by Kevin Tinto
Leah turned to Appanoose. “Ałhosh’ as’ahgóó?”
He offered a single head shake.
“I asked him if she needed a long sleep. You saw his reaction. A definite no.”
“What’s the difference?” Gordon asked.
“C’mon Gordo. You know better than anyone, the difference between a long sleep and a coma. You don’t wake from a coma.”
Appanoose spoke again, this time with more urgency. He raised both hands toward the top of the Chinook fuselage and looked up as he spoke.
“Sǫ’ shik’éí “Ashch’ąh.”
“Oh my god,” Leah said. “I get it. He’s saying she needs the long sleep from which you don’t wake. The sleep provided by the ‘Star People’.”
“The stasis units,” Gordon said. “By disconnecting them from the stasis units, perhaps we inadvertently initiated a biological time bomb.” His eyes opened wide, as if he’d just had an epiphany. “What if the Ancients were never supposed to awaken on Earth? What if they were adapted to live on some other world, with an eco-system conducive to these metabolic and physiological modifications?”
Leah nodded. The good doctor had put his finger on it precisely—and without needing to hear about her visions of the same. She felt fatigue pulling her toward the deck of the Chinook. She sucked in a breath, steadied herself. “Good thinking, Gordo. Now tell me something I don’t know.”
Chapter 58
What’s the status of the stasis units?” Leah asked.
Gordon shook his head. “Non-functional, I’m afraid. One by one, they all shut down, the last one seven days after the Ancients were extracted. We only have one of the units here; the rest were shipped out to Dr. Gupta at DARPA. Apparently, they were able to do some research prior to the final unit shutting down. But even if we could insert Ms. K’aalógii into a functioning stasis unit, I think it’s simplistic and unrealistic to think it would arrest her new physiological processes. For all we know, the units were tailored specifically to each Ancient.”
Leah whispered to Appanoose. He gave one sharp head nod in the affirmative. Then she knelt and stroked K’aalógii’s hair.
“I’ll be the first to admit it’s a long shot, Gordo. But I know where we’ll find more stasis units—operating stasis units.”
“Jack found another complex?”
“Not as far as I know. The ones I’m talking about are in Antarctica. Somewhere near the South Pole. They’re contained within two inter-connected complexes large enough to make the one we found look like a dinghy next to a supertanker.”
Gordo’s mouth hung open. “Wait. How do you know about this other complex?”
Leah stood and replied matter-of-factly, “In a sweat-lodge vision-quest, high as a kite on the shaman’s personal stash of peyote.”
Gordon looked even more shocked, but Leah didn’t pause. “We’re taking a long trip, Gordo. I need you to source enough flight suits and cold weather gear to outfit all the Ancients. Can you sedate K’aalógii?”
Gordon nodded. “I’ll arrange to have her put under with Propofol. We can check and see if that alleviates the symptoms and maintains her vitals in a safe range.”
Leah held up a hand. “Isn’t that the stuff that killed Michael Jackson?”
“It is…but I guarantee we only administer the thriller dose, not the killer.” Gordo shrugged and offered his best semblance of a grin.
“You’re learning from Jack I see.”
“What’s that?”
“Gallows humor, Gordo. It’s what’s gonna get us through this.”
She whispered to Appanoose, who gave a single nod.
“Appanoose will help you get the Ancients off the Chinook,” she told Gordon. “They’ll need to use the bathrooms. Show him where; he’ll instruct the others.”
“Ah...what about the ladies?”
“You’ve got women working in there, Gordo. Get a couple of them and figure it out.” Leah wasn’t finished. “These people eat nonstop. Probably starving by now. Get your dining facility cooking up corn and beans, and more of that chicken noodle soup. No jalapeno. And no Hostess Cupcakes—got that?”
Gordon nodded.
A wave of emotion flooded through Leah. She had to pause, and wipe tears off her cheek. “One other thing. Can you get a couple of your people to escort Marko and Garrett to your…morgue?”
Gordon paused, closed his eyes for a moment, his shoulders drooped. He regained his composure, and nodded, pulling strength from Leah herself, it appeared.
