Conti rolled his eyes. “The vault is to be kept locked. Blackpool has issued strict written instructions on that point. It’s critical for the publicity campaign that it not be opened until the live telecast.”
“Publicity,” Marshall repeated. “You’re calling your special Raising the Tiger—right? You and your sponsors are going to look pretty foolish if you open up the vault on prime-time television and find a dead bear lying on the floor.”
Conti did not reply immediately. He looked from one scientist to the next, his features settling into a deep frown. Finally, he sighed. “Very well. But only you four. And no cameras, no equipment of any kind—you’ll be searched before you enter and watched carefully while inside. And you’re to tell nobody what you see: remember, you’ve already signed nondisclosure agreements with hefty penalties attached.”
“We understand,” Sully said.
Conti nodded. “Five minutes.”
It had grown colder still—almost fifteen below—and the stars gleamed piercingly in the blackness overhead. The vault stood by itself not far from the perimeter fence within a circle of tall sodium vapor lamps: a squat structure, perched some three feet above the ground on heavy cinder blocks. Thick bundles of power cables led directly to it from the powerhouse, and a backup generator was attached to the rear of the vault, ready to instantly take over refrigeration duties in case the main diesels failed. Not that there’s much need for that, Marshall thought as he hugged himself against the arctic chill.
The little group stopped before the steps outside the vault entrance. Marshall noticed that the front wall was hinged along its left edge, the entire wall swinging open like the door of a bank vault. Three heavy padlocks had been attached to the right side—no doubt more for visual effect than anything else—and an oversize dial was mounted in its center. Beside it, a bank of meters and switches for monitoring and controlling the internal temperature was set behind a thick metal cage, secured with its own padlock.
One of Conti’s techs, a youth named Hulce, approached from the thicket of outbuildings, heavy boots crunching on the permafrost. He checked the pockets of the scientists one by one, found a digital camera on Faraday.
“He always carries that,” Sully said. “I think it was surgically attached at birth.”
Hulce confiscated the camera, then nodded to Conti.
“Turn away, please,” the producer told them.
Marshall did as requested. He heard the spin of the vault’s dial; heard the chunk of a heavy lock disengaging. This was followed by three distinct clicks as the padlocks were removed. “You may turn back,” Conti said.
As Marshall turned around, he saw Hulce pull the front wall of the vault ajar. A thick shaft of brilliant yellow light flooded out. Conti gestured for them to step inside.
Marshall followed Sully, Faraday, and Barbour up the steps and into the vault. Conti and the tech came last, closing the door behind them. There was very little room to stand: the block of ice took up almost all of the vault’s space. The only other items inside were the bank of painfully bright lights set into the ceiling and a portable heater set into the rear wall, which—Marshall knew—would be turned on when the time came to thaw the carcass and reveal it to the world.
The floor felt too yielding to be steel. Looking down, Marshall noticed with surprise that, except for two steel I beams spaced about four feet apart, the floor was made of wood—wood painted silver to resemble metal. It was riddled with tiny drill holes that, no doubt, would help meltwater escape when the thawing began. He shook his head: another Hollywood contrivance, just like the superfluous padlocks. The cameras would never see the floor, so there had been no need for the expense of extra steel beyond the supporting I beams.
Conti nodded at the tech to remove the tarp. Then he turned to the scientists. “Remember. Five minutes.”
Hulce reached over and, with some effort, pulled the heavy tarp across the top of the ice block, letting it fall to the back. Immediately, Marshall caught his breath, almost staggering in surprise.
“Jesus,” Sully muttered in a strangled voice.
Although the sides of the block remained rough-edged and frosted, the upper face of the ice had apparently rubbed against the insulating tarp during the trek down the mountain. Now it was polished to a glassy sheen. This was the side that faced forward, toward the vault door. Within the ice, the huge black-and-yellow eyes stared out at Marshall implacably. But that was not what caused him such a powerful shock.
