by Richard Edde
“To catalog all the reported cases of this mystifying beast would be next to impossible, due to numerous sightings and encounters that attribute to this beast’s existence. One cannot hope to compile all this data, but one can come close, and shorten it down in the process. In the final analysis, all these sightings start bearing a striking resemblance to one another. This adds to the credibility factor, but also makes for less interest. No one enjoys reading the same story repetitively. But as one reads on, it becomes impossible not to observe this data in one way or another and not to notice the sheer amount of it, physical and not.”
Foreman drained what was left of his coffee. He had loosened his tie during his discourse and, finishing his coffee, retrieved a file folder from his briefcase. He pushed the folder across the desk toward Kesler. “Here is something interesting,” he continued. He waited for Kesler to open the folder and examine its contents. “It’s a recent report from Dr. William Smythe, a professor of Human Genetics at the Oxford Institute of Molecular Medicine. It just so happens that I have recently read this article and have been carrying it around with me. A British expedition set out in search of this elusive creature when mysterious hairs were found in the hollow of a cedar tree in the eastern Tibet area. Naturally, the hairs were carefully removed in a forensic manner and flown back to Britain. The report speaks for itself. DNA found in the hairs were not human or animal. In fact, Dr. Smythe could not identify the source of the DNA. It did not match anything known. What these hairs are and to whom they belonged, are unknown at present. The cryptozoologist in me wants to think they belong to the Yeti, but until there is more evidence I am putting those thoughts aside.”
Kesler closed the file folder, set it aside, then removed his glasses. With a handkerchief, he methodically and quietly wiped the lenses. “I was unaware of any of this,” he said as he replaced the glasses on his ruddy face.
“And so it remains to this day,” Foreman said. “Shrouded in a riddle and surrounded by a mystery, as we like to say. And with insufficient material. Putting the issue of the hairs aside and, in spite of all this supporting evidence and mounting physical evidence, it seems that we have not progressed much farther from the time that the Western world first heard of this enchanting tale. If there is indeed a bulky, hairy bipedal hominid roaming the remote valleys and woods of Nepal, Tibet, and Mongolia, it is possible that it will elude science for many years to come. Or perhaps, its discovery is right around the corner. Who knows? Then again, the entire Yeti phenomenon may be nothing more than our imaginations running wild. Odd things can happen at high altitudes where air is icy and thin. Less oxygen to the brain, as it were. But you scientists could help a lot by uncovering some hard physical evidence, like skeletal remains, a good photograph.
“You know Dr. Kesler, we humans have always wanted to believe in other-worldly creatures. Look at the Nephilim--offspring of the sons of God who copulated with women on Earth. They were the giants found in the Old Testament book of Numbers. The whole story is related in the book of Enoch. Did they really exist? I, for one, don’t believe so. But I digress. These Mongolian creatures, I predict, will simply be added to the tree of life then forgotten like the mountain gorillas unless some tangible evidence of their existence is found.”
***
Doyle and the others followed Gang Shun up a narrow trail. The green vegetation of the lower altitudes had given way to brown grasses as they rode higher. The sun, more intense in the thinner air, burned their skin and parched their lips. The mountains to the west began with craggy cliffs interspersed with long plateaus. The trail continued along a wide river that filtered out of the snow banks much higher up. Along its banks grew a collection of ferns, dwarf evergreen shrubs, and lichens of various colors.
During a quick break for lunch, Gang rode ahead to the summit of a high ridge to scout the afternoon route. Beyond the ridge, the mountains began in earnest with the trail becoming more treacherous. Leaving the river behind, their progress was slowed as they picked their way over sharp rocks and around boulders. Late in the day, the trail descended and leveled out before them, and they found themselves alongside the river once again.
That evening, under a clear sky, the group huddled around Gang’s stove, sipping his strong tea.
“How much further to the digging?” Kurt asked Doyle.
Doyle retrieved a map from his pack and unfolded it on his lap. The pair studied it in the fading light of dusk.
“We follow the river for another ten miles, cross this plateau here,” he said, pointing at the map, “and it should be in this valley here. We’ll be able to surveil them from the plateau, using our night vision binoculars.”
“When do we move in?” asked Marley, who had joined the pair with his cup of tea.
“I will contact Eastwood and let him know we have them in our sights. It will be up to him at that point.”
“I think we should go in and force them to hand over whatever is so damned important or we kill them,” Kurt said, pouring the dregs of his tea onto the ground.
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that. Eastwood wants to avoid a massacre, if at all possible. Apparently, he’s taking some heat for the Saudi deal. Needs to keep a low profile for a while.”
Marley spat and slapped Kurt on the shoulder. “We didn’t use excessive force over there. We just got them to see things our way, that’s all.”
“We need to be careful,” Doyle said. “Orders from the boss. If we can get them to provoke something--well, that’s different.
Marley frowned into his tea then shook his head. “This stuff he brews could use some good whiskey to sweeten the taste and help ward off the chill.”