“Dr. Andrews?”
Leah spun around. The Black Hawk crew still sat against the bulkhead, restrained with plasticuffs. The Chinook pilots sat in the cockpit. All eyes were on her.
Hutchinson said, “What happens with us?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she responded, honestly.
She signaled to Appanoose and whispered to him in Navajo. He replied with one sharp head nod. Then he went forward to the cockpit and pulled the command pilot out of the Chinook cockpit, sat him down next to the Black Hawk pilots.
Leah fished around for more plastic restraints. She nodded again to Appanoose. He yanked the co-pilot out of the cockpit and Leah repeated the plasticuff procedure with both men and the loadmaster as well.
Once done, she said, “You sit tight—and make no trouble for me. Got it?” The helicopter crews nodded in unison. “Wait,” she said. She told Appanoose to cut Hutchinson free. “You’re coming with me.”
Chapter 59
Leah escorted Hutchinson to a small side door near the corner of the hangar that led out to the tarmac. Before opening it, she said, “I want you to look out there and tell me if there’s an airplane that can fly to Antarctica. I don’t want to shoot you in the back, so keep it friendly and don’t try to set the base record in the hundred-meter dash.”
“No, ma’am. Wouldn’t even think of it.” Hutchinson hesitated, even after Leah had pulled open the door. “I’m really sorry about Mr. Moon, ma’am. We all thought he was really cool—and he was a pilot, too.”
“Captain, you have no idea the shitstorm we’ve had to survive for what seems like forever. If I seem…harsh, you’ll have to forgive me.”
“Yes, ma’am. Those of us assigned to the Settlement, we all really believed in what you were doing. We’re not like those guys we had onboard the bird.”
“I hope that’s true. It seems we’re surrounded by people who want us dead, and for no good reason…. Now take a look and tell me what we’ve got.”
Leah kept a hand on the back of Captain Hutchinson’s flight suit while they stepped outside the hangar. A line of F-22 Raptor fighters and two C-130 Hercules sat on the apron, also two C-17 Globemaster transports.
“What’ve we got, Captain?”
“The F-22s are no good, unless you’re flying them yourself.”
“Nope,” Leah said. “My flying skills are limited to backseat driving in a Cessna 172. I also need room for all the Ancients, a medical team and gear.”
“The two C-130s would work. Are you planning to land on ice?”
“Yes on the landing, nope on the C-130. I flew back from Antarctica on a C-130. Slow as molasses and had to be refueled like a dozen times, or so it seemed. I need something that doesn’t have to be refueled, is fast, comfortable, and can handle all my gear.”
She pointed toward the C-17 Globemaster: a massive four-engine jet transport that looked as if you could load half a city block, cars and all, in the cargo hold. “What about those big boys?”
“It won’t make Antarctica, ma’am. It has a range of around seven-thousand miles. Gotta be eight-thousand, maybe nine-thousand, just to reach the continent from here.” He shook his head. “It’s heavy, like five-hundred thousand pounds loaded. Maybe three-hundred thousand with fuel. It would crash land on a non-prepared runway.”
“Any runways tha
t might support that monster in Antarctica?”
“McMurdo. Amundsen-Scott won’t work for the C-17. The only place you can land the C-17 is on the Ross Ice Shelf at McMurdo. It’s too heavy to land on the snow runway at the South Pole.”
“Damn.” Roadblocks at every turn.
“The C-17 could make it with one inflight refueling though,”
“Something that big can be refueled inflight?”
“Yes, ma’am. United States Air Force. Global. Airborne. Range,” Hutchinson said, proudly.
“How much is Holloman worth, Captain? With all the aircraft and facilities?” She could use the Hafnium warhead one more time if she had to.
“Billions. There’s a couple billion in jets, sitting right in front of us with the F-22s and the C-17s. The Globemasters are two-hundred and fifty million dollars—each. That’s just a fraction of what’s here.” Hutchinson studied the tarmac and their surroundings. “Ah, Dr. Andrews. Probably not a good idea to stand out here, exposed like this. The Delta Platoon will be headed back and I suspect their mission will simply be re-tasked to take the two hangars. A Delta sniper could get you from a thousand meters, easy, standing out in the open.”
