by Kevin Tinto
Kids, Jack thought. Five minutes after you give them the latest gadget, they’re bored and looking for the next cool toy. Helicopter rides and quads are already yesterday’s news to the eight hundred-year-old young woman.…
K’aalógii, put her hands over her mouth and giggled, then pulled Leah down and whispered in her ear.
Jack crossed his arms and winked. “Something about me?”
“Might be,” Leah said. “You know us girls…we have secrets.”
“Your chariot is warmed up and ready to go, my queen,” Jack said, sweeping an arm toward the waiting Black Hawk.
***
Leah had arranged to supply Gordon with two aircraft hangars at Holloman Air Force Base. In one hangar, they had installed a series of portable hospital and support facilities, recreating a sophisticated research lab. FEMA trailers had also been moved into the hangar and served as the mobile homes, offices, conference rooms, even dining facilities. The second, adjoining hangar was used to move personnel into and out of helicopters in a secure setting.
Hutchinson set the bird down on the pad assigned to the Genesis Settlement. From there, it was towed into the hangar, and the structure’s massive hanger doors closed behind it.
***
K’aalógii was hungry, as usual, so first they took her into one of the private dining trailers. She was working on her third bowl of chicken noodle soup while Jack and Leah sipped coffee.
“So,” Jack said. “You sit down with Appanoose, give him the facts, try to look sad, and, boom, he agrees to allow K’aalógii off-site without so much as a side glance?”
Leah glanced down into her coffee cup. “That’s about it,” she replied. Not the best time to tell him I agreed to a ritual in the shaman’s sweat lodge.
“Gordon has K’aalógii for two days,” Jack said. “How long before he calls in his report?”
“I’m encouraging him not to jump the gun,” Leah said. “It’s unlikely he can come to any conclusions soon. Testing. Then analysis. I’m voting for a slow, careful analysis, you know?”
Jack nodded. “Anything else happen at the Settlement? Ancients levitating—that kind of thing?”
Leah simply gave him the ‘look.’
“No levitating, but here’s a newsflash: When I returned yesterday, Appanoose and his boys had constructed a sweat lodge, and he’s been hosting purification rituals inside, non-stop. He takes between three and five of the Ancients inside, the flap closes, except when he requests more hot stones, and they don’t leave for two or three hours. As Garrett said, they come out more serene than born-again Christians after a revival baptism.”
Jack smiled at that. “Sounds more like a peyote-fest, if you ask me.”
Leah nodded. “Garrett’s first thought. He also said K’aalógii was in the first group to enter the sweat lodge. He started with the youngest first. When I got back, she ran up to me with her eyes lit up like a Christmas float. She said that Appanoose told her I was responsible for delivering the Ancients to the ‘Fifth Domain.’ When ‘Noose’ saw her talking to me, he was none too happy and terminated our discussion right then and there.”
“‘Fifth Domain’? A Native American version of Heaven or something?”
“There is Native American mythology related to moving through a series of Worlds, which I guess could translate as ‘Domains,’” Leah said. “Given what these people have been through, it could mean just about anything. Whatever the ‘Fifth Domain’ means, it must be like eternal Club Med, based upon the serene glow the Ancients sport when they exit the lodge ritual.”
“Hmm.” Jack thought for a moment. “Have you asked yourself whether Appanoose is really Native American, or maybe one of our ‘Visitors’ in a clever Halloween costume?”
“That’s a bit of a stretch, Climber. On the other hand, far be it from me to rule it out, given what we’ve seen. The mythology, as we understand it, relating to ‘Worlds,’ not ‘Domains,’ involves a common theme found in may religions. The destruction of the Earth through human immorality evil, wickedness—and so on. However, by transitioning to the ‘next world,’ you’re given a chance to fix all your faults—give life another shot, having learned your lesson, so to speak. These are very, very old stories and beliefs, passed down for hundreds, if not thousands of years. It’s possible that Appanoose is preaching the old-school mythology.
