Quinn touched the brim in a casual salute to the captain, then sauntered over to join Max Stafford at the window.
The two men stood side by side watching the lovely, athletic African-American woman stride across the pitching deck with perfect balance, oblivious to the storm swirling around her.
“Her old man was a tough bastard with a big reputation on the ice. Probably wanted a son,” said Quinn. After a pause, his jaw muscles clenched. “He got one.”
“Nice toys,” murmured Lex in a stunned breath as she moved farther into the cavernous main hold of the Piper Maru.
Tracked vehicles, heavy lifting and earth-moving machinery, prefabricated shelters, electric generators, hydraulic apparatus, harsh-weather gear, oxygen tanks, saws and handheld digging tools crammed the vast area. Thanks to her father, Lex had already experienced more Antarctic expeditions in her twenty-eight years than most scientists saw in their lifetimes, but she’d never before seen this amount of expensive equipment in one place.
Vehicles—including ten Hagglunds—dominated the deck, while mountains of packing crates were secured to the four walls. Most of the crates were branded with Weyland Industries’ ubiquitous W—the same W that Lex had seen on every damned vehicle, jumpsuit and flight attendant uniform during her trip to this icebreaker.
In one corner of the mammoth hold, Lex noticed a makeshift briefing area. Dozens of folding chairs had been arranged in an unbalanced circle around packing crates piled high enough to create an elevated stage.
Lex estimated there were thirty to forty other passengers milling around the hold, ogling the expedition toys. She divided them into two groups—scientists, of which she was one; and roughnecks, the folks who would be operating the heavy machinery. The latter were a different breed, common in Antarctica and one that Lex was, unfortunately, all too familiar with.
Lashed down in the center of the hold was a pair of enormous vehicles, each roughly the size of an eighteen-wheeler. Lex recognized them from her stint as an environmental specialist at the Natural and Accelerated Bioremediation Research Center at the Oak Ridge National Laboratories. They were self-contained mobile drilling rigs equipped with multi-spectrum sampling labs, though the prototypes at ORNL were nowhere near as advanced as these models. She approached the machines to get a better look. A moment later, Miller appeared at her side, sans luggage and wearing dry clothes.
“That’s some pretty fancy gear over there,” she noted, nodding toward the drilling rigs.
Miller nodded. “Wonder what it does?”
Before Lex had a chance to tell him, someone else did.
“Well,” said Sebastian De Rosa, stepping up to them. “That right there”—he pointed to a collection of pipes on the side of the machine—“is a sophisticated thermal exchanger. So my guess would be some kind of drilling device based around heat.”
Miller raised a finger. “Don’t tell me… physicist?”
“Archaeologist, actually,” said Sebastian. “My colleague Thomas and I have an interest in anything that digs or tunnels.”
“The mystery grows,” Miller said, obviously enjoying every minute of this adventure. “We have a chemical engineer, an archaeologist, and an environmentalist. I even met an Egyptologist over there. So what are we all doing on the same boat?”
Sebastian arched an eyebrow. “I presume one of us is the murderer. That is the tradition, isn’t it?”
Lex smiled, her first since her forced departure from Nepal. She could not help being charmed. When Lex noticed an unusual object dangling from a leather thong around his neck, she asked him, point blank, “What’s with the bottle cap?”
“It’s a valuable archaeological find,” he replied without a trace of irony.
Miller, meanwhile, had become so insatiably curious about the drilling rigs that he climbed a metal ladder to investigate without permission. He stood on top of one machine, then climbed down the opposite side. The cab was unlocked, so Miller hopped behind the wheel and began bouncing around like a kid on a hobby horse.
Suddenly, Miller was surrounded by four large, muscular men wearing battle fatigues. They wore tags that read Verheiden, Boris, Mikkel, and Sven. None of the men was smiling. Instead, they were looming. Sitting between them Miller looked like a thread of dental floss. The biggest man—Verheiden—had a long scar running down his cheek. He thrust his head into the cab and leaned into Miller’s face.
“Having fun?”
Miller nodded. “My first real adventure. I can’t wait to tell my kids about all this.”
