Abominable

by Alan Nayes

  Cursorily, he scanned the items. Nothing new. He already knew the ape underwent a CT scan, though he wouldn’t have known the exact results without some inside animal hospital information. Inside information never hurt in investing and it would be beneficial here. He also knew about the pending surgery scheduled for two days. What the hell that was in the huge primate’s brain, he really didn’t care. In fact, if the ape succumbed on the table that would suit his purposes as well, though if there was some way he could arrange to track the giant down himself and administer the coup de grace—just the anticipation sent his pulse ratcheting up. He wondered if the Center had received his second donation earmarked specifically for the planned Arctic exhibit. If he was successful in his endeavor, the “beast” would never have a chance to enjoy the accommodations, but a little money in the appropriate channels never hurt. He’d received a nice thank-you note from the chairman for the first contribution. Nothing from the “beauty” Dr. Hollister, though, which mildly perturbed him. He planned on calling her office tomorrow and wishing her patient good luck on the operation. One last news item caught his attention. Tagged “protests,” he read the single-line caption under the photo. Turnout for this week’s Center of Primatology protests remains light. A woman waving a placard reading “FREE GOLIATH” shouted into the camera lens.

  So focused was he on the words, he didn’t hear the gentle knock until his secretary appeared in the doorway. “Not now” was on the tip of his tongue when she said, “A man from Animal Pals of America is on hold for you.”

  Ahmen smiled. APA. How fortuitous. “Thank you. I’ll take it.”

  Dr. Sigmund Astor sat at a secluded table in the Biltmore Hotel restaurant brooding and nursing his gin and tonic. Across from him, Max Bonds and Jean Simpkins were in a lively discussion about the possibility of ever isolating life—any life—on Mars. Both believed it would take a manned mission to actually be successful. A pair of human hands digging into the red soil increased the odds astronomically versus a robotic scoop.

  At the moment, the astrophysicist didn’t give a Martian shit about life on the red planet. He let them banter. Periodically his eyes roved from the large flat-screen hanging above the bar tuned to a news channel to the laptop monitor open on the table. They’d finished dinner and for the last hour debated the disc Astor had received from Eielson Air Force Base. Simpkins’ people at SETI and NASA were all in the loop, as well as the Oak Ridge Laboratory scientists, yet no one had an answer. Astor was aware of the attempts to find the second adult skull on Okpilak that Hollister believed was buried in the ice there—hell, it’d been his urging to Colonel Anderson to do so—though he’d already decided the best shot to figure this whole alien situation out was still in the giant ape’s head—though not for long, now that the UCO was “out of commission.”

  He was about to play the video from NASA’s security cameras again when Simpkins’ voice broke his concentration.

  “There she is,” the SETI president remarked, pointing with her drink hand to the television.

  Bonds asked, “Did she lighten her hair? Looks more blonde.”

  Astor looked up, his mood souring further. The NASA man had the hots for Hollister and Astor had to admit she possessed that all-American girl-next-door look that the cameras loved. The interview had taken place earlier in the day when Dr. Shelby Hollister was leaving the Primate Center. In the background, Astor noticed a few more protestors than the day he and Bonds had arrived. The shots periodically cut to images of Goliath in his cell and back to her. Astor listened to her response to the female reporter’s question about “if the surgery is so risky, why put Goliath through it?”

  Hollister: “Believe me, it wasn’t my decision. If I were calling the shots, I would have left it there the remainder of his life—as long as I believed it caused him no harm.”

  Reporter: “You apparently do not believe it is harmful.”

  Hollister: “I’ve seen nothing to indicate otherwise.”

  Reporter: “Statements by others involved in the case”—Astor noted how his two dinner companions glanced his way—“report it is composed of the same unknown materials as the container Goliath was found trapped in.”

  Hollister: “I’m unaware of how anyone can know what it is composed of without examining it,” adding ruefully, “but I guess we will find out day after tomorrow.”