“Oh, good,” said Jack. “I’m so much more at ease.” He glanced up. “You’re sure about all this stuff?”
Leah gave him ‘the look,’ again. “Seriously, Jackson? No, you got me. I read about this after opening a box of Cracker Jacks. I’m an archaeologist. Remember?”
“But would these Ancients, a mix of cultures…would this really be something they’d believe?”
“Without a doubt. Remember, within the Native American cultures, passing down stories, repeating them over and over; perhaps the most important task, after survival. There’s no question in my mind this stretches back hundreds, or thousands of years.
“You think Appanoose believes this?” Jack asked.
“If he doesn’t, he’s using it for his own purposes. Garrett said he has Charlie Manson charisma. Because he’s the shaman, no one questions what he says. So far, I’d say as leader of the Ancients, he’s done a pretty good job of averting panic within the ranks, and, apparently, he’s given them something to grasp that offers an alternative to death and disaster.”
Jack nodded and then said, “You know what that is?”
“Hope,” Leah replied. “Something we could all use a good dose of right now.”
“What’s your plan? All we’ve done is bought more time—and not very much.”
“Fortunately,” she said, “given Gordo’s meticulous nature, I doubt we’ll have to convince him to take his time on K’aalógii’s analysis. Meanwhile, I’ll have to come up with options, and I’m counting on you and Paulson to back me up.”
“Al’s definitely become a genuine, behind-the-scenes, heavyweight player in Washington. Whatever you decide, he’ll back you up.” Jack glanced over as K’aalógii lifted the bowl and slurped the last of the soup. “So Garrett’s handling Appanoose on his own?”
“Yeah. I’m about as useful as tits on a bull at the Settlement anyway. I’m not Indian and I’m bossy. They respect Garrett. So I’ll stay here with K’aalógii during the testing, then take her back to the Settlement. If Gordo finds something that throws him into hysterics, I’ll figure it out.”
She reached out and grabbed Jack’s hands. “You plan on staying here with me?” She waved her hand around the inside of the dining trailer. “Not quite eternal Club Med, but romantic, nonetheless.”
“There’s nothing I’d like more, love, but my fifteen minutes of Washington fame peaks tomorrow morning. Wheeler and Paulson have scheduled a briefing in the Situation Room at the White House with all the players, including Teresa Simpson. Even Fischer. Kyra and her people have made some discoveries regarding the recovered ‘artifacts.’ My job is developing tools and the means to pinpoint any other existing alien facilities. I have to make a ‘presentation.’”
Leah nervously tapped her fingernails on the table. “Anything I should know? There’s nothing about the Genesis Settlement on the agenda?”
“Nope. Wheeler’s leaving you alone, as you asked.”
Leah leaned over and kissed Jack. “I know I can count on you to protect the Ancients.”
Jack didn’t respond. Based upon what Leah had said, the endgame for the Ancients was going to involve a lot of spilled blood—on both sides.
Chapter 13
The ice-encrusted pallets appeared as a series of giant, misshapen pearls on an otherwise smooth surface, stretching to the horizon. The Russian airdrop had been textbook, the ice-covered pallets lined up in a perfect, five-hundred-meter string.
A bizarre and macabre monument to dead heroes….
“We’re in business, Boss!”
He used the knife to hack away more ice, under which treasure gleamed. “We’ve got two Taiga-551s right here with fuel, ammo, shovels, and an assortment of tools stacked right on top.”
“Beauty,” said Beckam. “Let’s get it done and get hell out of here.”
The Clay twins finished freeing the remainder of the pallet, using the Russian-supplied shovels and picks. Twenty minutes later, they were pushing the first of the two Russian tactical snow machines off the pallet and onto the ice.
Liam fueled the Taiga, swung a leg over the machine, and hit the starter button. The 500cc engine started with a roar. He glanced at the instruments and gave Beckam a thumbs-up. He shouted over the din of the 4-stroke engine running smoothly in high idle.