“I appreciate the heads-up, and I know how those guys operate. But they’ll be trying to figure out what happened to their helo for another two hours.”
“Were you in the military? You seem to know a lot about military logistics—or lack of.”
“Far from it. Let’s just say I’ve had a career’s worth of military BS in the last few weeks.”
“We’re you able to engage with the SEAL platoon the RUMINT said was dropped in to take you off the ice?”
“Rumint?”
“Oh, sorry. That’s military for a mix of rumor and intel.”
“Heroes in every sense of the word, Captain. The only military I’ve run into worth a damn…. Present company excluded.”
Once back inside the hangar, Leah said. “You hungry, Captain?”
“Yes, ma’am. The last time we ate was last night.”
“I need you for another fifteen minutes, then I’m going to cut you and rest of the helicopter crews loose.”
Hutch eased visibly, grinning.
“That happy to be freed, Captain?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve got to take a leak so bad my back teeth are floating. I think I can hold it for fifteen more minutes.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Go to the hanger restroom and meet me back at the rear of the Chinook.” She raised her eyebrows, but not the barrel of the HK. “Remember. I still have your crew tied up. Don’t make me shoot each one between the eyes because you disappeared.”
She barely heard the ‘Yes, ma’am,” as he sprinted toward the hangar restrooms.
Chapter 60
Less than eight hours after his brief conversation with Teresa Simpson, Paulson sat in the command seat of the Cessna Citation X. He was in the process of setting up the computerized navigation systems that would fly the aircraft first to Lisbon, Portugal, for fuel, then on to Istanbul, Turkey, to refuel again, then out over the waters of the Black Sea. He’d tried to avoid Istanbul but given the Citation X’s range of 3,700 miles, it couldn’t be helped.
If all went as planned, Paulson would inform Air Traffic Control he was descending down to five-hundred feet AGL so his ‘onboard photographers’ could shoot video of the Black Sea for an up-coming documentary. From there, he’d put the spurs to it, go feet-dry on the Turkish border and fly the five-hundred or so miles at sand level, cross the Iranian border, land at the airfield, pick Hobson up, exit the same way, and roll into Athens, Greece, on fumes.
The most important piece of information had come less than three hours ago. Jack had called Karen back and given her a rundown on the airfield. A single runway, about eight-thousand feet long, with a bomb crater rendering some two-thousand feet on the north end unusable. That left six-thousand feet for the Citation. For landing, that was no problem. The jet required less than four-thousand feet of runway. For take-off, it was a whole lot dicier. They’d be fine, assuming Jack’s measurements were correct and the runway was solid for six-thousand. The X needed five-thousand plus for takeoff. It’d be running light, which would help; a breeze down the center line would be nice as well.
Which reminded him of something he’d forgotten. Paulson wanted to make sure they had a wind reference. If the airfield was missing a windsock, he’d need another way to determine wind direction and wind speed.
Although not a pilot, Jack Hobson was a seasoned airman. He was experienced at guiding aircraft into and out of tight places. Many of them not even airports—just a long stretch of grass, gravel, lake, river, you name it. Paulson had to count on the fact that Jack would know they’d need a reference for landing—and make that happen. The most important item he had: GPS coordinates for the center of the runway: 39.631803, 44.600669.
Paulson pushed the reading glasses up on his forehead and leaned back onto the command pilot seat, talking to himself.
“This isn’t going to work. This is about a dumb-ass plan as I’ve ever attempted.”
Paulson had sent Ridley on a visual inspection of the aircraft’s exterior, looking for signs of hydraulic leaks, loose fittings, anything that could jeopardize the flight.
“Bird looks good, Al.” Ridley said, poking his head into the small cockpit. “I can guarantee it will get you into Iran—from there it’s up to you to keep us from augering-in on some Persian mountaintop.”
Paulson glanced up, the reading glasses now back down on his nose.
