"I'm getting some kind of a code here."
"Read it to me. Slowly!"
Diana typed the code Mackenzie fed her into the microscope's computer and switched to the chart function. Instantly, the flat line shot upward.
"Ohmigod!"
"Something wrong, Artemis?"
"No! Something's right! Very right!"
Here they'd been within hours of pulling the plug on Major Charles Stone, and his protein had already begun to regenerate. If this chart was anywhere near correct, he'd almost reached sufficient levels to sustain life.
Trembling with excitement, Diana advised Mackenzie she'd report back later and slid off the stool. She should notify Goode and Wozniak and the others, have them verify the anomaly. She would, as soon as she checked on the major.
He lay stretched out on the metal table, atop a computer-controlled aqueous gel mattress to cushion his body and vary his position at timed intervals. He was still naked, although the team had draped a folded sheet over his midsection. Video cameras mounted on tripods observed him from four different angles. IVs snaked from his arm, heart monitor leads from his chest. Electrodes measured the almost imperceptible brain activity that had so excited the team at first. A whole wall of monitors recorded both visual and digital data.
Her heart still pumping pure adrenaline from the chart reading, Diana stepped to the table. Major Stone lay supine, broad shouldered, superbly muscled. Fine brown hair arrowed down his chest, whorled around his navel, and disappeared beneath the folded sheet. The same tobacco brown hair lightly fuzzed his arms and legs. His buzz cut was a darker shade, and right out of the fifties.
As a biologist, Diana appreciated beauty in all life forms. Stone wasn't handsome in a classical sense, she decided. His features were too rugged, his jaw too square and blunt. She had to admit, though, his raw masculinity shot her scientific detachment all to hell. That, and the fact that she had absorbed so many details of his life by now that there was no way she could view him objectively.
According to the extensive background dossier Mackenzie had compiled, Charlie Stone had lost his parents during the Depression and was raised by an aunt. He'd worked at a variety of odd jobs while in high school, but still managed to letter in baseball and football. From the many comments in his high school yearbook, he'd won as many cheerleaders' hearts as he had games.
When World War II broke out, he lied about his age to enlist in the Army Air Corps aviation cadets. He'd flown P-51 Mustangs in Europe, and F-86 Sabre jets six years later in Korea. He'd been engaged for a brief period to an army nurse, but the affair fizzled when she mustered out of the army and went home. Stone had then been selected for test pilot school and moved to Edwards Air Force Base, California, where he flew with the likes of Chuck Yeager and future astronaut Deke Slayton.
He was from the old school. Tough. Tested. The kind of brash, fearless flier who pushed himself and the aircraft he tested to the edge of the envelope. He'd racked up hundreds of hours in various experimental airframes when the CIA had "requested" him from the air force to help shake out the bugs on the supersecret U-2. A little more than a year later, he'd dropped out of the sky.
"I wonder what you'll think of your world if...when you wake up."
She laid her hand on his arm, comparing the feel of his skin to the temperature displayed on the monitors. Despite the chill air inside the makeshift laboratory, he was warm to the touch.
"It's not the same world it was in 1956," she said, willing him to hear her voice, hoping he'd respond to the stimulus of human contact. "From what I've read about the Cold War era, I think you'll find it's better. Then again, maybe we haven't come as far as we like to think we have."
She stroked his arm gently, dredging up images from his time. Eisenhower facing off with Kruschev. Sputnik. Polio victims imprisoned in huge iron lungs. I Love Lucy and Howdy Doody in grainy black and white. Chrome-laden Cadillacs with sharklike fins. Or did all that chrome come later?
She'd have to pull up the interactive time capsule Mackenzie had compiled. The gee-whiz program provided visuals and audio on everything from popular foods of the fifties to Hit Parade favorites crooned by the likes of Patti Page and Frankie Laine.
"We've conquered polio," she told him, "but Lucy and Ricky still reign supreme on late-night TV. You can catch them just about... Yikes!"
She jumped back, almost choking in surprise as the arm she'd been stroking jerked straight up.