“Good to go!”
Beckam examined the tow toboggans packed alongside the Taiga. They were designed to be loaded with gear, or wounded, and you could string as many behind the snow machine as it would haul.
He shouted over the roar of the Taiga. “I’m taking the sled with two toboggans, loading up Danny, and the balance of our gear. Free up another Taiga, hook up two toboggans and load all the gear we’ll need for an extended, cross-ice holiday.”
Liam nodded. “I got fuel, food, weapons, communications, tents, and winter-spec-clothing at the top of the list. Anything else come to mind?”
“Electrically-heated vests, pants, and base layers. Climbing gear. Lines, harnesses, and at least one of those aluminum, snow-machine crevasse bridges.”
“Mountain-climbing?”
“Unlikely. But in case we run into bad guys, we could anchor ourselves into a crevasse, making it almost impossible to root us out without taking heavy casualties.”
Liam grinned. “That’s why you’re the boss.”
Beckam studied the pallets stretching out into the distance. “Search for satchel charges, too. Once we get everything we need, we’ll use whatever explosives the Russians included to blow the rest of the pallets. No use gearing up a crew of bad guys who decide we’d look good on the mantle—and giving them the tools to do it.”
Lenny brushed ice out of his beard, then said, “There’s a chance one of these Taigas is gonna go tits-up before we reach Amundsen. Should we find a third snow machine, so we have a spare?”
Beckam nodded. “Good thinking. We can always dump one in a crevasse if we don’t need it. We could also use a couple of the pallet parachutes. They’re blown to shit, but gather ’em up anyway.”
“What are we gonna use those for, Skipper?”
“Camo. It won’t help with infrared weaponry, but white nylon on ice is better than a stick in the eye.”
Chapter 14
Al Paulson faced President William Wheeler, sitting sideways on a couch in the Oval Office. The billionaire businessman sipped on piping-hot coffee, served in classic White House working china complete with gold trim and a matching saucer.
President William Wheeler sat behind his enormous desk, his face frozen in a forced, neutral expression. The animosity between Paulson and Wheeler, already at a boiling point, had gotten worse throughout the closed congressional hearings, in which Paulson had testified under oath about everything that had happened in Antarctica, leaving nothing out, including his then, but now demoted, National Security Advisor Stanton Fischer’s attempt to eliminate Paulson and his expedition-mates after their discovery of the non-terrestrial facility, not to mention the deliberate detonation of a highly classified nuclear device, the sacrifice of a platoon of Navy SEALs, and, in an act of war, the elimination of an unknown number of Russian Spetsnaz commandos.
A compromise, worked out between political rivals, kept classified the discovery of alien technologies and preserved, eight-hundred-year-old Native Americans. The President and his team, while censured for the heavy-handed and poorly executed operation, had been cleared of all criminal charges. Given the looming potential of a nuclear conflict with the Russians, the critical fact of the U.S.’s exclusive possession of the alien technology was enough to save Wheeler’s administration, despite all the unfortunate errors made along the way.
Thanks to the nuclear brinksmanship that Paulson and Jack had been forced to engage in, Paulson was now the president’s National Security Advisor and remained in the loop on all decisions coming from the Oval Office. Wheeler had been forced to clean house within his Cabinet, but Stanton Fischer remained onboard as a Special Advisor.
Paulson suspected that was because Fischer knew where all the skeletons were stashed in Wheeler’s political closets. Otherwise, Fischer would’ve made an excellent political scapegoat for everything that had gone wrong in Antarctica—and for the resulting quasi-hot war with the Russians.
