He couldn’t let that happen.
Still, there remained another problem.
Kat voiced it aloud. “Once that storm hits, we’ll be trapped until it clears.”
With those forecasts predicting gale-force winds, the jet would touch down at the station, drop them off, and promptly take off again for Thule, where it would weather out the storm. The commander at the air base, Colonel Wycroft, had been alerted under a confidential order to be ready for an emergency evacuation if they were successful. But even he had warned them that the storm could compromise such a mission.
Still, Painter remained undeterred.
“We have no choice but to keep going,” he said.
She glanced at him, as if to argue against that statement—then thought better of it and returned her attention to the window. He knew he was driving this mission hard. She, in turn, fought to keep a steady hand on the reins, urging a more measured approach. So far they hadn’t come to any true loggerheads. Down deep, he recognized she was trying to do what was best—both for their safety and Safia’s.
Kat let out a small gasp.
“What?” he asked.
She kept her gaze out the window. “The photos don’t do it justice.”
Painter turned to look, returning his attention below as the jet swept toward the airstrip that served Aurora Station. A handful of Cessnas—the typical bush planes of the Arctic—were parked nearby. It looked like the planes were being anchored down ahead of the storm. Another jet was being rolled into a steel hangar.
But Painter knew this sight was not what had drawn a gasp from Kat.
Past a cluster of squat research buildings was the true engineering marvel of Aurora Station. The base’s Ionospheric Research Instrument, or IRI, occupied more than three hundred acres of flat tundra. While its beam-generating powerhouse was buried underground, the prickly face it presented to the world were its two thousand steel antennas, all networked together. Each stood ten stories tall with crossbeams stretched out like arms.
“It almost looks like the Milky Way,” Kat commented.
Painter understood. Where HAARP’s 180 antennas had been set up in a rigid grid, the array here had been positioned into a fractal spiral, almost fluid looking. It was a work of engineering art, equally beautiful and practical.
At the heart of the steel constellation was a deep pit. It was a former mine, one of many such operations throughout the Arctic Archipelago. The whole region was pocked with these excavated holes, digging copper, gold, lead, zinc, even diamonds out of the frozen earth. The mineral resources of the Arctic were vast and mostly as of yet untouched. Though that was rapidly changing as the region thawed, opening more and more territory.
“What’s that rising from the center of the hole?” Kat asked.
Painter squinted at the pinnacle-shaped tower of steel scaffolding. It pointed toward the sky and supported a massive sphere. The shining globe was cradled within a nest of concentric copper rings, which was wound throughout by braids of thick cables and connected to trapezoidal magnets, each the size of a Volkswagen Bug.
“Consider it a testament to Simon Hartnell’s obsession,” he said. “It’s his attempt to replicate and improve upon the work of the man he worships, Nikola Tesla.”
“But what is it?”
“It’s Hartnell’s version of Wardenclyffe Tower, one of Tesla’s most ambitious projects.”
Painter noted the similarity of design below, if only superficially. He pulled up a picture on his iPad to compare the two, then passed the tablet for Kat to see.
“Tesla purchased two hundred acres in Long Island and built a power plant that serviced an eighteen-story wooden tower topped by a giant cupola. He had dreams to build the world’s first global wireless communication system, envisioning thirty or more of these towers around the world. Later he believed he could even tap into what he called the resonance frequency of the earth to also use this network to create a worldwide wireless power system.”
“Sounds ambitious.”
“And maybe ahead of his time. It ended in failure as funding fell through. The place was abandoned and demolished a few years later.” Painter looked below. “Still, even in defeat, such lofty aspirations inspired others. In fact, Simon Hartnell picked his company’s name—Clyffe Energy—as an acknowledgment of Wardenclyffe and the hopes and dreams it represented.”
“And the tower down there?” Kat asked. “What’s Hartnell’s plan for it?”
He frowned. “That’s a good question.”
In his rush to get here, he had managed only a cursory review of the station’s various projects. From what he read, the tower was an amplifier for the antenna array. The design and shape were merely an homage to Tesla. According to all reports, the tower was intended to magnify the same ionosphere-stimulating beam achieved by HAARP. The increased energy output, though, would expand the research capabilities of the array, along with producing more accurate results. It was basically a larger version of HAARP, one engineered for the same research goals as its smaller cousin.