  Reporter: “How is Goliath handling his upcoming surgery?”

  Hollister (a pause): “As any individual would who is about to have his brain sliced into—he’s hoping the surgeon is on his best game and Goliath says his prayers every night.”

  Reporter (laughing): “Tell Goliath all of America wishes him the best.”

  Hollister (a smile): “Thank you. I will.”

  With the news channel segueing to a new topic, Simpkins remarked, “Got to admit, she’s good.”

  Astor had to agree, though he hated to concede it. He loathed playing second fiddle to anyone in the celebrity science field but in this story, at least, he’d definitely been demoted to second-string status. He waited for one of Bonds’ sexist comments about Hollister’s sex appeal, but the NASA research exec must have decided in Simpkins’ presence that would not be in good taste. Instead he indicated Astor’s open laptop and asked, “Any more ideas on that?”

  Astor adjusted the laptop for all to see. After the Globemaster plane accident the empty UCO had been transported from the Bagley Icefield back to Eielson and then what remained of the shell shipped to NASA scientists in Hampton, Virginia. The security clip demonstrated the now gray receptacle on a heavy steel platform in one of NASA’s laboratories. “The dissolution had begun back on the ice fields,” Astor began. “Recall how it crumbled, losing mass. The matrix never regained its original durability or strength. We’ve had scientists from all disciplines try to come up with an explanation for what happened to make it so weak, so brittle—none can. The best hypothesis is that once the massive amount of energy stored in the elements’ atomic bonds was suddenly released—and whether this was programmed or not, we don’t know—the isotopic structure was altered in such a way that, well, it just broke down, decayed, if you will. Of course the ape was able to free itself then. Hell, I could have smashed my way out. But even that doesn’t come close to explaining this.”

  The time stamp moved to 11:13 a.m. Four days ago.

  Bonds watched in anticipation. All three had watched the military clip numerous times, yet it still was unbelievable. The background voices erupted in chaos. Astor muted the audio.

  One moment the UCO stood secured to the platform, a second later it was gone, the restraints lying haphazardly on the platform base.

  He ran the clip again. “No warning, no sparkle, no shimmer, no shine, nothing. It just…goes away.”

  “Where?” This came from Simpkins.

  Astor’s eyes remained glued to the screen. “Back to whoever brought it here is my guess.”

  “I agree,” Bonds commented. “Unless this is some type of extreme sublimation,” he suggested, alluding to what Astor had already mentioned—the process whereby a solid transitions directly to a gas. He looked at the SETI president.

  She shook her head. “There would have been some traces in the air. Vapor, something. No, I’ve believed from the beginning this proved we are not alone in the universe. I just wish that ape had turned out to be the real deal.”

  The astrophysicist’s thoughts ran along the same lines. All along he’d believed the big story here was not the ape, but the UCO. Then when he realized Goliath was drawing attention from the alien device, he’d actually wanted Goliath to be the ET discovery of the century, and the UCO perhaps some type of spaceship, if you will. Dr. Hollister had disproved that. Now he had to admit the giant primate was only an earth species, albeit a prehistoric one. A grand nature story for sure, but not of the magnitude the UCO should have been. And would have been if recent events hadn’t turned out as they had. He pointed at the frozen image o
f the empty platform. “Doesn’t change a thing. Earth did play host to alien visitors approximately twenty-eight thousand years ago.”

  Agreeing, Bonds emptied his whiskey glass. “Neanderthals didn’t plant that thing in his head.”

  Simpkins set her wine glass down. “For sure the direction of public opinion—and funding—has been affected. I’m being told the Center is taking in over a million a week with Goliath the featured attraction. And that’s before he’s even been formally presented for public viewing.”

  Astor agreed ruefully. “Primates are suddenly big business.” Silently he told himself he wasn’t jealous of Hollister’s newfound fame, but it was somewhat vexing to see her pretty face garnering all the news bites, though he could tell even she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the exposure. Although by the way she handled that last interview, her comfort zone was shifting favorably.