As a child, he had been plagued by a recurring dream. In it, he would awaken at home, in his bed. He was alone: his parents, his older sister, inexplicably gone. It was late; the power was off; all the windows were open to the night. The house was full of fog. He would draw back the covers and get up, again and again with each new dream, even after he knew better. Everything about the dream was painfully, unforgettably tangible: the chill of the mist on his face, the hard smooth wood of the floorboards beneath his feet. He walked out of his bedroom and began heading down the stairs. The landing below was thick with soupy gray vapor. Halfway down, he stopped. Because creeping up the steps toward him was a terrifying beast: huge, feline, with burning eyes and sharp fangs and massive forepaws studded with cruel talons. He stood, staring, rooted by horror. Slowly, very slowly, more of the creature emerged from the mist: a lank, greasy mane; shoulders rippling with muscle. It stared at him unblinking as it came forward, and a sound emerged from deep within its chest, a sound more sensed and felt than heard: an ineffable primal growl of hatred, hunger, desire…and that was when the paralysis would break and he’d turn, running, screaming, back up toward his room, the stairs shaking under the weight of the creature and the crash of its bulk coming ever nearer and the stink of its breath warming the small of his neck…
Marshall shook his head, drew a hand across his eyes. Despite the arctic chill of the vault, a close, oppressive warmth flooded his limbs.
The dead thing in the ice was, in size and general shape, the precise creature of his nightmare. Even the murkiness of the vast block resembled the fog of his dream. He swallowed as he stared. Only the top half of the head and the forequarters of the beast were visible—emerging out of a storm of frozen mud—but that was enough to convince him instantly this was no saber-toothed tiger.
He turned to the others. They were all staring into the ice, their faces registering shock, disbelief, and—in the case of Hulce, the tech—something like naked fear. Even Conti seemed at a loss, shaking his head.
“We’re going to need a wider lens,” he muttered.
“That’s a nasty piece of work, and no mistake,” said Barbour.
“What is it?” asked Sully.
“I can tell you what it isn’t,” said Faraday. “It’s no Smilodon. And it’s no mammoth.”
Marshall struggled to push his childhood terrors away, to examine the corpse as clinically as possible. “That’s hair on the forelegs,” he said. “Hair. And they’re too thickly muscled—the talons are too long.”
“Too long for what?” Conti asked.
“For anything.” Marshall shrugged as his pretense at scientific detachment fell away. He exchanged glances with the other scientists. He wondered if they shared his thoughts. Even though relatively little of the creature was visible, it nevertheless looked like nothing else on earth, past or present.
For a long moment, nobody spoke. Finally, Sully broke the silence. “So what are you saying?” he asked. “That we’re looking at a life-form unknown to the fossil record?”
“Maybe. But whatever it is, I think it’s of vital importance to the fossil record,” Faraday said.
Marshall frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the theory of evolutionary turbulence.” Faraday cleared his throat. “It’s something that comes up now and then in biology. According to the theory, when animal populations grow too numerous for the ecosphere to support, or when a certain species becomes too comfortably adapted and loses evolutionary vigor, a new creatur
e comes along to prune back the population blooms, force new changes.”
“A killing machine,” Barbour said with a glance at the ice block.
“Precisely. Except if the killing machine is too successful, it will depopulate its environment, lose its food source, and ultimately turn on others of its own kind.”
“You’re talking about the Callisto Effect,” Marshall said. “The alternate theory for what killed off the dinosaurs.”
Faraday nodded, glasses flashing in the brilliant light.
“That was championed by Frock of the New York Museum of Natural History,” Marshall said. “But since he vanished, I didn’t think anyone else had come forward to support it.”
“Perhaps our Wright is the new champion,” Barbour said with a grim smile.
“Sounds highly dubious to me,” said Sully. “In any case, even if you’re right, this corpse is no longer a threat to anybody, let alone an entire species.”
Conti stirred. Most of the shock had faded from his face, and his remote, faintly disdainful expression had returned. “I don’t know what you’re all getting so worked up about,” he said. “You can only see its head and shoulders—and a paw.”
“Ecce signum,” replied Marshall, jerking a thumb toward the ice.
“Well, we’ll all find out soon enough,” Conti replied. “For now, it stays a tiger. Meanwhile, your five minutes are up.” He turned to the tech. “Mr. Hulce, give Dr. Faraday back his camera. Then cover this up and make sure all the locks are secure. I’ll escort our friends here inside the base.”
