by Kevin Tinto
Yaroslavl wanted no part of the political process and was uncomfortable simply attending conferences at this level. When things didn’t go as planned, red became blue, and anyone associated with red was purged. If he were lucky, any intelligence briefing would be handled by his superior officer, General Valentin Petrov. Briefings were dangerous in all political settings, never more so than here, and under these circumstances.
There was a rumor that an American insider with connections at the very top of the government, would, for the right amount of money, provide detailed intelligence about the entire Antarctica operation. Yaroslavl was skeptical. The number of times these over-the-transom information sellers actually had something of value, he could count on one hand. However, he had to admit, that ‘handful’ had done serious damage to US intelligence and their military, and had ousted more than a few double agents—who were quietly rounded up and shot down in the basement of some Moscow counter-intelligence site.
While they were still waiting for this ‘eye-popping’ information that they’d been promised, the Kremlin had learned through other sources that the Americans were so paranoid about what they’d discovered that they were expending massive resources to secure any similar ‘sites,’ while also acting as if the Antarctic continent had suddenly become American sovereign territory. The Russians had drawn the line there—and drawn American blood as well.
The room went dead quiet as security scurried near the doors. The President was about to enter. Everyone stood, most smoothing their uniforms or adjusting their out-of-place comb-overs. In strolled the President, cloaked in his typical casual clothing, as if he preparing to take a stroll in Gorky Park. He winked at the hostess setting up coffee and cakes, then nodded at the security staff, who efficiently escorted the service people from the room and closed the door.
The President pounded on the table. “Valentin….”
Yaroslavl stiffened. The first salvo was aimed right at his boss, whose anxiety was palpable. He’d told Yaroslavl before the meeting that his ass would be on the line.
“The rumors are the Americans found a buried spacecraft of alien origin—then cut it up and sent it home.” The President gave Petrov an icy stare as the seconds ticked by. “Yes? No?”
Yaroslavl expected to see Petrov stumble, then be verbally gutted like a fish, but instead his superior officer turned, made eye contact with Yaroslavl, and handed over the noose with a sharp nod.
Yaroslavl swore under his breath, military discipline and his survival instincts preventing him from giving away any outward expression.
He cleared his throat as he gathered his thoughts. “We have an evolving condition. Communications are disrupted over much of the Southern Hemisphere—and getting worse across the balance of the globe. Maintaining communication with our forces in the Southern Ocean is nearly impossible. We sent a third recon unit after the first two teams were killed in transport aircraft crashes—one shot down by the Americans, the second, unknown. We’ve had no further contact with any of the teams, nor the aircraft that air-dropped them in to the continent. We should consider those assets lost as well.”
All eyes focused on him as he addressed the President’s question: “We are waiting for the expected intelligence on exactly what was discovered.”
The President nodded but did not soften his glare. “So, you guarantee we can eliminate the American naval forces blockading our access to Antarctica?” He pounded on the table to make his next point. “We…must…have access…to Antarctica.”
Yaroslavl felt a flash of vertigo, envisioning the inevitable: the launch of nuclear warheads unleashing an unstoppable and apocalyptic escalation.
“Yes. Guaranteed.”
Chapter 16
The Situation Room, better known as the John F. Kennedy Conference Room, anchored the basement of the West Wing in the White House. Remodeled and updated, it nevertheless felt like a well-lit, high-tech subterranean fortress. Its cream-colored walls were lined with flat-screen monitors linked to the government’s communications systems around the globe. This allowed the President real-time contact anywhere on the planet at any time, including spec-ops commandos on the battlefield wearing helmet and body cams.
A wood-grain conference table dominated the limited interior space with traditional seating for twelve via high-back, black leather swivel chairs. Surrounding the perimeter were chairs set up for key aides and lesser officials.
Seated at the conference table: Admiral Kelly Rush, the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs; CIA Director Jorah Frohman; Air Force General Tommy Mattson; Army General Erik Heller; NSA Director Leonard Prince; Stanton Fischer; and Teresa Simpson.