  Bonds said, “Once we get that thing out of the ape’s head, the focus will shift back to the space visitor realm.”

  And if the giant ape died during surgery, Astor thought silently, that wouldn’t hurt either. Hollister would be relegated back to studying monkey fossils; and extraterrestrials and astrophysics would once again occupy the headlines.

  Especially if another alien device was recovered from inside that Alaskan glacier.

  John directed the position of the multi-beam sonar equipment to match the exact coordinates where the UCO and prehistoric primate bones had been removed from the glacier over a month earlier. The early August breeze carried only a hint of the bite its older sister would carry in a month, and was nothing compared to what November or December would offer. He didn’t want to be on the Little Okpilak icy offshoot when the hardcore cold of winter rolled in.

  As he gazed across the expanse of blue ice, it still amazed him the only evidence a huge crevasse had once existed where he now stood was a virtually seamless one-inch elevation difference that ran diagonally across the entire length of glacier.

  “Ready,” the military airman called.

  Maneuvering and operating the bulky high-tech apparatus required three men and a small ice tractor. Fortunately, once the glacier ice was determined to be safe for a direct landing, the VH-71 military helicopter had been able to fly everything in.

  Ensuring they were positioned in the correct spot, John gave the go-ahead.

  The sonar could visualize down through eighty meters of solid ice, plenty of depth for their purpose. However, any anomaly below twenty meters, much deeper than where the UCO had been recovered, would entail more than simple drilling to remove, especially since the crevasse was no longer present.

  He notified Mendle by radio. “Set to search.”

  “If you find a matching device to what’s in that giant’s head, I’ll award you a medal of…hm, Okpilak sound appropriate?”

  “You can award me a medal of luck. Because that’s what it’s going take. And plenty of. I’ve forgotten how big this ice cube is.”

  “And then you have to retrieve it once you find it.”

  John nodded to the men. Let’s start. “How ’bout we just find it first. Then we’ll worry about digging the damn thing out.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Shelby aborted the alarm set for 5:30 a.m. before it even went off. She’d barely slept and the anticipation after yesterday’s call from John only magnified the impending sense of excitement building all week. Things on all fronts were picking up steam. She showered, downed a quick breakfast, ensured everything was in order for her later flight north, and made it to the Center in plenty of time to supervise her patient’s—at least according to the press sound bites, Goliath was her patient now—transport to Operating Room Six of the Los Angeles Animal Institute. She tuned out the chants of protesters, which she estimated to have grown more vociferous since the word of Goliath’s surgery surfaced. In a way she didn’t disagree with the protestors’ position, at least in this case. She wanted Goliath free as well, but like John intimated, the answer was far from simply releasing him into the wild. The wild of today was not the wild of the last Ice Age. The fact that the fanatical animal rights group Animal Pals of America was now involved explained the steadily increasing numbers, she surmised.

  Shelby had already met the veterinarian who would be doing the neurosurgical procedure. Dr. Amy Clark was a preeminent veterinarian specializing in head trauma and was as experienced as any in the nation. Last year she’d successfully removed a large tumor from the cerebellum of a favorite cat belonging to the then Secretary of State. Pets really were like family. Perhaps Dr. Reddic was correct in his caution, Shelby ruminated on the drive in—she shouldn’t get too personally involved. She ignored the shouts from the protestors. Didn’t they get it? She agreed in principle—in an ideal world Goliath would be free. But that was twenty-eight thousand years ago. Things change.

  Goliath lay prepped and fully anesthetized on the operating room table at precisely 8 a.m. The restraints she could tell were light and only there to stabilize the patient on the table. A Hoyer lift was parked next to a crash cart. Everything on schedule thus far. Shelby took her seat in the viewing bay along with a cadre of students from the local veterinarian college. She wasn’t surprised to see Astor and Simpkins occupying the seats nearest the viewing window. She chose a vacant seat beside the SETI president. Shelby had promised a full report to Reddic once the surgical procedure was complete.