Disbelieving, Diana gaped at the upraised limb. Was it just a reflex? A response to the stimulus of her touch?
Her heart pounding, she dragged her astonished gaze from his arm to his face and nearly jumped again. His eyelids twitched. She was sure they'd twitched.
"Major Stone!" Her voice spiraled to an excited squeak. "Can you hear me?" His forehead creased in a frown.
"Major Stone!" Her pulse hammered so hard and fast she could scarcely breathe. "Open your eyes."
Deep grooves bracketed his mouth. The muscles of his neck corded, making Diana's own throat ache painfully. From the corner of one eye, she saw the bank of monitors light up like a Christmas tree. A shrill beep sounded, stretched into warning buzz. Another alarm pinged. Within seconds, a whole chorus was chirping away.
The alarms brought one of the research techs rushing through the door behind her. "What's going on?"
"He's waking up!" Diana threw over her shoulder. "Get Dr. Goode. Immediately."
She whipped back around and felt every ounce of oxygen leave her lungs.
He'd opened his eyes! Wild confusion filled their blue depths.
"It's all right." Reining in her galloping excitement, she infused her voice with deliberate, soothing calm. "You're safe. You're at the U.S. Arctic Oceanographic station."
His eyes narrowed, dissected her face, her red-and-brown plaid shirt, her jeans. When he brought his gaze back to hers, his throat worked. A sound halfway between a groan and a croak escaped.
"Don't try to talk yet."
He jerked his arm again and grabbed a fistful of her shirt. Astonished by his strength, she let him drag her down until their faces were only inches apart. With an effort that was painful to watch, he swallowed and tried again. Finally, he forced out a single syllable.
"Who...?"
"Who am I? My name is Diana Remington. Dr. Diana Remington."
She heard the sound of running footsteps behind her. Greg Wozniak barreled through the door. Excitement and his dash down the hall had turned his chubby face brick red.
"Is it true? Is he waking up?"
"See for yourself."
Diana started to edge aside. The hold on her shirt kept her tethered to the table as Major Stone's gaze shifted to her colleague.
"I... I don't believe it!" Wozniak breathed, almost as inarticulate as their subject. "How...? When...?"
Diana waited until a huffing Dr. Goode had joined them to relate the astounding sequence of events.
"It happened so fast. Without warning. I was in here checking his vitals when his arm jerked. A few seconds later, his eyes opened."
Goode's glance was riveted on Stone. Little of the excitement Diana and Greg Wozniak were feeling showed on his wrinkled face.
"I don't understand it. The sequence profiles showed no indication that his protein was beginning to regenerate."
As much as Diana wanted to share the results of the test she'd had Mackenzie run using OMEGA's computers, she couldn't break her cover. "The microscope must have been giving us faulty readings."
"Impossible," Goode stated emphatically. "I calibrated it myself."
“Well, one of the solutions we fed him obviously worked." Still pinned against the table by Stone's grip on her shirt, Diana made the introductions. "Major Stone, this is Dr. Irwin Goode, a Nobel Prize winner in bionetics. He worked with the U-2 spy plane program years ago. And this is Dr. Greg Wozniak, who..."
She broke off, gasping, as Stone's biceps flexed again. With a sharp tug,
he yanked her down. She ended up sprawled across his body, with one hand planted square on his naked chest, the other scrabbling for a grip on the metal table. Ice blue eyes lasered into hers.
"Not...spy," he rasped with savage intensity. "Wea...ther flight."
Oh, Lord! In her excitement, she'd forgotten that the U-2 program was so highly classified during Major Stone's time that not even Congress knew about the intelligence gathering flights over the Soviet Union. It had been a CIA show from start to finish, back in the days when the agency called all the shots without any pesky laws or Congressional oversight to curb their operations.
From the information Mackenzie had put together on the U-2 program, the operation was classic CIA. The pilots stripped down to the skin before climbing into their flight suits. They carried no personal items, wore no identifying insignia or rank. Even their aircraft was unmarked. If forced down over enemy territory, they'd been instructed to deny any attempt at intelligence gathering and admit only to collecting weather data.
