by Alton Gansky
“Right.”
“The holes I’m talking about are in the cargo and seating area. Furthermore, the metal skin is bent out, not in.”
“That would mean the explosion took place in the cargo cabin,” Perry interjected.
“Precisely,” Griffin said. “That’s the problem. We have no need for explosives on our mission site, therefore none should have been on the aircraft. I didn’t requisition any. Did anyone here?”
“No,” Perry said.
“Then how does an explosion take place?”
“An explosion that would tear the craft apart while it was flying,” Jack said.
“You see the problem.”
“You’re saying someone maliciously planted a bomb on the C-5 for the purpose of killing all on board.” Larimore shook his head. “What would that achieve? To keep the area pristine, we’re required to cart off all waste. The only cargo was trash, leftover packing material, empty crates . . . There was no scientific information. Why destroy a plane that was essentially a flying garbage truck?”
“But there was something on board,” Griffin said. “Knowledge.”
The statement struck Perry hard. “Someone wanted to kill witnesses?”
“Yes,” Griffin said. “Can you extrapolate my next point?”
“I can,” Jack said. “Whoever did this will be after us next.”
“You got it,” Griffin said. “You get an A for the day.”
“That would explain the radios all being out at one time,” Larimore said.
“What I can’t figure out is how someone detonated an explosive in flight, unless they were on board themselves,” Griffin said.
“An altitude switch,” Jack suggested. “When the craft reached a certain altitude, the bomb would go off.”
Perry shook his head. “The airplane flew from McMurdo to our base. It would have reached that altitude on the way over and been destroyed.”
“Maybe it was connected to a timer,” Jack said.
“Perhaps,” Griffin said, “but that seems a bit risky, doesn’t it? I mean, the plane was carrying supplies and would be unloaded as soon as it landed.”
“Maybe it was meant for us,” Larimore said. “Maybe it was supposed to blow up on-site.”
“That’s possible,” Jack said. “But we’re left with the same problem: How does the bomb know when to go off?”
“If the bomb was inside the cabin, which it seems certain it was,” Griffin said, “then the bomber runs the risk of someone discovering it beforehand. The loadmaster checks everything multiple times before takeoff. He knows the inside of that plane better than the designers. So does the crew. Surely he would have noticed something out of place. The bomber would know that.”
Perry’s mind was racing, and he didn’t like the track. “You’re assuming the explosive was loaded at McMurdo.”
“Where else?” Griffin asked.
“What I mean is, we’re assuming someone at McMurdo planted the bomb. But it might have been done closer at hand.”
“Whoa, wait a minute,” Larimore said. “That would mean one of the flight crew, one of your men, or one of mine set the bomb. They were all on the plane. That’d be suicide.”
“That’s not what I’m suggesting,” Perry said.
“He’s suggesting one of us did it, Commander,” Griffin said. “And I agree.”
Chapter 9
Eric Enkian stepped from the limo without waiting for the chauffeur to open the door for him. He hated such displays of arrogance. He could open his own doors. The limo was a business decoration, something to impress clients—especially foreign clients.
The drive had been slow through Mexico City’s clotted traffic and then up the steep road that led to his hillside home. Enkian not only owned the home but the hillside itself. There were no neighbors—just the way he liked it. He dismissed the driver for the evening and walked up a path decorated in Mexican red pavers, pavers made from material pulled from the earth by EA Mining. Flowers lined the walk, and trees dotted the hillside. A gentle breeze pushed leaves around in a chorus of whispers. The sky overhead was void of clouds and shone a hazy blue, tinted by Mexico City’s infamous smog.
Enkian paused a moment and looked at the spacious home before him—eight thousand square feet of simple luxury blended with the latest technology. Its roof was flat and its walls a mix of glass and stone. No wood adorned the exterior, and only minimal wood on the interior. Enkian found the coldness of stone more comforting than wood. Stone made the single-story structure secure, and he was certain the building, if left alone, would stand for a thousand years.