  Simpkins offered a smile. “Seems this trip to the hospital went smoother than the last one.”

  “His sedation was adjusted,” Shelby explained, scanning the OR. “Plus he’s taking it without any issues, even in his fruit. Almost like he was accepting the fact this was something he couldn’t avoid.”

  “Not your typical ape,” Simpkins replied.

  “Not by a long shot.” And not your typical OR scene. Besides the operating room techs and the three vets—Dr. Clark, a surgical assistant, and the anesthesiologist—Shelby counted two armed guards with high-powered weapons posted inside the OR near the door. Goliath’s capture and later rampage through Douglas Park had left an indelible image in everyone’s mind. And even anesthetized, the giant primate looked damn right scary. The oversized table barely supported his massive trunk and the length fell several feet short, ending at mid-calves. White hair had been shaved away for the cardiac monitor leads, and all the hair removed down to his skin over the left temporal portion of his skull. She also noted the separate tray holding what appeared to be a metal specimen box approximately six inches square. Next to it, she recognized a Geiger counter similar to the ones used in Hangar 13, though this one was smaller. Still worried about radiation though none had been detected to this point, she mused. She understood it was only a precaution and agreed with any and all safety recommendations. A tech stood by prepared to receive the device once it was removed. The OR audio transmitted the voices from the surgical suite at a low volume.

  Astor looked up from his iPad. Shelby didn’t believe she’d ever seen him without it. Wrong; he hadn’t been carrying it on the Bagley Icefield. “What do you make of developments on Okpilak?” he asked her.

  Shelby looked at the astrophysicist, noticing a twitch under his left eye. Recent? She’d never observed it before. “John called me yesterday,” she replied. “Exciting. In fact, I’m flying up to supervise their removal once the surgery is done. Goliath will be an in-patient and heavily sedated for seven days and any interaction will be limited.”

  Astor’s attention returned to the OR. “That’s assuming they are bones and assuming the ape survives.”

  Damn, she did not like this man. “Goliath survived two hundred and eighty centuries locked in a glacier, he’ll survive this.”

  Below, the anesthesiologist had completed the intubation. Shelby wondered where’d they’d found a primate tube large enough—probably similar in size to what was used in other very large mammals. Her phone vibrated and she checked the number, frowning. It was Ahmen again. The venture capitalist ha
d called her private number yesterday and left a good-luck message for Goliath. That was considerate but she never returned his call, somewhat aggravated he’d found her unlisted private number. Now he was calling again. She ignored it.

  However, yesterday’s other call—the one from John—had precipitated the exact opposite effect. The sonar had picked up non-ice entities at glacier depths ranging from forty-one to fifty-two feet. John couldn’t state whether they were bones for sure, but based on location and shape—a larger oblong one and multiple shaft-like and curved objects—the consensus was they were. The sizes fit. Skull, extremities, ribs. Shelby’s gut feeling was the larger oblong one would be Goliath’s mate’s skull. Though she wasn’t thrilled about leaving Los Angeles, she couldn’t suppress the nervous anticipation of flying to the Arctic again. And she would be working beside John!

  On schedule, Dr. Clark began the final disinfecting process. Though Goliath was a one-of-a-kind primate, Shelby felt good about the specialized care. Almost like a human, she surmised. Of course, losing a patient as famous as Goliath had become would be a huge black eye for the hospital, as well as the Center of Primatology, Shelby understood ruefully.

  Shelby tuned out all other noises when the surgeon asked for the scalpel. She sensed the atmosphere in the OR suite tense—both below and in the viewing bay.

  Silently she prayed everything would proceed smoothly.

  And it did.

  Until the end.

  Shelby saw trouble before anyone else. She experienced a strong desire to stand and signal someone below by tapping on the glass. She remained seated, though, worried she was overreacting. If she could have seen tomorrow’s headlines at that moment, she would have taken a hammer to the glass.