by D. J. Niko
“Maybe this will remind you.” He drove his elbow into Daniel’s midsection, causing him to double over.
Sarah clenched her fists but didn’t lose her cool. She nodded toward the partitioned area. “This way.”
Though he didn’t question her, it was evident by his wide eyes that Daniel feared the worst.
Sarah didn’t have a plan but felt secure in her ability to negotiate twists and turns and remember where she was in relationship to the exit. It was a gamble, but it was all they had.
She led the way, with Daniel behind her and the two guards in tight formation bringing up the rear.
Daniel’s breath brushed the back of her neck. One long breath, followed by two short ones.
It was another code.
A pause, then three long breaths. Again. Then a short breath, a long one, and another short one.
Morse code.
Door.
At the opposite end of the maze was a big metal slab like the entrance to a vault. Before she could compute the meaning behind his message, he sent another. Short breath, long breath, short breath. Two short breaths and a long one. Long breath, short breath.
Run.
With a swift knee to the groin, Daniel incapacitated one guard.
Sarah launched into a sprint. Behind her, she could hear the men grappling. A gunshot sounded. Alarmed, she looked back.
Daniel struggled with the young guard, wrestling the weapon away from him. He pointed the revolver at the guard’s face. “Stay right there.” He turned to Nate. “You. Kick your weapon over to me.”
She exited the maze with relative ease and tried to find a way to open the massive portal.
Daniel emerged with his two captives.
“I think this is the place, Danny. Listen.”
A faint murmur could be heard through the thick concrete walls.
Daniel smiled. “All right, gents, what do you say you open that door for us?” He held the men’s own guns to their heads. “And don’t try anything funny.”
Nate punched the code into the keypad on the wall. A soft click indicated the door was unlocked. The other guard pulled the heavy metal handle until the door cracked open.
“Assholes first,” Daniel said. “I insist.”
Sarah and Daniel followed the guards inside and onto a metal platform above a sheer drop. The murmur they’d heard from the other side of the door was now a rhythmic drone as loud as a helicopter at full power. A spiral staircase with metal treads wound around a pole, leading to a floor so far down they could not even see it. In the cavernous space below was an elaborate network of pipes, twisting in several directions and crossing above each other like the ramps of a major urban freeway. The pipeline appeared to be carrying its cargo deep underground.
Sarah shouted above the roar, “What is this place?”
Nate spat toward her feet and scowled. “You’ll get nothing from me.”
Daniel pointed one of the guns between the eyes of Nate’s young partner, whose frightened expression betrayed his trepidation. “And what about you, son? You ready to sing?”
The guard stuttered incomprehensibly. His eyes were closed, sweat forming on his brow.
“Open your eyes,” Daniel shouted. “Look at me.”
The guard did, slightly, and inched toward the door. Daniel threw one of the guns to Sarah and grabbed the young guard with his free hand, dragging him toward the edge of the platform.
“All right,” the guard shouted. “All right. This is the sewer. Let me go. For God’s sake, please let me go.”
“Sewer? What kind of sewer? What’s going through these pipes?”
“Al-al-al-al—”
“Algae?”
”Yes.” His voice was panicked. “Let me go.”
Daniel released his arm.
That was all it took for the fear-crazed young guard to attack. He wrapped his hands around Daniel’s throat and squeezed.
Daniel dropped the gun, grabbing the guard’s wrists to break his grip.
Sarah aimed to fire but couldn’t risk hitting Daniel. Instinctively, she reached for the gun he’d dropped.
A forceful kick to her side sent her tumbling across the platform and onto her back. She jammed both heels toward Nate, but he intercepted them and turned her facedown. His knee dug into the small of her back, pinning her to the perforated metal floor. Through the holes, she could clearly see the network of pipes a hundred feet below. She would not survive a fall. Adrenaline surging, she rolled and dislodged the guard from her back. Her biceps burned as she tried in vain to hold him back.
