Whitney didn’t respond. A noise in the brush behind her caught her attention. Something short but large was headed toward her. Then it stopped.
Whitney hefted her XM-29 into the firing position Wright had shown her and waited for the danger to present itself.
“Chica!” Cruz whispered from above.
“I told you not to call me that,” Whitney said, not moving her eyes from the brush.
“Whatever, man! Take the freakin’ safety off!”
Whitney looked down at the weapon. The safety was on. As she moved her fingers to flip the switch, the creature charged from the bushes. Whitney saw a blur of black and brown fur as the large animal jumped up and tackled her to the ground.
She could have sworn she heard Cruz swearing in Spanish, but in the confusion of the moment it was impossible to tell. Besides, she was about to be eaten by some never-before-seen predator. But the searing pain of being eaten alive never came. A wet sensation coursed across her face and over her clenched eyes. Again and again, she was being licked.
She opened her eyes and saw a very happy face looking back at her. “Vesuvius!” She grabbed the dog’s head and shook him around. He licked her and barked with excitement.
A rustle of foliage behind her took her attention away from the dog. She turned around and saw the man she knew so well but who looked very different than she remembered. His beard was long and scraggly. His clothes were enmeshed with a litter of leaves and twigs—a camouflage technique she’d learned to use herself, just like the traps, clustering them in a tight group to maximize effectiveness. He looked like a wild man, but his eyes betrayed him to be the same man she had loved for so long and who had left her so suddenly.
“M . . . Mira?”
Whitney pulled herself to her feet, fending off Vesuvius who still bounded around her in ecstasy. She let her weapons and gear fall to the ground.
“Hi, Dad.”
Race
Chapter 25
As blade drew across skin, Ian Jacobson did his best not to flinch. He’d never been fond of shaving his own head, but in the field he had no choice. They’d arrived on the Antarctic coast the previous day, and the race to the continent’s interior was due to start shortly, as soon as all the competitors were in place at their respective starting locations along the coast. The razor in his hand was dull compared to that of Jonus, his barber back in London, and his small pocket mirror distorted his image so much that he appeared to be shaving a cone head. He pulled the razor from front to back one last time and rinsed it off with water from his canteen. He’d never been fond of his hair. At a quarter-inch in length, it began to swirl moronically, taking away any sense of his being a lethal killer. Being a member of the British Special Forces required as much.
Of course, he wasn’t a member of the British military anymore; they had merged with what was left of the other European nations to become the European Kingdom . . . only there wasn’t much of a habitable kingdom left, making it imperative that his team be one of the first three to reach the goal.
His team consisted of nine other men—three French, two more Brits, two Spaniards, one German, and one Italian. The common language, thankfully, was English. Jacobson couldn’t speak a lick of anything else.
Jacobson put the razor back in his backpack and closed it up. He leaned over, checked that his boots were tight, and picked up his weapon. He walked through the clearing, which had been created the day before by a destroyer off the coast. It had leveled the overgrown area with its cannons, providing a starting location for the team and the delegates from the other competing nations who were there to make sure everyone started on time.
He looked at his watch. Fifteen more hours of waiting. He hated waiting.
Jacobson approached the Chinese delegates—serious men dressed in business suits. They stood by a large rock in a field of green grass that ran all the way to the ocean, three hundred feet away. All three of them wore thick black glasses and striped ties. He figured the Chinese were going for a neutral look, but they really just looked bloody awkward. Jacobson stood before them wearing a smile that said he wasn’t going to cause trouble. “Good day, gentleman. Do any of you speak English?”
One of the men nodded. “A little.”
“Are all the teams at the starting positions?” Jacobson asked.
“Ah, no,” the delegate replied. “The Americans have yet to arrive.”
“Damn Yankees,” Jacobson said. “We should have never let the colonies go. Then they might be punctual.”
The delegate looked confused. “Forget it,” Jacobson said. “Thank you for your help.” Jacobson realized the man didn’t speak English well enough to be pumped for information. He really didn’t care that the Americans were late. He knew they would be. He knew what they were up to. In fact, he was counting on it. His team and the Americans had a rendezvous point about five hundred miles into the race. The plan was to reach the goal together, along with the Brazilian team, and hold out there against the Chinese and Soviets, the front runner communist nations, and against the Arab Alliance. Antarctica would be a democracy.
The Arab Alliance didn’t pose as much of a threat. With only limited forces on the continent and self-destructive tactics, they’d kill themselves before doing in the rest of the teams. That, combined with the fact that no other team wanted them to win, sealed the AA’s fate. Their part of the world had been in chaos since the dawn of time, and no one wanted to be their new neighbor.
As Jacobson walked back to his team’s encampment, he looked out at the Antarctic jungle and imagined what the trek was going to be like. The vegetation that had grown up so quickly was unlike anything else on the planet. They had no idea what was edible or what was poisonous. Brushing up against the wrong leaf could mean serious infection or death. They’d all heard reports of small creatures being sighted at the camp’s periphery. Life of all varieties was springing up around the continent. Going into the most inhospitable jungles on earth would have been safer, because they’d know what to expect, what to avoid, what to shoot. Here they were blind. The canopy blocked out all satellite imagery. The terrain had shifted when the ice melted, and the entire continent had risen twenty more feet above sea level. Where he now stood had only two months ago been underwater.
