The 6th Extinction

by James Rollins

  “And Dr. Hess was experimenting with such a volatile genetic code?” Gray asked. No wonder his creation has proven so hard to kill.

  “I warned him not to pursue this line of inquiry, or to at least conduct his experiments here, but he would not listen.”

  “What was he trying to do?”

  “Kendall believed he could harness the best features of XNA, build it into a shell that could be used to vaccinate endangered species—maybe all species—to make them hardier, more adaptable, able to withstand the global forces that are driving us toward this sixth mass extinction.”

  “And that’s possible, to incorporate XNA into our DNA?”

  “Yes. In labs working with XNA now, they’ve already proven that xenobiological products could replace almost any living organism. So yes, it’s theoretically possible. But there’s also great risk.”

  Gray only had to stare out at the savage world below the gondola to recognize that truth. “Professor, you also said you had a theory about how life might have started down here.”

  Harrington nodded. “It’s only a conjecture at this point. If I had more time, I might be able to substantiate it.”

  “What’s your theory?”

  “Do you remember how I mentioned this cavern system might cross a majority of the continent?”

  “Through an interconnecting system of rivers, lakes, and ice tunnels.”

  “Don’t sound so doubtful. While the surface of Antarctica is frozen and seemingly unchanging, it’s warm and moist miles below, forming marshes and wetlands that have been hidden from the world for millennia. Take Lake Vostok, for example. It’s as large as any of your Great Lakes and twice as deep and has been sealed away for fifteen million years. Then there’s the amount of geothermal activity occurring below the ice. Did you know that one of my colleagues, a glaciologist with the BAS, discovered an active volcano almost half a mile under the Western Antarctic ice sheet, with evidence of lava flowing below? That’s how strange and wonderful the true face of this continent is.”

  “So if this cavern system does transverse the continent, how does it explain how this ecosystem originated?”

  “If you extrapolate what we’ve successfully mapped so far, the general direction of these tunnels seems to point toward a massive crater on the far side of East Antarctica, in a region called Wilkes Land. It was discovered back in 2006 and measures three hundred miles across. To create an impact crater that size, it’s estimated that the meteorite would have been four times larger than the one that wiped out the dinosaurs. Some believe that impact here may have triggered the earth’s third mass extinction: the Permian-Triassic extinction that wiped out almost all marine life and two-thirds of all terrestrial life.”

  “Okay, but why’s that significant?”

  “First, that meteoric impact could have cracked this cavern system into being. Then as most of the planet’s species died off, some seed of XNA could have taken root in this empty ecosystem and grown to fill it, preserved in perfect isolation. But this scenario raises one other intriguing possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  Surprisingly the answer came from Jason. “Panspermia.”

  Harrington smiled. “Very good.”

  Gray was familiar with the theory of panspermia, that life could have come to this planet on the back of a meteor, carried from afar to seed this world.

  “Keep in mind that it would take a tough and resilient molecule to survive that long journey through the void of space,” Harrington said.

  “Like XNA,” Gray said.

  “Precisely. But as I said, it’s only a conjecture. Though an intriguing one, I would say. Could this shadowy biosphere be a peek into an alien landscape, or at the very least, an alternate genetic pathway to life?”

  Before this could be debated, the gondola rocked as it began to glide down a gentle slope, like an alpine ski lift descending back to earth.

  It was too soon to be approaching the substation.

  “It’s the Squeeze,” Harrington reassured him.

  Gray stared out the window. Ahead, the cavernous tunnel tightened toward a bottleneck. The gondola swept into the narrower passageway. The cage now rode only three stories above the churning river. The banks to either side gave off a soft phosphorescence, that glow seeping into the water’s edges, too, revealing shelves of strange bivalves and flashes of darting shapes in the shallows. Life teemed in those hot waters.

  Harrington drew his attention forward. “Earlier you asked how I knew others had discovered these tunnels before our team. Look there.”

