What was hidden inside there?
“And you think Dr. Hess accomplished something like that?” Lisa asked. “That he built this virion from scratch in his lab and put something inside it.”
Lindahl leaned back. “We already have the technology. Way back in 2002, a group of scientists at Stony Brook synthesized a live polio virus from nothing but chemicals and a known genetic blueprint.”
Edmund huffed. “The project was sponsored by the Pentagon.”
Lisa heard the not-so-veiled accusation in his voice. Dr. Hess’s work was funded by the military, too.
Lindahl ignored the implication. “And in 2005, a larger influenza virus was synthesized in another lab. In 2006, the same was accomplished with the Epstein-Barr virus, which has the same number of base pairs as smallpox. But that’s child’s play compared to today. We can now manufacture organisms a hundredfold larger and at a fraction of the cost.” He snorted dismissively. “You can even buy a DNA synthesizer on eBay.”
“So what exactly did Dr. Hess put in there?” Lisa asked.
Before anyone would hazard a guess, Lisa’s radio buzzed. From the reactions of the other two men, they heard it, too.
It was Painter. The urgent stress in his voice quickened her heart. “We just heard word from Yosemite,” he reported. “The suspected saboteur is dead.”
Dead . . .
Lisa closed her eyes, thinking of Josh. Amy Serpry had been their only lead, the only way to discover more details about Dr. Hess’s work.
“From the initial report,” Painter continued, “she likely died of the same disease we’re battling here. The National Guard, along with an outbreak response team, is en route to lock down the grounds around the Ahwahnee. We also possibly have new exposure victims. Ranger Beck and Gunnery Sergeant Drake. Along with the ranger’s dog.”
Oh, no . . .
Painter continued with additional instructions and safeguards. The CDC was to set up another quarantine area in the hangar, in time to accept the incoming victims.
Once he was done, Lisa switched to a private channel.
“How badly were they exposed?” she asked.
“Jenna and Drake never stepped inside the cabin, and according to Drake, it was raining with the wind at their backs, so they may be okay.”
“And the dog?”
“He went inside the cabin and snatched up a mouse that may have been sick.”
So the husky likely had mucosal contact with the virion.
She stared again at the monster on the screen.
Poor dog.
14
April 29, 4:04 P.M. GMT
Brunt Ice Shelf, Antarctica
As ice groaned and cracked beneath him, Gray gaped at the sight of the massive bulk of Halley Station passing overhead. Its giant skis scraped down the slanting surface of ice, beginning the slide toward a tumble into the frigid Weddell Sea.
On the far side of the station, that blasted fracture line still smoked and steamed from the fires of those buried munitions. The chunk of the ice holding the station continued to tilt away from the larger expanse of the Brunt Shelf.
Gray pushed to his feet and yanked the British pilot up. “Move it! Both of you!”
Kowalski gained his legs unsteadily, searching around. “Where?”
“Follow me!”
Gray took off, digging his boots into the snow-swept ice, climbing the ever-steepening slope as the station slid behind him. The surface was rough enough for adequate traction, but a few times, he slipped to a knee or a hand. Using the steel butt of his assault rifle as a crutch, he fought to move faster. They had only seconds to act. He shouldered his way into the fog of steam and smoke billowing down from the blast zone. Visibility dropped to an arm’s length.
He prayed his sense of direction held true.
Another few steps, he let out a breath of relief—but only a small one.
The shape of a Ski-Doo appeared ahead. The rumble of its engine grew louder as he stumbled toward it.
Thank God, Jason had the foresight to leave it warmed up.
Gray reached the three-man Ski-Doo and swung his leg over the seat—but before he could settle into place, Barstow waved him back.
“Who’s the expert here? I’ll drive. You and your buddy ride shotgun.”
Gray didn’t argue, trusting the arctic pilot had more experience than he did with these snow machines. As Kowalski climbed on behind him, Gray pointed over the nose of the Ski-Doo, toward the widening fracture ahead.
“We’ll have to—”
“Got it,” Barstow said and gunned the engine.
