Pandora's Curse

by Du Brul, Jack

  Mercer didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The golden age of exploration and discovery was long gone. It was part of a bygone era, much like the Society itself. And yet to be invited to join, to be a part of the organization that had helped open up so many frontiers, was an honor that Mercer couldn’t refuse. His education and work entitled him to a string of initials after his name if he so chose, but the prestigious MSS—Member Surveyor’s Society—was a title he’d coveted since first reading their magazine as a boy. Much to his irritation, a great deal of his work now took place in front of a computer rather than in the field. The invitation was a way for him to reconnect with the pioneers of his profession. He broke himself from his silent musings. “There’s that, and I want to find out if some of the rumors are true about parts of your collection.”

  “Ah, the rumors.”

  Speculation about the Society’s secrets had run rampant for generations. Because of its private status and the powerful people who’d always run it, many believed it had become a repository for a great many unsettling discoveries. Some said they had a portion of Amelia Earhart’s Lockheed Electra and others believed the Great Mogul Throne from India was here. He’d heard of a group who believed the Society’s vault contained definitive proof of pre-Columbian exploration by Phoenician explorers. And another who said they owned a portion of the True Cross.

  The Internet had served to accelerate the pace of conjecture. A year ago, a group on the Net learned that a farm in Roswell, New Mexico, near where a UFO had supposedly crashed in the 1940s had been owned by a member of the Surveyor’s Society. The inference that the Society possessed hidden evidence of alien contact came immediately afterward and the furor had yet to die down.

  “Even I don’t know half of it,” Bryce admitted. “Our ten-person executive council are the only people who know what’s in the secret part of our vault.”

  There was a knock at the door, and the elderly steward entered holding a tray with two glasses on it. “It is noon, gentlemen. Lunch will be in thirty minutes in the dining room. May I offer you a cocktail?”

  Bryce turned to Mercer. “It’s still gimlets, isn’t it?”

  “Good memory.” Mercer accepted the vodka and sweetened lime juice concoction from the butler. He’d recently switched to Gray Goose, a French vodka, and noted this drink was made with his old standard, Absolut.

  Bryce took a tumbler of iced Macallan Scotch. “I seem to recall a night a few years back where you and I went through quite a few of these in very short order. The only thing I remember from then is the weeklong hangover afterward.”

  The air-conditioning kicked in. Mercer could feel cool air blowing from the brass grill recessed into the wall behind his back. It was as though the chill had changed the mood of the meeting. Bryce went silent for a moment, his eyes focusing on a middle distance only he could see. He almost appeared upset by something they had said or something he was about to say. Mercer braced himself.

  “Our review committee,” Bryce opened, “has already approved you for membership. That was taken care of a couple of weeks ago. As I understand it, this usually takes upward of a year. However, you are a special case.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, people who are invited to join by virtue of their earlier exploits must participate in a Society-sponsored expedition before they can become members. It’s an old bylaw of the club. About three months ago we were approached by the Danish government to see if we were interested in joining an expedition being planned by a German nonprofit group called Geo-Research.”

  “What’s this have to do with Denmark?”

  “The expedition is going to Greenland, which is still a Danish protectorate. I don’t know if you’re aware that Denmark has recently gotten very selective about who receives permits for scientific research on the Greenland ice sheet. During a Japanese expedition last year, a mishap killed eight people and left eleven thousand gallons of spilled fuel on the ice. The bodies were recovered, but no steps were taken to clean up the diesel. Just a month later, four American mountain climbers died in a plane crash. A search-and-rescue helicopter looking for the wreck also crashed, killing three more.

  “Since then the Danes are demanding better oversight of what takes place on Greenland. They’ve closed several foreign-run meteorological stations they feel are unsafe and limited climbing parties to just a small region in the south, well away from the higher mountains as a way to discourage treks. They’ve even started rattling their sabers about closing Thule Air Force Base.

  “Add to this the fact that Germany and Denmark are at odds over oil-exploration rights in the North Sea and it was surprising that Geo-Research didn’t have their permits rescinded altogether. Their expedition is planned to gather global warming data and has been in the works for a year.”

  “Where does the Surveyor’s Society fit in?” Mercer asked. He’d been to Greenland’s tiny neighbor, Iceland, once before, but had never visited earth’s second-largest island. He felt his interest rising.

  “Back in the 1950s, there was an American base on Greenland’s eastern coast called Camp Decade. It had to do with Project Iceworm, something about determining if permanent towns could be sustained under the ice sheet. One of our board members was assigned to Camp Decade when it closed in late 1953, and he wants a team sent there to see what the place looks like today. Bob Bishop’s his name and he’s unable to make the trip himself. He’s been bound to a wheelchair for the past two years. What he’s sponsoring is a small team to reopen the facility and videotape the interior, check what kind of damage has been done to it—that sort of thing.”

  “I’m not saying I’m not interested, but this Bishop is willing to pay for an entire expedition just for a tape of the base? Are you serious?”

  “Money’s meaningless to most members. I told you about the Yorktown expedition. This one’s a bargain by comparison.”

