Mount Dragon

by Douglas Preston

  He heard the gate swing shut, then the sound of boots slowly crossing the sawdust floor of the barn. Squatting down, Carson peered through a knothole in the frame of the stall.

  The security director was saturated, head to toe, in dun-colored dust. Only his black eyes and crusted mouth broke through the monotony of the powdery coat.

  Nye stopped in front of the tack area and slowly untied his rifle boot and saddlebags, hanging them on a rack. He uncinched the saddle, jerked it off the horse, and set it on a carrier, slinging the saddle blankets on top. Every movement raised small mushroom clouds of gray dust.

  Nye led the horse toward its stall, out of Carson’s view. Carson could hear him brushing the horse down, murmuring soothing words. He heard the snip of a bale being cut, the thump of hay thrown into the stall and a hose filling the water bucket. In a few moments, Nye reappeared. Turning his back to Carson, he pulled out a heavy tack box from one corner of the barn and unlocked it. Then, moving to his saddle bags, he unbuckled one side and extracted what looked like two squares of clear stiff plastic, sandwiching a ragged—and completely unauthorized—piece of paper. Placing them on the floor of the tack area, Nye removed what looked like a wax pencil from the saddlebags, bent over the paper, and began making notations on the covering plastic. Carson pressed his eye to the crack, straining for a better view. The piece of paper looked old and well worn, and he could see a large, handwritten phrase across its upper border: Al despertar la hora el áquila del sol se levanta en una aguja del fuego, “At dawn the eagle of the sun stands on a needle of fire.” Beyond that he could make out nothing.

  Suddenly, Nye sat up, alert. He looked around, craning his neck as if searching for the source of some noise. Carson shrank into the shadows at the back of the stall. He heard a shuffling sound, the click of a lock, the heavy clumping of feet. He peered out again to see the security director leave the barn, a gray apparition vanishing into the mist.

  After a few moments, Carson got up and, eyeing the tack box curiously for a moment, moved over to the stall that held Muerto, Nye’s horse. It stood spraddle-legged, a string of brown saliva hanging from its mouth. He reached down and felt the tendons. Some heat, but no serious inflammation. The corona was hot but the hooves were still good, and the horse’s eye was clear. Whatever Nye had been doing, he had pushed the animal almost to its limit, maybe even as much as a hundred miles in the last twelve hours. The animal was still sound; there was no permanent damage and the horse would be back in form in a day or two. Nye had known when to quit. And he had a magnificent horse. A zero branded into its right jaw and a freeze brand high on its neck indicated it was registered with both the American Paint Horse Association and the American Quarter Horse Association. He patted its flank admiringly.

  “You’re one expensive piece of horseflesh,” he said.

  Carson left the stall and moved to the barn entrance, peering out into the dust that hung like smoke in the oppressive air. Nye was long gone. Closing the barn door quietly, Carson headed quickly for his room, trying to make sense of a man who would risk his life in a savage dust storm. Or a security director who would risk his job carrying around a piece of paper topped by a meaningless Spanish phrase at a place where paper was forbidden.

  Carson passed through the canteen and out onto the balcony, the weathered banjo case knocking against his knees. The night was dark, and the moon obscured by clouds, but he knew that the figure sitting motionless by the balcony railing was Singer.

  Since their first conversation on the balcony, Carson had often noticed Singer sitting out, enjoying the evening, fingering chords and runs on his battered guitar. Invariably, Singer had smiled and waved, or called out a cheerful greeting. But Singer seemed to change after the death of Brandon-Smith. He became quieter, more withdrawn. The arrival of Teece, and Vanderwagon’s sudden fit in the dining room, seemed only to deepen Singer’s mood. He still sat on the canteen balcony in the evenings, but now his head drooped in the desert silence, the guitar lying silent by his side.