Vice President Frederick Holder and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Marine General Gilman were not present but aboard an Airborne Command aircraft. In case of a surprise nuclear attack, key members of the government were sent to secure classified facilities or Airborne Command centers, thus preserving a portion of the civilian and military chains of command.
Everyone stood as Wheeler and Paulson entered the room. Wheeler nodded a greeting, patting Admiral Rush on the shoulder and sitting at the head of the conference table. Al Paulson took the empty chair immediately to the President’s left, and Teresa Simpson sat to the right.
Paulson winked a greeting at Teresa. At a critical moment during the Antarctic crisis, Teresa Simpson, then Director of the BLM and Leah’s former boss, had gone rogue and provided critical assistance, to both Paulson and Jack Hobson. Paulson had made sure to negotiate both her ongoing safety and a new position within the administration, working directly for the billionaire.
This was the first time all the major players, including Jack Hobson, Stan Fischer, Al Paulson, and William Wheeler would be confined together in tight quarters.
Within the White House, rumor had it that “those in the know” had started a pool, betting on exactly how long it would be before a fistfight broke out in the Situation Room, requiring Secret Service to bust in and break it up. The odds favored the first five minutes.
***
DARPA Director Kyra Gupta tapped Jack on the shoulder. “You hanging in okay?”
Jack turned to her and raised an eyebrow. “Helicopters are flying coffins—I never get comfortable once it’s off the ground.” He shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”
Kyra winced. “Is that fear rooted in personal experience?”
“Three times—once I was the only survivor. Didn’t even get a scratch.” He shrugged. “That’ll mess with your head.”
“And then you were nearly shot down over Mexico….”
“Actually, they never even tried, though they easily could have.”
She nodded. “The benefits of nuclear protection.”
“While it lasts,” he said with another shrug. “When and if I hand over the Hafnium warhead, there’s no question—I’ll be booked on a CIA black cruise, faster than you can fly this sucker down to South Beach for a margarita.”
“Well,” she said, “you brought up the topic, not me. But let me make my pitch again for giving up the location and allowing us to get the warhead secured. You know the volume of damage resulting from detonation, intentionally or by miscalculation.” Kyra touched his arm. “You’re under my protection, Jack. I’m on your side. Right now, we’re in charge.”
“Thanks,” he said, “but I saw a lot of friends, including a group of loyal Navy SEALs, sacrificed after repeated assurances to the contrary. I tested Wheeler and he screwed me more than once. That’ll never happen again.”
“Regardless, you’re a professional and part of my staff. In twenty minutes, you’ll be on the hot seat in the Situation Room with Wheeler and members of the cabinet. Tell me right now if you plan to sprint across the top of the conference table and tackle him.” She added a grin. “Jack Hobson, I swear, I will turn this helicopter right around.…”
Jack leaned back in his seat, chuckling.
“Hey, that’s totally in Wheeler’s hands. If he mentions Leah in anything but glowing terms, I’ll have my hands around his neck before the Secret Service can unlock the door.”
***
Secret Service agents escorted Jack and Kyra from the helo into the White House, where IDs were checked for, what felt like, the hundredth time since he’d met up with his boss for the morning’s trip.
Secret Service guided them into a secure elevator that descended to the Situation Room. Once more, Kyra quietly cautioned Jack to maintain his composure. They had a job to do, and theatrics wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interest, given the political and geopolitical tinder-box they were all tip-toeing around.
“Yes, Mom,” Jack whispered back.
The elevator doors opened; Kyra stepped out of the elevator with Jack directly following.
“The President’s ready for you, Dr. Gupta,” a Secret Service agent said.
Kyra smoothed her skirt one more time as the doors to the Situation Room swung open and every pair of eyes in the room focused on Jack. Or so it felt. He recognized most of the faces from the endless briefings and interrogations he’d undergone since returning from Antarctica, but only two reacted when he nodded a greeting: Paulson and Teresa Simpson.
Stan Fischer sat expressionless, the faint marks of his last fist-to-face contact with Jack fading but still visible.
