Dangerous Ground

by Grant, Rachel

  “Diesel?” Dean asked. “Where did you find diesel?”

  “There are a bunch of leaking barrels of the stuff, all piled together.”

  “It’s how they heated the Quonset huts,” Fiona added. “It’s one of the things that’s on my list of potential hazards to be recorded that the Aleut Corporation has been asking the navy to clean up for decades. It was actually supposed to be taken care of before this project ever started, but my boss argued for addressing it after the EIS to avoid more delays.”

  “Well, if that’s why this stove and all the others—I had to cobble this together from parts—are still here, I’m glad for that,” Dylan said. “As far as I can tell, they just threw some peat and moss over the various oil barrels and hoped no one would notice. It would have been great for heat if I could’ve gotten the diesel to work. As it is, I added more muskeg on top and hoped it would work as another trap, like the one you fell in.”

  The reference to the pit reminded her of Dean’s kiss, which was probably the hottest of her life. Now Dean planted himself opposite her, with Dylan in between as they faced the WWII potbelly heater, and his behavior was strangely stiff toward her. Awkward, even.

  Not what she’d expect from a guy who had a reputation as a playboy. Shouldn’t he be a smooth operator?

  She glanced at Dylan’s right leg, which he’d stretched out, angling toward Dean. When they’d finally had the energy to get up and walk, Dylan had reached for a pair of driftwood crutches and struggled to stand, and she’d noticed the splint he’d fashioned to his upper right thigh.

  Dean had shot up faster than Fiona and helped his brother to his feet. “What happened to your leg?”

  “Broke it when I fell through a floor. Let’s get a fire going in my town house, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  Now Dean handed Dylan a full bottle of whiskey, and his brother let out a happy sort of groan. “Best. Brother. Ever.”

  Fiona frowned at the bottle. “You carted two bottles from the plane?” They were bulky, fragile, and heavy. It was such an extravagance for one, let alone two.

  Dean smiled. “It’s Dylan’s favorite. Figured he’d want it when we found him.”

  “You were right,” Dylan said, and he took a long swig. “Damn. Coulda used this six weeks ago.”

  “What happened, Dyl?” Dean asked.

  Dylan huffed out a breath. “It’s gonna sound outrageous. And unbelievable.”

  “We were in the volcano,” Fiona said softly. “We found the shattered floor where you fell and broke your leg. We’ll believe you.”

  Dylan’s eyes widened in the orange light of the fire that glowed through the open door of the stove. “Holy crap! You were there? Did you get out through the same tunnel I did?”

  “No,” Dean said. “It was full of rubble. Probably collapsed with explosives. We saw your bloody fingerprint and thought you might have been in it when it blew.”

  “They must’ve found it after I escaped and closed it off. How the hell did you get out, then? Did you climb back up and go to the original entrance?”

  “No,” Fiona answered this time. “They blew that up too. Dean found a crevice in the thin rhyolite wall in the same room you escaped from, and he threw rocks at it to open it up. It was an older flow that had been closed off by a later one. We found a burial cave at the other end and escaped via an underground stream.”

  “Whoa. How did you—”

  “We know how we got out,” Dean said, cutting him off. “We really need to know what happened to you; then we’ll tell you our story.”

  Dylan took another long pull from the whiskey bottle, then said, “Fair enough.” He set the bottle down and tightened the cap. “On my first Chiksook expedition, there was another geologist on the team—remember Jay, Fiona?”

  She nodded. “Vaguely. He left after a few days. Got really sick, right?”

  “Yeah. He pulled me aside the second day, insisted we go for a walk outside camp. Made sure neither of us had cell phones with us—said he thought people were listening in—he sounded really paranoid, but I humored him. He went on to say he’d been working on the project for months and had seen preliminary reports that mentioned the potential for a meteoric debris field on the north face of the volcano, and a few stones were being sent in for testing to determine the mineralogy. Then, all of a sudden, the data disappeared from all of Pollux’s correspondence. Like the data had never existed. Even his work computer’s files had been replaced. But he had printed a few reports at home and had the original versions.