Jacobson paused and rubbed his hand across his smooth head. Even with the dull razor and plastic mirror, he’d done an acceptable job. There were only a few rough spots. He just hoped he’d survive this whole mess so that Jonus could finish the job right . . . that was, if Jonus was still alive. What a mess the world had become. Jacobson sighed, knowing the next few weeks would be even messier.
Chapter 26
Dr. Merrill Clark absorbed everything he was told with mouth clenched shut, eyes wide open. Only the occasional headshake of disbelief gave evidence that he was still listening. Wright laid it all out for him minutes after Merrill had freed them from the traps and disarmed the others yet to be triggered. The world was in chaos, but ultimately, humanity had survived. What could have been an extinction event might still allow the human race to continue its dominance of the planet.
It was the most horrifying story he had ever heard, but even so it failed to capture his full attention. Merrill’s thoughts were with his daughter Mirabelle, whom he hadn’t seen in two years. She stood ten feet away, arms crossed, face set like stone. The distance he felt between them now was worse than when she had been on the other side of the planet. It broke his heart.
Wright finished his explanation of the race: “The first team to reach Antarctica’s geographic center splits the continent with two other nations.” Merrill felt Wright’s eyes upon him, waiting for an acknowledgement of his statement. “Dr. Clark?”
“I’m not convinced,” Merrill said, “that even with my help we will be able to find where you want to go. This is a large continent. Getting lost won’t be difficult.”
“We have maps,” Wright said.
Merrill chuckled. “Antarctica has been coa
ted under a crust of ice, a mile thick in some places, for the past 12,000 years. You don’t have a map.”
Wright produced some large photographs, satellite images of Antarctica from space. Merrill inspected the photos, feeling a wash of emotions as he saw that the entire continent had truly been transformed. The photos were spectacular, but they wouldn’t keep them from getting lost. “All we can see from these are mountain ranges, some large lakes, and lots of green. These are no good.”
“And what if you combined them with a map of the interior?” Wright asked.
“Like I said, unless it’s a twelve-thousand-year-old map, it’s useless.”
Wright pulled a small cardboard tube from his pack, popped it open, and unrolled a large map. “We have one for everyone.”
Merrill held his breath. “What . . . what is that?”
“You’ve heard of Piri Reis?” Wright asked.
“You have the complete Piri Reis map?” Merrill’s eyes were wide, his jaw slack. “Let me see it! Give it here!”
Merrill snatched the map from Wright and inspected it. After a moment, he found the portion of the map he knew so intimately, where the southern coast of Africa came down to the coast of Antarctica. It matched. It was a complete map of Antarctica, interior and exterior, that dated back more than twelve thousand years. The original sources were said to have been created by a pre-Sumerian culture, the first culture that had developed language, writing, and, obviously, nautical expertise. Never in his life had he imagined holding the entire map in his hands . . . even if it was a copy. “I’ll do whatever you want,” Merrill said, “but I have a condition.”
“Name it.”
“I want to go for a walk with my daughter.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Wright glanced at Whitney. She was staring at the dirt, pursing her lips. “She seems . . . upset with you.”
Merrill nodded. “Very much so. And it’s for that reason we need to hash things out now. You certainly don’t want us stopping to have a father-daughter spat in the middle of a race, do you?”
Wright rolled his neck, feeling the vertebrae pop one by one. “How much time do you want?”
“Two hours.”
“Two—” Merrill’s expression reflected his resolution. He wouldn’t be going without this talk. “Two and that’s it. If you’re not back in that time, we’ll leave you both here.”
“Fair enough,” Merrill said. He started to stand but paused. “Captain Wright, tell me: why didn’t Sam come with Mirabelle?”
Wright looked puzzled. “Who?”
“Samuel Whitney. Mira’s husband.”
Wright’s face reflected a moment of clarity which was quickly replaced by a glumness that told Merrill all he needed to know.
“Oh, no.” Merrill felt as though he would vomit.
“She was widowed about a year ago, Dr. Clark. You didn’t know?”
Tears welled up in Merrill’s eyes so quickly there was nothing he could do to keep them from rolling down his cheeks. He stood and walked away, plunging himself into the shade of the jungle.
Ten minutes later Merrill was back at camp. The tears had slowed, but his face was wet with salty moisture. I’m a damn fool! Merrill thought. He’d left her alone. All this time, he’d been out searching for ancient relics, while the living, breathing person he cared about most in the world was suffering. He’d abandoned her to face the worst days of her life by herself. He knew what losing a spouse could do, how it could change a person. How it could destroy a person.
Merrill kicked a nearby crate. He looked up and saw the sky through several spaces where trees had failed to grow because of his equipment. “God, what have I done?”
“Dad?” The voice was distant. Mirabelle. “Dad, are you there?”
Merrill’s voice cracked as he spoke. “Here.”