13
Marshall was awakened by a rap on the door of the small compartment—formerly a warrant officer’s quarters—that served as his bunk. He rolled over, disoriented, rolled over once more and promptly fell out of the narrow bed.
“What?” he croaked.
“Get dressed, luv,” came the voice of Penny Barbour. “And hurry. You won’t want to miss this.”
Marshall sat up, rubbed his eyes, then glanced blearily at his watch. Almost six. As usual, he’d spent a restless night and hadn’t fallen asleep until two hours ago. He stood, dressed quickly in the warm dry air of the base, then stepped out into the hall. Barbour was waiting for him impatiently. “Come on,” she said.
“What is it?”
“See for yourself.” And she led him down the echoing corridors and up the central stairwell to the base entrance. They suited up in the weather chamber—Marshall noticed the temperature had risen significantly since he’d gone to sleep—then passed through the staging area and stepped outside.
Marshall stopped, blinking wearily in the predawn darkness. Despite the early hour the day’s work was well under way: he could hear hammering, shouts, the whine of a cordless drill. There was another sound, too, in the background: something familiar, yet elusive. Barbour led the way through the thicket of outbuildings, pausing not far from the vault, where a small knot of onlookers had gathered. With a faint smile, she pointed out past the perimeter fence.
Marshall stared into the gloom. At first he saw nothing. Then, in the distance, two pinpricks of light resolved themselves. As he watched, they grew larger: angry-looking yellow spots that reminded him uncomfortably of the eyes that had stared up at him out of the ice. As they continued to approach, other, smaller lights became visible. The background noise he’d noticed grew louder, as well. And now he recognized it: a diesel, and a big one.
“What the hell…?” he began.
A huge eighteen-wheeler was approaching them across the snow. It grew and grew in size, until at last it drew to a stop in the pool of lights beyond the perimeter fence, its engine idling. The tires were covered with heavy chains, and the cab was laden with filigrees of frost. Ice fog lay thick on the windshield, and the headlights and the canvas-covered grill were almost completely obscured behind a densely packed coating of snow and rime.
Barbour dug an elbow into his ribs, chuckled. “An articulated lorry. Now that’s something you don’t see every day in the Zone.”
Marshall looked at it in wonderment. “How did it get here? We’re a hundred and fifty miles from the nearest road.”
“He made his own road,” Barbour said.
Marshall looked at her.
“I asked the same question. That lot over there—the ones who told me it was coming—sorted me out.” And she pointed at the nearby onlookers. “Seems the driver is what’s known as an ice-road trucker. People like him drive the ‘winter road’—a road that exists only in the coldest months, a straight line over the frozen lakes, a temporary ice highway to get goods and equipment to remote camps and communities with no regular access.”
“Over frozen lakes?”
“Not a job for the fainthearted, is it?”
“I’ll be damned,” Marshall said. It seemed so wildly anachronistic—a big rig here, in the Federal Wilderness Zone—he could hardly believe it.
“Normally they travel between Yellowknife and Port Radium,” Barbour said. “This was a special trip.”
“Why? What’s so important it couldn’t have been ferried in on a plane?”
“That.” And Barbour pointed to the trailer behind the cab.
Marshall’s attention had been fixed on the cab of the truck. But now, as he glanced back toward the load it was carrying, he saw that it wasn’t the typical boxy container, but something more like an Airstream trailer—except several times larger. The sun was just now beginning to peer above the horizon, and the trailer gleamed in the newly minted light. In a perverse way, it resembled the submarines he sometimes saw berthed in the Thames when he drove through New London on the way to his parents’ house in Danbury. Its metal-covered flanks rose smoothly toward a gently curved roof, which in turn sported a small forest of antennas and satellite dishes. The large windows were hung with expensive-looking curtains, all carefully pulled shut. A small balcony with deck chairs—a truly bizarre touch, given the harsh environment—was set high up in the rear wall.