He walked up the five steps that bridged the vertical distance between grade and porch. The stairs and porch were made of blue granite and buffed to a glasslike shine. He entered a code into a keypad to the left of the front door then placed his thumb on a small, transparent plate. The door unlocked, and Enkian entered the home he had not seen for the last two weeks.
It was good to be back from Las Vegas. He enjoyed mining and building, but he enjoyed being alone more than anything.
The door opened to a small foyer, which in turn led to an expansive room. Gold-veined black marble covered the floors, and the walls boasted limestone from an ancient seabed. Fossil fish and plants were imbedded in the wall. The roof was reinforced concrete tinted blue.
It not only looked good to him, but felt good. The stone brought security and a connection with the past—a past too long forgotten and soon to be remembered.
He removed his shoes and felt the smooth marble beneath his feet, and once again he began to feel grounded to the earth. Leaving his shoes in the foyer, Enkian crossed the great room and passed the kitchen to his home office. Stretching the width of the home, the office was roomy and open. Glass walls formed three sides of the room. The window walls were equipped with remote-controlled blinds that rose at the touch of a button. Enkian left them down. He had another room to visit.
A decorative metal door was centered in the one solid wall. He pressed his thumb on a sensor identical to the one at the front door. The metal door whispered open, and Enkian stepped in. To the right of the door were two buttons, one above the other. He pressed the bottom button and spoke, “Eric Enkian,” and then looked up to a glass panel above the door where he knew a camera was directed his way. It took less than two seconds for the voice-and-face-identification system to verify his identity.
The door closed, and the elevator began a smooth descent. When it stopped, Enkian emerged and motion-activated lights illuminated a subterranean room that had been built to his dimensions: sixty-six feet by sixty-six feet.
Unlike the polished floors of the home above, this room’s floor was covered in black sand. Enkian felt the warmth of it on his feet as he walked toward the center of the room. There were no chairs, no sofa, and no tables, but the room was filled. At its center was an arrangement of stones, one carefully set upon another. Enkian set a loving hand on the top layer. Sixty-six stones from various places in the world: Egypt, Mexico, Iraq, several African nations, China, Japan, Central America, Canada, and the United States. Blue stones set upon white stones shouldered to green and yellow, rising from the sandy floor.
He patted the stones then looked around the room. No matter how many times he moved into this microcosm—he had done so more times than he could count—he felt a sense of pride and connection to the past. He was proud of this room, but it was just a container for things more important.
Enkian took a deep breath as he let his eyes trace the only other structures in the room. Black onyx pedestals stood like sentinels, each topped by a glass case. Each case glowed with the light of the small halogen bulbs hidden in the base. He stepped to the closest one, bent, and peered in. The red-brown cylinder within—identical to the cylinders in every case—was adorned with writing that hadn’t been used for millennia. Sixty-six cylinders, each one more valuable than gold.
“The prophecies,” he said aloud, his words echoing off the stone walls. “The time i
s near.”
He thought of Tia, now somewhere in South America. Soon he would follow.
He returned to the stone column in the center of the room then slowly removed his shirt and tossed it aside. On top of the stones—on top of the altar—lay a flint knife. He took it in his right hand and studied its sharp edge and lethal point.
Closing his eyes, Enkian ran his left hand over his torso, feeling each scar on his chest, then over his belly, which bore even more scars. He began to hum, then chant in a language few knew, and then he raised the flint blade to one of the few unmarked areas of his body, placing the stone blade against his flesh just above his navel.
With great care, he pressed the blade into the tender flesh—chanting, chanting, chanting. When he felt blood begin to ooze be-tween his fingers, he bent forward and laid his body on the stone altar.
“All of me I give . . . all of me I give . . .”
