“Well, I’m seeing you now, aren’t I?”
For a moment King’s angry resolve held out. But seeing his father again in the wake of his mother’s death … it was a pain he didn’t want to carry on his own. He motioned with his head for his father to follow him. “You hungry?”
As King walked away, he wasn’t sure if his father would follow or run again. But a moment later, the sound of scuffing shoes on pavement revealed his old man was done running. At least for the moment.
FIVE
Fort Bragg—Decon
“WHAT IS SHE doing here?” Keasling asked about Fiona, who was sitting comfortably in the seat that was normally occupied by King.
“This has something to do with my grandmother,” Fiona said to the stout but gruff brigadier general. “And who killed her.”
Queen quickly cleared her throat. “Sir, everyone charged with watching Fiona and keeping her safe is either in this room or unavailable.”
Keasling looked around. Sitting around the long executive table were Fiona, Queen, Knight, Bishop, Rook, and Lewis Aleman, the team’s former field operator turned computer whiz and walking Wikipedia. The room itself, known as Decon, or Limbo, depending on whom you asked, was nothing to get excited about—simply a rectangle with one wall of glass looking out into the hangar bay that held the Crescent, the team’s high-velocity, stealth transport. But the technology hidden within the table and walls was something else entirely. Concealed computers and a large view-screen allowed the team to coordinate and plan some of the most risky, high-tech, and successful Delta operations no one ever heard about.
“I don’t like it,” Keasling said. “The kid shouldn’t be here.”
“It’s all right, General.” The voice, recognizable to everyone in the room, and most Americans, came from the large screen built into the front wall of the room. To the team he was Deep Blue, their handler. To everyone else, he was the president of the United States. On screen they could see the man’s balding head, charming smile, and kind, gray eyes. The only thing marring his presidential image were a few small scars on his cheeks and eyebrows, reminders of his years as an Army Ranger.
Keasling turned toward the screen that offered them a view of the Oval Office and the hidden camera that allowed Deep Blue to see all of them on his laptop. He nodded. “Mr. President.”
“She deserves some answers,” Knight said. “It’s been nearly a year.”
“Agreed,” Deep Blue said, “but I’m afraid all we have is more questions. And a lead.” He looked at Keasling. “Show them.”
Keasling opened a folder on the tabletop and took out an opened envelope. It was addressed to Jack Sigler. “We’ve been monitoring King’s e-mails and snail mail—” He caught Rook’s aghast expression. “With King’s approval. This came in today. The letter was opened and red-flagged twenty minutes ago.”
He took out photocopies of the page and passed them around the room. They all read the brief note quickly.
King,
Keep them safe.
25°21'5.17"S
131° 2'1.07"E
Akala Dugabu
Balun Ammaroo
Warrah Ammaroo
Elouera Kurindi
Jerara Mundjagora
14°49'51.03"N
107°33'41.22"E
Any you left alive.
“Ahh shit.” Rook looked at Fiona. “Sorry.”
She shrugged. “What’s wrong?”
“The second set of coordinates,” Bishop said, shaking his head slowly. “We recognize them.”
“Where is it?” she asked.
“The stomping ground of some of our old acquaintances,” Rook replied. “Mount Meru. Vietnam.”
Fiona’s eyes went wide and she sucked in a quick breath. She’d spent the last year being regaled with stories of the Chess Team’s adventures and the creatures, madmen, and amazing science they’d encountered. She knew that Mount Meru was where Bishop found the crystal that hung around his neck, where Queen received the bright red scar on her forehead, and where Rook had been made Alpha male by the last surviving Neanderthal Queen. “Red.”
“That’s right,” Keasling said, crossing his arms, which was the general’s body language for: don’t bother trying to argue with what’s coming next. “Rook. Queen. You’ll be headed back to the Annamite Mountains. You will search for any hybrid or Neanderthal survivors. Should you find any, tranquilize them and bring them home. The Vietnamese government is still embarrassed as hell over what happened last year, so there were no issues getting you clearance to return to the site.”
Rook leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And I’m going because…”
“Because, sweet cheeks, you’re the least likely to get killed.” Keasling smiled. “Being ‘the Father’ an’ all.”
“Just making sure.”
“And the other location?” Bishop asked.
“Uluru, Australia.”
“Ayers Rock,” Knight said. “These are aboriginal names.”
Keasling nodded. “Glad to see at least one of you has learned something this year. The coordinates are on the southern side of the rock. No one has lived there for ten thousand years. The site is mostly a tourist trap now, but we think these people are there now, or will be soon.”
“Listen guys,” Deep Blue said, “we all know what happened to the Siletz Reservation last year, so we have to assume that these people are in danger, too.”
“Why not just call some government blokes in Australia and have them pick up the people?” Fiona asked Deep Blue, tinging the words “blokes in Australia” with an Australian accent.
He smiled. He hadn’t had much time to see Fiona, but the regular reports he got from the team included updates on the girl. He knew she was intelligent, straightforward, and genuine. He would try to be the same for her. “Given the identity of the person sending the message—”
“Hercules,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Riiight.”