Which is exactly what Major Stone was doing now.
"It's okay," she said, trying to lever up a few inches. "The U-2 program is no longer classified."
He didn't let go. If anything, his scowl grew even fiercer.
Diana's OMEGA training had included brutal and highly effective techniques for breaking just about any hold, but she figured smashing Stone's wrist bones against the edge of the metal table wouldn't exactly win his confidence.
"It's okay," she repeated, ignoring the fact that her breasts flattened against his chest and her mouth hovered only inches from his. "We're on your side."
His jaw worked. "Wea-ther flight." Oh boy! He obviously intended to stick to his oath to keep all aspects of his mission secret.
Admiration for his courage gripped Diana. He had to be confused, disoriented. Had to be wondering how in the world he'd arrived at a remote ocean-ographic station. Yet he wasn't about to admit to a thing except his cover story.
"You can trust us," she said softly. "We know you're Major Charles Stone, United States Air Force. We know you were detailed to the CIA in early 1955 to test and put into operation a new, single-seat, high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft. We also know you were flying that aircraft when it disappeared from radar at 2235 hours on November 2, 1956. What we don't know is why it went down, but we're hoping you'll tell us that."
He stared at her, his features taut and grim. After what seemed like a lifetime, his grip on her shirt loosened. She eased up a few inches.
She didn't say anything for several moments, wanting to give him time to digest what he'd heard so far before she dropped the bomb about his forty-five year snooze. She looked to her colleagues, then back at Stone, only to discover that his glance had locked on something just over her shoulder.
"What... the... hell?"
The harsh, rasping exclamation ripped from deep in his throat. Diana took a quick look behind her, saw the digital clock mounted on the wall. The time, day, month, and year flashed in iridescent green.
Dragging in a deep breath, she faced the Iceman again.
"Yes," she said slowly and clearly. "That's the correct date."
Chapter 3
It was a plot! A crazy Commie scheme to confuse him. Disorient him. Make him spill his guts. It couldn't be anything else!
Desperately, Charlie tried to shatter the ice that seemed to have crystallized inside his brain. Images shimmered against the white haze in his mind. Sounds came and went. Sharp cracks. Long groans. Like icebergs crying when they broke free of a glacier. With each image, each sound, fear rose in black, billowing waves.
Thrusting it back with a silent snarl, Charlie reached into the void and grabbed onto the fragments he could remember with both hands. He'd taken off from his base in Turkey. Flown a routine mission. Just entered Soviet airspace when...when all hell broke loose. He'd jerked the stick, had tried desperately to bring his plane around and escape Soviet airspace before he bailed out.
The fragments shifted, grew clearer. He remembered the suffocating lack of oxygen, recalled fumbling for the ejection handle. And the cold. God, the cold! It tore at his eyeballs, sliced into his skin. Then the bone-wrenching jolt of his parachute. After that, nothing.
He must have come down in Siberia. Or splashed into the Bering Sea and been fished out by seal hunters or fishermen. They'd no doubt turned him over to the Soviet authorities. Nothing else could explain the absurd tale the woman still sprawled across his chest was concocting.
As if she'd crawled right into his skull and had decoded his every thought, she confirmed his point of impact. "All indications are that you went down in the Arctic Ocean, Major Stone."
He was so shaken by her uncanny ability to read his mind, he barely grasped the incredible story she spun for him.
''Immersion in the freezing Arctic water reduced the need for oxygen in your brain at the same rate your circulation slowed. In effect, you went into a state of deep, permanent hibernation. Your pressure suit protected your body from decomposition."
Sympathy glimmered in the green eyes so close to his own, but Charlie refused to acknowledge it, just as his scrambling mind flatly refuted the soft statement that followed.
"You've been lost in the ice for forty-five years."
She was good. Damned good. She looked so sincere, sounded so American! Charlie's lip curled.
"Helluva...story, blon...die," he rasped, his throat raw and aching. "Too bad...I'm not buying it."
"It's true."