  During the first few weeks, Carson had often joined the director on the balcony for an evening chat. But as time went on and the pressure increased, Carson had found there was always more on-line research to be done, more lab notes to be recorded in the quiet solitude of his room after working hours. This evening, however, he was determined to find the time. He liked Singer, and didn’t like to see him brooding, no doubt blaming himself unnecessarily for the recent troubles. Perhaps he could draw the man out of himself for a bit. Besides, the talk with Teece had left Carson with nagging doubts about his own work. He knew that Singer, with his unswerving faith in the virtues of science, would be the perfect tonic.

  “Who’s there?” Singer asked sharply. The moon passed out of the clouds, temporarily throwing the balcony into pale relief. Singer caught sight of Carson. “Oh,” he said, relaxing. “Hello, Guy.”

  “Evening.” Carson took a seat next to the director. Although the balcony had been swept clean of its mantle of dust, fresh clouds of the stuff rose dimly into view as he settled his weight into the chair. “Beautiful night,” he said, after a pause.

  “Did you see the sunset?” Singer asked quietly.

  “Incredible.” As if to make up for the fury of the dust storm, the desert sunset that evening had been a spectacular display of color against the smoky haze.

  Without speaking further, Carson leaned over, unsnapped the case, and pulled out his Gibson five-string. Singer watched, a spark of interest kindling in his tired eyes.

  “Is that an RB-3?” he asked.

  Carson nodded. “Forty-hole tone ring. 1932 or thereabouts.”

  “It’s a beauty,” Singer said, squinting appraisingly in the moonlight. “My God. Is that the original calfskin head?”

  “That’s right.” Carson drummed the dirty head lightly with the tips of his fingers. “They don’t like desert conditions, and this one’s always going flat. Some day I’ll break down and buy a plastic one. Here, take a look.” He handed the instrument to Singer.

  The director turned it over in his hands. “Mahogany neck and resonator. Original Presto tailpiece, too. The flange is pot-metal, I suppose?”

  “Yes. It’s warping a little.”

  Singer handed it back. “A real museum piece. How’d you come by it?”

  “A ranch hand who worked for my grandfather. He had to leave our place in a hurry one day. This is one of the things he left behind. It sat for decades on top of a bookcase, collecting dust. Until I went to college, got the bluegrass bug.”

  As they spoke, Singer seemed to lose some of his funk. “Let’s hear how it sounds,” he said, reaching over and picking up his old Martin. He strummed it thoughtfully, tuned a string or two, then swung into the unmistakable bass line of “Salt Creek.” Carson listened, nodding his head in time to the music as he vamped background chords. It had been months since he’d picked up the instrument, and his chops weren’t what they had been at Harvard, but gradually his fingers limbered up and he tried some rolls. Then suddenly Singer was playing backup and Carson found himself taking a solo break, smiling almost with relief when he found that his pull-offs still sounded crisp and his single-string work was clean.

  They finished with a shave-and-a-haircut tag and Singer launched immediately into “Clinch Mountain Backstep.” Carson swung into the tune behind him, impressed by the director’s virtuosity. Singer, meanwhile, seemed wholly engrossed, playing with the abandon of a man suddenly freed of a terrific burden.

  Carson followed Singer through the strong, ancient changes of “Rocky Top,” “Mountain Dew,” and “Little Maggie,” feeling more and more comfortable and at last allowing himself an up-the-neck break that brought a smile and a nod from the director. Singer moved into an elaborate ending tag, and they closed with a thunderous G chord. As the echoes died, Carson thought he heard the faint, brief sound of clapping from the direction of the residency compound.

  “Thank you, Guy,” Singer said, putting aside the guitar and wi
ping his hands together with satisfaction. “We should have done this a long time ago. You’re an excellent musician.”

  “I’m not in your league,” Carson said. “But thanks all the same.”

  A silence fell as the two men stared out into the night. Singer stood up and moved into the canteen to fix himself a drink. A disheveled-looking man walked by the balcony, counting imaginary numbers on his fingers and muttering loudly in what sounded like anguished Russian. That must be Pavel, Carson thought, the one de Vaca told me about. The man disappeared around a walkway corner into the night. A moment later, Singer returned from inside. His tread was slower now, and Carson sensed that whatever mantle of responsibility had temporarily been lifted was quickly settling again.