Mirabelle entered the camp from the forest. She saw his tears and her own welled up. He reached her, embraced her, and held her closely, sobbing like a child. They both were. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
“He’s gone, Dad. Sam is gone.” Whitney let a year’s worth of pent-up sorrow flow from her soul all at once. Her breath came in sudden spurts between sobs. “He was shot. We—we were out late . . . robbed . . .” Whitney was overcome by tears again.
Merrill pulled her closer. He had no idea what to say. He knew the pain of loss, yet couldn’t conceive of how to comfort her. In ten years, he’d been unable to find comfort for himself. After holding her for five minutes, rubbing her back, rocking her gently, letting her tears soak into his shirt, he said the only thing he could think of to say. “I love you.”
Merrill pulled back and looked his daughter in the eyes. His throat constricted. Her brown eyes, coffee-colored skin, and blond hair brought a flood of memories to his mind. She looked so much like her mother, with the exception of the blond hair. Aimee was from South Africa, an archeologist studying ancient African tribes. They’d met at a symposium and struck up a friendship that quickly blossomed into a romance. Whitney was born two years later. And here she was now, old enough to have married and lost a husband.
Smiling weakly, Mirabelle said, “I love you, too.”
Merrill smiled wide and hugged her again. When he pulled away, he said, “I was worried that I would never see you again.”
She wiped her nose. “So was I.”
“I’m sorry,” Merrill said with a sniff. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “Was it bad? The . . . event? What’s left of Portsmouth?”
“Nothing. It’s gone.”
“Oh. How many survived?
“Just one, that I know of.”
Merrill’s eyes widened. “Oh—oh my. You’re the only one?”
Mirabelle nodded. “Just like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the only survivor.”
“In the region? McMurdo didn’t make it?”
“On the continent,” she said. “You’re the only one left.”
Merrill shook his head then seemed to arrive at an understanding. “He’s watching out for us.”
“I’m not in the mood to talk about God,” Mira said.
Merrill wasn’t surprised; at the moment, he wasn’t in the mood to talk about God, either. Something else was on his mind. Something only his daughter would appreciate. Not those military stiffs. “Good,” he said, catching her off guard. Merrill looked at his watch. “An hour and forty-five minutes left. Plenty of time, but we’ll have to hurry.”
Merrill took Mirabelle by the hand and led her to a path on the opposite side of the camp. It disappeared into the shadowy jungle.
“Where are we going?”
“I have something to show you. Something unbelievable.”
Chapter 27
General Zhou Kuan-Yin surveyed his troops. They were lined up in perfect formation. Two hundred soldiers had been put under his command for this most important of missions. Zhou had been honored when he was requested to lead the mission. Every soldier standing before him had been handpicked, including his second-in-command, Captain Zhou Lei. His son.
Lei walked the lines, inspecting the soldiers’ uniforms, stature, and weapons. If anything was out of place, the soldier would be removed from the ranks and sent home in shame. But Zhou was under no illusions. The professionalism and perfect appearance of his troops would disintegrate as soon as they entered the jungle and began their trek toward Antarctica’s center. The current show of perfection was to intimidate the competition. He saw the delegates from the other nations watching the spectacle with wide eyes. No doubt they had never seen such a display of discipline and would nervously report the situation back to their superiors. Intimidation worked wonders in battle.
And it was a battle. His men weren’t armed to defend against trees. He knew the Americans and Europeans wouldn’t want to share a border with the Chinese and would do all they could to stop them. No matter, Zhou thought, they cannot stop all of us. Thanks to some timely intel, he
also knew the American ranks would be thinned by the Soviets long before they reached the goal . . . if they made it that far at all.
With the Soviets distracting the smaller competitors, China would stake its claim unchallenged. Communism would govern Antarctica. They would see to that. Communisim had sustained his country for so long and made the Soviets a superpower. The world had seen what happened when a nation lost its communist roots: poverty and despair. For that reason, they hoped to share the continent with the Soviets. Not only did they share views on Communism, but being neighbors already would make the transition smooth. As for the third nation to share Antarctic soil, South Africa was the choice. Not only were they in a geographic location that was extremely beneficial—it would be a six hour flight from old South Africa to the new South African Antarctic—but they also wouldn’t be able to defend against invasion, if the threat of it failed to influence them. It was a flawless plan.
Lei finished his inspection and found everything and everyone in readiness; Zhou felt a brimming pride. Not in his son’s performance but in his troops. They too were flawless.
“General,” Lei said as he approached, snapped his legs together, and saluted.
“Report,” Zhou said.
“All men are accounted for and prepared to enter the jungle.”
Zhou nodded. “Instruct them to hold their position until the race has started.”
Lei paused. Zhou looked him in the eyes. “Captain?”
“Sir, forgive me,” Lei said, “but it is ninety-six degrees and very humid. The troops are in full uniform and will become rapidly dehydrated. Sir, there are six hours left before the race begins.”
Zhou’s eyes burned with anger. Insolence from his own son could not be tolerated. He slapped the young man across the face. Lei was shaken but remained resolute. “Father—”
Zhou slapped Lei again, hard enough to draw blood. Zhou leaned in close and said with a growl, “Tell the men they will remain standing in formation until the race begins. Anyone caught so much as slouching will be shot on sight. By you. Do you understand me, Captain?”
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