by Kevin Tinto
She searched in every direction for Appanoose.
She cried out again. “You promised answers!”
One word flooded her mind with such intensity that she saw the letters imprinted on her brain like the afterglow of a lightning strike.
“Yá’ąąsh.”
One of the English translations for the single word in Navajo was Heaven. Leah instinctively looked up toward the sky. Not one sun but two shone in the sky. Neither seemed bright as the sun she knew, but together they flooded the sky and the landscape with intense sunlight. She felt a monetary shock, then convulsions wracked her body and the blackness closed in like a cocoon as she struggled to see more.
When her vision returned, she saw ice stretching for as far as she could see, the horizon ending in curved line. Leah immediately looked for the suns. The two suns had been replaced with the single familiar one. The transliterated word that Appanoose had spoken repeated in her head, echoing off her forehead, and then off the back of her skull—never changing.
“Ant-Arc-Tikke…Ant-Arc-Tikke… Ant-Arc-Tikke…Ant-Arc-Tikke.”
That’s when she realized it. She was now flying over Antarctica. Below lay the complex where the Ancients had been encased in the stasis units, but she saw no wrecked aircraft or the massive crater where the complex had been obliterated. And Thor’s Hammer still stood, as it had for millions of years before the Hafnium warhead sheared it from the earth. No avalanche covered the domed facility, and the silver metallic surface reflected the soft Antarctic sunlight in every direction.
She flew on over barren ice, until after what had to be hundreds or thousands of miles passed by in her mind’s eyes, another structure stood. This one featured twin domes—each much larger than the complex she’d discovered—connected to one another by a tube-shaped assembly.
The silver metallic surface of the domes flashed brilliant white, then became transparent. Inside, Leah saw hundreds of the stasis units, each containing a body in deep hibernation.
One line of stasis units stood apart from the rest. They were brightly lit, and their clear, glass-like lids stood open. Even though she didn’t count them, she knew there would be exactly twenty-seven units. The same number as the surviving Ancients at the Settlement.
The vision was so peaceful, so serene, Leah intensely regretted removing the Ancients from the complex, and her feelings about the non-terrestrials softened. She understood now: The Ancients had been selected as colonists, tasked with settling new worlds.
It wasn’t right, but then again, was this how Earth had been originally populated with humankind? Her thoughts, while at the Settlement, star-gazing and seeing threats coming from the stars now seemed, foolish, immature. How could she have missed the obvious?
She was flooded with a sense of well-being she hadn’t experienced since she’d been asked out for the Christmas dance in junior high. It was all fine—no, it was better than fine. Everything was magnificent.
Leah didn’t have time to enjoy the sense of well-being. A sense of dread began at her fingertips. As it moved up her arms, so did an intense cold. If that weren’t bad enough, suddenly she couldn’t breathe. The air, once again, felt too thin; or maybe she was at too high an altitude above the ice.
Leah sucked deeply, working to fill her lungs, but the small amount of oxygen did little to alleviate the growing oxygen debt depriving her brain and organs of vital O2.
As her sense of dread morphed into terror, she felt, but did not see, an immense buildup of energy flooding both domes. As it did, the ice around the second complex began to fracture. Blocks of ice the size of skyscrapers pushed themselves out of the surface and, like watermelon seeds squeezed between two fingers, rocketed away from the domes, followed by the intense crack of air parting at supersonic speed, shaking Leah right down to her bones.
Massive fountains of steam and water exploded from the newly created city-block-sized cavities. Whatever was happening had created so much heat that ice was converting instantly into liquid, then steam, in milliseconds.
That wasn’t the worst. As the energy within the twin complex intensified, growing in strength and mass, it could clearly not be contained. Leah opened her mouth and screamed at the same time two blinding beams of energy cut holes in the sky, generating enough heat that she felt the skin on her face peeling off in strips.
The blue sky went black; her body convulsed. Leah instinctively knew the energy that cast billions of tons of ice miles in every direction had also stopped her heart.