But now that I’m seeing it in person . . .
Painter felt that knot in his stomach tightening. He had been so focused on Safia that he had never given this project its full due diligence, glossing past inconsistencies in specifications and protocols.
Or maybe I’m falling under the spell of the same conspiracists who looked upon HAARP and read nefarious purposes into its mysterious antenna array.
The pilot radioed again. “Buckle up, folks. We’re beginning our descent.”
Painter leaned back, settling on one certainty.
It’s too late to turn back now.
10:22 P.M.
As Kat offloaded from the Gulfstream, she braced herself, but the bitter cold felt like plunging naked into a mountain lake. A steady wind blew off the neighboring Arctic Ocean, tasting of salt and ice. It cut through the neck of her parka.
She shivered and huddled against the gusts, clutching the collar of her hood with one hand and hauling her hard-shell carry-on with the other. The temperature hovered at record lows for early June—a few degrees above zero—and would likely break those records with the coming storm.
She stared out to sea, past the broken ice pack to the black clouds stacked to the horizon. The sun sat low on the west edge of the storm, as if cowering from the threat, but there would be no escape. At this polar latitude, the sun would not fully set until the first week in September.
To her left, something white dashed across the black tarmac of the small airstrip, then vanished over a berm of gray-white snow. It was an arctic hare, a reminder that despite the desolate appearance of this outpost, life found a way to survive, both on land and sea. This was the domain of polar bears, seals, narwhals, and beluga whales. Herds of caribou still roamed the wilds here, along with the shaggy musk ox. In fact, the old Inuit name for Ellesmere was Umingmak Nuna, or “Land of the Muskox.”
Past the airstrip, patches of blue grass poked up from the snow, while open stretches of silt and soil were daubed with yellow arctic poppies and the white-flowering chickweed.
She took heart from these hardy pioneers, surviving against the most impossible odds.
She shifted her gaze to the neighboring cluster of concrete buildings, all painted orange to stand out from the terrain. Painter headed toward them, barely giving his surroundings a second look.
As the Gulfstream swung around behind them, readying for its flight back to Thule, Kat stared after the vanished hare.
Let’s hope we prove to be as stalwart at surviving here.
She set off after Painter. Ahead, a welcoming committee awaited them at the main doors into Aurora Station. They were huddled within the steamy breath being exhaled through the open doors into the frigid cold. Painter strode purposefully toward them, as if to escape the weather, but she knew it was the fate of Safia al-Maaz that drew him forward.
She followed, noting the base was being battened down against the storm to come. A pair
of Sno-Cats trundled down a ramp into an underground garage. Tarps and tie-downs anchored the handful of Cessnas parked near the airstrip. Apparently there was no room in the hangars for such minor aircraft. She saw a sleek Learjet sitting in one hangar, and as the doors to another were being trundled closed, she spotted the tail of a large-bodied Boeing cargo jet.
The place is practically a full-service airport.
But considering how isolated this station was, maybe that wasn’t surprising.
They finally reached the open doors and were ushered into the warm heart of the station. Though she had been outside only for a few minutes, she sighed as the heat enveloped her.
The doors were sealed behind them, and the man in charge stepped forward, a big smile on his face. It was Simon Hartnell himself. He wore a thick wool turtleneck, jeans, and well-scuffed work boots. Kat was surprised the CEO of Clyffe Energy would serve such a lowly duty as station greeter.
“Welcome to the end of the world,” he said, then waved toward the north. “Okay, maybe not the end, but we can certainly see it from here.”
She smiled, though she suspected this was an old joke, part of a well-rehearsed greeting to put newcomers at ease. In turn, she played her role.
“Thank you.” She pushed back the hood of her parka. “We weren’t sure we’d make it with the storm coming.”
Painter nodded, his manner reserved. “We appreciate you accommodating us on such short notice.”
Hartnell waved away this concern. “Spot inspections are part and parcel of any organization. And DARPA is always welcome. Without your work over at HAARP, Aurora Station wouldn’t exist.” His smile widened. “Besides, it gives me a chance to show off a bit. We’re all very proud of our work here and the promise it holds.”
