by Kevin Tinto
Devastated by the thought that she was leading these amazing young officers on a lethal fool’s errand, Leah could only manage a nod.
“Okay then,” West said. “Char, get a chart—no, better yet, get a good-sized map of Antarctica out of the flight case.” She turned to Leah. “Take the map back to your shaman buddy. Show it to him. Make him point out where this alien complex sits. If he ‘transferred’ this information to you, maybe it’s like an old-fashioned fax. The original always has the sharpest information.”
Chapter 70
President William Wheeler fell back into the couch in the private residence. At first, he’d thought he could still beat them. But, hour by hour, the reality had sunk in.
There was no one he could blame except himself. Beaten…no, destroyed by a group of homegrown terrorists, led by a corporate raider who, in normal circumstances, would be licking the bottoms of his shoes. No, not even the most powerful political fireman could douse this roaring inferno and save his administration.
Wheeler pushed himself off the couch and steadied himself against the dizziness. Gravity was pulling his pants toward the carpet, his belt no longer able to prevent their fall.
He unfastened the belt, intending to tightened it an additional notch. When he looked down, he saw the belt was already on the last notch. To tighten the belt any more, he’d have to cut another hole in it.
Wheeler counted back four notches, to where the belt had a well-worn crease, from back when he’d thought he looked great in the mirror, even if he needed to lose five or ten pounds.
Back in the heady, early days of his administration, winning the election, putting into action his vision for the country and the world—that seemed a lifetime away. As his realm began to collapse, like a bubble, shrinking in size, he’d had to pull the belt tighter as well. It was ironic that most people would dream about the problem of having their belt grow too long. For Wheeler, though, it signaled defeat. Each notch one step closer to the end.
Wheeler carefully refastened the belt and pulled his pants up to the point he thought they’d stay in place, at least for a few minutes. That’s all that would be required. He shuffled toward a chair, where his suit jacket had been folded and laid across the back. He put the jacket on, making sure to button it.
He walked into his bedroom, then into the closet. At the bottom of a box full of old magazines, where he’d been featured as an up and coming public servant, Wheeler pulled out an ancient handgun. Given to him by his father, it was a Remington 1911, handed down to his father by his grandfather and used during World War II during the invasion of Italy. It hadn’t been fired for decades but was loaded with a full magazine, exactly as it had been when his father handed it over to him some twenty years prior.
Wheeler felt the cold steel, and it reminded him of home, growing up in Michigan. Summers on the lakes, winters building endless snowmen, and riding his wooden toboggan down the small hill behind his house.
He drew a deep breath, then walked to a dining table, where he sat and placed the 1911 on the surface. He pushed the handgun back for a moment, having second thoughts. Was this to be his legacy? Or was there still a ray of hope, a path back to his true destiny as the most successful and loved president of the United States since John F. Kennedy?
***
Teresa Simpson was in West Wing of the White House, waiting anxiously for the daily security briefing with the President, when all hell broke loose. Secret Service came running from every direction, several wielding fully automatic weapons.
“What is going on?” she shouted to one of agents running past.
“Shelter in place, ma’am. For your own protection.”
“Why?”
“The President has been shot in the private residence.”
Teresa shut the door to her office, heart racing. Shelter-in-place, the president shot? That meant there was an active shooter in the White House. She wondered if she should barricade the door shut. This was a scenario that she’d trained for on several occasions, but to think it might be happening for real was almost paralyzing. Had Paulson’s guess about a coup correct? Brazenly taking place right inside the White House?’
Her terror ramped up a whole lot higher when the brass handle knob turned and the door was shoved open. To her immense relief, it was Kerrie Handleson, one of the executive assistants. Tears were running down her cheek and she seemed on the edge of breaking down.
“No,” she moaned to Teresa. “No. No. No.”
“What’s happening?” Teresa said, holding Kerrie’s shoulders and looking her in the eye.
“President Wheeler shot himself.”
Chapter 71
Leah sat in the port jump seat, her emotions a complicated mix of excitement and dread. She was excited one moment, that the Ancients were back on track, returning to their genuine purpose—not the flawed Settlement. The next moment she felt only fear, dread, and darkness.
Leah had gotten a huge boost when she’d flattened the plastic continental map of Antarctica on the floor of the C-17’s fuselage and told the shaman, “Ha’át’éegi.”
Without hesitation, Appanoose slammed his forefinger down on the map. The good news was that he apparently knew, without doubt, where to find this twin-domed complex.
The bad news was that Appanoose’s spot was a thousand kilometers from McMurdo. Leah had no idea how they’d travel that distance on open ice. Jane told her that McMurdo had specially designed trucks, snow cats, and fuel. Thousands of gallons of fuel were necessary to run the convoys between Murdo and Amundsen-Scott. With some skills at hotwiring, she’d have plenty of transportation at her beck and call. Given that they were headed off on the Transverse, a prepared ice highway, they might want to stick with the snow cats, except that they burned a whole lot more fuel. She’d have to make that call when she got there.
Leah looked out the windscreen and down on the ice below. Barren for as far as the eye could see. She had flashbacks of making a similar flight in the Caribou, her biggest concern then had been having to use some makeshift toilet.