  “I read about a group who recovered a P-38 Lightning from southern Greenland that had crashed during World War Two,” Mercer said. “They found the plane in near perfect condition, but it was a couple of miles from where it crashed and buried under two hundred and fifty feet of ice. Camp Decade might be in good shape, but it could be almost as deep.”

  “You’d think, but it’s not. Don’t ask me to explain the phenomena—I’m no glaciologist—but the camp was anchored to a subice mountain of rock that cuts the natural flow of Greenland’s glaciers, splitting the ice around it like an island in a stream. The base is actually only about thirty feet under the surface. New snow that falls on it gets carried away by the moving ice, but the base has stayed in just about the same place. I’m familiar with the search for the ‘Lost Squadron’ that you mentioned. It was actually a whole flight of planes that went down, six P-38s and two B-17s that hit a blizzard and were forced to land. There is a hell of a lot more snowfall where those planes went down than where our team’s heading.”

  “So the catch to joining the Society is to lead your expedition?”

  “Well”—Bryce drew out the word—“we already have someone to lead it: Bob Bishop’s son, Martin.” Charles waited for a reaction, but Mercer remained impassive. “This doesn’t mean to say you can’t handle it. I know you can. Even though the Danish government has pushed up our schedule, this has been in the works for a year, and Bob is footing the bill. That’s why I said earlier that your application was rushed through the committee. We don’t have any other trips planned until next year. If you want to wait until then, I certainly understand.”

  “What would my job be?”

  “That’s the other reason you’d be perfect for the trip. We can put you right on top of Camp Decade, but you’ll need to pinpoint the main entrance before starting your tunnel down to it. You have experience with portable subsurface radar sets as well as ice tunneling.”

  “What are you planning on using to open the base?”

  “Thermal chemicals that melt ice and snow. You are familiar with the technique?”

/>   “We call them hotrocks. I can’t remember the exact chemical makeup, but yeah, I’ve worked with them before. They’re tricky as hell to use and produce a god-awful stench but they can melt about a foot an hour, depending on the diameter of the hole. Problem is, you need powerful pumps for the water runoff or the chemicals become too diluted to melt the snow.”

  “Apart from you and Marty, there will be two others. One’s an old friend of Marty’s, an Army colonel with some Arctic experience and the other’s a guy I recommended. He’ll be responsible for the pumps and generators.”

  There was no doubt in Mercer’s mind that he would go. Charles could have offered him the latrine digger’s job and he would have done it. Still, he was curious how this would work. “That’s an awfully small team to unbury an entire town.”

  “Camp Decade is actually a large H-shaped building. Everything’s connected. All you need to do is dig your way to the main entrance and you should gain access to the whole facility.”

  “Four guys alone on the ice? I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but this sounds like an invitation to a suicide party.”

  “You’re forgetting how we got invited to go in the first place. The Danes want teams working in the same area rather than spread across the ice. Geo-Research is the umbrella organization for the entire trip. We are joining up with them, plus another group doing some sort of meteorological work. Everyone in one location, which reduces the chance of accidents.”

  “I get it now. We’re piggybacking onto their expedition. How many people in total?”

  “About forty, I think. Since Geo-Research is bringing a full support staff for their scientists, we’ll pay them for your room, board, and any additional labor you need. The Germans are furious about the arrangement, by the way. Because our expedition is site specific, the Danes told them they had to work near Camp Decade to accommodate us. It shouldn’t really matter to them. In terms of global warming research, one patch of Greenland is pretty much like all the others. But they wanted to work about a hundred miles north of our destination.”

  “And the other team you mentioned?”

  “They couldn’t care less just as long as they get their work done.” Charles knocked back the last of his drink and set the Waterford tumbler on the desk. “We pulled a few strings to get the Danes to force Geo-Research to agree to our location.”

  Mercer cocked an eyebrow, inviting an explanation.

  “One of the Society’s armchair explorers like myself happens to be the U.S. ambassador to Denmark. Some members buy their way in with money and others with position.” Bryce then added with a smile, “Because of his geology background, Herbert Hoover belonged to the Surveyor’s Society long before he went into politics. You can imagine the bloody murder we got away with when he became president. For the club, Prohibition ended at his inauguration, not when Roosevelt repealed it in ’33. Not that we took much notice anyway.”

  Mercer smiled with Bryce. “Any lingering problems with Geo-Research?”

  “There shouldn’t be any difficulties by the time you arrive. Geo-Research has had a couple of months to calm down about the change. Even if there are problems, our part of the expedition shouldn’t last for more than a couple of weeks. After you leave, the Japanese who were kicked out last year are going to replace you.”

  “What do you know about Geo-Research? I’ve had a run-in with an environmental group before that I’d just as soon forget.”

  “They’re not tree huggers, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Geo-Research is dedicated to hard science, not flavor-of-the-month crusades. They’ve been around for about six years, contracting their ship and services to various governments and universities.” Charles looked at Mercer levelly. “Do you have any other questions? You haven’t said even if you want to go.”

  Fighting to keep the grin off his face, Mercer set his empty glass next to Bryce’s. His murky gray eyes were bright. “The only question I have is, when do I leave?”