“Christ,” Ridley growled. “If you can’t set up the aircraft without those soda-bottle reading glasses, how the hell are you gonna fly this thing, in the dark, low on the deck?”
“I won’t need these glasses for flying the mountains.” Paulson reached down into his bag and pulled out another pair, with lenses equally thick. “These are ones I need to see distance.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Ridley said. “You honestly think this is a workable plan, Al?”
Paulson pushed the glasses back up on his head, his expression grim. “We’ve done a lot of flying and lying together, Mac. Truthfully, this is a cluster. If we don’t get shot down after crossing the border into eastern Turkey, or shot down over northern Iran, or auger-in at any of the above, we’ll probably run out of gas before reaching the first safe refuel location in Athens. And even that’s dodgy close.”
Chapter 61
After his visit to the hangar bathroom, Captain Hutchinson stood at the rear of the Chinook. Leah had already told the balance of the helo crews they’d be freed in a matter of minutes. The amount of squirming indicated they had to ‘go’ as well.
“Captain, come on up here.”
The Chinook was empty with the exception of the restrained helo crews and the Hafnium warhead. Leah pointed to the warhead sitting in the cradle.
“You know what that is, Captain?”
“No, ma’am. Custom beer keg?”
“Good one. I’ll introduce you to my husband if we live through this. You two will get along just fine.” She took four steps to reach the warhead and knelt next to it.
“Come on over—get a closer look.”
Hutchinson walked over and knelt beside Leah.
“This is a classified, top secret nuclear warhead.”
Hutch stood and stumbled back two steps.
“It’s called an Iso-Hafnium warhead, and the monster explosion that took place in Antarctica? That was just one of these bad boys…. The only reason I’m alive, talking to you now—is that we had this one hidden near the Gila National Forest. How we obtained the warhead is a long story, and should we survive, my husband Jack will tell it to you for hours on end.”
Leah stood. “President Wheeler and his flunky named Stan Fischer tried to kill us on multiple occasions. While it might sound crazy, we
used this warhead as blackmail to keep ourselves alive.” She shrugged. “And it did, in fact, do that job.”
Hutchinson nodded, his face grim. “Yes, ma’am. Guessing the KIA—Marko, I think you said his name was—was part of your crew.”
Leah nodded. “Marko Kinney was about your age. We don’t know what happened to Luke Derringer, a pilot who lived at a nearby airfield.” She paused, then glanced up at Hutchinson. “You did overhear the conversation I had with the goons….”
“Yes, ma’am. Couldn’t help but listen in on that Gucci-level spook intelligence.”
“I’m going to need you up to speed here in a moment. Anything you overheard bother you, Captain?”
Hutchinson opened his eyes wide, and for the first since she’d been working with the Army pilot, he looking genuinely pissed off. “Yes, ma’am. Sounds like our president has gone off his rocker, hiring some ex-black ops thugs to clean up his mess.” Hutchinson was just getting warmed up. “Turns out the lead dog, Krause, is a slimy double-agent. He knocks off some Wheeler advisor, killing two birds with one stone.”
“Fischer. Stan Fischer, Captain.”
Hutchinson nodded. “Right. Fischer. So, Krause kills Fischer to get rid of one of Mr. Wheeler’s liabilities, but before he does that, Krause water-boards Fischer with a knife blade, until he is satisfied he knows every detail about the Antarctica operation. He might have sold that ‘secret squirrel’ to the Russians for a stack of ‘cheddar’ that reaches right into the stratosphere.” Hutchinson shrugged. “President Wheeler should have known. You live with pigs, you’re gonna get dirty. Krause then murdered two of your crew in cold blood and won the big prize: flying lessons, out the back of the Hook.” Hutchinson grinned wicked. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”
“Secret squirrel?” Leah asked, unable to prevent herself from shaking her head in disbelief. “Cheddar, Captain?”
“Ah, yes, ma’am. Secret squirrel. That’s helicopter pilot talk for ultra-top secret. You won’t hear it around here much…it’s more of an Afghanistan thing. Cheddar—big wad of cash.”