  The gondola rode around a bend in the Squeeze, and a gray shape appeared ahead, tall enough to scrape the roof. It was the conning tower of a sub. A line of broken stalactites marked the vessel’s passage this far into these narrows. A majority of the submarine’s cigar-shaped bulk was visible above the surface of the river, looking like a beached iron whale.

  As their cage drew abreast of the old ship, Gray noted an emblem on the tower’s side.

  It was a black cross with a white submarine over it.

  “German,” Harrington said. “From the tenth flotilla of the Kriegsmarine.”

  A Nazi U-boat.

  “These tunnels must’ve been more deeply flooded at one time,” Harrington explained. “From evidence we found, the Germans blasted their way into here with torpedoes, but they could only penetrate so far. Afterward, a roof cave-in sealed the way behind them and was frozen over. Even if the crew tried continuing on foot or by rowboat, I can’t imagine they got very far.”

  As the gondola drifted quietly past this somber grave marker, Gray could only imagine the terror of those submariners trapped here. Thankfully, the conning tower vanished into the darkness behind them, and their cage began to rise, climbing out of the Squeeze.

  Before it could get very far, the gondola lurched to a stop, swinging from its overhead tracks for a frightening breath. Harrington worked the red lever, trying to get them moving again.

  “What’s wrong?” Gray asked.

  Harrington glanced back in the direction they had traveled. “Dylan Wright. He must have reached the control box.”

  “Can you get us moving again?” Gray asked.

  Without his laying a hand on the controls, the gondola began to run backward, returning slowly toward the base.

  Wright must be trying to reel us back in.

  Harrington reached overhead to a red plastic handle and pulled hard. A loud grinding pop sounded and the gondola swung to a stop again. “I disengaged us from the pulley cable.”

  The professor’s eyes shone brightly with terror.

  They were now dead in the water.

  20

  April 30, 8:18 A.M. AMT

  Boa Vista, Brazil

  Panicked at the sudden ambush, Jenna huddled behind an overturned table as gunfire ripped apart the café.

  A moment ago, a trio of masked men had burst out of the kitchen, rifles at their shoulders. At the same time, the front plate glass window had shattered behind them, blown out by someone shooting from the street.

  It was only because of Drake’s fast reflexes she was still alive. As the first shots rang out, Drake had kicked the chair out from under her, then caught her as she fell and rolled her body under him. One of his fellow Marines—Marlow—tipped the heavy wooden table on its side, giving them temporary shelter. His partner, Schmitt, fired at the assailants.

  “Painter . . .” Jenna gasped.

  The director was still out on the street.

  “On it,” Drake said. “Stay here.”

  He shoved up, trying to get a fast glance through the blown-out window. Out on the street, the sudden staccato retorts of a pistol blasted away, in contrast to the louder rifle fire.

  Has to be Painter putting up a fight.

  “Looks like he’s hurt, pinned down,” Drake reported as he ducked back down. “Malcolm, Schmitt, cover me and hold the fort.”

  Not waiting for a response from his teammates, Drake
leaped out of hiding. Both Marines kept up suppressive fire as the gunnery sergeant dove headlong out the window.

  Jenna reached to her pack, to her own weapon, preparing to help.

  As her fingers tightened on her pistol’s grip, the firefight both inside and outside grew more intense. One of the gunmen toppled over a table; the other two dropped behind a counter, firing from a well-protected spot.

  Malcolm swore, ducking back into shelter, his ear bleeding.

  Jenna rose up and took his place, knowing any sign of weakness, any lessening of return fire, risked the enemy gaining the upper hand and overpowering them. She fired her Glock, driving back a gunman who had been starting to rise.

  She took that fraction of a second to survey the café. Bodies littered the floor, blood spreading over the tiles. She noted a few small movements. Some of the half-dozen patrons and waitstaff were still alive.

  But it was another movement that held her full attention.