Dr. Kenneth Curtis took a seat next to Gwen. She looked at him briefly but gave no other acknowledgement. She didn’t want company. She didn’t want conversation. She wanted her brother back in the safety of the Dome. The structure shuddered under the wind’s onslaught. The Dome’s shape made the wind roar instead of shriek as it did around sharp corners. She wished she found some comfort in that.
“We’ve just finished a second check of the buildings,” Curtis said. “Everything looks normal. Gleason and Sarah are trying to cobble together some communications.”
“Good,” Gwen replied. It appeared a conversation was coming her way whether she wanted it or not. She considered going to her room.
“Give me your hand,” Curtis said, extending his own. His fingers were short, his nails trim, and his palm wide.
“What?”
“Your hand, young lady—give it to me.”
The request took her aback. “Why? I don’t understand.”
“Indulge me.”
Reluctantly, she complied. His hand was warm and firm, though she had expected the rotund archaeologist to have soft, pudgy flesh. He closed his fingers, taking her hand in a gentle grasp. “Do you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
“My hand, of course.” He smiled, and his eyes brightened.
“Of course I feel it. Shouldn’t I?” This is stupid, she thought and began to pull away. He tightened his grip. “What are you doing?”
“So you do feel my grasp?”
“I said ‘yes.’ So what?”
“I’m older than you by about twenty years,” he began. His tone was even and somber. “I’ve seen things. I’ve experienced things.”
“Are you coming on to me? Because if you are—”
“A wise person knows when to listen. You feel my hand because I’m here. That’s what I want you to know. I’m here. Gleason is here. Sarah is here. You are not alone.”
“I know that.”
“No you don’t, Dr. James . . . Gwen. You’ve been sitting alone at this table, shutting everyone else out. I can understand the desire, but not the practice. You’re worried about your brother.”
“You figured that out all by yourself?” Gwen was surprised he didn’t react to her words.
“Yes, I figured it all by myself. I am worried about Perry and Jack. We have a right to be worried, and we would be fooling ourselves to pretend otherwise. We must believe the best and pray for the rest.”
Gwen blinked. Had she heard correctly? “Believe and pray? You’re suggesting we pray? Believe in what? Pray to whom?”
“Believe that when the wind settles, your brother, Perry, Jack, and Commander Larimore will all walk back in here. Pray to God that it will be so.”
“And that will make it happen? I’m a scientist. Facts are my food, not faith.”
“Isaac Newton was a scientist, and he wrote more on theological matters than mathematical. You can add to the list Louis Pasteur and a thousand more. I am a scientist, too; it is why I am a person of faith.”
“Faith didn’t save the people on the transport plane.”
“I am not suggesting faith keeps bad things from happening. I am saying faith enables us to deal with bad times.”
“So that’s it,” Gwen said. “Sarah said Perry was different in some way. Is he like you?”
“A believer? A Christian? Yes, he is—unapologetically, I might add.”
“And you think that will keep him warm in sixty-mile-an-hour winds?”
“Perry is the most resourceful, intelligent, and determined man I’ve ever met. When he’s on a project—any project—he takes care of those around him. If your brother were injured, Perry would carry him back if he had to.”
“My brother is pretty resourceful, too. He has years of experience on the ice.”
“That, too, gives me comfort,” Curtis said. He squeezed her hand. “Just know, Gwen, that you are not alone.” He released her hand, rose from the table, and walked in the direction of the communications cubicle.
Gwen stared at the blank wall and tried to process all she had heard. Prayer couldn’t hurt, she told herself, then shook her head. “Ridiculous,” she said to the empty room. She looked at her hand and admitted that for those few moments, it had felt good to share her fear.
The men sat huddled in a tight circle, hoping their exhaled breath would warm the air a degree or two. Jack had engaged Griffin in a discussion of how many bodies it would take to warm the temperature ten degrees in their emergency shelter. Griffin had resisted, but Jack pressed the right button: “You’re right; it’s the kind of thing an engineer could figure out.” The debate began with the men batting mathematical formulas back and forth like shuttlecocks in a badminton game.
