“Plant traces. Layered mud. Some macro-organic remains like wood.”
“Mud and wood,” Ekberg said.
Marshall laughed. “Not sexy enough for Terra Prime, is it?”
She laughed in return. “What can you do with those?”
“Well, wood and other organics can be radiocarbon-dated to determine how long ago the glacier buried them. Mud samples are processed for pollen, which in turn indicates what kind of plants and trees were dominant prior to the glaciation. See, modern ecologists are stuck analyzing the world as it exists today, which has been hugely impacted by humans over the last hundred centuries. But with the samples, the readings, the observations I make here, I can reconstruct the world as it existed before humans became the dominant element.”
“You can recreate the past,” Ekberg said.
“In a way, yes.”
“Sounds pretty sexy to me. And I suppose a glacier’s the perfect place to do this because it would have locked everything into a deep freeze, preserving it like a time capsule.”
“Exactly right,” Marshall said. He was impressed by her ability to quickly size up and understand an unfamiliar discipline. “Not to mention the fact that when the ice melts, it simply releases its contents. No muss, no fuss—and no need for a lot of work with shovels and chisels uncovering fossils and subfossils.”
“A very pragmatic approach. What are subfossils? Really small fossils?”
Marshall had to laugh again. “That’s what paleontologists call fossils less than ten thousand years old.”
“I see.” She turned to the struggling Faraday. “And Dr. Faraday, you’re an evolutionary biologist, right?”
Faraday stopped to catch his breath, and the others halted obligingly. He nodded as he shifted his day pack from one shoulder to the other.
“And that means…?”
“Put simply, I study how species change over time,” Faraday puffed.
“And why are you doing it here, in such an inhospitable place?”
“My research involves the effect of global warming on species development.”
A smile formed on her face. “So you really are working on global warming. While Dr. Marshall, here, is simply taking advantage of it.”
Alarm bells rang faintly in Marshall’s head: Terra Prime had funded their expedition with the understanding it would involve global warming. But Ekberg’s smile was a friendly one, and so he just smiled in return.
They stopped a moment so Ekberg could transcribe a few more notes. Marshall waited, looking out over the horizon. Then he paused. Plucking out his binoculars, he passed them to Ekberg. “Take a look. Out there on the permafrost, to the southwest.”
She peered through the glasses a moment. “Speak of the devil. Two polar bears.” She stared a minute, then passed the binoculars back. “Do we need to turn back?”
“We should be fine up here on the mountain. Normally, one of us would be armed.”
“So why aren’t we?”
“I refuse to carry a weapon. And Wright here is absentminded. Come on, we should get going.”
As they approached the glacier, Marshall looked up a little apprehensively at the glacial wall, but the recent frigid temperatures had arrested its retreat and the ice face looked much the same as it had three days ago when the cave was first exposed.
“That’s the cave,” he said, pointing at the black maw near the base of the glacier.
Ekberg glanced toward it. Although her face betrayed nothing, Marshall knew she must be disappointed not to see inside. He nodded to Faraday. The biologist reached into the pocket of his parka, pulled out a large glossy photograph, and handed it to Ekberg.
“This is what we found,” Marshall said. “A print from our video recording.”
She took the photo eagerly. Staring at it, she caught her breath audibly.
“It died with its eyes open,” she breathed.
Nobody answered; nobody needed to.
“My God. What is it?”
“We can’t be sure,” he replied. “As you can see from the photo, the ice is very opaque, and we can only see the eyes, some surrounding fur. But we believe it may be a Smilodon.”
“A what?”
“Smilodon. Better known as a saber-toothed tiger.”
“Which is technically incorrect,” Faraday said. “Because the Smilodon descends from a completely different line than the tiger.”
But Ekberg didn’t seem to hear. She was staring at the photo, wide-eyed, digital recorder forgotten for once.
“We think that because of the eyes,” Marshall said. “They resemble very closely the eyes of the big cats—of all cats, for that matter. Note they are predator’s eyes: large, forward-facing. There’s the wide area of iris, the vertical pupils. I’d bet that an autopsy will reveal a layer of tapetum lucidum behind the retina.”