Daniel had broken free of the other guard’s grip and held him over the platform rail. The young man, obviously overtaken by fear, wailed and vomited, collapsing on the floor.
Daniel ran to Sarah’s aid and grabbed Nate in a choke hold. “Sarah, run!”
She wasn’t going anywhere without him. The noise was overwhelming. She saw his mouth form the words, “Get out now.”
Sarah darted out of the room and into the maze, looking behind her as she ran. Thoughts of the carnage in the maze at Yemrehana Krestos crossed her mind, adding to her terror. Her mouth was dry, and sweat drenched her shirt. She had been afraid many times but never like this.
There was no sign of Daniel.
She couldn’t lose him.
When she looked back again, he was there but not alone. “Danny, behind you!”
Nate was in pursuit, but Daniel was too swift for the lumbering, overweight guard. Daniel gained ground, leaving Nate well behind.
Nearing the exit, he yelled, “There’s a short cut. The freight elevator. Down that corridor to your right.”
Sarah nodded and ran in that direction. By the time she called the elevator down, Daniel was at her side. The two stepped inside and pressed the up button, embracing tightly the entire time it took to travel from the basement to the ground floor.
Her father’s Dassault Falcon 900 was the only jet parked at the airstrip outside of town. Sleek and more expensive than the fanciest house in town, it was the kind of plane folks didn’t see much in these parts, where turbo props were considered high-tech aviation.
Sarah had never been so relieved to get on a plane. She collapsed on a leather seat and buried her face in an ice-cold towel.
Daniel motioned to the flight attendant and asked for a double bourbon, up. Branford Spencer, the Westons’ private pilot for more than twenty years, approached. Removing his cap to reveal a head full of white hair, he spoke in a gentle voice Sarah had come to associate with stability and safety. “Good evening, miss, sir. Shall I set a course for Heathrow, then?”
“Not quite yet, Branford,” she said. “We’re going to make a detour to New York.”
“Very well, miss. Shall I phone ahead to the Plaza and see if your apartment is available?”
“Yes, that would be lovely.”
Daniel turned to her. “You have an apartment at the Plaza? You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
She laughed. “You have no idea.”
He took a big gulp of his bourbon. “So what’s next?”
“Next, we beat them at their own game.”
Thirty
The Oceanus headquarters was on the first K- floor of an anonymous glass building in downtown Manhattan. The lobby was clean, sterile almost. Sarah sat in one of the four sleek black leather and chrome chairs. Daniel, now shaven and wearing the respectable clothes procured for him by the Plaza’s concierge, walked to the front desk.
The young receptionist recognized him right away. “Oh my God, you’re that anthropologist from TV. Daniel Madigan, right?”
The plan was working. He put on his most charming southern drawl. “Now, how’d you know that?”
She blushed and pushed a lock of hair behind one ear. “Well, I watch you all the time. I loved your show about the Queen of Sheba. That part about her being a temptress? I could listen to you all day long.”
”Yes, this is a fascinating business. I’ll tell y
ou all about it sometime. But, hey, darlin’, I’m actually here to see Mr. Stuart Ericsson. I’d love to talk to him about participating in one of my shows.”
Sarah knew Daniel was as tightly wound as she was, and she admired his ability to lay it on thick regardless.
The receptionist took the bait. “Really? I’m sure he’d be delighted. Wait just a minute.”
He took a seat next to Sarah.
The receptionist returned to the desk and announced Stuart Ericsson would be glad to see them.
Daniel winked at Sarah. “When you’re good, you’re good.”
Stuart Ericsson was finishing a phone call and waved to them to sit down. He was fortysomething, Sarah calculated based on his career history, though his boyish Scandinavian features and fine blond hair combed to the side in the manner of a Ken doll made him look like he was in his twenties. Dressed in a navy suit and red tie, he didn’t fit the tree hugger profile Sarah had expected. His immaculate desk was a gleaming expanse of glossy cherry wood interrupted only by two neat stacks of papers.