  “So how’ve you been keeping, Guy?” Singer said, settling back into the chair. “We haven’t really spoken for ages.”

  “I suppose Teece’s visit kept you busy,” Carson said. The moon had once again vanished behind thickening clouds, and he sensed, rather than saw, the director stiffen at the investigator’s name.

  “What a nuisance that turned out to be,” Singer said. He sipped his drink while Carson waited. “Can’t say I think much of Mr. Teece. One of those people who act like they know everything, but won’t reveal any of it to you. He seems to get a lot of his information by setting people against each other. Know what I mean?”

  “I didn’t speak with him for very long. He didn’t seem too pleased with the work we’re doing,” Carson said, choosing his words carefully.

  Singer sighed. “You can’t expect everyone to understand, let alone appreciate, what we’re trying to do here, Guy. That’s especially true of bureaucrats and regulators. I’ve met people like Teece before. More often than not, they’re failed scientists. You can’t discount the jealousy factor in people like that.” He took a swallow. “Well, he’ll have to give us his report sooner or later.”

  “Probably sooner,” Carson replied, instantly sorry that he’d spoken. He felt Singer’s eyes on him in the dark.

  “Yes. He left here in an awful hurry. Insisted on taking one of the Hummers and driving himself to Radium Springs.” Singer took another swallow. “You seem to be the last one he spoke to.”

  “He said he wanted to save those closest to X-FLU for last.”

  “Hmm.” Singer finished his drink and placed the glass heavily on the floor. He looked back again at Carson. “Well, he’ll have heard about Levine by now. That won’t make things any easier for us. He’ll be back with a fresh set of questions, I’ll bet money on it.”

  Carson felt a cold wave pass through him. “Levine?” he asked as casually as possible.

  Singer was still looking at him. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard, the rumor mill is full of it. Charles Levine, head of the Foundation for Genetic Policy. He said some pretty damaging things about us on national television a few days ago. GeneDyne stock is down significantly.”

  “It is?”

  “Dropped another five and a half points today. The company has lost almost half a billion dollars in shareholders’ equity. I needn’t tell you what that does to our stock holdings.”

  Carson felt numb. He was not worried about the small amount of GeneDyne stock in his portfolio; he was worried about something entirely different. “What else did Levine say?”

  Singer shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. It’s all lies, anyway, all shitty lies. The problem is, people eat up that sort of stuff. They’re just looking for something else to use against us, something to hold us back.”

  Carson licked his lips. He’d never heard Singer swear before. He wasn’t very good at it. “So what’s going to happen?” A look of satisfaction surfaced briefly on Singer’s features. “Brent will deal with it,” he said. “That’s just the kind of game he likes.”

  The helicopter approached Mount Dragon from the east, across the restricted airspace of the White Sands Missile Range, unmonitored by civilian air-traffic control. It was after midnight, the moon had disappeared, and the desert floor was an endless carpet of black. The helicopter’s blades were of a noise-baffled military design, and the engine was equipped with pink-noise generators to minimize the aircraft’s sound signature. The running lights and tail beacon were off, the pilot using downward-pointing radar to search for its target.

  The target was a small transmitter, placed in the center of a reflective sheet of Mylar held down by a circle of stones. Next to the transmitter sat a Hummer, its engine and headlights off.

  The helicopter eased down near the Mylar, the rotor wash tearing and shredding the material into confetti. As the runners settled on the desert floor, the dark figure of a man stepped out of the Hummer and ran toward the helicopter’s hatch, an oddly shaped metal suitcase imprinted with the GeneDyne logo in one hand. The hatch opened, and a pair of hands reached out for the case. As soon as the hatch was secured, the helicopter lifted off, banked, and disappeared again into the blackness. The Hummer drove away, its shielded lights following the two tire tracks that had brought it. A single shred of Mylar, borne aloft in an updraft, curled and drifted away. Within moments, a bottomless silence had once again settled on the desert.

