The Atlantis Gene: A Thriller

by A. G. Riddle

  Kate started to pull her shirt off but stopped. “Can you, um.”

  David smiled. “We’re not in middle school.”

  Kate turned her head, trying to decide what to say.

  David seemed to remember something. “Oh, right. The scar.” He spun around, knelt, and began sorting through some boxes in the bottom of the cabinet.

  “How did you—”

  David took out a gun and a few boxes of ammo. “The drugs.”

  Kate flushed. What had she said? Done? For some reason the idea terrified her, and she wished desperately that she could remember. “Did I, or we—”

  “Relax, outside the gratuitous violence, it was a very PG evening. Is it safe for kids again?”

  Kate pulled the shirt on. “And immature soldiers.”

  David seemed to ignore the jab. He rose and held a box out to her — another carton meal. Kate read the letters MRE: Meals Ready to Eat. “Hungry?”

  Kate eyed the box — bbq chicken with black beans and potatoes. “Not that hungry.”

  “Suit yourself.” He peeled the plastic film back, plopped down at the metal desk, and began devouring the cold food with the included spork. He must have only heated the meal yesterday for her sake.

  Kate sat on the cot opposite him and pulled on the sneakers he had laid out for her. “Hey, I don’t know if I’ve said it before, but I wanted to… say thank you for…”

  David stopped shuffling the papers and forced down the bite he’d been chewing. He didn’t glance back at Kate. “Don’t mention it. Just doing my job.”

  Kate tied her shoes. Just doing his job. Why did the answer seem so… unfulfilling?

  David shoved the last of the papers in a folder and handed it to her. “This is all I have on the people who took your children. You’ll have time to read it on the way.”

  Kate opened the folder and began reading the papers. There must be 50 pages. “On the way to where?”

  David wolfed down a few more bites. “Check out the top page. It’s the latest cryptic communication from a source inside Immari. Someone I’ve been communicating with for about a week now.”

  Kate took out the paper and read the message.

  —————

  30,88. 81,86.

  03-12-2013

  10:45:00

  #44

  33-23-15

  Cut the Power. Save my kids.

  —————

  Kate put the paper back in the folder. “I don’t understand.”

  “The first part is a set of GPS coordinates; looks like an abandoned train station in Western China. The second part is obviously a time, probably a departure time for a train. Not sure about the middle part, but my guess is it’s a locker in the station with the combination. I’m assuming it will have some kind of further message. It’s unclear whether the kids will be at this train station or if it’s just another clue. Or I could be misreading it. It could be another code or mean something different. I had a partner who decoded all the earlier messages.”

  “Can you consult him?”

  David finished the last bite, tossed the spork in the tray, and gathered up the items he’d pulled from the cabinet. “No, unfortunately I can’t. I assume the time is Jakarta local; if so, we have about four hours to get there.”

  Kate closed the folder. “Western China? No way.”

  “We’ll see. One step at a time. First we find out if they left any troops upstairs. Ready?”

  Kate nodded, then followed him up the stairs, where he told her to wait while he swept the cottage.

  “It’s clear. Hopefully they moved on. Stay close to me.”

  They jogged from the cottage, in the thin underbrush along a dirt road that showed no signs of use. The road ended in a cul-de-sac with four large blue warehouses, also clearly abandoned years ago. David led Kate to the second warehouse, where he pulled a piece of the corrugated sheet metal wall out, exposing a triangular hole just big enough for Kate.

  “Crawl in.”

  Kate started to protest but, remembering his one demand, she complied without a word. For reasons she couldn’t understand, she tried not to get her knees in the mud, but she couldn’t quite fit. David seemed to sense her dilemma, and he strained harder at the metal flange, giving Kate enough space to squeeze through comfortably.

  David followed her inside, then unlocked and rolled the building’s doors open, revealing the warehouse’s hidden “treasure”.

  It was a plane, but just barely. And an odd one — a sea plane, the type Kate imagined people used to get to remote areas in Alaska… in the 1950s. It probably wasn’t that old, but it was old. It had four seats inside and two large propellers on each wing. She would probably have to turn one, like Amelia Earhart. If it would even turn on and — if he could fly it. She watched as David took the tarp off the tail and kicked the blocks from beneath the wheels.

  Back at the cottage, he had said “no questions,” but she had to. “You can fly this thing, right?” Kate asked.

  He stopped, shrugged slowly and looked at her as if he had been caught trying to get away with something. “Ah, well, generally.”

  “Generally?”

  CHAPTER 47

  Immari Corporate Jet

  Somewhere over the Southern Atlantic Ocean

  Dorian watched Naomi finish the last of her martini, then stretch out on the long couch on the opposite side of the plane. The white terry cloth robe fell to her side, revealing her plump breasts, which rose and receded at a dwindling rate as her breathing slowed like a contented cat who had just gorged itself on some prey. She licked the last drops of the martini off her fingers and ran her right hand down her chest and then the rest of the length of her olive torso, finally coming to rest at her white lace panties — her only article of clothing. She fingered the small strip of lace that joined the small patches of cloth at her front and rear. Dorian thought she would continue, but instead, she sat up and propped herself up on her elbow. “Are you ready again?”

