although it’s a safe bet they were flown in there by the Chinese army.”

  Nesbitt handed the photo back to the major. “So what’s this mean?”

  “It means that Mac and the others definitely have some company up there.”

  Now it was Jack who handed his photo back. “You mean in addition to the myths and old wives tales, sir?”

  Nesbitt broke in. “Lieutenant, we think these creatures are real. And the quicker you start thinking that way, the better.”

  The naval officer gave a nod that was either respectful or condescending. He also apparently decided not to pursue the issue further. “But there’s still no sign of Mac, Jerry, or—” He paused.

  “Yanni,” Hendry reminded him. “Yanni Thorne. And you’re correct, there’s no sign of them. No signal patterns in the snow, no broadcast attempts—just a blurry mark near these spokes that might or might not be part of their chopper. So this is as good a place as any to start looking.”

  “How many of us are you sending in?” Jack asked.

  “Including you and Dr. Nesbitt, eight. Five specialists in high-altitude combat—mostly skiers and mountain corps types.”

  “Who else?” Jack asked.

  “Another old friend of Mac’s,” Hendry replied. “Seems as if you weren’t the only person who got some strings pulled to get on this mission. Guy’s name is Juliano—Sergeant Frank Juliano, weapons and munitions expert.”

  “This Captain MacCready sounds like a very popular fellow,” Nesbitt said.

  “He is!” the two officers replied simultaneously.

  She offered a tight smile, hoping that she’d feel the same way when and if they finally met.

  Fort Ethan Allen, Vermont

  July 19, 1946

  Twenty hours later

  “A HALO insertion, huh? That sounds painful, sir.” The comment came from a short man with a hangdog expression.

  The five members of the First Special Service Force who were sitting apart from the others in the briefing room exchanged exasperated looks—several of them doing a rather poor job of stifling chuckles. To Major Patrick Hendry and a trio that included Dr. Nesbitt and the Navy officer Mac had once jokingly referred to as Lieutenant Moneybanks, these guys were an odd assemblage, looking more like north woodsmen, hunters, and lumberjacks than soldiers. The major also knew that this was primarily because that’s exactly what they’d been before the war.

  Hendry shot the members of the “Devil’s Brigade” a look that immediately put an end to the little joke they were having at the expense of Mac’s pal, Sergeant Juliano. The major knew the members of the elite American-Canadian commando unit had gotten their name from the German soldiers they’d terrorized, leaving behind calling cards on their bodies that read Das dicke Ende kommt noch! (“The worst is yet to come!”).

  Hendry turned toward a short, heavyset man who had an uncanny resemblance to the comedian Lou Costello. “HALO, Sergeant Juliano, that’s High Altitude Low Opening.”

  “Gotcha sir, thanks,” Juliano said, looking somewhat relieved.

  Now Hendry could see it was Dr. Nesbitt and the Navy lieutenant who were exchanging bemused looks. He cleared his throat before continuing with the briefing.

  “We’re going with a HALO insertion because it’ll give you the best chance of getting in there undetected. The problem of course is that you’ll be free-falling for approximately ninety seconds and aiming for a narrow mountain pass we’ve identified as a safe DZ—that’s the drop zone, Dr. Nesbitt.”

  The biologist responded with a self-conscious nod.

  One of the Special Forces members raised a hand. “How are we getting in there, sir?”

  Major Hendry went on. “You’ll be leaving for Ireland within a week, then on to Turkey—which is where you’ll board a C-47 specially equipped for the drop—respirators, special protective clothing, and the like. From Ankara you’ll be heading straight to the mountains.”

  Hendry then turned his attention to Juliano, Nesbitt, and the lieutenant. “You three will be training with these fine men for the next few days. Eventually, you’ll be jumping in tandem with a trio of them. Before that, though, you’ll take a cram course to get you ready for the conditions you’ll be facing and the jump itself. The last thing you or this mission needs is a broken leg or a snapped back.”

  Sergeant Juliano raised a hand, and the major nodded in his direction. Somewhat surprisingly, he stood and turned toward the surly-looking Devil’s Brigaders. “Hey, you guys carry the Johnson LMG, don
’t you?”