Chapter 31
Garrett Moon paced outside the sweat lodge. Leah had been inside for more than four hours, well beyond their agreed time with Appanoose. After being restrained by the Ancient warriors, he been shown a place to sit near the sweat lodge, but not allowed to move for the first two hours. When he finally complained, one of the warriors nodded and allowed him to stand, then walk about, unrestrained.
When the skin flap opened, Appanoose slid his legs out first, then his upper body. He was covered in sweat and his eyes shined with an intensity Garrett hadn’t seen before. But it was what lay limp in his arms that caused Garrett to panic.
Appanoose held Leah, her arms and legs dangling and her head lolling back on her shoulders, mouth open and eyes strangely lifeless. The warriors, seeming to have anticipated what would have happened, had brought blankets and spread them next to the fire.
Appanoose looked around, orienting himself to his current surroundings, then laid Leah gently down on the blankets.
Garrett tried to rush over but was instantly restrained. Appanoose laid his cheek next to her mouth. It was obvious that she was no longer breathing. He leaned over, and blew air over her face, gently. On the third breath, Leah arched her back, and drew a deep breath on her own.
The warriors who held Garrett released their iron grip. He pushed them away and ran to her side. Leah’s face was white, and her skin cold and clammy. He put his cheek up against her mouth and held his breath, praying that by holding his, he might feel Leah breathe once again.
It took more than fifteen seconds before he felt the lightest of breaths against his cheek. Overcome with relief, he watched K’aalógii and Dahteste bring lit torches and hand them to the warriors, who braced the torches upright with river stones. More wood was added to the fire and the sandy ground near the pit danced with shadows made by the breeze-driven flames.
Appanoose nodded, and Dahteste and K’aalógii knelt beside Leah and began washing her face and hair with water, dribbling some on her lips as they worked.
Garrett told Appanoose he wanted a private audience. Appanoose gave one sharp nod and led Garrett over to the Basilica. Even before the shaman sat across from him, Garrett began speaking his mind in Navajo.
“We trusted you with her life. You’ve broken your bond with us.” He paused. It would have been easy to lose his temper, to shout and make a major scene. It took all of his strength and the training he’d received at the feet of elders on the Navajo reservation to remain calm. He pointed back to where Leah lay unconscious, perhaps dying. “She and she alone saved you from a lifeless death under the ice in Antarctica.”
“Nikʼijįʼ asihígíí éí ayóóʼíʼóoʼniʼ bee baa nídidííʼááł,” Appanoose replied, inclining his head in Leah’s direction.
Garrett hardly expected Appanoose to drop to his knees and give thanks for their rescue, but what he’d said was so unexpected that Garrett didn’t know how to respond:
With much affection, she was forgiven for her crimes.
“Ałkʼidą́ą́,” Appanoose continued.
She had been forgiven, a long time ago.
Chapter 32
Jack sat at a café, sipping espresso, in the ancient Turkish city of Cappadocia. It’d been nearly twenty-four hours since he’d boarded the Citation 10 at Westchester County Airport. The '10' didn’t have the range to fly to Turkey unrefueled, and they’d had to make two stops before landing at Istanbul Atatürk Airport.
His mafia-like entry into Turkey
had been smooth as silk. Any question on how terrorists were able to move about the planet without fear of capture were quickly answered by the seamless way a large sum of cash could buy you into and out of just about anywhere.
Before Jack could even exit the aircraft, a blacked-out Mercedes station wagon and quickly whisked Jack to the margins of the airport. As instructed, he’d handed over the cash, and he was walking away from the terminal eight minutes later.
As a bonus, Paulson Immigration Services, as Jack had come to call it, had another car waiting, which drove him straight through to Cappadocia—a distance of nearly eight-hundred kilometers. Needless to say, his ass should have been kicked, but he felt invigorated. The adrenaline buzz of a real adventure never got old.
He’d tried Leah numerous times before leaving, without success. While she’d promised to have the satellite phone handy, he knew she was living on pins and needles after returning to the Settlement and all of its potential for violence waiting, simmering.