Deep Blue cleared his throat. “And the unusual circumstances surrounding the destruction of the reservation, not to mention the amount of red tape and time it would take to interview the survivors, who may be in grave danger, would bring our investigation to a standstill. Good enough?”
Fiona grinned. It wasn’t lost on her that the president, the man her grandmother had voted for, had just answered her question very seriously. “Quite,” she said.
“Any more questions?” Keasling said.
Aleman raised his long arm. “I didn’t receive any briefing on this and there seems to be no relevant tech in need of explanation.”
“And…”
“Why, exactly, am I here?”
Keasling raised his hands toward Fiona. “Babysitting duty.”
Aleman sighed. “Ahh. Right.”
“It’s dangerous work, I know,” said Keasling. “Try not to get yourself killed.”
The smiles around the room were impossible to hide. Lewis Aleman was a dangerous man in his time. But since an injury took him off field work he’d spent most of his time behind a computer. Watching Fiona was a welcome change. He turned to Fiona. “We’ll bust out the Master Sergeant and kill us some aliens.”
She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.
“Adorable,” Keasling grumbled, then raised his voice. “Wheels up in thirty minutes. Night is falling on the other side of the planet and we want you back in the air and on your way home by sunrise.”
SIX
Richmond, Virgina
KING’S EGGS WERE cold, not to mention runny. The burnt toast chewed up as well as a slab of cardboard. The orange juice was watered down. And the sausage, cheap as it was, encased more cartilage than pork. But the breakfast, courtesy of his father’s favorite hometown diner, was like heaven coated in maple syrup compared to the silence between King and his father.
What could be said to a son you deserted? To a father you’d put out of your mind? A lot, King knew, but he wasn’t ready. Not by a long shot.
After
ten minutes and one forced-down sausage, King had had enough. He’d faced down the world’s most dangerous terrorists, the mythical Hydra reborn, and a horde of Neanderthal women. He could handle his father. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Did you make it to the funeral?”
His father looked up briefly, met King’s eyes, and then returned his gaze to his rubbery pancakes, which still held two miniature ice cream scoops of butter. “Nope.” He squished the butter with his fork, oozing the congealed paste through the tines. “I only found out two days ago and the bus was slow.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“Butner.”
King sat up straighter. “North Carolina?”
“Yeah, you know it?”
King chuckled and shook his head. “I’m stationed at Fort Bragg. You’ve been living two hours from me. Butner … Must have been one slow bus.”
The diner door slammed shut as a patron left. Peter jumped, looking at the door and then taking a quick look around the room. He relaxed again and squinted. “What?” When King’s statement registered, he took a deep breath and found the courage to ignore the subject. “How’s that working out for you? The military?”
“It’s a living.”
“Deployed?”
“A few times.”
“Anywhere interesting?”
“Haven’t left the planet yet.” King didn’t want to talk about himself, so he quickly U-turned the conversation back to his father. “I thought you went to California.”
“It didn’t take.”
“Couldn’t find any of those California girls to take care of you?” King inwardly winced at his low blow. He had no idea what the temperament of his father was like now. As a child, the man wouldn’t have stood for King’s “flack,” but now …
“You’re not going to turn this into a soap opera, are you?” his father said without a hint of humor.
The man hadn’t changed a bit.
But King had. He didn’t have to sit and listen to his father. “Nice seeing you, Pop.” He placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table and stood. He stopped briefly to admire the diner’s Elvis clock and headed for the exit.
“Jack, hold on,” his father said.
King hadn’t had a father since his teen years and he’d long ago grown accustomed to that fact. No father was better than a bad father. He continued toward the exit. Seeing the man had only reinforced his fears about caring for Fiona. The man’s blood was his own. If fatherhood was hereditary, he would eventually fail the girl. When he knew she was safe again, he’d make sure she found a good family to take care of her.
“Jack. Stop.”
King paused for a moment, but not because of his father’s voice. Something deep within had struck home. A pang of guilt, only a quiet whisper before, had been revealed for what it was. Without even realizing it, King was planning to do exactly what his father had done. He was going to give her up. He was going to leave her.
Feeling sick to his stomach, King reached for the door.
“King, wait!”
He stopped, his fist gripping the door’s push-bar, the bells just starting to jingle. He turned back to his father. “What did you just say?”
His father looked stunned by the incredulous look in King’s eyes and fidgeted uncomfortably as King pounded back toward him.
Waitresses, expecting a fight, stepped behind the long counter. Patrons swiveled in their chairs, turning their backs to the pair, not wanting to be involved. King stopped at the table, placed his fists on its surface, and leaned over his father. “How do you know that name?”
His father gave an awkward smile. “I named you, Jack.”
King reached under his coat, pulled out his handgun, and placed it on the table. It was the second time that day he’d threatened his father with the gun, but this time it was not an accident. “You … called … me … King.”
“Must have heard the nickname from your mother.”
“Mom didn’t know it.”
“Well, I—”
Without raising the gun, King cocked the hammer. “Who are you?”
“I’m your father.”
“Who else are you?”
King’s father cleared his throat. He stared at the table like he was in shock, but then all his fear and worry melted away. An act. A smile crept onto his face. “You know what, you’re right. The time for games is over. Why don’t we go back to the house? Have a glass of your mother’s lemonade.”