  A mirror behind the counter had been shattered by the first volley of rounds, but in the fractured reflection in the remaining pieces, she saw one of the enemy on his knees, reloading his rifle.

  There won’t be a better chance . . .

  She fired again toward the position of the first gunman. “Now!” she yelled to the two Marines.

  She didn’t have time to explain more, so she simply dashed from behind the table and sprinted for the counter, hoping they would understand.

  They did.

  Malcolm and Schmitt flanked her, firing at the rifleman who was still an active threat. Under such a sustained volley, a bullet ricocheted off a rim of a metal chair and struck the assailant, knocking him back.

  Jenna reached the counter and vaulted high, feetfirst, sliding her hip through the broken plates and scattered utensils on the top. All the while, she kept her gaze fixed on the reflection of the hidden enemy. He had already finished reloading and was rising up to go to his partner’s defense.

  As he popped into view, she already had her left leg cocked and snapped a boot heel into his masked nose. His head cracked back with a satisfying crunch of teeth and bone. His body collapsed limply, out cold.

  To the side, Schmitt placed a round through the other enemy’s ear as the gunman tried to bring his rifle around.

  The sudden cessation of gunplay inside the café left only the ringing in her ears, muffling the firefight outside.

  Malcolm stalked low to her side as Schmitt poked his head and shoulder into the kitchen, leading with his pistol.

  “All clear back here!” he called out, falling back to them.

  Red-faced with fury, Malcolm lifted the muzzle of his weapon toward the cold-cocked man on the floor.

  “Don’t,” Jenna said. “We may need him to talk.”

  Malcolm nodded.

  She kept her Glock on the downed man. “I’ll watch him. Go help Painter and Drake.”

  From the escalation of rifle fire out there, they were in trouble.

  8:20 A.M.

  “They’re flanking us,” Drake said.

  Painter recognized this, too. He crouched shoulder to shoulder with the Marine behind a metal trash bin. The shelter barely offered enough cover for the two men as they fired from either side at the trio of gunmen across the road.

  Unfortunately, the enemy had a distinct advantage. A row of cars lined the far sidewalk, offering plenty of cover and maneuverability. Their side of the street was a no-parking zone.

  Still, if Drake hadn’t come flying out the café window, Painter would likely be dead already.

  The gunnery sergeant’s sudden and opportune arrival drove the three assailants from the street and into cover behind the parked cars. But now those three had begun to split up. Two men ran low behind the vehicles, heading left and right along the street, while the third kept up a continuous barrage, the rounds ringing and ricocheting off the trash bin.

  Trapped, Drake and Painter could barely move. It would take only another few seconds before the two flanking gunmen reached positions far enough along the road to get a clear, unobstructed bead on them.

  “I’ll cover you,” Painter said, slapping in a fresh magazine. “Get back inside. Try to make it out the rear with the others.”

  Painter noted it had gone quiet inside the café—but was that a good sign or a bad one?

  Then fresh gunfire erupted, blasting out from the shattered window of the café and strafing the row of cars across the street.

  Caught off guard, the gunman to the left took a round through the neck, spinning away with a spray of blood. The assailant on the right suffered a similar fate, taking a bullet to the forehead.

  The third had dropped low behind an old-model Volvo, plainly recognizing the tides had turned.

  Drake rose to his toes, glancing to Painter, to his wounded shoulder. “We got this last one,” he said, getting a confirmatory nod from his two teammates as they climbed out to the street. “This is what Marines are built for.”

  Painter knew better than to protest. “Try to take him alive.”

  As if sensing his coming demise, the hidden man started shouting—not at them, but from the sounds of it, into a phone or radio, likely calling for help or backup.

  Painter caught a few words in Spanish, but the rest was a mix of some unknown native patois. One word in Spanish caught his attention. It was repeated again, more urgently.

  Mujer.

  Painter tensed, glancing back to the café.

  Mujer meant woman.

