ICE GENESIS

by Kevin Tinto

  He spread his arms out wide, opened his mouth, and was tempted to cut loose a monster-sized Tarzan call—New Mexico-style.

  Nope…gotta keep it together. So far, he hadn’t broken any bones, or been injured since the beginning of this debacle. No need to provide Leah additional motivation to use my bones as a stress-reliever.

  Marko continued to stretch, drawing in deep breaths as he did. He swung his arms from side to side, then reached down diagonally, brushing the top of his boots with his fingertips—the good ol’ high school windmill toe-touch. He hated it then, dressed in gray shorts and the mandatory jock strap. But, damn, it felt good this evening. He continued on for another two minutes, then took care of his immediate business. But instead of dashing for the ladder, he stood away from the wall and studied the sandstone. Not all that safe to climb, but maybe some bouldering, just enough to get the blood moving, and strengthen his body a bit before heading back into the cavern.

  I’ll be careful. After all, there’s no one within fifty miles in any direction.

  No one within fifty miles—true. But he hadn’t considered three miles, directly overhead.

  ✽✽✽

  The General Atomics MQ-9 (Reaper) Drone had been on station for three hours in a standard racetrack pattern at an altitude of 15,000 feet AGL, using classified infrared surveillance equipment designed to find, differentiate, and target a wide variety of heat-generating targets.

  This particular Reaper, along with two more working the eastern side of the Gila National Forest, looked for human heat signatures in five, one-hundred-square-mile areas with designations like Anvil, Buckshot, Cobalt, End-run and Friction.

  The Reaper operator had target hits three nights in a row at the same numbers. She rolled video and snapped infrared photos of the target, the video overlaid with the exact Global Positioning coordinates.

  After the target disappeared, the operator was ordered to return the drone home to Creech Air Force Base, near Las Vegas, Nevada. The two men standing behind the operator high-fived. They’d identified the target, against long odds. Now, time to go operational.

  Chapter 45

  Paulson reduced throttle on the T-38 Talon and began a decent into the abandoned airfield. Everything looked just as he’d last seen it. The two Cessna 172s that sat on the tarmac, were still parked exactly where they’d been when he’d landed the Gulfstream, weeks before. Luke’s hot-rodded Cessna, the one Derringer had flown when they’d hidden the Hafnium device, Paulson assumed, was still tucked away in the hanger.

  After yesterday’s meeting with President Wheeler, he’d requisitioned a T-38 Talon from Andrews and told Teresa Simpson he intended to meet with Gordon, get a first-hand update on the Genesis Settlement. Although he had to refuel at Holloman, he had no intention of sitting through a long-winded briefing with Gordon. He needed a reason to overfly Luke Derringer’s airport, and the briefing provided him perfect cover. He didn’t want to alarm Teresa, so he’d kept the real reason to himself.

  During his meeting with Wheeler, Paulson thought something had changed in the president’s attitude. While that should have been a positive step in their working relationship, the man’s sudden calm and almost cocky demeanor had set Paulson’s internal alarms off.

  Something had changed. Something Paulson didn’t know about. And that was not good.

  There was only one living person who knew enough to throw this whole apple cart under the bus. That was Luke Derringer. The old pilot had refused to leave his remote airfield and, frankly, Paulson figured the stubborn, but frail old man would die long before he gave up Marko’s location and their get-out-of-rendition-free card, the Hafnium warhead.

  Besides, Wheeler knew well enough, a move against any of the Antarctic team, including Luke Derringer, would ‘release the dogs’ as Paulson had told Wheeler on numerous occasions. The dogs being the opposition politicians, who would still love to see Wheeler gonzo, despite the negative impact that would have on national security. While not quite an airtight security plan, Paulson allowed Derringer to stay at the airport, instead of sequestering the near centurion behind military barbwire.

  Paulson overflew Luke’s airstrip at pattern altitude and on the downwind, checking to make sure some desert dirt-bag hadn’t parked a rusted Buick, or anything else for that matter, on the centerline of the runway. The wind direction and approximate speed were exactly what he expected.