“How long has it been frozen?” she asked.
“Smilodons became extinct about ten thousand years ago,” Marshall said. “Whether due to the advancing ice, loss of habitat or food, or a virus that jumped the species barrier, we don’t know. Given the time this ice cave was covered by the glacier, I’d estimate this was one of the last of its kind to die.”
“We’re not yet sure how it came to be frozen,” Faraday added. His habitual blinking, his wide, watery eyes, gave him the appearance of a startled child. “The creature probably retreated into the cave to avoid an ice storm, and froze there. Perhaps it was wounded, or starving. Or perhaps it simply died of old age. More analysis may give us answers.”
Ekberg had quickly regained her professional composure. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to a clean, vertical hole near the carcass about half an inch wide.
“As you can see, there isn’t a clear view,” Marshall said. “This ice is dirty, occluded, full of prehistoric mud. So we had our intern, Ang, bring up a remote imaging device. It sends out sonar pings and measures the echoes produced.”
“Like a fish-finder,” Ekberg said.
“In a way,” Marshall said, amused. “A very high-tech fish-finder. Anyway, due to the condition of the ice, precise measurements aren’t possible, but the body seems to be approximately eight feet long. We estimate its weight in the thousand-pound range.”
“More appropriate for Smilodon populator than Smilodon fatalis,” Faraday intoned.
Ekberg shook her head slowly, eyes still fixed on the photograph. “Amazing,” she said. “Buried under a glacier for thousands of years.”
A brief silence settled over the group. Standing motionless, Marshall began to feel the cold creeping in around the edges of his hood, biting at his fingertips and toes.
“You’ve asked a lot of questions,” he said quietly. “Any objections to answering one?”
Ekberg glanced over at him. “Shoot.”
“We know Terra Prime is planning to make some kind of documentary, but none of us have any idea what kind. We assume you’re going to explain our work here, maybe end it by describing this unusual find. Record the discovery for posterity. Can you give us more details?”
A wry smile formed on her lips. “Actually, it isn’t posterity the network is concerned with.”
“Go on.”
“I’m afraid the details will have to come from Emilio Conti, the executive producer. But I can promise you one thing, Dr. Marshall: he views this as a real feather in his cap, something he’s been working toward his entire professional career.” Her smile deepened. “Your expedition is about to become more famous than in your wildest dreams.”
6
Dawn burst across the Blue Ridge Mountains with a violent explosion of color. The sun, rising over Mount Marshall, infused the autumn sky with brilliant hues normally confined to a painter’s palette: naphthol and cadmium, magenta and vermilion. The sleepy peaks and slopes were furred with the deep greens and blues of oak, hemlock, maple, and hickory trees. The mountains themselves seemed to exhale the chill air, their breath settling in deep blankets of mist that cloaked the dark
valleys and crowned the summits with gauzy rings like monks’ tonsures.
Jeremy Logan eased the rental car up to the Front Royal entrance station, paid the park fee, then accelerated gently away. There were faster ways to reach his destination—Skyline Drive was as sinuous as a snake, with a top speed of thirty-five miles per hour—but he was early, and he hadn’t traveled this road since he was a boy, camping with his father. Ahead, the parkway disappeared into a velvet haze, promising a journey of both discovery and nostalgia.
La Bohème was playing on the car stereo—the 1946 Toscanini recording, with Licia Albanese as soprano lead—and he turned it off in order to concentrate on the passing scenery. The Shenandoah Valley Overlook: they’d stopped there, he remembered, for deviledham sandwiches and a few snaps of the Instamatic. Next, Low Gap, Compton Gap, Jenkins Gap: each appeared in his windshield in turn, yielding up—almost reluctantly—their stunning vistas of the Shenandoah River, the freckled hills of the Virginia piedmont. Logan had grown up in the low country of South Carolina, and he remembered how—first seeing these sights through boyish eyes—he’d never imagined there could be so much dramatic scenery crammed into such a relatively small space.