Verheiden sneered. “This might be an adventure for you, Dad, but for the rest of us it’s a job. Get off the equipment and go back to the suburbs before you walk us all off a cliff.”
When Miller didn’t respond instantly, Verheiden yelled, “Keep your hands off the hardware or you’ll be wearing your ass for a hat!”
Miller quickly scrambled out of the cab as Lex approached.
“Nice team spirit,” she said.
Verheiden looked at Lex, then at Maxwell Stafford.
“Keep the Beakers away from the gear,” he barked.
Max Stafford sighed. A meticulous organizer, he had worked long and hard to put this very expensive expedition together. The last thing he needed was a personality clash, which led to bruised egos and wasted energy. The endeavor they were about to embark upon was too important for either. He stepped between Miller and Verheiden’s team.
Verheiden turned his back on Lex and Miller and contemptuously surveyed the collection of overeducated, underdeveloped brainiacs milling around the hold, examining everything as if they were peering through electron microscopes.
“Just keep the goddamn Beakers away from my gear,” he snarled again.
This time Verheiden’s remark evoked applause, catcalls and derisive laughter from his own men and some of the roughnecks.
“What’s a Beaker?” Miller asked.
Lex crossed her arms. “It’s what they call scientists out here. You know… Beaker? Like in The Muppet Show?
Miller’s face lit up. “Beaker… I kinda like that.”
“The briefing is to start in five minutes,” said Max Stafford. “Please take your seats.”
Sebastian De Rosa found a place in the front row, close to the makeshift podium. As he sat down and crossed his legs, Thomas hurried across the hold to his side.
“Weyland’s check cleared.”
“Good,” said Sebastian. “We’re going to listen to whatever he has to say. We nod, we smile, and then we politely decline whatever offer he makes, take the money and head back to Mexico.”
Five minutes later, everyone in the mammoth hold was seated in folding chairs, grouped together by profession. The muscle—Verheiden, Sven, Mikkel, Boris, and Adele Rousseau—sat together in one clique; Quinn, Connors and the roughnecks in another. The third group was more casual and was comprised of the scientists and researchers from diverse disciplines that Charles Weyland had assembled from the four corners of the world.
Stafford noticed that Lex had aligned herself with them.
As an experienced leader of men, Max Stafford felt the tension rippling through the ship’s hold like charged particles before a lightning strike. Some of the heightened emotion was due to the team’s uncertainty about why they’d been brought here and what was expected of them. But once these people were made aware of the reasons for this voyage, uncertainty would be replaced by other emotions—scientific curiosity and the joy of discovery, perhaps, along with baser instincts like greed and ambition.
Forging such a diverse group into a functional and efficient team would be a challenge, Stafford decided as he stepped onto the makeshift platform. Then again, his job usually was.
“Everybody, please, your attention!” Stafford announced into the microphone. His amplified voice reverberated hollowly in the cavernous space.
“Most of you already know me, and I know all of you, by reputation if not yet personally. My name is Maxwell Stafford and I’ve been aut
horized by Mr. Weyland to assemble this team—”
Suddenly a pale hand fell on his shoulder. Max turned.
“Mr. Weyland,” he said, surprised.
“Thank you, Max. I’ll take it from here,” Charles Weyland replied. Stafford stepped back, and the billionaire leader of the mysterious expedition took center stage.
Though well into his fourth decade, not a trace of gray could be seen in his thick shock of black hair. With his broad, commanding forehead, wide mouth, piercing, ice-blue eyes, and sinewy frame, Charles Weyland looked more like a sports enthusiast than an industrialist—an illusion he fostered by appearing in public with a golf club slung over his shoulder. Waiting patiently for the murmurs of surprise and recognition to fade, Weyland twirled his nine iron once, then leaned on it with both hands.
“I hope you’ve all had a chance to freshen up, perhaps catch a little sleep,” he began. “I know some of you have just arrived, and all of you traveled a long way to be here, and at very short notice. Let me assure you, however, that your journey has not been in vain.”
The lights in the hold dimmed, and a digital projector illuminated a large square of the peeling metal bulkhead behind the platform. Weyland stood silhouetted in the light.