  Paulson rolled the T-38 gently on to the base leg then final, expecting at any time to see the old man limping out of the FBO, the wooden cane more for appearance than real support.

  On short final, Paulson focused on his touchdown point and eased the stick on the T-38 back, walking the rear landing-gear wheels onto the pavement before allowing the nose wheel to settle on the centerline.

  Five minutes later, he was parked in front of the FBO. The Talon was decidedly old-school, with much of the navigation done with an iPad strapped to his knee, so the shutdown was fast and easy.

  The roar of the T-38 flyby and landing should have brought old Luke Derringer out of the FBO, but no joy. The breeze that helped grease the landing blew dust over the tarmac, magnifying how eerily quiet it was with the jet’s turbines spooled down.

  Paulson deployed the air stair that allowed him to exit the T-38 without benefit of a standard fighter-jet style boarding ladder. He shielded his eyes from the blowing dust and walked over to the door leading into the FBO. He tried to turn the old brass door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked up tight. He pounded on the door.

  “Luke! You in there? It’s Paulson!”

  Nothing but the sound of the wind blowing through wires that secured the radio aerials lining the roof of the FBO. Paulson tried looking through the window on the door. The seventy-year-old glass had the clarity of a vintage coke bottle after years of desert dust polishing.

  He pounded on the door again, then hiked around to the back of the building. Luke had converted one of the rear offices into a living space. The door that provided Luke with entry into the living space was unlocked and hanging open. Paulson scanned left and right. He had the impression that someone was watching him from behind. He studied the hangars and abandoned buildings: nothing out of the ordinary.

  Paulson focused on the open door, evaluating the chances of getting shot by his own ally. He figured the old pilot might be hard of hearing. The likelihood Derringer would shoot first, and ask questions later was a given, if Paulson broke into the building.

  Paulson cupped his mouth. Didn’t hurt to amplify. “Luke! You in here? It’s Al!”

  No reply.

  Paulson tip-toed in, blocking the door open. In case the old bastard opened up on him, he wanted a quick exit.

  “Luke! It’s Paulson!”

  Paulson turned the corner and peered down the hallway leading to the lounge and the living space. At the end of it, he peeked around the doorway into the living space, ready to bolt should he be met with a barrel.

  No Luke Derringer.

  Paulson tip-toed toward the lounge and the FBO kitchen.

  “Luke!” he shouted.

  He peeked around the corner and into the kitchen. What Paulson saw caused him to step back in shock. A man sat strapped in to a wooden office chair. Heavy-duty, black plastic zip ties secured his wrists to the armrests on the chair. His ankles were similarity strapped to the chair legs. The man’s chin rested against his chest.

  The cause of death was obvious: blunt-force-trauma and blood loss, a lethal side-effect of extended torture. There was a tremendous amount of dried blood coating the body, so confirming the identity took more than a few moments. While the torture scene was horrifying, it was nothing compared to Paulson’s astonishment and disbelief when he realized the man wasn’t Luke Derringer.

  It was Stan Fischer.

  Fischer had been dressed in his standard Washington suit, still wearing his jacket. The plastic ties that restrained him to the chair had cut deep into the flesh, a testament to how agonizing the torture had been
.

  Paulson backed out of the kitchen and checked the hallway both directions, then walked to the counter located inside the lounge. He squatted down and searched around in the storage areas underneath the counter with his hands until he felt the butt of a handgun. He slid it out—one of Luke’s Glock 19s—keeping the barrel pointed away from his body. He dropped the clip out and took a look. Full load of fifteen. So Luke hadn’t fired the Glock.

  Paulson shoved the magazine back into the handgun and checked that the safety was operating properly. If he needed to use the Glock, he didn’t want the trigger-safety to hinder him from unleashing fifteen rounds in rapid-fire succession. A simple pull of the trigger disengaged the safety. The Glock was operating perfectly.