Snow and shredded ice shot from behind the rear treads, and the Ski-Doo leaped forward. Their only hope was to try to vault over that gorge and reach the solid ice on the far side. The odds were slim, especially with their vehicle overloaded, but to remain here was certain death.
Gray hunkered lower.
Kowalski swore loudly.
Then Barstow made an abrupt sharp turn, catching Gray by surprise, almost throwing him out of his seat. The back end of the Ski-Doo skidded into a fishtail until the nose was pointed away from the fracture zone. The engine roared louder, and Barstow sped the craft down the steep slope. They cleared the steamy fog and burst into the open. It now looked like they were chasing the slowly sliding station.
Gray yelled, “What’re you—?”
“Let a man drive!”
Barstow hunched over the handlebars, trying to eke out more speed. Gray had no choice but to follow his example.
But they weren’t alone out here.
The only warning was a flicker of navigation lights in the dark skies overhead. The enemy’s Twin Otter sped past—then the ice exploded ahead of them in a fiery blast of rocket fire.
“Bloody hell!” Barstow hollered. “Hold on to your arses, gents!”
The pilot swerved around the smoking crater and sped toward the only shelter. He made another fast turn, casting up a rooster tail of ice and snow—then skidded sideways under the sliding station, passing cleanly between two of the four giant hydraulic skis holding up that module.
Kowalski groaned. “Just tell me when it’s over!”
It wasn’t.
Barstow had lost momentum after his rash maneuver, but he now raced along the underside of Halley VI, expertly keeping them out of direct sight of the Twin Otter. With the station still careening down the slanted shelf, the Ski-Doo regained some of its speed.
By now Gray understood Barstow’s earlier maneuver, why he had done a 180, turning them about-face. There was no way the Ski-Doo—going uphill—could’ve gained enough speed to hurtle over that widening gorge, especially overloaded. But by going downhill, Barstow could gain momentum, transforming the Ski-Doo into a tread-driven rocket.
Only one problem with this plan . . .
They were running out of ice.
Ahead, the foremost module of this skidding centipede reached the cliff’s edge and fell, twisting free of the remainder of the station, and plunged toward the dark seas far below.
“Time to go, boys!”
Barstow angled away, flying between two of the towering skis and back out into the open. They fled slightly upslope now, racing away from the station as it fell—piece by piece—into the Weddell Sea.
Ahead, their small section of dislodged ice teetered at a steep angle away from the flat expanse of the larger Brunt Ice Shelf. Barstow raced up that tilting chunk of ice, aiming for where the piece broke away from the greater shelf, picking a spot where the gap was the smallest.
He opened full throttle.
But a certain stubborn hawk was not about to lose its prey. The Twin Otter burst out of the smoky steam ahead of them, swooping low, its propellers ripping through the fog. It turned and lifted up on one wingtip, exposing the cabin hatch on that side—along with an assailant holding an RPG launcher to his shoulder.
The enemy was taking no chances.
The next shot would be at nearly point-blank range.
&
nbsp; Gray twisted in his seat, elbowing Kowalski back. He freed his rifle and brought it up one-handed, his arm outstretched. He pulled hard on the trigger, strafing in full automatic mode, dumping all thirty rounds in three seconds. He concentrated his first volley on that dark doorway. With a scream, the gunman tumbled out the open hatch. Gray unloaded the rest of his rifle into the lowermost prop as the plane swept past.
“Hold on!” Barstow yelled.
Kowalski knocked Gray low into the seat, piling on top of him.
The Ski-Doo reached the last of the ice—and went airborne.
It flew high off the upraised lip of fractured ice, corkscrewing in midflight. Gray had a clear view down into the gap for a harrowing breath. Then they plummeted and hit the far side crookedly, landing on the edge of one tread.
The snow machine jolted hard and rolled, throwing them all clear.
Gray tumbled across the ice, losing his weapon, hugging his limbs in tight. He finally came to a stop. The Ski-Doo took another few bounces, then came to a rest. The other two men rose from the ice.