Kurt nodded his agreement. “Well, maybe soon things will pick up.” He ambled over to the stove and poured himself another cup of the tea.
Gang waved and said the meal was ready. Everyone gathered around the small stove and watched their guide dip large spoonfuls of stew out of the copper pot.
Chapter 13
Li and Jing Wu labored over the portable stove while Harry and Dixie walked about camp, stretching their legs. Dusk was beginning to settle over the vast steppe that engulfed them, and a few stars glittered overhead. The blazing sun had settled behind the peaks of Belukha and Kuitan, leaving the four travelers donning their jackets and sweaters. Satisfied that the kinks had been worked out of their joints, Harry and Dixie reclined on woolen blankets Jing had spread out near the warming stove.
Dixie spoke first. “Jing says we should be at Tenduk tomorrow afternoon. I’m excited about seeing it, aren’t you?”
Harry didn’t answer but stared at the peaks fading in the dwindling magenta twilight. Dixie noticed him looking at the mountains.
“What’s the matter, Harry? You look worried.”
“I was just thinking of mother. Her health is declining and I’m not there. And I can’t seem to really talk to my brother about her. That’s all.”
“Is she very ill, Harry?”
“Heart is failing. Max--that’s my brother--Max says she probably is going to need a pacemaker in the near future.”
“When did you talk to him last?”
“A few days before we left the diggings. She may have already had the pacemaker by now.”
“Your father, is he there with her?”
“I dunno, possibly. Not that he cares all that much.”
“You care to tell me about your parents? What are they like?”
Harry shifted his weight and leaned back on the blanket. He looked into Dixie’s large, brown eyes for a while before he spoke. “My father is an alcoholic, foul-mouthed asshole whom my mother should have kicked out of the house years ago. He rarely works and, when he does, he drinks up his paycheck. Mother is a sweet, kind, once-beautiful woman who raised Max and me with little help from her husband. She worked two jobs to keep us in food and clothes. Many a time, she was too tired to take us anywhere, like to the movies, if she had a little extra money. When he was drunk, my father verbal
ly abused my mother and me. I remember her crying a lot. Not much else to say. I’ve always considered him a mere sperm donor, not my father. Fathers care about their children, think of them first. No, I never considered the man my father.”
“You love her very much, your mother. I can tell,” Dixie said. “But she has stayed with him all these years?”
“I don’t know why. Security, I guess.”
“Maybe she really loved him, Harry. Ever think of that?”
“What kind of love would it be? More like pity.”
“People do strange things when they’re in love. It sounds like she was a good mother.”
“The best. Once, while I was in graduate school, I went through a tough period. Didn’t think I would make it and thought seriously of giving up and quitting. When I told her, she really let me have it. Told me I was carrying her dream. She always wanted to go to college but never could afford it, and it was her dream that her two boys would, even if she didn’t. She told me if I quit, it would be her failure as a mother. So I sucked it up and kept plugging away until I had my doctorate. She cried at my graduation.”
“She sounds like a remarkable woman.”
“She is. What about you, Dixie? Any brothers or sisters?”
“Just a brother. I’m the classic rich kid. My parents sent me to all the proper schools, trying to teach me all the proper ways of a proper society. Except they failed.”
“Failed? How?” Harry said.
Now it was Dixie who stared at the dark peaks silhouetted against the western sky. “Oh, nothing really. I was just thinking of something.”
“You said your parents failed. You seem to be doing just fine to me. You’re a bright, curious student. One of my best.”
“You don’t know, Harry. I’m not at all what I seem.”
“How so?”
“Well, for starters I have made some mistakes--”
Harry chuckled. “Welcome to the club,” he said.
“No, I made a big one once. I--I feel I need to be honest with you, Harry, but I’m afraid. No one at the university knows--but you should know, you’re my professor. But I’m afraid you might not understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Harry, I--”
“It will be all right, I promise. Go ahead. Let it out.”
“Well, when I was sixteen I thought I was in love with this boy in my algebra class. He seemed so nice. Well--well, he introduced me to cocaine. There, I said it. We started doing cocaine after school at his house. His parents were gone. It seemed like fun at first and it felt so good. Soon we were having sex and doing cocaine almost every day. Then one day, I overdosed. Got some strong stuff and almost died. I wound up in the hospital and, after that, my folks stuck me in rehab. While I was in rehab, I got an abortion. At the time, I thought there was no way I could raise a kid by myself. My parents were going nuts. It’s haunted me ever since. I feel so ashamed. But, Harry, that’s not all. I relapsed when I was in college and had to go back to rehab. When my brother was killed in a car accident, I was devastated. I thought my life was over. He meant so much to me. We used talk about everything. After that, however, I never went back to the stuff. At my brother’s funeral, I dedicated the rest of my life to his memory and vowed I would make something of myself. I got my life turned around and went back to college. I’ve been clean and sober ever since.”
“I never thought--”
“You’re upset with me now, aren’t you?”
“No, never.”
“You don’t mind if your student was a druggy and had an abortion?”