  Five heads rotated toward the man who appeared to stand roughly a foot shorter than any of them. “Indeed we do, Sergeant,” said a thickly muscled, blond-haired man with a heavy French Canadian accent. “Are you familiar with it?”

  “Familiar with it?” Juliano replied. “I’ll say!” Then he gestured to the naval officer sitting next to Dr. Nesbitt. “Lieutenant, did you know the M-1941 was designed by a Boston lawyer?”

  “Can’t say I did, Sergeant,” Jack replied. He glanced over at the Special Forces guys, a bit put out that their attention was inexplicably focused on Lou Costello’s twin.

  “Well, it’s a beaut, Jack . . . I mean sir. Short recoil, rotating bolt, and up to nine hundred rounds per minute! It’s a real beaut!”

  “I guess we’re done here,” Major Hendry announced, and almost instantaneously, several of the commandos approached Sergeant Juliano, who immediately became the recipient of some serious glad-handing and backslapping.

  “So, is it as awkward to carry a loaded Johnny gun as they say it is?” Juliano asked, eagerly.

  One of the men pointed to a friend. “As awkward as my last date with his mom.”

  Major Hendry ambled over to where Nesbitt and Jack sat silently, watching the proceedings.

  “It’s nice to see that someone is fitting right in, isn’t it?” Hendry said, making an effort not to smile until he had turned and walked toward the sound of raucous laughter.

  August, a.d. 67

  Now that the initial shock had worn off, Pliny and Proculus could fully appreciate the military significance of the very special hell they had somehow survived in the death pits.

  More than three hours after the ordeal, as shadows lengthened across the gardens of the Cerae, the two Romans stood on the balcony of their prison cell. The historian was still rubbing uncomfortably at his arms. There are no ticks, he told himself—yet again.

  “How are you holding up?” Proculus said softly.

  “A little shaken.”

  A sudden movement drew their attention to the adjoining balcony. Severus was pacing back and forth, and though anger and distress were clearly evident, neither man acknowledged his occasional glances in their direction.

  “What do you think is bothering the traitor?” Proculus asked.

  “Perhaps he hasn’t forgiven his so-called Teacher for the treatment he received at the pits.”

  “Personally I thought he looked quite natural covered in worms,” the cavalryman said, grimacing as the female Ceran made her appearance beside the centurion. Severus, though, stalked off, quickly putting as much distance between them as was possible.

  “This is getting interesting,” Proculus said, watching Severus begin to cross a dangerously narrow ledge that led to yet another section of the balcony.

  The Ceran responded by emitting a sound Pliny never expected to hear from her kind—a strangled grunt, reminiscent of a sob. Then, with the speed of a leopard, she was behind Severus on the precarious ledge—gripping his body and contorting herself against him. There was no consideration given by either figure to the great height at which this drama was playing out. Even at a distance, the air was suddenly filled with her stink.

  “Disgusting,” Proculus said, turning away, though Pliny found himself unable to do so.

  He gestured toward the strange pair. “You do your commander a disservice.”

  “How so?”

  “I believe she is simply marking her possession,” Pliny said sharply, watching as Severus’s initial struggles quickly abated. “I have been observing him more closely since the pits. It is far more of an addiction than a romance.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters to her—which is quite certainly the only reason we are still alive.”

  The cavalryman shook his head in disbelief. “And all of this is somehow related to the Cerae training an army of ticks and worms not to attack us?”

  Pliny nodded, watching as the Ceran moved into the chamber, disappearing from their view. Severus began to follow and then hesitated. He turned stiffly toward his friends, attempting, it seemed, to lock eyes with them. His face was void of all emotion but then, for an instant, there was an undeniable spark of recognition.

  “Maybe not fully addicted,” Proculus said, hopefully, raising his hand.

  The moment passed.

  The cavalryman’s hand dropped to his side.

  Pliny continued to watch as the end of this particular scene played out—feeling both fascinated and repelled by what he had seen and what he was still seeing. Has any relationship during the entire history of the world ever begun and turned so complicated in so strange a place?

  Most frustrating for the historian was that he did not possess the proper words to describe it—little beyond the realization that Severus was inexplicably bound to his Teacher. To her scent, he thought. To something he cannot control.

  As if to prove that very point, the centurion turned from his fellow Romans and entered the chamber.