"Yeah, and...I'm Joc DiMaggio."
The Commies knew just how to wring a man's head inside out. Charlie had flown during the Korea War. He'd lost buddies, had heard tales about the POWs who'd disappeared into China. Only now, three years after the war had finally ended, was the truth beginning to seep out.
The Soviet masters of both North Korea and China had perfected a technique the CIA labeled brainwashing. According to highly classified reports, they'd programmed American POWs to betray their country, burying the traitorous impulse so deep in their psyche that no one, even the POWs themselves, knew it existed.
The CIA had proof, had shown Charlie and his fellow U-2 pilots the case file of a lieutenant who'd returned home to lead a quiet, ordinary life as a Frigidaire salesman until something or someone had triggered him. Without warning, the former officer had walked off the job, retrieved his hunting rifle, and calmly put a bullet through the powerful senator who was making a whistle stop campaign appearance in town that afternoon. To this day, the lieutenant had no idea why he'd killed the charismatic presidential candidate.
Charlie wasn't about to let this green-eyed blonde play with his head.
"I know it's hard to believe, Major Stone," she was saying calmly, "but I'm telling you the truth. You're at an American oceanographic station one hundred and eighty miles north of Point Barrow, Alaska. And the date is really June 2002."
The woman—what had she called herself? Remington. Dr. Remington—pushed against his chest with the flat of her palm.
"If you'll let me up, perhaps my colleagues and I can convince you."
Charlie wasn't about to admit he didn't have the strength to hold her if she fought him. He was shaking like a kitten, so weak the mere act of uncurling his fist took every ounce of strength he possessed. Sweat popped out on his skin, chilling him instantly. Only then did he realize he was stretched out flat on a table, as naked as a skinned coon. Tubes and wires snaked from his arms, legs and chest.
His gaze narrowing, he followed the tangled umbilical cords to the bank of equipment they sprouted from. Another wave of shivers rippled along the surface of his skin. As one of the first test pilots selected for the U-2 high altitude program, Charlie had been poked and prodded and subjected to just about every experiment known to man. Yet he'd never seen equipment like this.
Setting his jaw, he reached across his chest. With one vicious tug, he ripped the IV from his arm. Drops of blood and intravenous solution sp
rayed around the room.
"Hey!" The short, balding man beside blondie jumped back. "Careful with those bodily fluids! They're as dangerous as a machine gun!"
Charlie's throat closed. What the hell had they pumped into him?
The woman—Remington—shot her companion a look of disgust. "If you're worried about AIDS, Greg, the first case wasn't documented until 1981, twenty-five years after Major Stone dropped out of the sky."
The man reddened, but kept his distance. "Who knows what he picked up in the ice? There has to be some reason for the anomaly in his protein regeneration."
None of what they were saying made the least sense to Charlie, but one thought surfaced crystal clear through his swirling confusion. No one was going to stick anything else in him—or take any further readings—until he figured out what the hell was happening here. Setting his jaw, he swung his legs to the side of the table and pushed himself up.
His head buzzed. The ring of faces around him blurred. Gritting his teeth, Charlie blinked to clear the swirling haze and proceeded to yank off every telemetry lead.
"Major Stone!"
"Don't hurt yourself!"
"Careful with the equipment."
His fierce glare silenced the instant chorus. Chest heaving, Charlie gripped the metal table with both hands. His breath rasped on the cold air, the only sound in the lab until the blonde broke the tension.
"Why don't we make you more comfortable? I believe some clothes would be in order, and a move to the living quarters. Is that agreeable to you, Major?"
Stone's gaze roamed the makeshift lab, taking in the monitors and cameras, before locking with hers again. A curt nod signaled his acquiescence.
To the fierce disappointment of everyone on recovery team, Diana included, Major Stone lived up to his name and made like a rock. Once installed in a hastily cleared bunk room and outfitted in borrowed clothing, he crossed his arms and refused to answer questions or respond to the team's revelations. Nor was he ready to accept that he'd awakened in the second millennium A.D.
Hot As Ice Page 3