Colonel Kelleher sat in the other jump seat. Upon waking, he’d immediately demanded control of the aircraft, challenging Jane West and insisting she turn the Globemaster over to him.
As Leah promised, she’d backed up Major West, but Kelleher had continued to argue.
Finally, Leah held up a hand. “Colonel.” She placed her forefinger and thumb less than an inch apart. “I’m this close to ordering the crew to lower the ramp and having your ass tossed off the aircraft.”
That had shut him up.
Major West had told Leah about the McMurdo evacuation, immediately after the event in Antarctica. They managed to evacuate all nine-hundred, or so residents off before the geo-magnetic net had fully engulfed the continent. This meant that they’d be landing at a ghost town.
“There!”
Leah looked out the windscreen. Captain Ross was pointing out the right side of the aircraft. In the distance, Leah could make out the buildings and structures that made up the McMurdo complex. Unlike GPS navigation, which brought aircraft in on an exact route, flying by dead-reckoning and inertial guidance was more like hand-grenade combat. Close was good enough.
“Great job, Char,” said West, as she banked the Globemaster, now flying at twelve-thousand feet over the Ross Ice Shelf in clear conditions. When the Globemaster overflew the ski-way at three-thousand AGL, even Leah could see it was in perfect condition.
“Maybe your luck is changing.” West told her. Charlotte Ross and Jane West got busy configuring the Globemaster for landing. Colonel Kelleher continued to backseat-fly, but the women ignored him.
“How long till we touchdown?” Leah asked.
“Fifteen minutes,” Charlotte replied. “Make sure everyone is buckled up in back—and ready for a ski-way landing. The tires make a helluva roar on the ice, and the reversers wi
ll kick up ice onto the fuselage.”
Leah got up from the jump seat and worked her way into the cargo hold. Gordon had dosed the Ancients an hour ago with another shot of sedative in preparation for landing. He looked up, and gave her a rare thumbs-up. Adventure was growing on Gordon, it seemed.
Appanoose stood near the aircraft bulkhead. Leah pointed toward one of the empty seats. He gave one nod, then sat in the nearest empty seat. He pulled up on the seat belt, looked at it only for a moment, then snapped it together with some guidance from Leah.
She walked to the back of the seats and found Captain Hutchinson and the two helo crews sitting on the fuselage, a box full of cartridges and a stack of magazines beside them. Hutchinson said, “I thought we better get some magazines loaded—never know what we’ll run into out there.”
“Good thinking.”
“How far, ma’am?” asked Lieutenant Cruz.
“How far to where, lieutenant?”
“To where we’re headed?”
“A long way. Is this your first time in Antarctica?”
“Yes, ma’am. Looks pretty exciting from what we saw out the windscreen.”
“Don’t let that fool you—this place is a stone-cold killer.”
Leah felt the landing gear coming down, heard the sound the air buffeting the gear and tires. They were on final approach into the ski-way.
She thought about working her way back to the cockpit but decided against it. Instead, she plopped down next to the shaman, who had his eyes closed and was chanting in Lakota.
Even alien-juiced Ancients didn’t like to fly, she thought, a wry grin edging up the corners of her lips.
***
One hour later, Leah stood on the ice, bundled up but still freezing. A breeze was blowing from the west, cutting through the layers. The Ancients stood next to her, in a group, also bundled but apparently unaffected by the cold, chattering away in a multitude of native languages, pointing out the structures and the landscape.
Hutchinson and the helicopter pilots were rushing around, unloading snow machines off the Globemaster ramp, hooking up the toboggans, and loading medical gear and food and water. Gordo had been right. The young men were a godsend.
Gordon said he’d take K’aalógii off the Propofol once they’d reached altitude in the Globemaster, and the plane was pressured to eight-thousand feet. With the increase in altitude, he was confident that her symptoms could be managed. Leah hoped Gordon was right. Everything was simply an educated guess, concerning the changes on physiology.
Major Jane West walked down the ramp, and then ran over to Leah, wrapping her arms around her and hugged. “We’re so worried for you,” she said. “Are you sure you want to do this? We can load everyone back up and get you and the Ancients out of here.”
“Honestly, Jane. I’d love to do that.”
She nodded eagerly. “We can have everyone back aboard and be gone in twenty minutes.”
Before Leah responded, Kelleher was shouting out the rear of the ramp.
“Major West. Let’s go! If the weather degrades we could be stuck here for months! Come on! Now!”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Hate to say it, but he’s right. We’re flying Visual Flight Rules until we get back into the Southern Ocean. What do you think?”
Leah smiled but shook her head. “These people have a destiny. An amazing, wonderful, fabulous destiny—and I’m responsible for destroying that. I have to get them back to a place where they have another chance.”
Jane took a deep breath, then leaned over and hugged Leah so tight it squeezed half the wind out of her.
“You have a satellite phone?”
Leah nodded. “Not that it’ll do any good.”
Jane tucked a piece of paper with a number and email address. “When you’re ready to get the hell out of here—you call, text, email, whatever. Got it? I fuel the bird and we’re coming back for you.”
