by Greig Beck
“Then we’ve got a deal,” said Russell.
“Not until the boss says so.” Casey remained stone-faced.
Alex rubbed a hand up through freezing hair and felt every one of his HAWCs watching him. He walked a few paces and stopped, looking up at the granite peaks where they needed to be in the next few hours. It looked freezing, inhospitable, and deadly as all hell.
He snorted. What the fuck do I care if these guys want to commit suicide? He turned slowly. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
“Yes, I do; we’ll be fine.” Morag stepped forward.
Alex stared for a moment more, and then smiled grimly. “If you’re slow, we will leave you. If you ask for help, we will ignore you. And if you fall, then it will be into your graves. Got it?”
“Very dramatic.” She nodded with mock conviction. She turned momentarily to Renner and raised her eyebrows. “We’re in.”
Alex turned to Russell Burrows. “You wanted this; they’re your problem. You own it.” He went to turn away but paused. “One more thing; have you got breathing equipment?”
Morag tilted her head. “Sort of; we’ve got oxygen masks for the altitude.”
Casey chuckled. “You’re dead.”
Anne walked forward. “We brought a couple of spare suits.”
Scott McIntyre glowered. “Hey, hang on, they’re for us if we need them.”
Anne frowned. “Scott, you know it’s very unlikely we’ll need them. Be civil please.”
“And what if we do need them?” He growled as he stormed away.
Anne turned back to Morag and hiked her shoulders. “Of course you can have them.”
“Thank you.” Morag held out her hand. “It’s Morag.”
“Anne, Anne Peterson.” Anne shook her hand.
“NASA, right?” Morag smiled as the woman nodded.
Alex grunted. “Once we enter the crater; you’ll need those suits.” He then clapped once, the sound like a rifle shot. “Okay, let’s load ’em up, we’re out of here.”
Morag turned to Renner and made a small circling motion in the air. Renner lifted a small handheld action camera that fit in his palm and started to film the HAWCs.
Alex spun. “Hey!” His voice froze the man to the spot, and his eyes became round. In two strides, Alex was up in the man’s face, and ripped the small tube from Renner’s hand. He held it up.
“If you film any one of my team, we will destroy every piece of equipment you have, understood?” Alex made a fist, and the metal casing on the camera crushed. He dropped the shards to the ground.
Renner watched it fall with wide eyes. He nodded once, mouthed okay, with no actual words coming. Morag O’Sullivan folded her arms, her mouth tight.
Alex glared a moment longer and then turned to the NASA crew. “Let’s go.”
Sam yelled instructions, and in another two minutes the chopper was in the air.
CHAPTER 14
Revelation Mountain Peaks, Orlando Crash Site
Ivan Zlatan was first over the rim of the mountaintop and stared down into the massive crater formation.
It had taken them an entire day to climb to the peak, without a single break, and it had not been without cost. He had started with five Kurgan, five of the top engineered combat soldiers in all of Russia, and perhaps the world. But he had lost one good man. Divinov had been big, strong, and unlucky. The shelf of rock he had clung to had simply fallen away like the skin of an onion. He dropped around 500 feet to the first rock shelf where he had bounced once then vanished from sight. No one would bother going looking for his body, and Zlatan only cared about his team’s reduced strike capability.
Like his remaining comrades, Zlatan’s fingers were near frozen, and his muscles ached and joints screamed, but they would mend with the rapid healing their metabolisms would undertake in the next few hours.
He had received his last update from Moscow just minutes before. A large helicopter was on its way to the plains spread out before the mountains – good. It meant the Americans had not yet arrived on the mountain, and his team was first in.
It didn’t matter. Even if the Americans were already here, and had retrieved the camera data, his orders were to bring it back it to the Motherland at all costs. The Americans would hand it over, or he’d take it from their cold, dead hands. It didn’t matter if they had Special Forces assets – in fact he hoped for it. Zlatan smiled grimly. He wanted them to put up a fight as he would like nothing more than to test his Kurgan against the best America had to throw at them.