  “He knew the lava tube opening was a relatively recent find—less than five years ago—and no one had really explored the tunnels. So he started mapping the caves, a little here and there when he could justify the time. And on the first day of the previous expedition—before you or I joined the team—he went back to the tunnels and discovered a bunch of new footprints. Someone had explored the caves—extensively—during the break between expeditions.

  “He checked the trip logs and even talked to the Unangax̂ chair, and no one had been permitted access during the weeks in question. No one from the village had done any exploring. He figured the mineralogy for the meteorite came back and it was heavy with rare earth metals, something really valuable, and the debris field was such that there could be a mother lode somewhere in the tunnels or in the ocean. He’d confirmed there were tsunami soils that probably dated back fifty thousand years, the result of a significant strike.”

  Dylan shifted on the ground, adjusting his broken leg and massaging the muscles just above his kneecap as if they ached. “Anyway, he said he wanted me to look out for meteorite debris inside and outside the volcano, and if I found it, not to put it in the official report until we had enough data to sidestep Pollux and go straight to the navy with the suppressed data.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll admit, I was sure the guy was having some sort of mental breakdown. Or he wanted the meteorite for himself. But then the next day, he got so sick. Then he was sent home and spent weeks in the hospital with some unexplained illness. I tried to see him in June, when I was home between expeditions, but he refused to talk to me.”

  “You’re sure he’s alive?” Dean asked. “Did you exchange texts or talk to a family member who’d seen him?”

  Dylan frowned. “Exchanged texts. He told me to go away, then blocked my number.”

  “So he might be dead,” Fiona said. “Does he have family who can confirm he’s alive?”

  “I don’t honestly know. The hospital released him. That much I confirmed, so he was alive and well enough to go home.” He reached for the bottle and opened it again, taking another swig before continuing. “It was all so peculiar, but after Jay got sick, I was sucked in. I couldn’t help myself and took up the task of mapping the caves. I was only able to add a little bit to his work, though, because it wasn’t easy to get the time to do it without looking suspicious and . . . caving alone is really dangerous, so I needed to convince Trevor to do it with me without sounding like, well . . . like Jay had sounded when he first approached me.

  “Trevor seemed to treat it as a lark. He’s done some spelunking and, as a geologist, was really into it. We set up relay radios so we could map separate areas at the same time. He didn’t have a problem keeping it a secret—said he liked the idea of screwing Pollux a bit. But also, we were mapping the network, which would be useful, especially if we did find more of the meteorite.”

  “When did you realize Trevor was in on it?” Dean said.

  Fiona glanced at him sharply. In all their conversations, Dean had never said he suspected Trevor. Or at least, not more than anyone else. “When did you?” she asked Dean.

  “Just now. But also, the relay radios nagged at me. It was clear Dylan had set them up with someone. But Victor and his accomplice were using them. They knew where to place them, which meant they had Dylan’s map or were working with the person who’d helped Dylan. That could only be Trevor.”

  She nodded and turned ba
ck to Dylan. “And you? Did you suspect Trevor?”

  “I want to know who this Victor person is, but I’m sure we’ll get to that . . . I was starting to suspect him the night you showed me the meteoric stone from the archaeological site. But even more worrisome was the way Sylvia responded. She got this unholy light in her eyes. Then, well, you saw how she was coming on to me when you stepped into the office tent later that night. I think she wanted access to my computer and papers, and she figured the best way to do that was to get into my tent and be there while I was sleeping. I was just paranoid enough by that point that I never left my laptop alone.”

  “But Trevor was your roommate. He could have gotten your laptop while you slept.”

  “Not exactly. He was sleeping with Cara and had moved into her tent. I think the only thing of his that remained in our tent was his sleeping bag, because Cara had a double—which she’d brought because her relationship with Trevor had begun on the previous trip.”