  “Do not fight it, my old friend,” Pliny said to himself. “To save us all, you must go back to her.”

  Chapter 20

  What We Do in the Shadows

  Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.

  —Buddha

  The Prison Igloo

  Seven days after the Fort Ethan Allen briefing

  Two hours after the rescue team departed Ireland

  July 27, 1946

  Mac drummed his fingers impatiently on the ice wall. “Well, I guess those little exercise runs are a thing of the past now, huh?”

  “If they were exercise runs,” Yanni replied. She gestured to a pair of Morlocks who were headed away from their igloo. As with similar visits over the past few days, they had dropped off a supply of food and water inside the doorway, without actually entering. “Something’s definitely got them riled up.”

  “And no more visits to the elephant house, either.”

  “It’s a corral,” Yanni said, correcting him. “But do you see the connection?”

  Mac shrugged. “Not much beyond the fact that they’ve got us locked down.”

  “We’re not gettin’ ‘musked’ anymore.”

  “You’re right,” Mac said, with a nod.

  Yanni threw a thumb over her shoulder and in the direction of the grass mimics. “We’re startin’ to smell like humans again. And that ain’t good.”

  “I thought those biters were creepin’ in a bit closer.”

  “Yeah,” Yanni followed, “too close if you ask me.”

  That night, Alpha arrived, but like the other recent visitors, he refrained from entering the igloo. Instead he slid open the ice door and gestured for Yanni to step outside. There were no elephants with him and although Mac attempted to follow her out, the Morlock’s impossible-to-misinterpret body language quickly put an end to that venture.

  Only a few steps from their prison, Alpha knelt down at a spot that had been covered by grass mimics only minutes before. As Yanni struggled to see in the difficult light, Alpha used an index finger to draw a shape in the dirt, then stepped away from her. She followed up by smoothing over his work and scratching in her own set of figures. Looking even more grim than usual, he motioned for Yanni to step away from the drawing.

  “Yeah, I get it,” she told him.

  Alpha reciprocated by adding more figures, then erased their work. Standing, he glanced at the igloo and made something akin to a pointing gesture. Yanni took the hint.

  After sealing the door behind Yanni, Alpha gave a few furtive glances before quickly receding again into the shadows.

  “What was that all about?” Mac asked, noting that she appeared unusually shaken by what had just transpired.

  Yanni flashed a funeral smile. “Well, the bad news is that the Morlocks seem to think we’re part of a full-scale invasion.”

  “Kinda tough to do much invadin’ when you’re locked in a fucking icebox,” Mac said.

  Yanni he
ld up her hand, effectively preventing Mac from entering rant mode. “Yeah, well, first, we showed up in a helicopter. Then Li-Ming. Now it appears as if there are more helicopters out there—maybe on the shelf.”

  “What?” Mac exclaimed. “Lemme guess—they’re not ours.”

  “Nope,” Yanni replied. “Evidently they belong to the Chinese.”

  “So we’ve opened up Pandora’s box,” Mac said, as much to himself as to Yanni.

  She was unfamiliar with the term but definitely caught the drift. “If that’s really bad, then yeah—I’d say our long-term prospects for survival just went from ‘unknown’ to ‘completely down the shitter.’”

  “So what’s the good news?” Mac asked, hopefully.

  Yanni shook her head. “You’re kiddin’, right?”

  July 30, 1946

  After they had passed three days huddling in tents and simply trying not to get blown off the side of a mountain, the weather finally cleared. Captain Mung continued to lead his men on a meandering, apparently random trek. As often as not, promising mountain passes led up to impossible, suffocating heights—essentially dead-ending and forcing them to turn back. There were no further signs of the Yeren—or of any life for that matter.

  On a morning that broke clear and cloudless, Mung’s party navigated around the base of another stone and ice wall—this one shaped like the prow of a mighty ship. Rounding the point, they came to a sudden halt, now able to carefully study, for the first time, what appeared to be a misty sea set against white snow. Using a pair of binoculars, Mung searched for a path ahead, finding a labyrinthine series of switchbacks that eventually disappeared into the basin of icy mist.

  How much farther to the valley floor? Mung wondered as he felt someone move in beside him. It was Wang.

  “The valley described by the helicopter pilot?” the zoologist asked.