He looked again into the crater. It was enormous, miles across, and strangely devoid of ice now he was at the top. He still felt the bitter cold at his neck as he perched above it, but on his face, he could feel the warmth emanating from below. No doubt it would be warm once they were under the blanket of the strange, thick fog. He stared. It swirled and moved like a sea that had eddies, currents, and whirlpools all just below the surface.
Visibility would be impeded, and he had been told to expect a communication blackout once they descended. But still, Zlatan had the advantage, and he needed to use it. He felt a moment of uncertainty and calmed himself by thinking of Rahda. For you, my love.
He looked out over the massive smoke-filled crater that looked like a titan’s boiling cauldron then waved his men on. Together they descended the several hundred feet down the side of the mountain and entered the smog layer – well before they had even found the bottom.
Zlatan held up a hand, watching the fog swirl past it. Looking closely, the fog wasn’t actually a mist, but instead countless small dust-like particles. The closer to the ground, the more there was. He could just make out a soft whining sound, like the noise the wind makes when it sneaks in through a gap. Strange.
It was like entering the atmosphere of an alien planet. The Russian grimaced as the particle gases stung his nose and throat – he had been told by his superiors to expect a significant moisture suspension, possibly from ice melt. But this stuff had a tang of something different, something organic. The Kurgan bodies would be able to fight off most contaminants and toxic substances, and he hoped this wouldn’t prove debilitating.
In a few more seconds he adjusted, and was at least thankful for the blanket of warm air allowing his fingers to thaw and the ice on his body to melt. He rubbed at his dripping nose. It was only around fifty degrees Fahrenheit within the mist layer, but compared to above it, it was a luxury.
After several hundred feet of scaling down, the Kurgan reached bottom. Zlatan slowly turned; the mist layer here was so thick, it created a twilight gloom, and underfoot he felt something that was akin to slimy moss.
He held up a hand and his team froze. Zlatan stood silent, listening – had he heard something? Movement? He let his eyes slide slowly around them and strained to hear.
Nothing now but the background whine. After another moment, he gave up and turned to his team. “Virinov, use the tracker.”
The man close to him nodded, and removed a cigarette-pack sized device from a pouch, turned it on and held it out. Immediately a pulse emanated from the device and he watched it for a few seconds before lifting his head and pointing off into the distance.
“That way; 4,400 feet.”
Zlatan looked in the direction Virinov had pointed – just like all around them, there was nothing but a wall of thick cloud. He blew hard, making the speckled fog in front of his face swirl away into tiny spinning eddies.
His tongue was coated with the strange sweet taste of the mist. He spat on the ground. It came out like a paste.
Zlatan waved his men forward. “Move out.”
CHAPTER 15
Morag took off a glove and placed a finger against the helicopter window – even through the double-layer insulated glass it was so cold it stung her fingertip. She pulled it back and blew on it before jamming it back into her glove.
She looked down at the plains of dry, brown grasses. Some caribou meandered about as they flew over, a few patches of sn
ow were like blinding white oases, and from time to time a wind flurry would lift some flakes that danced madly across the uninviting scrubby landscape.
Upon departure she had maintained her furious indignation at Alex Hunter and his team, but when they turned away she had winked at Calvin, and nodded at his camera. Calvin had raised his eyebrows and shook his head, but she mouthed with her teeth clenched, start fucking filming with all the silent force as she could muster. The cameraman had looked pained, but surrendered. He snuck out another spycam and held it rolled in his fist. He began to record some film in the chopper, panning it over the faces of the HAWCs. He then carefully lifted it to capture the NASA crew as well.
Morag felt extremely confident. She’d worked with military types before; a few yes sirs, no sirs, and the occasional smile, and you could wrap them around your little finger in no time. She hoped.
She looked again at the group in the massive chopper’s hold. All the men could have been cut from the same block of cold, hard iron: rock-like stubbled jaws, multiple scars, and eyes that were so alert, they looked like birds of prey. The one called Garcia looked Spanish, had the thickest hair she had ever seen on a human being, and was missing a small piece of his left eyebrow.
