The Maw

by Taylor Zajonc

  “Where’s the dig?” shouted Milo over the whump-whump-whump of the departing helicopter.

  “What dig?” asked his driver as the aircraft disappeared into the distance. “We’re not going to a dig.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “You honestly don’t know? I thought somebody would have had let it slip into the academic rumor-mill by now.”

  “I still have no goddamn idea.”

  The Englishwoman smiled and leaned toward him conspiratorially. “You ever explore a Cretaceous-era supercave before?”

  CHAPTER 2:

  STAGING CAMP

  “But I’m not a caver,” protested Milo as the Land Rover lurched down the last steep switchback to the encampment below.

  His driver laughed. “Then I hope you can cook!”

  Milo’s mind did a couple of backflips trying to parse the absurdity of it all. Maybe it was some giant cosmic fuckup, his coming here. Maybe there was some other Milo Luttrell worriedly checking his email inbox for a missing invitation to a secret spelunking mission. But expedition backers had to know exactly who they’d hired—though the question of why remained another issue entirely.

  The Land Rover clunked over a patch of dusty potholes and rumbled into the motor pool, parking alongside two identically equipped off-road SUVs. From this new vantage, Milo could see the symmetry of the camp, small domed personnel tents stretching down one side in a long line, three helicopter-transported trailers and twin temporary prefab structures on the other, a newly bulldozed dirt road between them. A pair of mess tents rose from the center of the row, complete with an open-air kitchen. Chemical toilets stood a respectful distance down a narrow footpath. Towering piles of bar-coded Pelican-brand cases lay in uneven stacks beside the motor pool, some still wrapped in cargo netting or strapped to lightweight plastic pallets.

  Local porters and coverall-clad foreigners worked side by side as they set up the last of the trailers and equipment. Others sat in folding chairs near the small personnel tents, talking as the last rays of the sun disappeared behind a distant grassy hill. As darkness fell, high-efficiency LED poles slowly glowed to life like streetlamps, bathing the camp in artificial illumination.

  Staggered by the size of the encampment, Milo stared openmouthed before turning back to his overqualified chauffeur. But she was gone, along with his baggage.

  “Thanks for the ride,” muttered Milo. Now abandoned, he had the distinct sense he should report to someone, but who?

  As if on cue, Milo heard the sound of a clearing throat behind him. He swiveled around in the leather seat to see a young blonde woman standing beside his door. She held a tablet computer like a clipboard as she waited patiently for his attention. She wore an expensive safari-chic outfit and flirty smile.

  “Mr. Luttrell?” she asked, cocking her head slightly as she spoke. Milo could see she’d pulled up his profile picture from Georgetown University’s website; the question had been entirely for his benefit.

  “Milo, yeah,” he said, awkwardly extending his hand through the open window. She shook it, then opened and held the Rover door for him to step out. Her manner reminded him of a flight attendant; the only thing missing was the uniform and a drink cart.

  “I’m Kylie, and I’ll be showing you around today—how was the trip?” she asked, her voice cheerful and clipped. “Did Joanne take good care of you?”

  “The trip was long,” said Milo, quick-stepping to keep up with her, but glad he didn’t have to ask the driver’s name. He promised himself he wouldn’t lose it again. “And a bit sudden. But Joanne was . . . the drive was fine.”

  He shivered—with little to no humidity to hold heat, the temperature had already begun dropping quickly. Kylie cocked her head like an inquisitive bird, then without waiting further led him down the central camp avenue at a fast gait. It felt good to stretch his legs; he hadn’t realized how stiff he was.

  “Do you have any luggage with you?” she asked.

  “Had a backpack with me,” answered Milo. “But I think the driver took it.”

  “Sign this,” Kylie said, putting the tablet into his hands along with a digital pen. The screen held a one-page agreement that he quickly skimmed. Milo couldn’t help but be impressed with the sheer volume of legal threats that had somehow been fitted into such a short document.

  “Done,” said Milo, handing the tablet back after affixing his signature.

