Antarktos Rising

by Jeremy Robinson

  “This is a race, plain and simple,” the president continued. “But it is the longest, most dangerous race in human history. Starting points for various nations will be on the shores of now-missing ice shelves; Ross—where you’ll be starting—Ronne, Amery, Filchner . . . you know them?”

  Whitney nodded slowly, as though she’d just been asked if she understood where she was about to be hanged.

  The president continued. “You’ll not only have to cross nearly one thousand miles of uncharted land on foot, but you’ll have to deal with the other teams who are also starting along the Ross Sea—the Chinese, the Arab Alliance, and the European Kingdom. Now you’ll be rendezvousing with the European team five hundred miles in and going together from there, so they won’t be a problem. The Chinese have been hard to read, but the Arab Alliance will certainly be hostile. We have some concerns about the Soviets as well, but they’re starting from the Amery Sea side with Brazil and South Africa. There are no laws on Antarctica, and there are no rules to the race except: get there first.”

  Whitney bit her lip, realizing for the first time just how dangerous the mission was going to be. “What are the chances of open conflict with the Chinese or the Arab Alliance?”

  “Good, I’m afraid,” Wright said. “We’re opting for speed, stealth, and better intel—that’s where you and Dr. Clark come in. The Chinese are mobilizing a force of two hundred, perhaps in ten squads. If we cross paths with them, we’re going to run like hell.”

  Whitney was aghast. “Then why aren’t we sending more people?”

  “Two hundred turtles still can’t beat the hare,” Wright said.

  “But they can eat it,” Cruz piped up for the first time with a wide smile. No one returned his smile and he sat back.

  Whitney leaned forward. “I understand the race. I understand the state of the world. I understand why you need me to go. But if everyone on Antarctica was killed during the shift, why are you so interested in Clark?”

  “Six weeks after the shift, we detected a GPS distress beacon from Antarctica. After tracking the signal to its source and doing some serious digging to find out who was there, we discovered it belonged to Dr. Clark.”

  Whitney had been wondering about his fate from the outset but had been afraid to ask. Now that she knew the truth, she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

  “From here you’ll fly to Brazil, stop over in Chile for your final outfitting, then set sail for Antarctica. If Dr. Clark is still alive, you will collect him, tend to his health concerns, and be airlifted to your start position.”

  “And when does the race start?”

  “Two days.”

  Chapter 23

  The whirlwind of activity that surrounded Whitney after her surreal meeting with the president left her mind feeling scoured. After stealing out of Dallas, they were taken via helicopter to Sheppard Air Force Base in Texas. They transferred to a massive C-5 Galaxy cargo plane and all of their gear was crated up and loaded on to the plane with them, along with eleven three-person teams. Wright explained that witnesses from each country were required to be present at every starting location to ensure that everyone started at the designated time. The teams of three looked like science types and civilians, but Wright had added that all were actually Special Forces. If things went sour, they could fight their way free . . . or at least die trying.

  Whitney spent the flight sleeping as best she could, letting the hum of the C-5’s four massive turbines drown out her anxiety. She found no comfort until her thoughts turned to Sam. What would he think of all this? She pictured his charming smile, goofy laugh, and chalk-white skin of a computer programmer who spent most of his time in front of a computer screen. When it came to adventure, his extremes peaked at computer games and paintball. He’d gone to Africa with her once but had spent the last week over a hole dug in the earth. Montezuma had crossed the ocean to dole out his revenge. Whitney smiled, remembering the month’s worth of jokes he told at his own expense after they returned home. Each joke, while outwardly designed to make her laugh, was also his way of reminding her to never ask again. And she hadn’t.

  Would you come with me now, Sam? Whitney wondered. Before she could answer her own question, she drifted off to sleep.

  She awoke as they landed at Brasilia Air Base in central Brazil, where the plane was refueled and checked over. With the fate of the United States contained in the C-5, no one wanted to take the chance of a malfunction over Argentina. Whitney learned that though the base was Brazilian, America had been allowed access due to the fact that the Brazilians didn’t want China, the Arab Alliance, or the Soviets in Antarctica, either. Brazil had fared better than most countries during the shift, and was in a good position to help.

  Back in the air, Whitney caught some more sleep. She didn’t mean to be antisocial, but she had a feeling that sleep would soon be hard to come by. Turbulence over Uruguay stirred her from sleep again. She wiped the drool from her mouth and noticed Wright staring at her from his chair across the aisle.

  “I’m surprised you can sleep with all this noise,” Wright said with a smile.

  Whitney gave a tired smirk, stretched, and took in a deep breath that smelled of metal and machinery. “In the field you learn to sleep while you can.”

  “Nature photography, right?”

  Whitney nodded.

  “Any close calls?”

  “What, with animals?”

  “Nature in general. Animals included.”

  Whitney laughed. “You mean aside from the giant arctic cyclone that chased me into a frozen church after the entire crust of the earth shifted and killed a third of the planet’s population?”

  Wright smiled. “Point taken. Just animals, then.”

  Whitney sat up straight. “I was stung by a scorpion in the Mojave, but the worst was when a mountain lion in California had a go at me.”