At milepost 27, he passed the turnout for the hike up Knob Mountain. He and his father had stopped there, too, and made the two-mile ascent. It had been a warm day, Logan recalled, and the cold canteen hanging from his neck had sweated icy droplets against his skin. His father had been a historian, a stranger to exercise, and the hike winded him. It was at the summit he’d told Logan about the cancer.
At Thornton Gap, Logan exited Skyline Drive, following the state highway along the river and out of the national park. At Sperryville, he turned south onto Route 231 and followed the signs for Old Rag Lodge.
Within ten minutes he was in the shadow of the mountain. At more than three thousand feet, Old Rag was a relatively low peak, but the rock scrambles to its bald top were famously challenging. Yet it was best known not for its hiking opportunities but for the luxury hotel that lay in a bowl-shaped valley near its feet. Old Rag Lodge resembled nothing so much as a vast château, hugely out of place in the wild Virginia terrain. As Logan swung into the private drive and accelerated up a gentle slope, the hotel came into view, a confection of monolithic limestone walls and brilliantly hued stained glass set into mullioned casings. The rambling structure was topped with extravagant cupolas and minarets of copper.
Logan drove past a lush thirty-six-hole golf course, then over the carefully raked drive of white gravel leading to the porte cochere. He gave his keys to the waiting valet, then stepped inside.
“Checking in, sir?” the woman behind the front desk asked.
Logan shook his head. “I’m here for the tour.”
“Viewings of the bunker begin at ten o’clock.”
“I’ve arranged for a private visit. The name’s Logan.” And he slid a business card across the marble top of the reception desk.
The woman examined the card, turned to her computer monitor, typed briefly. “Very good, Dr. Logan. If you’d kindly have a seat in the lobby?”
“Thank you.” Gathering up his briefcase, Logan walked across the echoing, domed expanse and took a seat between two vast Co-rinthian columns wreathed in red silk.
While the lodge had been popular for seven decades among the golfing and hunting aristocrats of the Old Dominion, in the last few years it had developed a stranger reputation. For it was here that—starting in 1952—a large, highly secret underground bunker had been maintained for officials of the United States government. In the event of nuclear war, congressmen, senators, and other functionaries could retreat to the bunker beneath Old Rag Lodge to coordinate military operations, enact new laws, and see to the continuing governance of America—assuming, of course, an America still remained to govern. Looking around the opulent lobby, Logan smiled faintly. It made perfect sense that government leaders had chosen a place like this to hunker down in: far enough from Washington to escape the worst of the holocaust, yet perfectly appointed to ride out Armageddon in comfort and luxury. Although the bunker had gone out of active service in the 1980s, it had not been declassified until 1992. Now it served as historical museum, conspiracy theorist magnet—and unlikely tourist attraction.
Logan glanced up to see a short, slightly tubby man in a white linen suit and panama hat bustle across the lobby. He wore round black glasses and his face was quite pink. He extended a hand. “Dr. Logan?”
Logan rose. “Yes.”
“I’m Percy Hunt, official historian for the lodge. I’ll be your view facilitator this morning.”
View facilitator, Logan thought as he shook the proffered hand. Must be what passes for tour guide at the Old Rag Lodge. “I’m grateful.”
“You’re from Yale, isn’t that correct?” Hunt glanced at a small folded sheet. “Regina professor of medieval history?”
“Yes. Though at present I’m on academic leave.”
Hunt slipped the paper into his jacket. “Very good. If you’ll follow me, please?”
He led the way to an arch at the far end of the lobby, which gave on to a plushly carpeted hall lined with sporting prints. “There are two entrances to the bunker,” Hunt said. “A large exterior door built into the rear of the mountain—used by trucks and heavy vehicles—and an elevator behind the hotel’s main conference room. We’ll be entering via the latter.”
They passed an indoor swimming pool decorated with faux-Grecian marbles, a banquet hall, and a ballroom, before entering the large and well-appointed conference room. Without pausing, Hunt headed toward a set of double doors in the rear, wallpapered to match the rest of the room. “Congress would have used this space to convene, assuming it remained standing,” he said. “Otherwise, they would have employed the smaller chambers below.” He pointed at the wall ahead of them. “This supports the blast doors protecting the bunker elevator.” Opening the doors with some effort, he revealed a small space with another door at its far end. Unlocking this with a key he kept on a fob, Hunt ushered Logan into a large elevator, painted green. Closing the door, he used the same key to operate the elevator. There were no floor buttons or indicator lights of any kind.