  He examined the lounge for clues to Fischer’s demise. It looked exactly the same as Paulson had seen it less than a month before—other than the horror scene in the kitchen. From the condition of the body, Paulson guessed that Fischer had been tortured and murdered hours prior. Maybe as long as a day before.

  Paulson unlocked the front door to the FBO and examined the tarmac. The T-38 was parked exactly where he’d left it, canopy down and locked, no sign the airport was about to be stormed. He went back to the kitchen, standing just outside the doorway, careful to not contaminate the crime scene.

  Had Fischer come to take Luke Derringer hostage, work him over for information on how to find the hidden Hafnium weapon? Had Luke turned the tables on him and tortured the younger man to death.

  Hardly. It was Luke who had information about the location of the Iso-Hafnium nuclear device. Not Fischer.

  Paulson couldn’t figure it. In fact, he was still having a hard time believing he’d found one of the President’s closest advisors strapped into a chair and tortured to death. Then again, Paulson had said many times that Wheeler had to keep Fischer because he knew where all the skeletons were buried.

  True, except for one key point: Fischer had no idea where the Hafnium warhead was hidden.

  Paulson walked into the FBO lounge and relocked the door, then wiped his prints off the door handle. When he exited out the rear doorway, he wiped any prints off the door where he’d pushed it open. He proceeded to searched the grounds of the airfield—no sign of Luke Derringer. Either he hadn’t been here, or, whoever tortured Fischer had taken him along. Granted, if a smart interrogator wanted to get information out of the old man, torture would be the last way to do it. Perhaps some black-op medical facility would work, where they could use a series of drugs. But normal torture could kill the old man before he had a chance to tell what he knew.

  If this was Wheeler’s work, then Paulson’s intuition that something was off was correct—though Paulson had a hard time imagining what could have happened in the President’s world to force this particular outcome.

  Paulson stopped. His head spun so he was looking directly at the hanger, where Luke’s personal Cessna should still be sitting inside. He jogged over and found the hanger door unlocked. When he pushed it open, Paulson was shocked to find an empty hanger. The Cessna was gone. They only person who’d fly that old bird would be Derringer himself.

  It was starting to look like old Luke heard, or smelled a coming attack, and had flown himself out of danger—but to where? Paulson had given him a satellite phone. When he’d explained how to use it, old Luke glazed over. This technology was way too new for Luke Derringer, who didn’t know how to use a computer. Even so, if he’d flown to a public airport, he’d have tried to make a phone call. Paulson had stuffed the old man’s wallet full of business cards, with direct numbers both for him and for Karen.

  It was a mystery, but with a silver lining. It was unlikely they’d gotten a hold of Luke Derringer. That meant the location of the Hafnium warhead should still be secure.

  Paulson climbed back into the command seat in the T-38 and spun up the turbines. After dropping and locking the canopy down, he taxied to the end of the runway. Without a word on the radio to announce his intentions to any aircraft in the area, he jammed the throttles forward to take-off power.

  There was no feeling in the world like pushing the throttles forward on the super-sonic T-38, but Al Paulson drew no pleasure from the experience today. It was time to dig out his war face.

  Chapter 46

  Karen, Al Paulson’s Executive Assistant, watched with interest as an overseas phone number lit up the display on her personal mobile phone. She recognized the country code as Turkey’s, which meant only one person could be calling: Jack Hobson.

  She hit the receive button and pushed the phone up to her ear. Before the caller could speak, she said: “Jack Hobson. Are you in trouble?”

  “Karen. I can’t tell you how great it is to hear your voice.”

  Jack sounded hoarse. He always sounded this way after safely delivering Paulson back down to the Base Camp of whatever godawful mountain they happened to be climbing. In addition to the climbing-induced hoarseness, she heard tension in Jack’s voice. Something she’d never heard, even on the bad Everest Expeditions. She immediately pulled a yellow pad down, plugged in her headset, and grabbed two pens.

  “What’s going on?”

  “My plan is blown here. We’ve run into trouble with Turkish Military. There’s no way I can get to any major city in western Turkey. In fact, I’m headed toward the Iranian border as we speak, along with my guide and his sons.”