  Wright looked surprised. “I’ve heard some amazing things about those cats. I’m surprised you survived.”

  “Yeah, me, too. I got lucky. It tackled me and pinned me to the ground. It was going for my neck, and I swung at it blindly with my pocketknife. Tagged it right in the nose. Even drew some blood. It disappeared as fast as it had shown up.”

  “God. Were you in a national park?”

  Whitney laughed again, stirring Cruz, who had been sound asleep one seat in front of Wright. “I was visiting some friends and went for an early morning jog. Typical southern California neighborhood. The cat jumped out from behind a line of flowers . . . birds of paradise, I think they’re called.”

  “You carry a knife while jogging?” Wright asked with a smile.

  Whitney reached into her pocket and snapped open her small jackknife. “Never leave home without it.”

  “You know those aren’t allowed on planes anymore,” Wright said.

  Whitney looked back over her shoulder, peering past the rows of seats and out into the main cargo hold which contained Humvees with mounted machine guns, crates labeled “live munitions,” and lines of weapons mounted against the walls. “Please,” she said, “I think the contents of this plane would be enough to overthrow a small country.”

  “Hey,” Cruz said, rubbing his waking eyes, “where in So Cal were you?”

  “La Crescenta, just outside Los Angeles.”

  Cruz perked up. “Shit, man, I grew up in Glendale.”

  “They have the best downtown,” Whitney said, and Cruz nodded in agreement. “Though I preferred Pasadena.”

  Cruz waved his hand in the air like he was swatting a fly. “Pfffft. Pasadena’s for tourists.”

  The conversation went on for hours, delving into the lives and experiences of Wright, Cruz, and Whitney. Only Ferrell remained sleeping. Cruz explained that Ferrell could sleep through anything. He called her snoozes “Kat Naps.” There was no lag time between when she woke up and when she took action. “It’s like someone snaps a rubber band under her ass,” Cruz explained. “She bounces up and is good to go.”r />
  Time passed quickly as the conversation grew more in depth. Sooner than Whitney believed possible, they were landing in Chile. The scene on the ground was chaotic. Crews were dispersed to a fleet of waiting helicopters, which flew away one at a time. Weapons were stowed. Gear was removed from crates and repacked. Everyone stripped and redressed in jungle gear, from hiking boots to fully packed backpacks. In half an hour, they were ready to hack and slash their way through any jungle on earth.

  Before boarding their copter, Wright pulled Whitney aside and offered her a weapon. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen. “This is an XM29 assault rifle. It’s an integrated dual munitions bursting weapon.”

  Whitney’s confused expression said all that needed to be said.

  “Glad you asked,” Wright said. “The top barrel fires bursting munitions using a fire control that programs the round. A ballistic computer with range-finding capability allows it to program each and every round to within one meter of its target. The rounds know where to blow up.”

  “And where is that? Er, typically?”

  “Inside the target.”

  Whitney hid her grimace. “Right.”

  “The bottom barrel is a standard 5.56mm assault rifle that can cut down just about anything with one to four legs.”

  “One leg?”

  “Gotta watch out for those peg leg villains.” Wright smiled, and when Whitney didn’t return the smile, he continued. “Just think of it as a machine gun with an insurance policy. If you can’t hit the target, pop a few of the exploding rounds in the target’s general area and the shrapnel should take care of things for you.”

  Wright picked up a second XM29 and held them both up.

  “And why are you telling me this?” Whitney suspected why but hoped it wasn’t true. She had grown comfortable with her 9mm, which she had already strapped to her side, but this thing was another creature entirely.

  Wright handed her one of the weapons. “This one’s yours.” He handed her the other. “And this is for Dr. Clark. You can deliver it when we get there. I know you’ve spent some time at the range. Think you can handle this?”

  “Think I’ll have to?”

  “Better to be prepared.”

  Whitney laughed. “You are a Boy Scout.”

  Ten minutes later, Whitney held two of the world’s most sophisticated assault rifles in her arms and was seated between Cruz and Wright on an XM1 Nighthawk, one of the president’s official helicopters. The flight plan took them out over the ocean where they would refuel several times on aircraft carriers strung out along the way. Ferrell took another Kat Nap, sleeping soundly despite the rattling chop of the rotor blades.

  Whitney absorbed her surroundings. The smell of the copter’s leather interior and the fresh odor of their new gear mingled in her nose. The feel of the plush presidential seat stood in contrast to the hard, heavy metal of the XM29s resting against her hands. She was surrounded by soldiers trained to kill, about to enter a world unknown to mankind for thousands of years. She couldn’t imagine a more chaotic and confusing environment

  Whitney looked at her watch. Two more hours, she thought. Two more hours and she’d be confronted with her oldest fear and newest fear. She would face him again, then she’d start a race that would determine the fate of the world. There wasn’t a word for fear in the English dictionary that could accurately describe the level of trepidation Whitney felt. She was about to undergo the most mentally, physically, and emotionally charged challenge of her life. And she knew she wasn’t up to the task.