At least the swelling’s gone down. Jack also noted that Fischer had lost weight, his hair had thinned, and his once-ramrod-straight posture was gone. He appeared mentally and physically beaten down. So much so that Jack almost felt sorry for the bastard. His clothing matched his deteriorating appearance, the suit looking slept-in, hosting more wrinkles than a Beijing street map at the end of tourist season.
Jack turned his attention to Wheeler, who flashed a campaign-quality smile that didn’t match up with the thinly veiled hostility in his eyes. Still, the President stood and managed an amiable introduction.
“We are fortunate to have superlative scientific minds hard at work already. DARPA is spearheading the examination and hypothetical applications of our technology windfall.” He held out both hands, palms up in greeting. “Many of you know Dr. Kyra Gupta personally if not, undoubtedly, by reputation.”
Kyra whispered to the A/V specialist. Flat screens illuminated and the lights dimmed. The man handed Kyra a wireless remote.
This is not her first time in front of a heavy-weight audience, Jack thought. No wonder she’s so relaxed.
“We’ve only scratched the surface with regard to our non-terrestrials and their technological capabilities,” she began. “Let. Me. Be. Clear. From the start. We have no knowledge of, nor are we in possession of: spaceships, starships, or an operational Death Star. Nor are we secretly hoarding warp-drives, hyper-drives, or ion drives. There are no lasers, phasers, blasters, or disrupters. We have seen no evidence of working ‘transporter systems’ or handy-dandy ‘wormhole-generators.’”
A slide flashed on the screens, featuring a high-res photo of the Antarctic facility’s airlock mechanism—a portal that Leah had opened with the touch of her palm.
“What we have found are clues: exciting, compelling, and mysterious. Our leading theory is that the ‘Complex,’ as we often refer to it, suffered a malfunction. Whether software, mechanical, or operational error is unknown. We know the interior had once been pressurized. Whether to provide a survivable atmosphere for non-terrestrial hosts, the human subjects, or some other purpose is, again, unknown. Ancient, mummified female remains were discovered near the airlock. Given what we learned from Dr. Leah Andrews’s ability to open the airlock with a touch, it’s possible that the dead woman opened both the inner and outer airlock doors at the same time. When she died, she was within a meter of the operating panel.”
The images on the screen brought Jack straight back to Antarctica. An involuntary shiver coursed down his spine. What a nightmare. A series of bad dreams, really. And they showed no signs of ending anytime soon.
“The resulting depressurization, similar to what you might expect if a commercial airliner suffered rapid depressurization, created a shock wave, fracturing the ice and sending an avalanche down the shoulders of the rock formation known as Thor’s Hammer. This sheet of ice gathered speed and momentum, shattering into pieces and becoming a full-scale avalanche, entombing the station. Perhaps the non-terrestrial crew ‘missed’ the fact a human hand with female chemistry would activate the opening mechanism. It’s also possible that the mechanism failed by other means.”
CIA Director Jorah Frohman, raised his hand, “Does that mean any female, not just Dr. Andrews, could have initiated the airlock system?”
Kyra nodded. “Because we salvaged working stasis units, DARPA has tested and proven this theory using our own scientists—starting with me.”
“I knew it,” Teresa Simpson said with satisfaction.
“What’s that, Ms. Simpson?” the President asked.
“Women are destined to rule the universe.”
“Well,” said Kyra, “we can infer that the non-terrestrials were humanoid, possibly female. The hand pattern, using that term loosely, and shoulder-high position on the access panel hints they were bipedal, with biometrics comparable to that of a human.”
Fischer, who hadn’t said a word or changed his expression, raised his hand. His voice was raspy and he coughed to clear his throat. “I believe that makes Dr. Andrews…expendable.”
Before Jack made a move in Fischer’s direction, Teresa Simpson struck like a cobra.
“Oh, now you want to give Leah the old heave-ho? Good luck, Fischer. You do know she has a well-trained, loyal, and lethal security force at her disposal, right? Whereas you’re lucky not to be sitting in a federal prison. My advice would be to watch your own back while you’re still a free man. Getting rid of her should be the last thing you’re worried about. Even if you could. Which you can’t.”