The descent was very long. After thirty seconds or so, Hunt turned toward his guest. “So, Dr. Logan,” he said, “where in particular does your interest lie? The engineering spaces? Personal quarters? Infirmary? I ask because usually researchers who arrange for private tours like this are following up some particular area of expertise. The more you tell me, the better I’ll be able to assist you.”
Logan glanced back. “Actually, Mr. Hunt, it isn’t the bunker per se that I’m interested in.”
Hunt blinked back. “No? Then why—”
“I’m here to examine the Omega Archive.”
Hunt’s eyes widened. “The archive? I’m sorry, but that’s quite impossible.”
“The information in that archive was declassified as of”—Logan glanced at his watch—“eight o’clock this morning. That was seventy minutes ago. It’s now a matter of public record.”
“Yes, yes, but the proper deactivation procedures—vetting, cross-checking, all that sort of thing—need to be attended to first. Requests have to go through proper channels.”
“I’m only interested in a single file. You can observe; I’ll read it in your presence. As for proper channels, I think you’ll find this sufficient to allay any objections.” And Logan opened his briefcase, removed a folded sheet stamped at the top with the United States seal, and handed it to Hunt.
The little man glanced over the letter, eyes widening farther still. He licked his lips. “Very well, Dr. Logan. Very well. I’ll still need to get verbal authorization—”
Logan pointed to the signature at the bottom of the letter. “If you really want to trouble him, feel free to do so—once we’re back in the hotel. I’ll only be a few minutes if I’m allowed to conduct my research unobstructed.”
Hunt removed his glasses, wiped them on his ja
cket, replaced them, adjusted his straw hat. “May I ask…” his voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. “May I ask what interest a professor of medieval history has in the Omega Archive?”
Logan glanced at him mildly. “As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Hunt: I’m on administrative leave.”
The elevator creaked open onto a concrete tunnel with a semicircular roof and a floor punctuated by steel grills. “Follow me, please,” Hunt said, walking quickly down the tunnel. It was very chill and raw. A line of incandescent bulbs in circular fixtures, hanging from the ceiling by slender stalks, lit the way. Ganglions of green-painted pipes ran high up along the walls, snaking deeper into the bunker. Hunt set a brisk pace, apparently no longer disposed to conversation. They passed several branching tunnels, what looked like a dormitory, and a large room with television cameras and a back wall covered by a photo of the Capitol building taken in cherry blossom season, before Hunt veered off the main corridor. He led the way through a room full of electrical control panels to a small antechamber that lay beyond. Sliding away a false wall at the rear of the chamber, he revealed a heavy metal door balanced on massive hinges. Taking a different key from his pocket, he fitted it to the central slot. “The archives lie beyond,” he said. “Please locate the file and review it as quickly as possible. I need to get this authorized with all possible haste.”
“I’ll be quick,” Logan replied.
Hunt frowned, nodded. Then, turning the key, he pulled open the door. Air rushed out from the blackness beyond—stale air, dust-laden. The very smell quickened Logan’s pulse.
The Omega Archive was precisely the kind of find that Jeremy Logan—for whom the title of medieval scholar was something of a genteel, if accurate, smoke screen—lived for. In the years following the Second World War, the government had taken advantage of the built-in security of the congressional bunker to store secret and top-secret military records. Though the bunker itself had been declassified a decade earlier, it had taken many more years—and much political pressure from historians, journalists, and freedom-of-information advocates—to clear away the red tape surrounding the Omega Archive. And while technically the archive had been declassified as of this morning, standard procedure was for representatives from the security agencies to examine its files—and in the process remove many still deemed sensitive—before allowing general public access. Logan had called in several favors in order to gain brief access before this final vetting process began.
Terminal Freeze Page 4