“Seven days ago one of my satellites over Antarctica was hunting for mineral deposits when a sudden heat bloom beneath the earth outlined this—”
The square of white light was replaced by a hazy, red-and-yellow-hued satellite image. Outlined in blood red on a background of pale yellow and burnt orange, a pattern of interlocking square shapes was clearly visible.
“This is a thermal image,” Weyland continued, gesturing with his nine iron. “The red lines indicate solid walls. The orange, solid rock. My experts tell me it’s a pyramid. What they can’t agree on is who built it and when….”
Sebastian De Rosa found his interest piqued for the first time since he’d arrived on the ship.
“What caused the heat bloom?” Thomas asked.
“We don’t know. But one expert tells me that this feature is reminiscent of the Aztecs….”
The image behind Weyland shifted angles.
“Another tells me that this is probably Cambodian….”
Yet another satellite image of the pyramid silhouette appeared on the wall over Weyland’s shoulder.
“But everyone agrees that the smooth side is definitively Egyptian.”
Thomas, an acclaimed Egyptologist, nodded in agreement.
“Why would anyone build a pyramid out here?” Miller asked.
“Ancient maps show Antarctica free of ice,” said Thomas, echoing his mentor Sebastian’s theories. “It’s likely that the continent was once habitable.”
Sebastian De Rosa rose and stepped closer to the image on the wall. Weyland’s penetrating blue eyes searched him out.
“Mr. De Rosa?”
“I think your experts are right.”
“Which one?”
Sebastian smiled. “All of them. The Egyptians, the Cambodians and the Aztecs all built pyramids. Three separate cultures that lived thousands of miles apart—”
“With no communication between them,” Thomas added.
“Yet what they built was almost identical.” Sebastian stepped right up to the wall and stared at the projection. “This is clearly a temple complex. A series of pyramids, probably, and there is the ceremonial road connecting them.”
Sebastian De Rosa’s words caused a ripple of excitement on the Beaker side of the room. Pausing for effect, Weyland swung his nine iron with one hand, then rested it on his shoulder.
Oblivious to the growing clamor, Sebastian remained focused on the projected image. “Almost identical,” he said again.
“Meaning what, exactly?” Lex asked.
“This might be the first pyramid ever built,” Sebastian replied.
Miller scratched his head. “Built by whom?”
It was Sebastian De Rosa who replied, in a voice that barely contained his growing excitement. “The master culture from which all others are derived,” he announced.
“If it could be the first pyramid, it could also be the last,” Weyland said. “An amalgam of the ones that came before it. There’s no proof of any connection between the cultures you cited.”
Sebastian shook his finger at the image. “This photo is the proof.”
Weyland smiled at Dr. De Rosa, somewhat condescendingly, Lex felt.
“I can’t tell you who built it,” said Miller, speaking up. “But if I could take a sample from it, I could tell you how old it is.”
“Within how many years, Professor?” Max Stafford asked.
“Actually, it’s Doctor,” Miller replied. “And I’ll give you the exact year… I’m that good.”
“Well, Doctor Miller,” said Weyland, “I’m offering to put you right next to the thing.”
Lex stared at the image, clearly puzzled. “Where exactly on the ice is this thing?”
“Bouvetoya Island,” Weyland answered, sending a sickening jolt through Lex. “But it’s not on the ice. It’s two thousand feet under it.”
The thermal image of the pyramid disappeared from the wall, to be replaced with a satellite image of what looked like a Montana ghost town in the winter.
“The pyramid is directly below this abandoned whaling station, which will serve as our base camp.”
A babel of voices erupted from all sides.
Weyland pointed his nine iron at the tall roughneck wearing a cowboy hat. “Mr. Quinn.”
The man rose. When Lex spied him she frowned.
“Mr. Stafford, Mr. Weyland,” Quinn began. “You’re looking at the best drilling team in the world. We’ll chew to that depth in seven days.”
“Add three weeks on top of that to train everyone here,” Lex Woods said.
On the podium, Weyland shook his head.