Fischer nodded. “I’m well aware that Dr. Andrews has an inflexible view regarding my well-being. She made her wishes regarding my future, or lack of, known on more than one occasion. This has nothing to do with Dr. Andrews, personally. It was simply a statement of fact, from a scientific standpoint.”
Jack found himself strangely lacking anger at the man. Seeing Fischer in his beat-down state made retaliation, verbal or otherwise, seem pointless.
“Enough,” Wheeler said, his voice icy. “The issue of Dr. Andrews has been litigated. At this point, it’s best for all parties to move forward.”
With impeccable timing, Kyra clicked on the next slide, which featured one of the “pod” units containing a cliff dweller still in stasis.
“Most of the material and mechanisms salvaged from the complex look like the contents of an auto chop shop after a police raid. An understandable result, given the inadequate time spent on site. Contained within it were more than forty such ‘stasis units.’ Twenty-nine were occupied by ‘Ancients,’ one having malfunctioned, the Ancient within deceased. To date, the stasis units are the crown jewels of the cache. When discovered, they were still operational—however, within ninety-six hours after breach, they shut down, one by one, in no identifiable order.”
Kyra addressed the room at large. “Enough of the whole ‘Debbie Downer’ thing. We are in possession of technologies that could radically change the fabric of our culture—our very future. The stasis units could provide life-saving, life-extending potential. Colonization of Mars could be within our grasp if we can reverse-engineer this technology. Placing a crew in stasis units prior to launch would allow astronauts to spend months, years, even decades in space, then be awakened upon reaching their destination. The ‘Ancients,’ as Dr. Andrews dubbed the twenty-eight Native Americans, who spent the better part of eight-hundred years in the units, were effectively shielded from radiation, did not age a day, and suffered no other obvious ill effects from their long isolation.”
&
nbsp; “Agreed, Dr. Gupta,” Admiral Rush said, “That is certainly a treasure beyond our wildest dreams. I have full confidence you will succeed in your charge to ‘reverse-engineer’ everything in our possession. Now, you lightheartedly mentioned weaponry—my concern, should more of these ‘complexes’ be discovered. Our number-one national-security concern, far exceeding anything else at this time, is preventing this hyper-technology from falling into foreign hands. I know that DARPA is tasked with using the recovered artifacts to develop a sound search-and-find strategy. What do you have that we can use right now?”
Kyra nodded. “We haven’t formulated any scientifically proven methodology concerning finding more complexes. Jack Hobson is working with our team on this critical assignment. While we can theorize on technology-based location solutions, Jack brings a wealth of experience. Not only boots-on-the-ground exploration of Antarctica, but on all seven continents, including some of the most inhospitable environments on earth. Assuming we come up with no viable technological search method, Jack’s knowledge and experience may be our best chance of finding another complex.”
“Why do you say that?” Wheeler asked.
“Because, Mr. President, we more than seven billion people on this planet. There’s hardly any place we haven’t already mined, explored, blown up, or torn up, being the less-than-delicate species we are. If there are other complexes, it’s likely they’ve been shielded by advanced technology rendering them invisible. It’s our belief, as we have said, that the search should be focused upon Antarctica. However, having been tasked with all possible scenarios—i.e., search every haystack on planet earth—this is what we have.”
Jack fought to keep a straight face. He was dying to needle Kyra about schooling Wheeler. He’d have to wait until they were flying back to DARPA. He had a more urgent duty right now: take the heat off Kyra.
Jack cleared his throat and raised a hand. “A thousand years ago, Antarctica was uninhabited and, for all practical purposes, it remains so today. That allowed non-terrestrials free rein, operating within the continent without cultural disruption or contamination beyond what they were already willing to risk. As Dr. Gupta explained, we believe the complex experienced an accident. Otherwise, it would have been discovered long ago by explorers. Thor’s Hammer, the rock formation that towered over the site, has been used by pilots as a navigational tool for more than fifty years. It was my accidental fall into a crevasse that brought the existence of the complex to our attention.