Kowalski patted himself, as if confirming he was still alive. “Didn’t exactly stick that landing.”
Barstow joined them, cradling one arm, his face bloody. He glanced over to the broken bulk of the Ski-Doo. “As they say, any landing you can walk away from . . .”
“They were talking about airplanes,” Kowalski admonished, “not friggin’ snowmobiles.”
The pilot shrugged his good shoulder. “We were flying there for a bit. So it still counts.”
Gray ignored them and searched the skies. He watched a small cluster of lights fall out of the darkness, disappearing beyond the edge of the cliff as the broken-off corner of the Brunt Shelf slid into the sea. He wasn’t positive he’d damaged the Twin Otter enough to make it crash or if the plane was merely limping away. Either way, the enemy could have radioed for additional support.
Gray didn’t want to stick around to find out.
He turned to the Ski-Doo.
Barstow must have read his expression. “Sorry, mate, she’s tits up. Looks like we’ll be walking from here.”
Gray pulled up the hood of his parka, already cold.
Kowalski voiced the question foremost in his own mind. “Where the hell do we go from here?”
4:18 P.M.
“It’s gone . . . all gone.”
Jason heard the despair in the station commander’s voice—or rather former station commander. He and Karen stood atop a hillock of ice. It was tall enough for them to see beyond the patches of cold fog all the way to the coast. The shattered section of the shelf’s edge remained misty, but there was no mistaking a feature missing from that distant landscape.
The Halley VI Research Station was gone.
Those earlier blasts still filled Jason’s head. While fleeing aboard one of the Ski-Doos, he had watched that coastline shatter away amid flashes of fire and concussive blasts. The shock wave of those detonations had traveled through the ice to his position a kilometer away. It had taken another few agonizing minutes to find a high enough vantage to get a good look at the outcome.
Now they knew.
. . . all gone.
Karen took a deep breath, shaking off her initial shock. “We should keep going,” she warned, eyeing the thick polar fog.
The temperature seemed to be dropping tens of degrees every minute.
Or maybe it’s hypothermia already settling in, Jason thought.
Thirty yards off, their lone Sno-Cat idled among the cluster of snowmobiles. They had rescued a dozen members of the station, but how long could they stay out here? Caught unprepared, most were poorly dressed for these frigid temperatures, and the group of snow machines would only get them so far on their single tanks of gas. Even the heater on the Sno-Cat wasn’t working. It was why the vehicle had not been in use at the time of the attack.
“We need to find shelter,” Karen said. “But we’re still hundreds of miles from any base or camp. Our best chance is to stay here, hope someone heard those explosions and comes looking. But it could take days.”
“How long can we last out here on our own?”
She snorted. “We’ll be lucky to make it through the night. Sunrise is still another eighteen hours off. And the coming day will be only two hours long.”
Jason considered their options. “If anyone does come looking for us, they’ll have a hard time spotting us in the dark.”
“Maybe we could devise some signal. Siphon some of the petrol from one of the vehicles and ignite it if we hear a plane.”
Jason recognized one clear problem with this plan. “What if it’s not rescuers that come looking for us first?”
Karen hugged her arms around herself. “You’re right,” she mumbled. “Then what do we do?”
“I think I know where we can go.”
Karen lifted both eyebrows, but before she could question him, a squawk rose from her coat. She visibly startled at the sudden noise. She tugged down her parka’s zipper and removed a portable radio, one of the set she had distributed before exiting the station.
“. . . hear us? Does anyone copy?”
“That’s Gray!” Jason said, struggling past the impossibility of it.
Karen passed Jason the radio.
He pressed the button. “Commander Pierce?”
“Jason, where are you? Are you safe?”
He did his best to explain his situation, while getting a brief description from Gray about his escape from that calving berg of ice. But Gray’s team still remained stranded out there, and like Jason, he feared the enemy might return soon.
“I can take a couple of Ski-Doos and go fetch them,” Karen offered.
He nodded.