  “Congratulations and welcome to the Surveyor’s Society.” Charles pumped Mercer’s hand vigorously. “I knew you’d do it. In fact, we’ve already submitted your name to Geo-Research and your participation was posted on our Web page a few weeks ago.”

  “Am I that easy?”

  “You have a choice as to when you leave. You can join Geo-Research’s ship, Njoerd, in Reykjavik in three days and sail with her to Ammassalik, Greenland, where she’ll be offloaded for the trek to the camp. Or you can leave about a week later when the base camp has been established.”

  “When is the rest of our team leaving?” Mercer noted he was already using the possessive in reference to the expedition. He was truly excited about this. It was a tremendous opportunity on so many levels. The geologist in him wanted to explore one of the largest ice sheets on the planet and the romantic in him loved the idea of joining the Society.

  “They’re opting for the sea voyage.”

  “I’ll bring my shuffleboard stick.” Because he worked on a contractual basis, Mercer could easily shift his schedule to accommodate the trip.

  It was nearing four in the afternoon by the time Mercer left the Society’s headquarters. Lunch had ranked as one of the finest meals he’d ever eaten and the company around the table had been fantastic. They’d dined with the billionaire Herriman and several others who regaled Mercer with slightly embellished stories about expeditions they’d financed or been part of.

  With a three-day window before the flight to Reykjavik, Mercer decided to spend the night in the city and visit the Natural History Museum the following day. Mercer explained his plans to Charles, and ten minutes later, Dobson, the steward who’d met Mercer at the door, had arranged for a Town Car to take him to the Carsyle, where a room was waiting. Dobson had also booked him on the following evening’s shuttle to Washington.

  Charles Bryce waved to Mercer from the stoop and went back inside. In the borrowed office of the assistant administrative director, he threw himself behind the desk and reached for the phone. He had the number memorized.

  “Paul, it’s Charlie Bryce,” he said after getting past a legion of secretaries.

  “How did it go?” asked the cultured voice from the other end of the line.

  “Mercer’s on board,” Charles said with a trace of bitterness. “He’ll meet the ship in Iceland and sail with them to Greenland.”

  “Good job. I told you recruiting him wouldn’t be difficult.”

  “I don’t like this. Mercer should know what he’s getting into.”

  “Charles, you don’t even know what Dr. Mercer is getting into.”

  “You know what I mean,” Bryce snapped. “I don’t have a lot of friends, and I hate using the few I have without at least warning them first.”

  “This operation is compartmentalized on a need-to-know basis, and at this point Mercer has no need. Besides, he’s just a backup. Chances are, he won’t even know what’s happening in Greenland. He’ll enjoy his stay there, open that base for Bishop, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “What happens if something does go wrong?”

  “You might know the public side of Mercer, Charles, but there are things he hasn’t told you. Like how he took time off during his doctoral studies to help the Defense Department by going into Iraq with a commando team prior to the Gulf War to see if Saddam Hussein had been mining uranium ore. Or how he had a hand in averting the terrorist attack against the Alaska Pipeline last year. If for some reason something happens that puts our mission in jeopardy, Philip Mercer is more than capable of looking after himself and our interests at the same time.”

  “I didn’t know about that other stuff and it sounds impressive,” Bryce persisted. “But he doesn’t know the full story. He’s going in blind.”

  “If the time comes, he will be informed. But that is my decision to make. Your part in this is over.” The line clicked dead.

  “I’m sorry, Mercer,” Bryce whispered to the empty office. “I wish I hadn’t gotten you involved.�
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  THE VATICAN ROME, ITALY

  It seemed to outsiders that the white smoke signifying the election of the first pope of the new millennium was barely out of the chimney of the Apostolic Palace when Leo XIV, the 263rd man to take the seat of St. Peter, began changing the Holy See. Those who worked within the Vatican knew this wasn’t exactly true, but it was close enough. And many were stunned by what the former Cardinal Giuseppi Salvi was planning to do.

  Salvi had been was seen as a temporary compromise between factions within the Curia. Politicking during the electoral conclave had been rampant, and the election dragged on for ballot after ballot with no end in sight. After five days, it became apparent that neither of the two principal contenders would ever receive the two-thirds needed, so each side began to play a waiting game, hoping that the final ballot on the twelfth day, when a simple majority would take the election, would see their man victorious.

  The reasons for this loggerhead were varied, but the church was at a crossroads, changes in the world had to be addressed, issues that the Curia had put off for decades could no longer be ignored, and a leader for the twenty-first century was needed. Some cardinals felt it was time for Catholicism and the papacy to modernize while others believed a more conservative, and in some instances reactionary, hand was needed.

  On the eighth day, several of the more diplomatic cardinals realized that the bitterness infecting the conclave would likely spill over and infect the new pope’s reign. The church must show a united front, they felt. A compromise was needed. A third candidate was put forth, a man who could act as a temporary solution while the church decided its future. Cardinal Salvi was seventy-four years old and in poor heath. His reign as pope, they knew, would be a short one, giving each side time to further debate points of doctrine.