He hung up and greeted Daniel like he’d known him for years, when in reality they were meeting for the first time. For once, Sarah was grateful for Daniel’s high profile and the doors it could open.
”Dr. Madigan,” Stuart said. “This is an unexpected honor. What brings you to New York?”
“Pleasure’s mine. This is my colleague Sarah Weston. She’s an archaeologist. We’ve been following your work. In particular, your efforts to sway the Alliance of Nations to End Global Warming against a project called Poseidon. We’d love to learn more about that.”
Stuart gave them the well-rehearsed company line. “Our goal at Oceanus is to maintain the marine environment in as natural a state as possible and to minimize the human footprint on our oceans. Our conservation practices include funding projects that support marine life and clean water and fighting initiatives that could threaten the delicate balance of our oceans. We believe Poseidon is such a threat.”
“I’ve been reading up on your organization,” Sarah interjected. “I hadn’t realized it was your program that saved the western North Pacific gray whale from extinction a couple of years ago. That was quite a triumph. How did you manage it?”
“We are well connected politically. Our board, and funding base, is an international who’s who of powerful and influential people. Let’s just say we use that to our advantage.”
“Influential enough to bring down a giant like Donovan Geodynamics?”
Stuart shook his head. “Donovan has been our biggest challenge to date. They have the support of special interest groups in every industry from energy to automotive. They are the darlings of Washington right now. Their technologies are the most promising alternatives to the prohibitive cost of changing our oil-based economy.”
“So they say.”
“Yes, but they’ve built a pretty solid case for themselves. They have scientists from the world’s top institutions on their board, on their staff, and in advisory capacities. The chairman, Sandor Hughes, has sunk hundreds of millions of his own considerable fortune into funding this thing. His big pitch is that water treated with Poseidon is as effective as the rainforest in its ability to remove carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. The governments of key nations have bought right into this rhetoric and are expected to give Donovan the green light to go to the next phase of their research, which involves testing the algae in an ocean environment. Which is precisely what we don’t want.”
“So it’s been an uphill battle.”
“To say the least. I spent the better part of last year trying to convince Alliance member nations to vote against Poseidon, with only marginal success. Our biggest ally is Lars Pedersen, minister of the environment for Denmark. He’s an outspoken opponent of any protocol involving the oceans and most notably Poseidon. He plans to vote against it. He has been meeting with ministers from other Scandinavian countries and tells us they are at least sympathetic, if not completely on board. All except Norway, which is bafflingly immovable. Then there are a couple of nations on the fence—namely, France and Australia. Australia actually had an outbreak of Caulerpa a few years ago in some lakes in New South Wales. They’re extremely squeamish about anything involving algae, and I think they can be convinced to vote no. If we get all of those delegates on our side, we have a chance. Otherwise, we’re looking at a runaway victory for Donovan.” He cocked his head. “Tell me, why are you so interested?”
“Our own findings indicate such a victory could have a fateful outcome.” Sarah placed on his desk a binder containing their research from the beginning of the Aksum expedition to the most recent revelations in France. “We believe there are clear parallels between these ancient writings and the Poseidon project.”
Stuart put on his reading glasses and took his time examining the pages. A wrinkle formed between his brows, and he looked at the two of them.
Sarah recognized it as her cue to explain. “When we first found these inscriptions, we weren’t sure what the author—the man Ethiopians call their tenth saint—was trying to tell us, because the language obviously has evolved over seventeen hundred years. We have been working around the clock to translate these cryptic phrases into something that is relevant today—very similar to how the Nostradamus prophecies were interpreted. Let me give you an example. The tenth saint wrote, ‘He will rape her and dig into her core, sucking out the black blood that runs through her veins and using it to sate the hunger of his machines.’ By ‘black blood,’ we believe he meant oil, which was dug from the core of the ‘Mother’—the earth. A little later, he referred to the air ‘fouled by gases.’ The logical explanation for this is greenhouse emissions into the atmosphere and the high levels of carbon dioxide.