“We don’t have that kind of time. I’m not the only one with a satellite over Antarctica. Others will be here soon, if they’re not here already.”
“Maybe I wasn’t clear,” said Lex. “No one in this hold is ready for this trip.”
Weyland offered Lex a smile meant to be charming. It reminded her of a hungry shark.
“That’s why I invited you here, Ms. Woods. You’re our expert on snow and ice.”
Lex didn’t like being put on the spot, as was obvious from her expression. But she refused to back down.
“Bouvetoya is one of the most isolated places in the world,” she said. “The nearest land is a thousand miles away. There’s no help for us if we run into trouble.”
Weyland nodded. “You’re right. It’s a no-man’s-land. But the train has left the station. I think I speak for everyone aboard this ship—”
The image behind the billionaire shifted again to show another angle of the mysterious buried pyramid. Weyland pointed to it with his nine iron.
“—This is worth the risk.”
Lex looked around the room. She saw curiosity, interest, and greed etched on the faces all around her. But no fear. Not even the slightest apprehension. And that’s what concerned Lex the most.
The projected image vanished and the lights returned.
“That concludes our briefing, gentlemen—and ladies. Mess call is in ninety minutes. I hope you enjoy it. I had the chef flown in from my hotel in Paris… the filet mignon will be excellent.”
Charles Weyland looked directly at Lex Woods. “Will you be joining us?”
Lex turned her back on the billionaire and strode across the hold.
“Find another guide,” she called over her shoulder.
CHAPTER 6
The Piper Maru,
310 Miles from Bouvetoya Island
Charles Weyland began to wheeze in the corridor before he even reached his stateroom. Eyes tearing, he tucked his head into his chest and choked back a cough. If he started now, Weyland doubted he could stop. So he suppressed the urge, but at a cost. He stumbled and nearly fell, the nine iron clattering onto the steel deck.<
br />
Then a powerful arm circled his waist, a deep voice rumbled in his ear. “Lean on me.”
“I’m okay, Max,” Weyland rasped.
Steadier now, he pushed Max aside and rose to his full height. “Hand me my club and open the door before anyone sees me like this.”
Using the club for a cane, Weyland hobbled to his cabin. Max quickly closed and locked the door behind them, then helped Charles Weyland slump into a padded leather chair. Max leaned the nine iron against the wall and offered his boss a clear plastic oxygen mask. Weyland took several long, deep breaths, and some color returned to his gaunt face.
“Thank you,” he said between gulps.
When his strength returned, Weyland discarded the mask and scanned the stateroom, which more resembled a hospital ward. His nose curled from the medicinal stench of the sickroom.
“The mirror, please.”
Max rolled a portable vanity table and mirror in front of Weyland’s chair and stepped away. Weyland gazed at his wan reflection for a moment, then sank into his chair and even deeper into his memories.
At twenty-one, Charles Weyland possessed a Harvard M.B.A. and a small satellite mapping company inherited from his father. Two years later he’d purchased a cable franchise in the Midwest, then a telecommunications grid in Nevada. Within a decade marked by shrewd and calculated expansion, Weyland Industries had become the largest satellite systems operation in the world, the company worth in excess of three hundred billion dollars. His financial empire secure, Charles Weyland had set out to change the world.
“Expanding the range of human endeavor” was more than the Weyland Industries catch phrase—it was the sum of Charles Weyland’s personal philosophy. His mother dead before he was two, raised by a succession of nannies under the cold eye of a harsh, agnostic father, Weyland had lacked parental love or even the comforting faith in a higher power. So he’d made progress his creed, vowing to use his wealth to advance the frontiers of human civilization.
To that end, he’d begun to lead a double life. The public Charles Weyland threw lavish parties, attended openings and charity events, bought luxury hotels in San Francisco, Paris and London. Billionaire Charles Weyland built a casino in Las Vegas and was very much a fixture of the society page, a shallow playboy who always had a beautiful woman on his arm and his signature nine iron draped over his shoulder. But like the hotels, the casino and the golf club, the women were mere props—part of an elaborate and calculated deception that enabled Charles Weyland to accomplish his real goals behind the scenes and under the radar.
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