  Fiona shook her head. Leave it to Cara to come prepared for a liaison. But if she hadn’t, Trevor might have remembered to grab his sleeping bag when they were forced to evacuate quickly, and she and Dean wouldn’t have had the life-saving extra-wide bag.

  “I’m amazed Cara kept her fling with Trevor secret.”

  “Well, he’s married, and she knows you don’t approve of cheating. She asked me not to tell you.” He shrugged. “I don’t like lying—or approve of cheating, for that matter—but since you never asked, there was no reason for me to say anything one way or the other.”

  She winced, remembering that Dylan’s wife had cheated on him. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot Trevor is married. Yeah. I would—and do—have a problem with that. I guess when Cara left early, Trevor just stayed in her tent.” She glanced at Dean. “It even explains the lingerie you found. If Cara left it behind, Trevor couldn’t bring it home—not without the risk of his wife finding it.”

  Fiona’s heart twisted. Did Cara also know about the meteorite, or was she just sleeping with Trevor because she enjoyed hooking up in the field, and there was nothing more to it?

  “Anyway,” Dylan continued, “Trevor was never in our tent when I was asleep, and even then, on that last trip, I kept my laptop under my pillow when I was sleeping.”

  “Wow. You were concerned.”

  “The way Jay got sick right after he clued me in . . . it didn’t sit well.” He nodded toward his backpack in the corner of the magazine. “I had it with me when I went through the floor. Fat lot of good having a computer has done me without Wi-Fi or power, but at least Sylvia never got it.”

  “But Trevor still had the map,” Dean said.

  “Yeah, I should never have told him. Shouldn’t have asked for his help exploring the tunnels. But I did all that before I really believed we’d find something. Then we found a few meteorite streaks, and I started to think Jay’s paranoia—and now mine—was justified. What we found was nothing like the walls of the room where I fell through the floor, but enough to know we were onto something. And then you showed me the artifacts, and Trevor was super eager to interview the Unangax̂ elders on the island and ask about their oral history. When we left the site that day, I explained that was your job and they wouldn’t take kindly to his questions, but I took him to the village anyway, because I wanted to take care of the samples you gave me without Pollux knowing about it.”

  “Was Trevor aware you mailed the samples?” Fiona asked.

  “No. I gave the package to Marion privately.” He cocked his head. “How did you know I mailed them?”

  “We found your phone. And Dean unlocked it.”

  “You found my phone? Where?”

  “In your footlocker, inside your clipboard with the map.”

  Dylan frowned. “I left my phone in my clipboard in the side-by-side that last day. There was no point in taking it into the tunnels where there was zero reception, and I didn’t need the clipboard either. I tucked the clipboard under the seat, so it’d be out of the way if I dumped wet field gear in the back at the end of the expedition. So how did it end up in the footlocker?”

  “Someone packed your things and returned them to your house,” Dean said. “I found your field clothes with your dirty laundry, as if you’d come home and dropped off your dirty clothes before heading out again.”

  “I think I know!” Fiona said as memories slipped into place. “More than once I’ve seen the maintenance guy go through the vehicles at the end of the day—making sure they’re gassed up, etcetera. What if he found your clipboard after you were supposedly sent home? It would make sense for him to drop it in your footlocker, figuring Pollux would deal with it at some point. Hell, he might not have even known you’d been sent home. It was all handled very weirdly by Pollux.”

  “What did they tell you?” Dylan asked.

  She grimaced. “That you’d sexually assaulted Sylvia.”

  He reared back, his eyes widening. “What the . . . holy fuck!”

  His unkempt beard, gaunt features, and shocked eyes gave him a wild look, and her heart ached at having to tell him this part of the story. He’d been through hell and had no idea what had been going on back home.