  She was insatiable. And coming from him, that was saying something. Dorian picked up the phone, “Not just yet.”

  Naomi made a half pout and flopped back onto the couch.

  Dorian held his hand over the receiver. “But wait on me.”

  Naomi threw her head back against the leather couch but said nothing.

  On the line, Dorian heard the communications officer on the plane say, “Yes sir?”

  “Connect me to the China Facility.”

  “Immari Shanghai?”

  “No, the new one — in Tibet. I need to speak with Dr. Chase.”

  Dorian heard mouse clicks in the background.

  “Dr. Chang?”

  “No, Chase. Nuclear section.”

  “Stand by.”

  Dorian watched Naomi scratch at the robe bunched around her on the couch. He wondered how long she could hold out.

  The phone clicked. A distracted voice said, “Chase.”

  “It’s Sloane. Where are we with the nukes?”

  The man coughed and spoke more slowly. “Mr. Sloane. We have, I think, 50, or 49 operational.”

  “How many total?”

  “That’s all we have, sir. We’re trying to get more, but the Indians and Pakistanis — neither will sell us anymore.”

  “Money doesn’t matter, whatever it co—”

  “We’ve tried sir, they won’t sell them at any price, not without a reason, and we don’t have a better story than backups for our nuclear reactor.”

  “Ok, can you work with Soviet Bloc weapons?”

  “Yes, but it will take more time. I think they will probably be older devices, they would need to be checked out and converted. They will likely be lower yield.”

  “Fine. I’ll see what I can do. Be prepared for a new shipment. And speaking of conversions, I need you to make two bombs portable… something a small person, or… someone… tired could carry easily.”

  “That will take some time.”

  “How much?” Dorian
exhaled. It was never simple with these freaks.

  “Depends. What’s the weight limit?”

  “Weight? I don’t know. Maybe 30 or 40 pounds. Wait, that’s way too much. Maybe… 15 pounds. Assume 15 or so, can you do that?”

  “It will decrease the yield.”

  “Can you do it?” Dorian said impatiently.

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  The scientist exhaled. “A day, maybe two.”

  “I need it in 12 hours — no excuses, Dr. Chase.”

  A long pause. Then, “Yes sir.”

  Dorian hung up the phone.

  Naomi had finally broken. She was pouring herself another martini, and she tilted the bottle to him expectantly.

  “Not right now.” Dorian never drank when he was working.

  He thought for a minute, then picked up the phone again. “Get me the Tibet facility again. Dr. Chang”

  “Chase?”

  “Chang, rhymes with hang.”

  The clicks were faster this time.

  “Chang here, Mr. Sloane.”

  “Doctor, I’m in route to your facility, and we need to make some preparations. How many subjects do you have there?”

  “I think—” Chang started. Dorian heard papers shuffling, keys clacking and the man was back on the line. “382 primates, 119 humans.”

  “Only 119 Humans? I thought the enrollment was much higher, the project plan is for thousands.” Dorian looked out the plane window. 119 bodies might not be enough.

  “Yes it is, but, well, with the lack of results, we’ve halted human recruitment. We’ve focused more on rodent and primate trials. Should we start back up? Is there a new therapy—”

  “No. There’s a new plan. We’ll have to work with what you have. I want you to treat all the humans with the last treatment — Dr. Warner’s research.”

  “Sir, that therapy was ineffective—”

  “Was, Doctor. I know something you don’t. You have to trust me.”

  “Yes sir, we’ll have them ready. Give us three days—”

  “Today, Dr. Chang. Time is one thing we don’t have.”

  “We don’t have the staff or facilities—”

  “Make it happen.” Dorian listened. “Hello?”

  “I’m here, Mr. Sloane. We’ll make it happen.”

  “One more thing. Don’t incinerate the bodies this time—”

  “The risk—”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way to deal with them safely. You have quarantine rooms there, do you not?” Dorian waited, but the scientist didn’t say a word. “Good. Oh, I almost forgot. How much weight do you think the two children could support — each?”

  Chang seemed surprised by the question, or perhaps distracted or worried about the last order not to destroy the bodies. “Uh, you mean, weight, as in—”

  “In a backpack, if they were carrying it.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  Scientists — the bane of Dorian’s existence. Risk-averse, scared, time wasters. “Guess, Doctor. It doesn’t have to be exact.”

  “I think, about, 10 to 15 pounds maybe. It would depend on how long or far they had to carry it and—”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll be there shortly, you better be ready.” Dorian hung up the phone.

  Naomi didn’t give him the chance to pick it up again. She downed the last of her martini, sauntered over to him, put her glass on the table, and straddled him, pulling her robe off and letting it drop to the floor. She reached for his zipper, but Dorian grabbed her hands and pinned them to her side, then lifted her off of him, and tossed her on the couch beside him. He punched the call button behind him.

  Five seconds later, the flight attendant opened the door and when she saw the scene, began retreating.

  “Stop. Stay.” Dorian commanded. “Join us.”