  That Sunday, the sun rose to a flawless sky. At Mount Dragon, the Fever Tank was closed as usual for decontamination, and until the obligatory evening emergency drill, the science staff would be left to their own devices.

  As his coffee brewed, Carson looked out his window at the black cone of Mount Dragon, just becoming visible in the predawn light. Usually, he spent his Sundays like the rest of the staff: isolated in his room, laptop for company, catching up on background work. But today, he would climb Mount Dragon. He’d been promising himself he’d do just that since first arriving at the site. Besides, the balcony session with Singer had whetted his appetite to play again, and he knew the sharp nasal sounds of the banjo strings echoing through the quiet residency compound would incite half a dozen irate e-mail messages through the lab net.

  Dumping the coffee and grounds into a thermos, he slung his banjo over his shoulder and headed to the cafeteria to pick up some sandwiches. The kitchen staff, usually almost unbearably chipper, were morose and silent. They couldn’t still be upset about what had happened to Vanderwagon. Must be the early hour, Carson thought. Everyone seemed to be in a bad mood these days.

  Checking out with the perimeter guard, he set off down the dirt road that wound northeastward toward Mount Dragon. Reaching the base, he began the climb toward the summit, leaving the road in favor of a steep, narrow trail. The instrument felt heavy on his back, and the cinders slid under his feet as he climbed. Half an hour of hard work brought him to the top.

  It was a classic cinder cone, its center scooped out by the ancient eruption. A few mesquite bushes grew along the rim. On the far side, Carson could see a cluster of microwave and radio towers, and a small white shed surrounded by a chain-link fence.

  He turned around, breathing hard, ready to enjoy the view he’d worked hard for. The desert floor, at the precise instant of dawn, was like a pool of light, shimmering and swirling as if there were no surface at all, but merely a play of light and color. As the sun climbed fully over the horizon and flung a sheet of golden light across the ground, each solitary mesquite and creosotebush attached itself to shadows that ran endlessly toward the horizon. Carson could see the edge of light race across the desert, from east to west, etching the hills in light and the washes in darkness, until it rushed away over the curve of the earth, leaving a blanket of light in its wake.

  Several miles away, he could see the wrecked outline of the old Anasazi pueblo—he now knew it was called Kin Klizhini—throwing shadows like black slashes across the dusty plain. Still farther away, the desert floor became black and mottled: the Malpaís lava flow.

  He chose a comfortable spot behind a large block of tufa. Putting the banjo beside him, he stretched out and shut his eyes, enjoying the delicious solitude.

  “Shit,” came a familiar voice several minutes later.
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br />   Startled, Carson looked up and saw de Vaca standing over him, hands on her hips.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  Carson grabbed the handle of his banjo case. His day was already ruined. “What does it look like?” he asked.

  “You’re in my spot,” she said. “I always come up here on Sundays.”

  Without another word, Carson heaved himself to his feet and started to walk away. This was one day he was going to avoid an argument with his lab assistant. He’d take Roscoe out a good ten miles, do his playing out there.

  He halted when he saw the expression on her face.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  Carson looked at her. His instincts told him not to strike up a conversation, not to ask, just to get the hell out of there.

  “You look a little upset,” he said.

  “Why should I trust you?” de Vaca asked abruptly.

  “Trust me about what?”

  “You’re one of them,” she said. “A company man.” Beneath the accusatory tones, Carson sensed genuine fright.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  De Vaca remained silent for a long time. “Teece disappeared,” she said at last.

  Carson relaxed. “Of course he did. I talked to him the night before last. He was taking a Hummer to Radium Springs. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  She shook her head angrily. “You don’t understand. After the storm, his Hummer was found out in the desert. Empty.”

  Shit. Not Teece. “He must have gotten lost in the sandstorm.”

  “That’s what they’re saying.”

  He turned toward her sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  De Vaca wouldn’t look at him. “I overheard Nye. He was talking to Singer, saying that Teece was still missing. They were arguing.”

  Carson was silent. Nye ... A vision came into his head: a vision of a man emerging from the sandstorm, encased in dust, his horse nearly dead from exhaustion.