She faced him, her expression doubtful. “But, Jason, do you truly know somewhere we can find shelter?”
He stared out across the dark, featureless ice.
I hope so.
5:22 P.M.
Gray shivered inside his jacket and hunched farther over the handlebars of his Ski-Doo. He had a thick wool scarf frozen over the lower half of his face. His gloved fingers felt molded onto the grips by the cold.
He squinted against the wind, his aching eyes fixed to the glow of the Ski-Doo’s headlamp as it tunneled weakly through the swirling fog. He kept his gaze locked onto the snow machine in front of him, driven by Karen Von Der Bruegge. The station commander had arrived an hour ago, dragging a second empty Ski-Doo behind hers. She now carried the injured Barstow on her vehicle, while Kowalski huddled behind Gray.
Gray had to trust that Karen knew where she was going. She seemed to be following the treaded tracks of the group led by Jason. The kid had taken the others deeper into the fog-patched expanse of the Brunt Ice Shelf, retreating from the Weddell Sea—hopefully far enough away that the enemy couldn’t find them.
If we’re lucky, maybe they’ll believe we were all killed.
The Ski-Doo in front suddenly slowed. Distracted in thought, Gray came close to rear-ending the other, but he braked in time to avoid a collision. After another ten yards, the reason for that sudden deceleration appeared out of the gloom.
A massive shadowy silhouette filled the world ahead of them. It looked like a flat-topped mountain rising from the icy plain. As they approached closer, details emerged: the towering skis, the bulk of the blue module, and the lone John Deere tractor.
It was a detached section of the destroyed station.
Earlier, Jason had noted this module being towed into the fog just before the assault broke out. He had hoped that the enemy, focused on the bulk of the Halley VI Research Station, might not have spotted its departure.
Looks like the kid was right.
Though dark, the module looked unmolested. He spotted a Sno-Cat and a scatter of snow machines parked nearby. Karen drove her vehicle up and stopped alongside them. Gray trundled his Ski-Doo next to hers.
A hatch in the rear of the high module opened, and Jason stepped onto the small back deck. He waved them f
orward to the ladder that led up to him. Gray needed no such encouragement. The steamy breath of warm air from that open hatch was invitation enough.
The group hurried toward the shelter and its promise of heat. The temperature had dropped to thirty below zero, and with the katabatics kicking up more fiercely as the night deepened, the wind chill made the freeze all the more bone numbing.
Gray assisted Barstow up the ladder. The pilot had dislocated his arm when they crashed the Ski-Doo, and while they’d managed to pop it back into place, the limb was still painful and weak. After a bit of effort, everyone got inside.
Gray slammed the hatch against the polar freeze and took a moment to bask in the warmth. His face burned painfully as it thawed. Frostbite was certainly a worry, but at least he could still feel the tip of his nose.
He followed the others into the heart of the module, which appeared to be one of those residential pods, broken into bedrooms, a communal bathroom, and a gymnasium. Everything was decorated in primary colors, designed to compensate for the endless monotony of this frozen world. As his nasal passages continued to thaw, he also smelled the cedar scents from the wall planks, another psychological trick to mitigate for the lack of plants and greenery.
They all gathered in a small central common room, which held a table and chairs. Several of the rescued researchers had already retreated to various bunkrooms, likely shell-shocked and exhausted. Others leaned on walls, wearing dour, worried expressions.
They had full right to look that way.
Jason spoke, “We were able to catch up with the John Deere. Think we spooked the tractor driver as we all piled up on his tail. But at least his path was easy to follow. Once we got here, we fired up the module’s generator.” The kid waved to the smatter of lights. “Unfortunately we have no way to radio out.”
Kowalski clapped Jason on the back. “You found this goddamned place. That’s more than enough to win you a cigar.” Proving himself a man of his word, he pulled a cellophane-wrapped stogie from an inside pocket of his parka and handed it to Jason. He then looked around. “It’s okay to smoke in here, right?”
“Not normally,” Karen said. “But considering the circumstances, I’ll make an exception.”