  “Yeah. I’m sure it was no accident they claimed you’d done something we wouldn’t want to repeat or ask too many questions about. We were told it was a legal issue that would be thoroughly investigated. You both left the project on the same helicopter, but Sylvia took a military flight home, and you flew commercial.”

  “And I was told you were on the military flight, but no one mentioned the assault allegations,” Dean added. “It was implied you went home when the entire crew was evacuated the next day.”

  “I think that’s why we were evacuated,” Fiona said. “Someone sabotaged the generator so they could make it look like you left with the rest of us when your family asked where you were.”

  “Wow.” Dylan ran a hand over his face. “When did you realize I was missing, Dean? When I was a no-show for our visit in LA?”

  “Before that. A few days after you’d supposedly been evacuated, I received an email from your work email address that said you were taking a leave of absence and going off the grid for a few months for the sake of your mental health.”

  “Oh, man. I’m starting to understand why you’re here now. You didn’t believe it.”

  “Of course I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t know about the assault claims, but you’d never go off grid without talking to me first.”

  Dylan nodded, then turned to Fiona. He gave her a cynical smile. “And you? Did you believe it?”

  “Well, I didn’t know about the going-off-the-grid email. Just the assault allegation, and no. I didn’t. It didn’t make sense, given what I’d witnessed between you and Sylvia. Frankly, I was waiting for you to reach out to me to ask me to make a statement on your behalf. I discussed it with my boss, and Graham felt my reaching out to you would be unwise. He and I were both concerned about me having to return to the field with Sylvia again, especially if she knew I was willing to make a statement on your behalf. It was a relief when Pollux informed us that Sylvia wouldn’t be on this expedition.”

  He nodded, his pursed lips lost in the scruff of his beard. “Thanks, Fi, for believing in me. For talking about it with your boss. It must’ve put you in an awkward position.”

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I wish I’d done more. Said more. I never suspected . . . any of this.”

  “I should have told you about the meteorite and Jay’s suspicions. I thought I was being careful. But really I was just playing into their hands. I made so many mistakes.”

  “None of that, now,” Dean said. “You aren’t to blame. Now, tell us who is, exactly. Trevor and Sylvia, of course, but is there anyone else we don’t know about?”

  “I’m not sure. I mean, besides this Victor guy you mentioned.”

  “We’ll tell you what we know after you tell us what happened those last two days,” Dean said.

  Dylan nodded, then paused, and she
guessed he was trying to remember where they’d gotten off track. “After we left the site, Trevor and I went to the village. He started asking all kinds of questions about meteoric artifacts and if the Unangas had a history of exploring the caves. He’s usually a smart guy, but he didn’t pick up on the fact that they were really bothered not just by his questions but by how he asked them. No respect for traditional cultural practices. I was mortified and apologized to Marion when I gave her the package.

  “I think he believed the mother lode of the meteorite might be in the volcano and the Unangas had found it, and that’s why the site had several meteoric rocks and a hammered meteorite tool.”

  “It’s possible,” Fiona said. “We found a burial cave with several hammered tools, and there were a lot of streaks in the walls.”

  Dylan nodded. “I’m not surprised. The next day—that last morning—I decided to go into the caves one more time, just like I told you at breakfast. I set out early so Trevor couldn’t come with me. I knew it was dangerous, but I didn’t trust him anymore, and if the meteorite was there, I wanted to document it and get the info to the navy so Pollux couldn’t steal it. Because I’m pretty sure that’s either what they were already doing or why they were so desperate to find it. If it’s full of rare earth metals, it would be worth millions. And remember, Pollux already had the mineralogy done. They knew what was there.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face. “I need to back up a bit again. It’s all kind of jumbled, and I forgot something important . . . In the office tent the night before—about thirty minutes before the ugly scene you witnessed with Sylvia—Trevor had left his laptop open while he took a call from his wife. While he was out, I checked his search history, and there were a whole lot of links to articles about hafnon and hafnium, and meteoric finds. I only had a few seconds, though, and you know how bad the internet is in camp.”