  “Where’s Jenna?” Painter asked, his heart pounding harder.

  Malcolm kept his gaze on the Volvo across the street. “Inside. It’s all clear.”

  Or maybe not.

  Disregarding the threat of the shooter, Painter bolted for the door and rushed inside. He held his pistol up with his good arm and scanned the tables, the bodies, and waded through the aftermath of the gun battle. He checked behind the counter, the kitchen.

  A spat of gunfire echoed to him from the street.

  A moment later, Drake burst into the café through the front door. His face looked stricken, scared, revealing a depth of emotion beyond the simple concern for a teammate.

  “Jenna?” he asked.

  “Gone.” Painter nodded toward the street, knowing they had one chance of discovering who had taken her. “What about the third shooter?”

  Drake understood the significance of his question, going paler. “He shot himself.”

  Dead.

  Painter breathed heavily.

  Then we lost her.

  8:22 A.M.

  The world returned to Jenna on waves of pain. Blackness shattered into light that was too bright, sounds too loud. She lifted her head from the rattling floor of a van, igniting a lancing stab that ran from a knot above her left temple to her neck.

  Oww . . .

  She bit back a groan, fearful of attracting the attention of her kidnappers. She took a fast assessment of her situation, her heart pounding in her throat. From her vantage, all she could see out the window was the upper floors of buildings sweeping past and the tangles of power lines.

  A trickle of blood traced fire down her left cheek.

  She remembered the ambush, allowing anger to hold back the terror icing at the edges of her self-control. She had been crouched behind the café counter, watching Malcolm and Schmitt cross to the window and start shooting into the street. The deafening barrage covered the approach of her attacker from the kitchen area. The only warning was a soft honeyed scent.

  She turned to find a dark woman with shadowy eyes crouched a yard away, the balls of her bare feet positioned perfectly to avoid the broken glass on the floor—not to avoid getting cut, but in a feral level of stealth.

  Before Jenna could react, the woman lunged, her arm sweeping wide whip-fast. The butt of a pistol cracked against Jenna’s skull. Her vision flared brightly, then collapsed into a black hole, dragging her consciousness away with it.

  How long was I out?

  She didn’t t
hink it was long. Not more than a minute or two, she guessed.

  From the front passenger seat, a face turned to peer back at her. Long black hair framed a darkly beautiful face. Her skin was the color of warm caramel, her black eyes aglow. Still, an edge of threat shone through those handsome features, from the hard edge of her full lips to the glassy-eyed menace in her gaze. It was like confronting the cold countenance of a panther in a tree, displaying nature at its most beautiful—and deadly.

  Jenna wanted to retreat from that gaze, but she held the other’s stare, refusing to back down. Not that Jenna could do anything more. Her wrists and ankles were secured with plastic ties.

  The bright tinkle of a ringtone interrupted the standoff. The woman twisted back around as the driver passed her a cell phone.

  She brought it to her ear. “Oui,” she answered, her voice as silky dark as her complexion. She listened for a long breath, then glanced back to Jenna. “Oui, j’ai fini.”

  Jenna knew she must be the topic of this conversation. Someone was confirming that she’d been captured, or at the very least that one member of the American team had been grabbed. She strained to eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation, but she didn’t speak French. Still, she could guess who was on the other end of that line.

  Cutter Elwes.

  Apparently he must have had someone watching that guesthouse, making sure any trail that Amy had left in Boa Vista was continually under surveillance. Or maybe that kindly proprietor was not as kindly as she appeared and had sent word of the Americans who had come calling. Either way, Cutter must have ordered a local team to apprehend one of them, someone he could interrogate to find out how much the world knew about him, about his operations.

  As a dead man, he plainly wished to remain in his currently deceased state.

  The van fled faster as it broke free of the central district of Boa Vista. Jenna craned over her shoulder, fearful for Drake and the others. Had they survived the firefight? She prayed so, but she held out no hope that they would be able to track or follow her.