Leah hugged Jane back before the pilot turned around and sprinted for the ramp, where Kelleher was still signaling for her get aboard.
“Captain Hutchinson!” Leah shouted.
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Let’s get everyone inside Murdo and crank some heat. What’s on my Christmas list, Captain?”
“Ah—long-range snowcats and lots of gas.”
“Exactly.” She nodded toward the structures. “Start moving the Ancients away from the Globemaster. Kelleher’s got an itchy takeoff finger, and we don’t wanna be in his way.”
Hutchinson signaled to the other pilots and they started leading everyone toward the buildings in the distance. Two of the pilots operated the snow machines with K’aalógii and the medical gear onboard and Gordon riding on the back. Murdo had a full hospital, which he would make full use of, as needed.
At the front of the procession, Appanoose led the Ancients. She’d gotten them this far. It was up to Appanoose to get them the rest of the way to the connected dome complex—if it existed.
What a switch from the old days, working as an archaeologist, worried sick every second of every day when Jack was off on some world-class summit climb. She had to trust that, true to form, Jack was tough as they come and a survivor, along with Al Paulson and Teresa Simpson.
Captain Hutchinson ran up to her as the Globemaster was spooling up the number one engine. “I know there’s this weird interference, but we stole several satellite phones from Holloman.”
Leah nodded. “Long shot, Captain. I have one, too.”
“We can always hope the interference dissipates. Call in a C-130. Get us out of here?”
“Don’t you remember what you were taught in high school?”
“Ah—well, I didn’t pay too much attention in high school, so probably not.”
“Hope is not a method....”
Hutchinson looked at her with a blank expression, then burst out laughing.
“Good one, doc. I’ll have to spread that one around.”
Leah waved him off, then studied the horizon ahead. Hope might not be a method, but that’s all she had right now…and it was in critically low supply.
What was it Commander Beckam said?
Embrace the suck. Get comfortable with the uncomfortable....
Well, there was plenty of suck, and she had a feeling it was gonna get a whole lot worse. Searching for a needle in a haystack in the most inhospitable place on the planet…. That was bad enough. Then there was the part of her vision that she hadn’t mentioned to anyone: the two massive bursts of energy, ice blocks the size of skyscrapers. If one part of her vision were true, wouldn’t that mean all of it had to be true?
“Jack Hobson,” she said out loud. “If you’re out there, get your ass down here and save me!”
“Did you say something, Dr. Andrews?” Hutchinson asked.
“Nothing you have to be worried about, Captain. Let’s get to work.”
Hutchinson gave her a salute, then ran ahead to help lead the Ancients toward McMurdo—and their destiny.
Epilogue
I was born at night, but not last night. That’s what Luke Derringer had said for more years than he could remember any time some shifty actor tried to pull a fast one over on him.
The boys who were sneaking up on the airfield, off-road, in the middle of night had another thing coming if they thought Luke Derringer was gonna be caught with his pants down, waiting for his head to be blown off.
Sound carried over the desert. Hell, he hadn’t even been outside when he sensed something was off. For someone in his 90s, Luke had pretty good hearing, but you didn’t live in the desert your whole life without picking up some instincts along the way.
He picked up a set of binoculars that sat on the counter of the FBO lounge, then walked out back toward the World War II-era hangar than had originally been constructed out of tin, then patched up with aluminum over th
e years. He’d learned decades ago that he could hear aircraft inbound from the south much, much earlier if he happened to be working on something behind the hangar.
Countless winter storms had battered the south side of the hangar over the years, slowly bending the tin and aluminum siding into a slight concave shape. If he stood in the right spot, the magnified the sound of inbound aircraft, gave him an extra minute or two to brew up fresh hot coffee, maybe even open a box of donuts if he had any in the kitchen, before an aircraft landed.
Tonight, as he stood on the ‘spot’ behind the hangar, he heard trucks working their way across the washes, the crunch of their tires running through gravel.
He walked around the hangar, braced an arm on the wall, and lifted the heavy binoculars to his eyes. It was moonless, still, and the stars shone bright, their light reflecting dimly off the sand and rock. The low growl of the engines and sound of the tires across open desert intensified as the two trucks rolled over the top of a small hill; then the noise faded as they dipped down into a wash.
The next time the convoy reached the top of a hill, Luke made out two trucks. The lead vehicle was clearly struggling to get through the loose sand and soil. It stopped, backed down the hill, out of Luke’s sight, then tried another path up the rise that featured more solid ground.
Bet that’s making ’em madder than a wet hen, he thought. Wasting time. They should have scouted it out by foot first.
They would’ve been a whole lot smarter to come by plane, Luke thought. Hell, I would’ve welcomed ’em with open arms and hot coffee.
Luke carried one of his two Glock handguns at all times. Trouble rarely visited his remote airstrip, but that didn’t mean he was unprepared for it.
Luke estimated they were still at least a mile, perhaps a mile and a half out. He hobbled around to the front doors of the hangar, spun the combination on the padlock and removed the chain that secured the two doors closed. He slid one door open, then went to the other door and rolled it as far as it would go.