The semi’s engine rose to a roar again and it pulled forward, tire chains clanking. Two burly, leather-jacketed roustabouts detached themselves from the group of onlookers, trotted toward the security gates, and pulled them wide. The truck shifted into reverse and—with a succession of ear-shattering chirps—began backing its burden into the compound. Guided by the roustabouts, it crept back until the trailer was well within the perimeter fence. Then the diesel’s revolutions slowed; the driver shifted into park and killed the engine; and, with a hiss of air brakes, the vehicle shuddered into silence. The door of the cab opened and the ice-road trucker—a young, thinly built man, deeply tanned and dressed in a lurid Hawaiian shirt—jumped down and began uncoupling the trailer. Then the passenger door opened and another figure emerged. This one descended much more gingerly. He was fair-haired and tall, perhaps forty-five, with a closely trimmed beard. He slid to the permafrost with obvious relief. Collecting a large duffel and a laptop bag from the semi’s cab, he hoisted them over his shoulder and began walking stiffly toward the base. He nodded to Marshall and Barbour as he passed by.
“A bit green about the gills, that one,” Barbour said with a chuckle.
Another roustabout appeared, unreeling heavy orange power cables from a large spool, and began attaching them to a panel in the side of the trailer.
Marshall nodded toward it. “What do you suppose it’s for?”
“Her highness,” Barbour replied.
“Who?”
But even as Marshall spoke he became aware of a new sound: the whine of an approaching helicopter. As it grew louder he noticed it didn’t have the hollow, thin drone of the workhorse choppers that had been ferrying equipment to the site in recent days. This was smoother, lower, more powerful.
Then the bird came into sight, moving low against the brightening horizon, and he realized why. This was no puddle jumper: it was a Sikorsky S-76C++, the ultimate in luxury helicopters. And he knew instantly who “her highness” must be.
The Sikorsky came in fast, hovered o
ver the base for a moment, then settled onto the permafrost alarmingly close to the perimeter gate, throwing up stinging clouds of ice and snow pellets. The onlookers quickly scattered, covering their faces and retreating behind the nearby structures. As the whine of the turboshaft engines eased and the ice storm subsided, a hatch in the chopper’s belly opened and a blade-thin woman in a Burberry trench coat emerged. She descended the steps, then stopped, looking around at the scattered outbuildings with an unreadable expression. Then, opening an umbrella—which was buffeted mightily by the prop wash—she mounted the stairs again. Another form emerged—this one wearing what looked to Marshall like an ermine coat—and the two descended together. Marshall craned for a look at the second woman’s face, but the woman in the trench coat was shielding her so adroitly from the prop wash it was impossible to see anything but the end of the fur coat, the flash of shapely legs, and the glitter of black high heels stepping over the permafrost.
The steps folded inward and the hatch closed, the whine of the turboprops increased, and the Sikorsky rose, blades slapping the air. As it moved away, quickly rising and gaining speed, Barbour scoffed audibly.
For the first time, Marshall noticed that Ekberg had been standing nearby, watching the landing. Now she came forward to intercept the new arrivals. “Ms. Davis,” Marshall heard her say. “I’m Kari Ekberg, the field producer. We spoke in New York, and I just wanted to say that I’d be delighted to do anything I can to make you more—”
But if either woman—the one in the trench coat or the one in furs—heard, they gave no sign. Instead, they walked past, mounted the metal steps of the gleaming trailer, slipped inside, and closed the door heavily behind them.
14
All day the temperature crept slowly upward, past ten degrees Fahrenheit, then twenty, causing Conti to scramble his film crews for shooting a flurry of snow-covered landscapes, just in case. Under brilliant sunlight, the mood of the documentary team improved noticeably as military-grade parkas were traded for woolen sweaters and down jackets. From the direction of Mount Fear, the sharp cracking and booming noises returned as the face of the glacier began calving away once again. Gonzalez deployed his team of army engineers to replace bad bearings that had caused one of the generators to seize up. After lunch, the bulk of the local roustabouts—their initial construction work completed—were ferried south to Anchorage in two cargo helicopters, not to return until the shooting was complete. Only Creel, the burly crew foreman who looked like he consumed steel bolts for breakfast, remained on the base. Around three in the afternoon, Ashleigh Davis emerged from her über-trailer, surveyed the surrounding works with distaste, and then set off for the base—accompanied by her personal assistant in the trench coat—apparently to be briefed by Conti.