Jack had given Paulson a complete briefing on the Ancients and Leah’s and his concerns in case something went down while he was in Turkey. Al Paulson hadn’t seemed that surprised, or even concerned. He made it obvious that Wheeler was getting more erratic and the Russian/American conflict appeared to be building toward another explosion. The Russians were determined to get troops onto the frozen continent via ship. The Americans equally determined that no Russians ships would draw close enough to the coast that they could offload a division of troops and armor.
As Jack was finishing his second espresso and wishing he could stick around to explore Cappadocia like a proper tourist, a beat-up Toyota truck came to a screeching halt in front of the café.
A young Kurd in his early twenties jumped out, beaming. He wore western style clothing, including worn but clean blue jeans and an Old Navy t-shirt. More than likely so as not to standout as a Kurd in the city. His hair was shaggy and his beard thin, but when he smiled, his teeth were white and straight.
“Mr. Jack?” He spoke in accented English, his smile growing wider by the second.
“Kajir?” The young boy of twelve or thirteen, who’d helped his father prepare meals on the last Ararat expedition, nearly ten years before, had grown into a man. Jack hardly recognized him.
“When did you grow the beard?” he managed.
“It is very good to see you again. My father is very anxious to see you.”
A boy of thirteen or fourteen pushed open the creaky passenger door and stood next to his older brother.
“My little brother, Bazi.”
“Are we taking this truck to Dogubayazit?”
“Only part way. We must switch trucks before we reach the military checkpoints.” He pointed toward the cab. “Mr. Jack.”
Jack dropped a wad of currency on the table and stepped to the street, but before Jack could board the small truck, Bazi sped past him and climbed in, claiming the middle seat on the narrow bench. Kajir jammed the Toyota into gear and dropped the worn clutch. The truck lurched forward, gears grinding.
Kajir sped to the corner, spinning the steering wheel to the right. Jack thought for a moment, the Toyota might crash into a produce shop on the opposite side of the street, but the vehicle remained upright and untouched.
Outside Cappadocia, Kajir glanced at his worn Timex Ironman Triathlon watch. “We travel for only three more hours, safely. Then you must ride with the hay.”
✽✽✽
Jack dozed as the Toyota weaved through traffic in the style that made driving in the Middle East more dangerous than a Kurdish ambush in the badlands. Finally, the truck slowed, waking Jack. They were rolling into a small village.
“This is where you must switch vehicles, Mr. Jack.” Kajir checked the rearview mirror, then slowly navigated the narrow streets, avoiding any unwanted attention.
“Yes!” Kajir pointed into a narrow alleyway. An ancient-looking flatbed truck bearing the familiar Mercedes Benz logo waited, idling. Its bed was stacked high with straw, making it appear top-heavy. Jack hoped it didn’t topple before they cleared the narrow streets of the village.
“Mr. Jack,” Kajir said. “We load your gear and drive to our village.” He pointed toward the large pile of straw. “You must climb underneath. Many Turkish checkpoints on the road. If we are stopped, you must not move or talk.”
Jack knew well that corruption and brutality reined at these remote checkpoints. The Turkish military shook down the Kurds at these stops and beatings, sexual assault, even murder were common events. If anything happened at one of the checkpoints, and the Turks found Jack, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. He’d disappear like so many do in eastern Turkey, just another mystery never to be solved out in the badlands.
To that end, Jack remembered how he’d told Jacob Badger about dropping a prayer, maybe two on a particularly hazardous climb, or series of events that seemed headed toward lethality.
He decided this situation fit perfect and he said a lengthy prayer under his breath. After a pause, he added that God should give Jacob Badger a break, if it turned out the DECISION was a squeaker, whether to let the old preacher into Heaven, or send him south.
Jacob Badger might have sworn at the Big Man a time—maybe two, but Jack had never met a man whose heart was so much in the right place and who had suffered so, over the death of young David on Ararat.
Chapter 33
The Turkish soldiers at the roadblock shouted questions at Kajir over the roar of the engines. Kajir answered back in a non-conciliatory tone, sending a tingle down Jack’s spine. It felt strangely frustrating to be unable to watch the drama playing out only meters away.