The two female HAWCs, Casey Franks and Anita Erikson, looked like they could easily hold their own with the tough-looking men. For one, Casey was probably just as heavily muscled, and Morag noticed that the guys gave her due respect, as there was a ferociousness about her that was intimidating, even to them. She reminded Morag of a spring-loaded bear trap – keep clear or lose an arm. Adding in a scarred face did nothing to humanize her in any way. She looked tailor-made for the job.
The other Special Forces woman, Erikson, was taller and leaner, with brown hair pulled back tight and Nordic-sharp cheekbones. Her voice carried a hint of a Germanic accent and Morag noticed that from time to time the woman’s eyes went to Alex Hunter. Morag smiled; there was some interest there. An old flame maybe or just hopeful.
She followed the woman’s gaze to the HAWC leader. She knew what Erikson was looking at – Morag also liked the look of him. Alex Hunter was big, brutally handsome, and definitely a take-charge kinda guy. If she could win him over, she’d have them all saying “cheese” before they knew it.
Casey Franks turned in her seat and leaned a forearm on its back to stare for a few seconds.
“So, news-chick, what’s your story?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Morag shot back with a grin.
The HAWC woman sneered, or maybe smiled. It was hard to tell as up close Morag could clearly see the scar running from chin to up past her eye that pulled her cheek into a sneer.
“Deal – you first,” Casey said.
“Okay.” Morag nodded. “Well, I’m Morag O’Sullivan, and I’m a journalist who works the major news desk at the Los Angeles Times. Calvin there is our gun cameraman.”
Casey never even looked at him, and didn’t seem interested in him or his story in any way.
“Your turn.”
“Casey Franks, soldier and stone-cold killer.” She grinned, meaning it.
Morag raised her eyebrows. “Must look good on a resume.”
“Does on the ones that count.” Casey motioned with her head to the peaks looming up in the distance. “So, climbed before?” she raised her chin. “And I’m not talking about in some swanky gym where you play on colored lumps of plaster stuck on a wall.”
Morag snorted. “Listen GI Jane; I’ve been up Mount Rainer, 14,411 feet. Higher than where we’re going now.”
Casey nodded. “That’s just a fucking steep hill for tourists. What else you got?”
Morag leaned forward. “And for fun, I climbed the wall of the El Capitan in Yosemite – the hard one.” Morag sat back. “What about you?”
Casey grinned. “I know that El Capitan face – I free-climbed it.”
Morag grunted. Free-climbing was where you went up with nothing but fingertips, toes, and a heart as big as Texas. It was obvious this was one pissing contest she was not going to win.
Morag smiled. “Not going to give an inch, are you?”
Casey shook her head slowly. “Got to tell you, girl; you act pretty ballsy. But out here you’re nothing. You shoulda stayed at home this time.” Casey turned back around.
Morag eased back in her seat. “Yeah, well, my mom always said, ‘fly free, girl’. That’s what I’m doing.” Morag felt like shooting back something else more cutting, witty, or brutal, but had nothing. She gave the back of Casey’s head the finger and turned to the window again to silently fume.
Outside, she saw that they were now rising over the peaks, and felt the helicopter skid in the air as a particularly heavy gust blew them sideways a few dozen feet. The pilot corrected quickly, but she knew he was contending with wind spurts of around 100 miles per hour, and updrafts, side drafts, and downdrafts blasting up and around the fiercely uneven geology.
Looking at the formidable peaks, she could almost hear the tectonic plates crashing and grinding together, continuing to form the mighty up-thrusts that were like monstrous sharpened teeth rising thousands of feet into the sky. Morag shivered and not from the cold this time.
In no time, dark featureless granite gave way to blinding white snow, and then they lifted higher, and into the clouds. Morag’s mind drifted back to her hectic news desk, then to warm cocktail bars and sandy beaches.
“Five minutes, people.”
Alex Hunter’s voice made her jump, and she turned to watch some of the HAWCs prepare the drop ropes.