  Comprehension spread over the young woman’s face. She gently closed the door as if she were a teenager sneaking out of her bedroom at night.

  Naomi heaved herself off the couch and took the woman’s face in her hands, kissing her, then pulling her scarf off, and finally fiddling with the buttons on the blue blazer over her white blouse. Her top was off before the kiss ended, and Naomi finished the job, pushing her skirt to the floor.

  CHAPTER 48

  Snow Camp Alpha

  Drill Site #4

  East Antarctica

  Robert Hunt closed the door to his portable living pod and picked up the radio.

  “Bounty, this is Snow King. We have reached depth seven-five-zero-zero feet, repeat, our depth is seven-five-zero-zero feet. Status unchanged. We’ve hit nothing but ice.”

  “Snow King, Bounty. We read you. Depth is seven thousand five hundred feet. Stand by.”

  Robert set the radio mic on the fold-out table and leaned back in the flimsy chair. He couldn’t wait to leave this frozen hell hole. He had drilled for oil in the world’s harshest places — Northern Canada, Siberia, Alaska, and the North Sea above the Arctic Circle. Nothing compared to Antarctica.

  He looked around the pod — his home for the last seven days. It was exactly like the last three pods at the last three drilling sites: a ten by fifteen room with three cots, a large noisy heater, four trunks of equipment and food, and the table with the radio. There was no refrigerator; keeping things cool was the least of their problems.

  The radio crackled to life. “Snow King, this is Bounty. Your orders are as follows: extract the drill, cover the hole, and proceed to new location. Please confirm orders when you are ready for new GPS coordinates.”

  Robert confirmed the orders, took down the new coordinates, and signed off. He sat for a minute, thinking about the job. Three drill sites, all 7,500 feet deep, all the same result: nothing but ice. The equipment was all snow white, and covered by huge white parasail-like canopies. Whatever they were doing, their employer didn’t want anyone to see it from the air. He had assumed they were drilling for oil or some precious metal. Covert drilling wasn’t uncommon. You go in, drill, make a strike, cover it up, then get an option on the land. But there were no drilling rights to be had in Antarctica, and there were much easier places — cheaper places — to find oil and raw materials. The economics didn’t make sense. But money didn’t seem to be a problem. Each site had about thirty million dollars in equipment — and they didn’t seem to care what happened to it. They were paying him two million dollars for what they said would be two months — max — of drilling. He’d signed a non-disclosure agreement. And that was it. Two million dollars, drill where we say, keep your mouth shut. Robert intended to do just that. Two million dollars would get him out of the trouble he was in and maybe leave him enough to get off the oil rigs for good. He might even fix his own problems, the reason he was in such a bind to begin with. But that was probably wishful thinking, about as likely as striking oil in Antarctica.

  CHAPTER 49

  Somewhere over the Mountains of Western China

  They had made three passes at landing in the small lake, and Kate couldn’t take it anymore. “I thought you said you could fly this thing?”

  David continued concentrating on the controls. “Landing is a lot harder than flying.”

  To Kate, landing was the same thing as flying, but she let it go. She checked her seatbelt buckle for the 100th time.

  David wiped some fog off a few of the ancient dials and tried to line the plane up for another pass.

  Kate heard a sputter and felt her side of the plane drop. “Did you do that?”

  David tapped the dashboard, first lightly, then harder. “We’re out of gas.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “Gauge must be broken.” David motioned with his head. “Get in the back.”

  Kate crawled over him and into the back row of seats, complying, for once, without counter-argument or complaint. She buckled herself in. This would be their last landing attempt.

  The other engine puffed out its last seconds of life, and the plane leveled off, gliding in the omin
ous silence.

  Kate looked down, surveying the dense green forest surrounding the small blue lake. It was beautiful, like a scene from the Canadian wilderness. She knew it was cold down there; they must be somewhere in Northern India or Western China. They had flown most of the way over water, hugging the sea tightly to avoid radar detection. They had gone north most of the way; the sun had hung high in the sky on Kate’s right until they crossed the coast, somewhere in the low-lying monsoon areas, probably Bangladesh. Kate hadn’t asked any questions — not that she could have over the noise of the now-dead twin engines. Wherever they were, it was remote and untouched. If they were injured — at all — in the landing, it would likely be fatal.

  The lake rushed toward them quickly now. David leveled the plane. Or tried — the plane was much harder to control without the force of the engines.

  Scenarios of doom raced through Kate’s mind. What if they went nose first into the lake? There were mountains around them. The lake could be incredibly deep — and cold. The plane would pull them down. They’d never survive the icy abyss. What if they did level-off? How would they stop — they’d hit the trees at full speed. She imagined a series of tree branches stabbing a dozen holes in them, like needles in a voodoo doll. Or the gas, the fumes in the tank would explode at any spark; that would get them fast.

  The pontoons skidded unevenly on the water, and the plane rocked from side to side.

  One of the pontoons could come off — that would tear the plane — and them — to pieces.

  Kate tightened her lap belt. Should she take it off? It could cut her in half.

  The pontoons kissed the water again before reeling back into the air,