Jack was buried at the bottom of the straw, two duffels tucked in, one on each side. He’d pulled a dirty blanket up over his face, to prevent from smothering and/or having his eyes gouged by the coarse straw. After five hours under the straw, he wasn’t sure what was worse: suffocating under the load or the nauseating odor coming from the blankets. The same blankets Bazi said were used for their horses.
More loud voices, and shouting.
If Kajir had given an inch or appeared nervous in any way, the soldiers would have searched the trucks for weapons or contraband. After an exchange of what Jack assumed were a plethora of mutual insults, the truck clunked into gear and lurched through the checkpoint.
Two hours later, Jack had to take a leak and was visualizing a plan to unzip one of the duffels, whilst in prone position, then rifle around the duffel for an empty water bottle, when the truck slowed again.
Not another checkpoint.
Instead of Turkish soldiers shouting and Kajir slamming on the brakes at the last second, the flatbed turned off the paved two-lane highway and trundled down a bumpy dirt road with ruts so deep the truck threatened to tip one side, then the other. The rough ride reminded Jack that he’d better start digging for the water bottle, but thankfully, the truck found smoother footing and after less than a half hour lurched to a stop.
Kurdish voices filled the air from every direction. Hands cleared the straw from the bed of the truck and a voice said, “Come out my friend—it is safe now.”
Jack dug himself out from underneath the rough blanket and several feet of tied-down straw. In the soft glow of the lanterns, the people stared at him, eyes bright with curiosity and excitement.
“Mr. Jack!”
Jack recognized the familiar face of Hawar, his guide from ten years ago.
The Kurd had aged considerably. He looked shorter than Jack remembered and his beard, once jet black, was gray and thinning. Hawar wore traditional Kurdish clothing, including baggy pants with cummerbund. Although his body had aged, his eyes remained clear and sharp and his handshake strong. Jack embraced the gray-bearded Kurd, allowing Hawar to kiss him on both cheeks.
“I knew you would someday return, God willing.” He grabbed Jack by the hand and led him to the center of the village.
“Your sons have grown into fine young men.”
Hawar beamed. “Th
ey will climb with us. They have been waiting to climb with Jack Hobson, the famous mountain climber.”
Jack told Hawar about being stopped at the checkpoint and the harassment. “What is the situation on Ararat?”
“It is very, very bad, Mr. Jack. Many Kurds have disappeared, many more military have been sent to Kurdistan to search for terrorists and Kurdish rebels. We will be in much danger if confronted by Turkish soldiers.”
“Let’s see if we can avoid that.”
“We will climb at night—at least until we reach the glacier,” Hawar added. The warlord led Jack into his walled compound, where fresh lamb kebab cooked over an open flame and Jack, thankfully, was able to make the call of nature without a water bottle.
Jack sat outdoors, his parka zipped up, the fire providing light and welcome warmth in addition to the Coleman lanterns hung on poles around the compound. The food was served while the Kurds chatted and Hawar or one of his sons translated as best they could.
Loud, deep howls sounded outside the compound. Hawar pointed over the wall. “Wild dogs—probing for ways to get at the herds.”
“Do you still have those Kangals?” Jack asked.
Hawar nodded.
“Still as big and mean and I remember?”
A ghost of a smile flashed across Hawar’s face. “Pray they never see you as a wild dog, Mr. Jack.”
Chapter 34
Beckam swept the endless ice to the right, then to the left. He pulled the binoculars away from his face and wiped at his eyes. It didn’t dissipate the fatigue-induced blurring and burning. He was on the bubble for active combat deployment and feeling his age. One thing was true: he no longer had the physical gifts he’d possessed as a twenty-five-year-old, gung-ho, SEAL operator.
It was little things that degraded one’s combat fitness. In his case: vision. When Beckam got dog tired—not simply physical-workout weary, but combat-mission beat—his first impairment was vision. Only days ago, the Antarctic horizon had been a clear-cut line across the ice. Now, even through binoculars, it looked blurry. The sharp disparities in the horizon now shimmered like diamonds and the lines were anything but clear-cut.