“Dixie, Dixie.” Harry placed a hand on her soft cheek and felt its warmth. “Everyone has a past and done things they wished they hadn’t. Myself included. I could tell you something shocking about your professor. The important thing is that we learn from our mistakes and move on. Become a better person. You certainly have done that.”
“It’s just that I keep feeling that something is going to happen. Something bad. My life is so perfect right now.”
“Dixie, you are the best graduate student I have ever had. You are bright, energetic, and you work hard. Nothing has been given to you at Cal Pacific. You’ve earned everything by hard work and dedication. My other students could learn a lot from your example.”
She smiled. Tears welled in her eyes. “You won’t mention this to anyone will you? Especially to the professor.”
“I promise your secret is safe with me. And, Dixie, I am fortunate to have you on this expedition. Now it looks like supper is ready, so let’s see what Li and Jing have cooked up.”
***
Eastwood let himself into his Upper West Side penthouse and mixed himself a drink. His phone call with Garrett Sawyers earlier that afternoon had left him in a sour mood. He tugged at his tie and slouched in his favorite chair, facing a large window overlooking FDR Drive and the East River. Mill Rock stood like a sentinel in the hazy distance.
Sawyers had telephoned from the White House to talk about his appointment to the nonprofit commission the president was forming. To Eastwood’s dismay, the presidential aide informed him that no decision was forthcoming and might not be for many weeks. Eastwood wondered if the Saudi deal had anything to do with the president’s decision. He had broken a few laws, sure, but what American corporation hadn’t? As far as he knew, there were no trails leading back to him. To make matters worse, he had not heard from Doyle in several days, which increased the tension in his chest and neck. The unknown status of the Mongolian mission cut through him, and not being able to control operations on the ground made him antsy. His star had risen profoundly since dropping out of school at age eighteen. After joining the army, he became a platoon sergeant and went to Vietnam. Those days were long past but the urge to lead men was still a driving force within him. He had used those skills learned in the military to build BioGen to a company whose tentacles reached throughout the world. These days, there were no bullets to dodge, just laws to skirt around and avoid getting caught.
Eastwood got up and fixed himself another drink. Standing in front of the large window, he allowed the whiskey to calm his frazzled nerves, while his mind wandered back to a time in the jungle, a time when decisions seemed simpler--kill or be killed. He was alone in a bunker at Kham Duc, situated in the northern section of Quảng Tín Province, South Vietnam. It sat beside National Highway 14, which paralleled the international border with Laos, and was surrounded by high mountains on all sides. Located in the northwest of South Vietnam, just ten miles from Laos, for years the camp at Kham Duc had served as a base for intelligence gathering operations along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. And in the spring of 1968, the communists decided the time had come to take it out for good. By early May, intelligence sources realized that a large number of North Vietnamese were gathering in the mountains around the camp. After it was reinforced, an outlying camp was attacked, which soon fell to the enemy, and the marines were evacuated by helicopter to Kham Duc. That evening, General Westmoreland determined that Kham Duc was indefensible and, wishing to avoid the headlines of American troops being overrun, decided to evacuate it, beginning at dawn the next morning. The special forces camp was named after the main village, which was located about 800 meters to the northeast. It was night. The camp was surrounded by the enemy and they were outnumbered. Help was supposed to be on the way, but no one knew for sure. The air force had pounded the surrounding hills for days, but North Vietnamese mortars kept raining down on them. Several helicopters and a plane were shot down and burned on a small runway next to the outpost.
It was the longest night Eastwood could remember. Enemy fire pounded them all night. He sat in his hooch, waiting for death. He wrote his parents a letter and told them he missed them. The small candlelit dugout closed in on him and his few buddies, who were huddled with him. The night wore on, as did the incoming artillery. He prayed in earnest. He was never a religious young man but, that night, buried in that hooch, he was as religious as they came. Finally, aft
er dawn, Chinook helicopters arrived and began the evacuation. He had survived, but it was a terrible retreat.
Finished with his drink, he decided to go to bed. Maybe he would hear something from Doyle in the morning.
***
Doyle sat perched behind a rock outcropping, squinting through the night-vision binoculars. The expedition site lay spread out on the steppe, a half a mile below, and all appeared quiet. No one was moving among the numerous tents and no lights burned. Doyle counted a dozen tents--four large ones, the rest being of the smaller variety. He noticed two sentries dozing at the far side of the compound. He stumbled from his overlook and retrieved the satellite phone from his duffle. After punching in a series of numbers, he waited while the clicking commenced then breathed a sigh of relief when the ringing began.
Eastwood answered. “Hello?”
“Sir, we’re here. Got them under surveillance now. Everyone is asleep. Only two guards and they appear to be sleeping.”
Eastwood’s voice crackled over the phone connection. “Good. Now here is what I want you to do...”
Doyle listened for a long while to Eastwood. Finished, he replaced the phone in the duffle.
“Gather around, men, and listen up.”
Gang, Gillum, Kurt, and Marley sat in a semicircle around Doyle, who shook his head. “Not you, Gang. This is company business.”