  “Your luggage will be waiting for you in your assigned tent,” she assured him. “I wanted to know if you have any special items with you now, or if you might expect to have something delivered separately . . . books, equipment, things of that nature.”

  Milo briefly felt a pang of overwhelming dread, like the first-day-of-school dream where he was missing a pen or pants. “Not much beyond my digital camera and a laptop,” he finally mumbled. “No books—nobody told me what to bring.”

  “You need a few minutes?” she asked sympathetically, though still ignoring the larger point. “Wash up, change? Eat something? Dinner isn’t for a couple of hours, but we do have some very nice snacks.”

  “Couldn’t eat even if I wanted to,” answered Milo. “Still no appetite from the flight. I’d rather go ahead and meet whoever’s in charge, if that’s possible.”

  “Good,” she answered with a smile as they passed the mess tent without stopping. “He is very eager to meet you as well.”

  “Can I make a quick phone call first?” asked Milo. “Let my folks know I’ve made it in one piece?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she answered. “The communications equipment is not yet ready for use. But if you give me their names and contact information, I’ll pass word on your behalf once we establish a secure connection.”

  “This is quite the setup,” Milo said, gesturing to the expansive camp. “I’ve never seen anything like it—very impressive.”

  “Believe me, I know,” Kylie said with a slight laugh. “Three days ago, this was all just empty grassland. Not even the cattlemen make it this far out.”

  “You part of the logistics team?” asked Milo, trying to figure out her role beyond that of helpful camp guide.

  “I’m the head of the logistics team,” she corrected. He briefly worried that he’d offended her.

  “Big job,” said Milo, still somewhat stumbling for a response.

  Kylie just shrugged. “Easier than Kandahar or the Sudan,” she said. “Nobody’s shooting at us here.”

  Milo thought about making a lame not yet, anyway joke but decided against it. They passed the main section of the camp with three large trailers on adjustable aluminum jacks. The first seemed to be some kind of laboratory, the second a windowed office, and the last a sophisticated communications setup complete with multiple satellite dishes and radio antenna. Milo found himself doubting that it was non-operational—lights and screens within the cloudy windows flashed, and he heard a faint hum coming from unseen computer servers. How hard could it be to place a simple phone call?

  “Dinner will be wonderful tonight,” she said. “Your choice, lasagna Bolognese or strip steak with salad and breadsticks, all made on site. New York cheesecake for dessert. And the wine pairing is always excellent.”

  It all sounded much better than the frozen pizza Milo would have had if he was still home in Washington, DC. Again he found himself pondering the cost of it all.

  They passed the last trailer. Through wire-reinforced glass, he caught a glimpse of a sophisticated medical bay, not unlike a mobile operating theatre. Biohazard suits hung from hooks at the side of a double-airlock entrance. From the look of the facility, it could have handled just about any procedure up to and including major surgery.

  “May I ask how you know Mr. Brunsfield?” Kylie asked. “He was so insistent that you join us.”

  “I don’t,” answered Milo, unable to place the name. “Know him, I mean.”

  She turned to face Milo, openly surprised. “Maybe he knows you,” she finally said, unconvinced. “But even if you�
��ve never met, there’s still a good chance you’ll recognize him when you see him.”

  “Or you could just tell me,” said Milo. But his guide just gave him another smile as she pointed toward the largest shelter at the end of the personnel row, a waxed canvas Bedouin-style tent held up by old-fashioned wooden pegs and hemp rope.

  “Anything I should know?” asked Milo as he ducked through the entrance.

  “Just one thing,” she whispered with a sly smile. “Don’t be afraid to kiss his ass.”

  She did not follow him into the tent.

  Milo stepped into the opulent shelter. The interior was a lovingly recreated Victorian-era safari bivouac—gilt fixtures, soft leather, blown glass, colorful woven rugs, lacquered wood, and rough cottons. But then there were the modern touches, namely the bank of frameless monitors mounted against the fabric wall that displayed a grainy black-and-white view of a stark cavern moonscape, robotic tank-treads barely visible at the bottom of the screens. A white-haired man sat on a low couch with his back turned to Milo, intent on the screen as he gave instructions to a joystick-wielding technician.