The drop ropes.
A small voice in her head finally agreed with Casey Franks, and she knew this might just be the dumbest thing she’d ever done.
* * *
Alex went and sat up next to the pilot. Outside, the snow mercilessly spattered against the cockpit’s Plexiglas. He saw the retrieval spike extending out before the nose of the chopper – a fifty-foot rod that ended in a y-shaped fork – it would be used to grab the samples from the air that Anne Peterson would be collecting and sending up. That was unless the wind blew them all the way to the Arctic Circle.
He didn’t like the chances of recovering the samples. But NASA and the military were interested in whatever it was down there that seemed to be transforming an environment as hostile as this one. If it was something benign and manageable, it could mean a solution to reclaiming deserts, or even future planetary terraforming.
He watched the pilot wrestle with the stick as the helicopter jumped and bucked around them. Alex realized he didn’t even know the pilot’s name. He leaned forward. “Hunter.”
The pilot nodded, but continued to stare dead ahead. “Vincenzo – beer and football lover, pilot, and certified lunatic.”
Alex smiled and looked out at the maelstrom around them. “Lunacy helps in places like this.”
“Oh yeah.” Vincenzo grinned. “Coming at us from every direction. I correct one way, and then we get pounded from the other way.” He bared his teeth for a moment as the chopper dropped about fifty feet. He turned to look briefly at Alex. “We get clobbered by one of those super-gusts close to the face, and we’re bugs on a windshield.”
Alex grunted, feeling for the guy. Pilots tended to be as cold as ice, so for him to even mention his concern meant he was worried to all hell.
“Hopefully we’ll be in a wind shadow closer in. And if not …” Vincenzo shrugged.
Alex understood. “The ropes we’ve got will get us down eighty feet. We can drop all at once – you just need to hold us in place for a single minute. Can you do it?”
“Hell or high water I’ll do it.” His eyes flicked to Alex again. “But might not be me that determines how long you’ve got.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Alex then pointed. “There.”
Vincenzo turned back. The peak still rose hundreds of feet above their heads, but on the wall of the mountainside, there was a ledge of stone about twenty feet wide.
“Jesus. That
’s where you want me to drop you?” The pilot whistled. “One minute hang time, right?”
“All we’ll need.” Alex got to his feet. He laid a hand on the young pilot’s shoulder. “Good luck.”
Vincenzo smirked. “Hey, you get the hard job. Once you send up the samples, I get to go home.” His face became serious. “Drop and release; I hang around for the package until I’ve used my fuel budget, then I’m outta here.”
Alex nodded, and headed back to the rear cabin. He held up five fingers, and his HAWCs immediately went into action. There were eight drop ropes, three each side, and two from the huge ramp-like rear door. They had a tension strength of over 1,000 pounds, and their winches could lift a small car if need be. Weight wasn’t the problem, but speed was, so for the civilians it meant doubling up as the only way to get down quick.
Alex planted his legs in the bucking chopper and faced the civilians. “Our drop lines are eighty feet only, and our pilot is going to have a devil of a time keeping us steady and in place. We have sixty seconds to drop to the ledge and disengage.”
He looked at their faces. All sat with wide eyes and he bet, racing hearts – good – adrenaline improved alertness and reaction times.
“We will be doubling up – you will all be coming down strapped to one of my soldiers. This is—”
“I can drop by myself if …” Morag had her hand up.
Alex’s voice rose. “This is not negotiable.” He glared for a moment and Morag just shrugged. “NASA team: Russell Burrows with Mister Monroe. Scott McIntyre with Mister Dunsen. Anne Peterson with Ms. Franks. Morag O’Sullivan with me, and Calvin Renner with Mister Knight. Mister Samuel Reid will take all your gear – anything you forget to give him, stays on the chopper.”
Sam loomed up behind him like a huge wall, and nodded once.
“Any questions?” Alex looked along their faces again. They probably had hundreds, but kept them behind their teeth. He checked his watch; it was time.