“But what we find most interesting is the verse that tells us ‘Man will beget a child, a terrible creation he will unleash on the seas, and order it to return the life force to the feeble air.’ It is plausible that this is a reference to a man-made substance whose aim is to restore the oxygen—the life force—into a feeble, or polluted, atmosphere. Are you with me so far?”
Stuart leaned forward, his aquamarine eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Continue.”
“In my opinion, there are uncanny similarities between what I’ve just described and the Poseidon experiment. Now consider his next statement: ‘And the child will obey until the day will come when it must answer only to its own will.’ A man-made substance growing out of control, perhaps? We know that such a thing is possible given the right conditions: thermal hydrovents, possibly, or rising sea temperatures, which we are witnessing already.” She paused for emphasis. “Or a nuclear accident.”
“He refers to a foul enemy that joins with the child to become ‘the Beast.’ I’ll grant that this sounds apocalyptic, but think about it. Is it so far-fetched that Donovan’s phytoplankton and some other force of nature, or of man, could merge and create a mutant substance that will destroy the seas? The tenth saint’s words were, ‘The monster will cover the sea with a blanket of darkness and bury the fish in watery graves, and the air will not give life but take it away.’
“The air’s very chemistry would change. It could be something as simple as algal bloom, or it could be far more heinous than we could imagine. It is entirely plausible that an organism such as Poseidon can, under extreme conditions, grow so rapidly it will cover the sea.”
Daniel leaned forward. “Now, Stuart, you of all people know that without healthy oceans, the world will be subject to all kinds of ills, including extreme climate change, which could bring serious destruction. The last words in the inscriptions were: ‘Great tongues of fire will cover the land. The tainted air will feed the flames. Smoke will rise to the heavens with a terrible fury until all life is devoured and there is nothing but the eternal silence.’ What’s that sound like to you? ‘Cause to me it sounds like an end-times scenario. The end of the world by fire.”
“Sure, it is plausible,” Stuart said. “When marine life dies an
d falls to the ocean floor, it releases methane gas. Methane is combustible—”
Daniel finished his sentence. “And oxygen, released by these carbon-consuming algae, feeds the flames.”
“This is no fantasy,” Sarah added. “This man was there. He saw the end with his own eyes. He and two others.” She flipped through her papers and stopped at Calcedony’s letter. “This is a copy of a letter written by a woman in France. We have authenticated the original document to the fourteenth century, around the time of the Black Death. It describes the same events in plain English. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
Stuart read the letter, then removed his glasses and frowned. “This is all very fascinating business. But it isn’t going to be enough to convince a group of politically motivated delegates, some of whom have very complicated special interests. I will need some harder evidence than a bunch of prophets and a nebulous time travel scenario.”
Sarah locked eyes with Stuart. “Then how about this? We have reason to believe Donovan are diverting the carbon they are capturing. There is a maze of piping beneath their facility in Texas.”
Stuart sat up. “Are you sure about this?”
“Oh, we’re sure,” Daniel said. “We were there; we saw it. And let’s just say it’s not part of the tour. Whatever this underground system is, it’s not meant to be found. We sort of stumbled upon it on our … way out.”
Stuart bit the tip of his reading glasses and looked away. “If what you are saying is true, it may just be the missing link in a chain of events that has baffled us for years. There is an Inuit tribe on the western coast of Greenland whose population has been diminishing mysteriously. The Kalaallit, they’re called. We’ve only recently found that the marine life in the region, which the Kalaallit depend on for food, has been severely depleted, and what’s left is compromised, tainted. When we had the waters tested, we found remnants of non-native algae. No one has been able to explain how the algae got there.”
“And you think this could be related?” Daniel asked.
“Maybe. The Donovan pipeline has to lead somewhere. If there is any relationship between the algae they are testing and the algae that has been killing the fish in the Arctic regions, we could be on to something. Problem is …”