  “Back!” he exclaimed. “We’re not stuck yet—just give it a little more gas!”

  Milo’s gaze shifted back to the monitors. It was difficult to get a sense of scale; the black-and-white video might well have been taken from a distant rocky planet. The white-haired man grumbled and placed his face in his hands with frustration. The robot couldn’t free itself from between two rocks and the backseat driving wasn’t helping.

  “Goddamn robots,” he boomed. “Back it up! Get it loose again!”

  Milo looked at the technician with sympathy. The robot wasn’t going anywhere.

  “We should have sent in a goddamned canary instead,” he complained. “Useless!”

  “What am I looking at?” asked Milo, no longer able to restrain his curiosity.

  The white haired man swiveled to face him. Milo felt his first inkling of recognition. “The cave has been sealed up for a long time,” he said. “We needed to check the atmospheric composition for noxious gases. The little bot survived the fifteen-hundred-foot winch down the main shaft—”

  “Fifteen hundred feet?” interrupted Milo in disbelief, wondering briefly if he’d misheard an order of magnitude.

  “That’s right, more than a quarter mile straight down. We’re looking at the deepest pit cave in Africa, maybe the second or third deepest on the planet. It’s going to rewrite every geology textbook and record-book, if we can get it mapped—which we obviously can’t do with our goddamn robot, because it can’t do shit once it reaches the bottom!”

  Milo pursed his lips and nodded, not sure what to say. The technician frowned but kept his mouth shut as well.

  The older man stood, turning his back to the screens. “I think it’s safe to say the future of caving is not with robotics,” he said as he extended an open hand toward Milo. “I’m Dale Brunsfield. Welcome to Main Camp, Milo. I’m so thrilled you finally made it all the way out here.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brunsfield,” said Milo, confirming his recognition. Brunsfield was a fixture of Wall Street and was well known to the adventure community as a generous benefactor, using high-dollar corporate sponsorship to bolster the rugged image of his hedge fund and the luxury apparel brand he’d acquired as a hobby. Rich safari-goers, mountain trekkers, and would-be jungle explorers often began their travels with a stop by his upscale stores, selecting from the expensive olive-drab and khaki designer clothing and handbags.

  “Call me Dale,” he said. “I’m a big fan of your work on Richard Halliburton’s 1939 Sea Dragon voyage. Top notch. The conclusion that the shipwreck found off San Diego wasn’t Halliburton’s reproduction Chinese junk? All deduced from a single nail? Made me a believer, no question.”

  Milo wasn’t surprised. Rich men like Dale Brunsfield loved Halliburton and his exploits. After becoming the first man to swim the length of the Panama Canal, Halliburton’s bestselling book The Flying Carpet (the story of his eighteen-month, 34,000-mile global circumnavigation aboard an open-canopy biplane) was, to some, the first true modern adventure travelogue. Halliburton played the part of romantic adventurer to the hilt, becoming legendary for his parties and bohemian lifestyle. Guaranteeing himself a place among the iconic adventurers, Halliburton was lost at sea in 1939. The particulars of his disappearance were not unlike those of Amelia Earhart. With no trace found, he’d been similarly mythologized into speculation and legend.

  Despite the lofty reputation, Milo wasn’t Halliburton’s biggest fan—one of his most-relayed stories was the purchase of two child slaves in Timbuktu as entertainment. As loathe as Milo was to judge the historic figure by the standards of a modern era, he regarded that unsavory decision as legacy-defining and nothing short of reprehensible.

  “Thanks,” said Milo now, reflecting on his obscure article. “I’m glad you found it interesting. I didn’t think too many people had read it.”

  “Well, I for one loved it,” said Dale, eyeing Milo suspiciously. “So, I have to ask . . . have you sniffed out what I’m up to?”

  “Not as of yet,” admitted Milo. “Something about a cave, I hear?”

  “You’ve heard nothing? No journalists poking around? Or other interested parties? Anybody try to contact you about me, Tanzania, or a lost cavern?”

  Milo shook his head. He didn’t think he knew any other “interested parties,” whatever that meant, and the importance of the cave itself remained a complete mystery.