  Chapter 24

  The elastic that held Whitney’s blond hair in a tight ponytail did little to keep the humidity from making her head look like a kid had scribbled her hair in with a yellow crayon. Her striking features, dark skin and light-colored locks, combined with the survival gear and weapons strapped to her back, made her look like a modern Amazon warrior.

  At least, Whitney thought, I’ve still got both breasts. She’d been terrorized as a child when her father related stories of Amazonian women lopping off their left breasts so that they could more easily shoot a bow and arrow. She’d been even more shocked after she saw her first archery contest. The women competing appeared to have either very small breasts or no breasts at all. Later in life she learned the truth: sports bras were constricting bastards.

  She squirmed as her newly acquired, military-grade sports bra dug into the sensitive flesh beneath her breasts. She fought the urge to adjust the bra; if Cruz noticed a comment would be forthcoming. Not to mention that adjusting a bra should be a secondary concern when preparing to jump out of a helicopter.

  The group hovered above a canopy of foliage that looked more like Madagascar than Antarctica. Whitney had been stunned since the coastline first came into view: green and blue where lakes had formed. It was hard to imagine all that growth had taken place in under two months, but here it was. What had been a frozen wasteland for thousands of years had become a tropical paradise ripe for the hotel industry to move into.

  Standing beside her, dressed in the same olive green camouflage fatigues, were Cruz, Ferrell, and Wright. They looked confident, even excited. She took a deep breath. These people were professionals. They were the best. Killers. Heroes. She looked at them and saw qualities she’d never achieve.

  Just as Whitney considered backing out, Cruz and Ferrell leapt from the copter’s open door where two jump-lines descended into the forest. The lines attached to their harnesses snapped tight as they plummeted down through the canopy and disappeared. Twenty seconds later, Cruz’s voice sounded clearly in her micro headset. “Cerberus to Phoenix. Over.”

  “I got you, Cerberus,” Wright said. “How’s our LZ? Over.”

  “A few branches on the way down,” Cruz replied. “But the ground is clear. Over.”

  “Copy that. Stand back, you have incoming.” Wright looked over at Whitney. Her apprehension must have been obvious. He put his hand on her shoulder and smiled. “Keep a loose grip on the line and the harness will do the rest.”

  Whitney gave a weak smile and nodded.

  “Just don’t let go.” Wright smiled wide. “On three.”

  Whitney mouthed the numbers as Wright said them aloud. On three, both jumped over the edge and descended into the jungle.

  She landed more softly than she imagined possible from the end of a rope slung out the side of a helicopter. Cruz helped her undo the harness. Once she and Wright were free, Wright signaled the copter and the ropes flew back up through the trees. They stood motionless for several minutes, waiting for the chop of the helicopter to fade completely.

  The jungle was silent. Upon seeing the vast spread of vegetation, Whitney had automatically pictured the trees full of monkeys and the ground swarming with insects. It was an environment with which she was familiar, having shot pictures in most of the world’s rainforests. But here, she couldn’t see anything but tall, straight tree trunks leading up to large leaf-covered branches that spread out like the limbs of an umbrella. The ground had a slim covering of vegetation; little sunlight filtered in between the large leaves to promote floor growth.

  “It’s quiet,” she commented.

  “A little too quiet,” Cruz said then laughed. “C’mon, that was funny.” He took a step, and the jungle floor came to life beneath his foot. A serpent wrapped around his ankle and pulled him off the ground, yanking him upside down and ten feet off the ground.

  “What the hell?” Cruz was more pissed off than frightened. Whitney noticed a nearby tree limb bouncing. A line ran from a branch, over the limb of another tree and down to Cruz’s ankle.

  Wright took out his blade and stepped toward Cruz, who struggled to keep his gear and weapons attached to his body.

  “Don’t move!” Whitney shouted. She recognized the trap and knew there were more. But it was too late. Both of Wright’s ankles were snagged. His feet were pulled out from under him and he was dragged through the ground brush before being launched into the air. He bounced up and down n
ext to Cruz.

  Whitney looked at Ferrell with serious eyes. “Don’t move.” But she saw by the look in Ferrell’s eyes that staying put was the last thing on her mind.

  “Screw that,” Ferrell said. “We’re sitting ducks.”

  With a speed and agility Whitney had never witnessed, Ferrell had a grappling hook and rope in her hands, which she slung over the nearest tree. She pulled herself off the ground, swung to the tree, and began climbing it. Whitney could see her logic. Both ropes were looped over a branch at the top of the tree. Ferrell could cut both men down without stepping on the ground. What Ferrell didn’t understand was the logic of the man who’d set the traps. A slight click froze the shuffle of Ferrell’s boots on the tree.

  “Oh, shi—”

  A branch from the other side of the tree came free from its binding, swung around the tree, and slapped Ferrell from its side. She fell to the earth and a second trap was sprung. A homemade net, weighted down by rocks, fell from the canopy above, where it had been concealed by the large leaves.

  Ferrell didn’t bother to struggle. She grunted as she sat up beneath the net, her eyes displaying her rage. She looked at Whitney. “Okay, smartass. Who set the traps and why the hell do you know about them?”