“It’s gone. I finished it.”
“Don’t worry, Jack. I’m sure she’ll have made some more by the time we get there.”
SEVEN
Annamite Mountains, Vietnam
THE SMELL OF the jungle—moist earth and organic rot—hit Rook like a childhood nightmare, bringing back memories of fear, suffering, and the stuff of monsters made real. When the Chess Team last set foot in the mountainous region of Vietnam known as the Annamite Convergence Zone, where Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia’s borders merged, they had not only come face-to-face with the last remnants of mankind’s Neanderthal ancestors, but also their modern-day hybrid brood. Not to mention Vietnam’s now disbanded special forces unit known as the Death Volunteers.
Rook looked at Queen, whose black face paint covered the star-and-skull brand she’d received at the hands of the Death Volunteers. To her credit, she seemed unfazed by their return to the site of her torture. Of course, she was Queen. He expected nothing less.
They stood in darkness at the edge of the jungle, looking at the concave remains of Mount Meru cast in shades of green through their night vision goggles. Hidden inside the mountain had been the last city of the Neanderthal people; a masterpiece of ancient construction lit by the refracting light of giant crystals, it was the inspiration for the design of Ankgor Wat in Cambodia. But now the place was a ruin.
Every entrance had been crushed. Brush and saplings had already begun to reclaim the clearing that housed the hybrid workforce, where Rook and Queen had made a half-naked dash through the rain before facing off against a hybrid and two tigers. All that remained were shards of stone spear tips flattened into the earth.
The place was dead.
“No one has walked here, let alone lived here, since we left,” Queen said.
Rook knelt and pried a stone ax head from the earth. He felt its still sharp blade with his thumb. “Don’t forget that these guys almost inherited the earth,” he said. “Wouldn’t have hesitated to kill either of us.”
“I remember…”
“Then you might also remember that they didn’t always walk on the ground.” Rook motioned up with his head.
She looked up, following the trunk of the closest large tree, toward the night sky. The thick branches toward the top were marred with light-colored scratches. “They’re still here.”
“Not here,” Rook said, lifting the night vision goggles from his eyes and looking at Queen in the moonlight. She was dressed, head to toe, in black with her blond hair tucked up inside a black skullcap. She carried an UMP submachine gun. The woman was as deadly as she was beautiful, something Rook had to remind himself about every time his eyes trailed over the curves of her face, or body. “We’re looking in the wrong place. The hybrids lived here, with Weston, when he was the Father. And none of them actually lived inside Meru, not at the core at least. But now Weston is dead, and—”
“And you, being made the new Father, became a deadbeat dad and left them.” Queen flashed a grin.
“They never did ask for child support,” Rook said. “But the old mothers didn’t live here.”
She closed her eyes and nodded, remembering the stories told by Rook, Knight, and Bishop, who had seen more of the Neanderthal’s underground world than she or King. “The Necropolis.”
“That’s the place.”
“Which way?”
“South, past the river.”
Queen stepped past him. “Then what are we waiting for?”
Rook watched Queen move past him and head south. T
hey hadn’t been on a mission since leaving the jungles of Vietnam a year earlier, and though they had trained continuously since then, something felt different. Queen had always been detail-oriented and focused. Driven. But now her guard was down. Not quite laid back, but indifferent to life and death.
Over the past year, she had not once mentioned the scar on her forehead, at least not to anyone on the team, and he seriously doubted she’d been to see a professional. The brand, a skull inside a star, had been burned into her forehead by Major-General Trung, commander of the Death Volunteers. It was a torture few people could endure without lasting side effects. And while Queen wasn’t most people, the brutal act had changed her. Being trained to hide her feelings from the enemy, she would have no trouble hiding them from the team. But Rook could see it.
He realized he might be seeing something because he was looking too hard. His concern for her had grown over the past year, but he kept his thoughts to himself, afraid talking would reveal his true feelings. Was his worry for her well-being corrupting his assessment of her abilities? That seemed more likely than Queen going soft. Rook frowned. He was going soft. And being back in this jungle with her, where they had shared a brief kiss … He shook his head, trying to stay focused on the mission before his own distractions put them both in danger.
EIGHT
30,000 Feet Above Uluru, Australia
AFTER SWINGING OVER Vietnam to drop off Rook and Queen, the Crescent turned south and, flying at Mach 2 (1,522 mph), covered the three-thousand-two-hundred-mile distance in two hours. Bishop and Knight spent the last hour prebreathing for their impending HALO jump. They felt the stealth transport shift as its speed slowed, signaling their final approach to Ayers Rock, known as Uluru to the aboriginal Australians.
Uluru, a one-thousand-one-hundred-forty-two-foot-tall sandstone formation with a six-mile circumference stood out on the flat desert of central Australia like a crater in reverse. It had amazing views, three hundred sixty degrees of crags and fissures perfect for climbing, historical value as an ancient watering hole for desert travelers, and an ancient spiritual site of great importance since one of the sacred “Dreamtime” tracks—the paths taken by the Creator Beings as they walked the young earth—cut directly through the giant stone.
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