  “Good,” exclaimed Dale with uncomfortable volume. “Tight ship, that’s what we’re running here. A tight ship.”

  Milo could only figure Dale Brunsfield was on to something big, or at least thought he was. The size of the camp all but confirmed it—either a legitimately monumental find or Dale was exceptionally rich and crazy.

  On the four-screen bank, the feed from the robot winked out into choppy video blocks, then a blank blue disconnection screen that clashed against the muted earth tones of the tent’s interior. The tech mumbled a long string of expletives and smacked the controller without effect.

  “Hell,” said Dale, shaking his head at the monitors. “We’re done for the day with the robot. Reel ’er back in.”

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” said Milo before he lost Dale’s attention for good. “I still don’t know what you want from me.”

  “Thought you’d have figured it out by now,” said Dale with a sly smile. “I should make you guess at it, but we’re short on time as is.”

  Dale paused, squinting as he eyed Milo.

  “Milo, we didn’t just find the largest cave in Africa. I’m on the trail of DeWar’s legendary lost 1901 expedition. They weren’t planning to climb Mount Meru. That nonsense was just their cover story. They disappeared into that cave, never to be seen again.”

  Milo stared back at the blank screens, confused.

  “I’ve read up on you, son,” said Dale, grabbing Milo by the shoulders. “You’re no caver, but you’re a regular Sherlock Holmes when it comes to historical expeditions. You know your stuff—usually—and I know your DeWar obsession almost tanked your career.”

  Dale released Milo, who wavered on his feet.

  “This find will be bigger than Stanley and Livingstone,” he said, stabbing his finger toward the now-dark screen. “When we map this cave, we’re going to discover DeWar’s lost expedition down there—we’ll be the ones to solve a mystery more than a century in the making.”

  CHAPTER 3:

  MIGRATIONS

  Milo had to choke back an open scoff. The DeWar expedition? What a waste of time and money. All these people and equipment hauled out to Tanzania for nothing more than a myth, albeit one he’d once entertained himself. Yes, at one point the English aristocrat was hailed as the next great mountaineer and explorer, a maverick of yet-unexplored mountain peaks and polar lands. Lord Riley DeWar cut his teeth on the French Alps, ridden dogsleds across the Canadian wilderness, studied winter survival
with Nordic reindeer herders. He’d even accompanied the Adrien de Gerlache expedition to Antarctica in 1896, enduring seven months of scurvy-ridden hardship in the clutches of pack ice.

  Supposedly DeWar’s destination was the summit of Mount Meru—Kilimanjaro’s volcanic little sister—assuming he ever had any intention of reaching the peak. Most historians theorized that he’d simply stolen his backer’s money. All that was known for certain was that Riley DeWar, six comrades, four servants, and a dozen porters marched out of Dar es Salaam, never to return.

  Dale Brunsfield was right. Milo’s DeWar fixation had almost ended his career. Shortly after graduating with his master’s degree, he’d been the first to make a connection between a set of bones recovered from the marshes of a Kenyan lake and oral history of an ambushed convoy of whites and porters. But Milo didn’t just make the connection—he staked his career on it, with a published paper, popular news articles, and a book deal well underway, even ending a serious romantic relationship over the newfound demands of his budding notoriety.

  The heady days all unraveled when a respected French anthropological forensics laboratory took on the case pro bono, recovered sequenceable DNA (which Milo had been told was impossible), and definitively declared the bones as those of a family of nineteenth-century German farmers. Almost every professional relationship Milo had painstakingly garnered over years was instantly shredded, leaving him with little more to rebuild his career than a handful of reluctantly loyal advisors and professional contacts.

  Maybe DeWar got sick and died en route, or maybe he was ambushed and killed by a local tribe; either outcome wouldn’t have been unknown to the region. More likely, Lord Riley changed his name and bought a plantation—or spent his final days in an opiate-laced stupor, the logical outcome of his chosen vice. Fading into the heady two-decade “Scramble for Africa” would have been an easy exit from his ongoing financial troubles.