  Karen’s instant response was: “Is Wheeler behind this? I can’t believe he’d have the brass to try a stunt like this—he’d have to kill Al to get away with it.”

  “I’m not a hundred-percent sure. I don’t believe in coincidence and I’ve just run into a few. My government sat phones were mysteriously shut off, and Wheeler clearly sent a team of Special Operators into Turkey on the same mission as mine. American soldiers had already been there, and you can quote this to Al: ‘explored it from top to bottom’. They were long gone when I reached the objective. Still, things can happen on a mountain climb, as you know. I’m not sure of anything at this point—except I’m headed for Iran. I’m safe with the Kurds, just over the border—for now. But I need Al to find out what the hell’s going on."

  “Should I use this number to get back to you?”

  “No. The Kurds rotate the satellite phones. I’ll call you back in six hours.”

  Chapter 47

  It had taken Leah another twenty-four hours before she could walk around the Settlement without sitting down every five minutes to take a breather. She still felt unreasonably hungry and thirsty, which, along with her weakness, meant she probably should have been hospitalized. Given the situation, she settled for river water, beans, and corn.

  Over-shadowing everything were K’aalógii’s words. That Leah would lead her people “to a place that has one plus one suns.” Exactly what she’d seen in her version of the vision quest.

  Garrett was nonplussed but tended toward skeptical. He said it could easily be suggestion when she was high as a kite on hallucinogenic tea. All the while, Appanoose spins this tale, repeating it over and over again, until it’s running through her mind like an IMAX movie premiere.

  It didn’t ring true for Leah. There was so much more. The intense cold, feeling unable to breath, the second Antarctic complex, and all of the penetrating detail. She didn’t tell him about the city-block sized hunks of ice, the mass of steam, the fracturing of the ice for as far as her mind’s eye could see. If she had, he might have suggested she not only needed a break from the Settlement, but also a strait-jacket wearing holiday at the Gerald Champion Regional Medical Center in Alamogordo on a ‘5150’ hold.

  Leah had come to other private conclusions as well. If Appanoose were human, he differed greatly from the rest of the Ancients. First, he had this overwhelming and uncanny ability to serve as a leader for people from many different tribes. He could talk their talk, serving as the keeper of traditional culture, yet he clearly understood their predicament in the larger world. Having survived his sweat-lodge ritual, Leah now felt strangely
certain that the man could transmit, perhaps by touch, information that had been imprinted into his DNA. She held that back from Garrett as well.

  Had Appanoose been bio-engineered by the non-terrestrials to do exactly what he did? Keep the traditional culture alive, but prepare the Ancients for their next role as planetary colonists, using a sweat lodge ritual to imprint this information on a need to-know-basis? It dovetailed smoothly with the Ancients’ expectations of what a shaman did.

  Now that she had (most of) her strength back, it was time to face off with Appanoose at his Basilica. Her intention: get the satellite phone back and make it clear that if Garrett or she were ever threatened again, the shaman’s desire to get back to Antarctica would be ‘Put on Ice’ forever. He'd never see the outside of a walled compound, much less Antarctica.

  And she meant it.

  Already after eight in the evening. Leah walked toward the Basilica, where a fire burned bright enough to light up most of the Settlement while Appanoose spoke to a small group of his followers.

  He glanced at her when she got within fifteen meters of the fire. She signaled him with a universally recognizable gesture: hands up in the air with a shrug. ‘Let’s move this along—you’re killing me, here.”

  Chapter 48

  Appanoose continued his sermon for thirty more minutes after Leah had given him the ‘hurry up’ signal. With a sharp nod, the Ancients stood, stretched their legs, a couple even smiling and greeting Leah, then patted Garrett on the shoulder, sharing a quiet word with him.

  Since her experience with Appanoose in the lodge, both Garret and she had been treated much more like part of the Ancient family, not outsiders. Garrett said the difference in treatment had begun immediately after she exited the sweat lodge. “Aside from the knife point at my neck.” Given that this was her first real day of being up and around, the sea-change was still a novel experience.