Perry followed the discussion for awhile but left the two men to their folly. He tried to nap, but each time he drifted off, he was awakened by an image of a burned leg lying on the ice, or a hunk of identifiable flesh mixed among the wreckage. Each vision made his heart leap and breath catch.
“So,” Jack asked Griffin, “how bad can these winds get?”
“They’re faster on the coast. Katabatic winds have been measured close to two hundred miles an hour. Hurricane speed. We’ve got it easy, really.”
“Doesn’t feel easy,” Larimore said.
Perry glanced out the tear that was their door and noticed more light. The wind had picked up shards of ice and snow, creating a whiteout condition, but now Perry could see more.
“Listen,” he said.
“To what?” Larimore asked.
“The wind is quieter.” He turned to Griffin. “Is this just a lull in the storm, or should we be thinking about heading home?”
Griffin listened. “You’re asking my advice?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Griffin seemed pleased. “It’s too early to tell, but the wind can leave as quickly as it came.”
“Give us a bottom line, Dr. James. Go or no-go.”
“I say give it another thirty minutes. If it continues to drop, then go. I just suggest we go fast when we do.”
“Roger that,” Larimore said with near glee.
Perry felt thankful. The waiting was over. It was time to do something. The question was, would someone try to stop him?
Chapter 10
Tia sat in the passenger seat of the Toyota Land Cruiser as it bounced down the road from the Carlos Ibanez de Campo International Airport toward Punta Arenas. The flight had been long enough that she felt fully rested despite the lateness of the hour. It had also been long enough to make her glad to be free of the confines of the Learjet. Two men sat in the seat behind her. Another Land Cruiser followed a few yards behind.
“Would you like refreshment, Señorita?” Oscar, the driver, asked, his accent thick. “Your trip has been long.” The driver was younger than thirty but looked older. Eric had told her he was a supervisor at one of the copper mines in the country.
“We had plenty of refreshments on the plane, Oscar,” Tia replied. Her eyes traced the dim road ahead. They had flown far enough south that t
he sun barely set beyond the horizon. The twilight was confusing, her internal clock telling her it must be close to midnight. To her left she saw the dark blue stretch of water called the Strait of Magellan.
“I know a place not far from here where the beer is good.” He paused and ran a hand through dark hair that already showed touches of gray. His features were Spanish, but some sharp edges around the face told Tia that some Native American blood coursed through his veins. “I think of the men—a chance to stretch their legs before checking in at the hotel.”
Tia turned to the two companions who rode silently in the back. One raised an eyebrow but offered no words. They were due to check in at the hotel and spend half of the next day touring the copper mine, waiting for final preparations to be made for the next leg of their journey. She had no interest in seeing the gaping hole in the ground, but it was necessary to keep up appearances. Covertness came with a price.
Turning back to the road ahead, she gave it another moment’s thought. She had no desire to sit in a hotel room. She nodded. “Beer it is.”
Oscar grinned broadly. Tia was certain he was thinking of more than just the men.
The cantina was off a back street in the north part of town. They passed through an industrial area, past a few small shops, and pulled onto a gravel parking lot, where a lone clapboard building stood. A hand-lettered sign identified the establishment as Sebastian’s. Yellow paint peeled from the wood, and the shingle roof looked in need of repair. The blue water behind it gave it the kind of quality landscape painters loved to capture in oils.
“It is not much to the eyes, but the cerveza is the best in all of Magallanes.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Tia said. Her five travel companions poured out of the vehicles, stretched, and made their way to the door which hung awkwardly on its hinges. Tia followed and entered last, except for Oscar, who stood to one side and waved her in with a gallant motion.
The inside of Sebastian’s was little better than the exterior. Abused wood tables, some leaning precipitously, dotted the dirt-caked wood floor. Tobacco smoke filled the air, stinging Tia’s eyes and chewing at her throat.