The status of those who had survived the events on the ice would also remain classified—a matter of national security. Similar to witnesses living under federal protection, all participants of the Paulson Expedition were ‘guaranteed safety,’ assigned protective Secret Service detail, if traveling, and sent to live in secure, secret locations. Mac Ridley and his crew of mechanics had since taken up residence at Camp David, a national-security precaution, given their taste for whiskey and resulting loose lips. Some early grumbling had been quelled by gourmet meals and a liquor reserve fit for a president, along with free run of Camp David. Marko was sequestered with the warhead.
That left the only real loose end—Luke Derringer. He had refused to leave the airfield. Jack and Paulson had agreed to allow him to stay at the remote airfield, armed to the teeth. With Paulson’s ‘agreement’ in place, and a pack of opposition senators dying to get rid of Wheeler under any circumstance, they’d all agreed to leave the old man out at the airfield. It would be political suicide for Wheeler to make a move against any of the Antarctic survivors.
Another part of the grand deal had been the creation of the Genesis Settlement, with Leah running the show.
As for Jack Hobson, Paulson had needed another person he could trust in the defense and national-security loop besides Teresa Simpson, who had left the BLM to take a job as Paulson’s second in command on the National Security Council. Ultimately, Jack had been appointed a Senior Advisor at DARPA, a useful position, given the government’s laser focus on the alien technology.
Through the process, Paulson had come grudgingly to respect Wheeler’s toughness. He never backed down from Paulson, regardless of how wrong-headed his decisions. Maybe it was the desk he sat behind: the priceless “Resolute Desk,” made from the oak timbers of the British ship H.M.S. Resolute. A gift from Queen Victoria in 1880. The White House might be leveled in a nuclear attack, but Paulson felt sure the Resolute Desk would soldier on without so much as a scratch. However, Wheeler’s health had degraded visibly. These days, he looked gaunt and pale, and he’d developed an unnerving tic that made him appear to be constantly telling himself ‘no.’
“Go ahead,” Paulson told the President. “Say it.”
Wheeler pushed his coffee aside. “You are a traitor to this nation and an extortionist. Kick your feet up in the Oval Office, while you can.” He checked his watch impatiently.
Paulson eyeballed the President for a long moment. “See, Willie, this is a perfect example of why you’re struggling through this. You let a guy like me get under your skin, but if you had half a brain, you’d be a whole lot more concerned about a hundred megatons dropping on the eastern seaboard than a straight-shooter like me—who’s only trying to keep the country from going completely off the rails while making you look good in front of the American people.”
“My concern is a small gang of domestic terrorists holding this nation hostage with a lethal nuclear device. That’s the real danger here.”
“I’m
not any happier about that than you are,” Paulson said. “But through bad behavior and poor decision-making, you’ve created this situation yourself. Once I’m sure our throats won’t be cut the second we give up the warhead, I’ll provide the whereabouts. Trust me, Willie, we’re not happy about having to babysit that ‘thing.’ I saw the result of a detonation first-hand—remember?”
The President did not respond, but his head twitched. Twice.
Paulson quelled his mounting irritation. “For better or worse, Mr. President, we’re all in this together. That you seem obsessed with me is mind-boggling. I could have gone to the press and lit you up like the Fourth of July. I don’t expect us to become best buddies, but we have to team up, at least temporarily.”
The expression of pure hatred conveyed the President’s reaction to Paulson’s most recent attempt at conciliation.
A secret service agent opened the door at the back of the Oval Office. “Mr. President. Mr. Paulson. We’re ready for you in the Situation Room.”
Wheeler and Paulson stood, Paulson waiting for the President to step from behind his desk and take the lead. His time in the military had taught him an important lesson.
You don’t respect the man. You respect the rank.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t have to get rid of Wheeler in the near future.
The President was on the edge of losing it.
Chapter 15
The Kremlin, Moscow
Colonel Konstantin Yaroslavl didn’t have a chair at the conference table. Those seats were reserved for the President, the highest-ranking generals, admirals, ministers, the President’s Chief of Staff, Deputy Chief of Staff, and key aides—better known as Kremlin Korichnevyy Nos: Kremlin Suck-ups.