“To fight climate change?” Kat said, delicately prying.
“Exactly. Currently we have thirty-four different active projects, but the main goal of Aurora is to study, monitor, and test theoretical models for combating global warming.”
“A noble effort,” Painter said.
He shrugged. “And hopefully a profitable one. Despite my considerable resources, I still do have a board to appease.” He turned and led them away. “But we can discuss this more in the morning. Even with the sun still shining, it’s getting quite late. Come, let’s get you both settled in.”
He led them down a pastel blue corridor to an elevator bay.
“We built the station’s lodging on its lowest sublevel,” he explained as they entered the waiting cage. “It’s the most naturally insulated and easier to keep warm.”
He pressed the B4 button.
Kat had studied the base’s schematics. The upper buildings sat atop four subterranean levels, which housed labs, offices, workrooms, storage spaces, and even an extensive recreation area that included an indoor tennis court, pool, and movie theater.
It was a veritable city.
To find Safia in this labyrinth would be difficult.
Kat had also noted the security cameras mounted in the entry hallway. She had no doubt the entire complex was watched. She remembered the pale face of the man who was head of station security: Anthony Vasiliev, aka Anton Mikhailov.
If Hartnell had employed Anton and his sister—two people with past ties to the Guild—how many others had been similarly recruited to protect this base?
She could almost feel those ice-blue eyes studying her.
She had no doubt Hartnell had thoroughly investigated his two new visitors, along with their cover story. He proved this as the elevator doors opened and led them out.
He turned to the director. “Painter Crowe. I know about you.”
“You do?” Painter said, showing only mild surprise.
Under such a tight schedule, he and Kat hadn’t bothered with false names. Both of them had a long record as being employed by DARPA, which was true and went to further corroborate their story. Even under the closest scrutiny, their role with Sigma—or even the existence of Sigma Force—would not be found in any records. And under a similar tight schedule, Hartnell’s security team would only have had hours to prepare for this surprise inspection. Any background check could only have been cursory.
“Yes,” Hartnell said. “I believe you’re the same Painter Crowe who patented a temperature-controlled microrelay circuit.”
Painter lifted his brows. “That’s right.”
Hartnell smiled. “We have over seventy thousand of your circuits installed here. Truly a brilliant bit of microengineering. How you handled heat dissipation . . . pure genius.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I may have to steal you away from DARPA one of these days.”
Good luck with that, Kat thought.
Hartnell guided them through a vast common room, which was mostly empty at this hour. A few faces lifted from meal trays to look their way. The neighboring kitchen still steamed on the far side, wafting with the smell of garlic. He pointed that way.
“If you’re hungry, there’s food offered around the clock. Unfortunately, we’re on a limited menu at this late hour. But we do serve the world’s best coffee.”
Kat nodded, tempted by the latter.
Hartnell took them to a corridor on the left. “I apologize in advance. I’m afraid your accommodations are rather Spartan, but I did get you adjoining rooms.”
“Anything will do,” Painter said. “We’ll be in and out before you know it.”
Let’s hope that proves to be true.
He passed them keycards. “The whole station is controlled electronically. Normally these cards would even learn your schedule, enough to adjust your room’s thermostat accordingly. They keep track of everything.”
Kat found that a little unnerving and wondered if that was his intent.
Simon lifted his empty palms. “But like I said, we’ll get to know each other better tomorrow and make sure DARPA is getting its money’s worth out of our efforts here.”
“Thank you,” Kat said, stifling a yawn that was not feigned.
“I’ll leave you to make yourselves at home.” With a small nod, he set off down the hall.
Painter swiped his card over his door’s lock, while flicking a look at the hall’s ceiling-mounted camera. “We should get some shut-eye.”
“Sounds good,” she said, playing along.
They both entered their respective rooms. As she crossed inside, she realized her definition of Spartan was distinctly different from their host’s. Her accommodations could easily have been found at the Four Seasons. The room had hardwood floors, heated from the feel of them, and a king-sized bed dressed in damask and silk. One wall had drapes, which were parted to reveal a plasma screen glowing with a scene of a sunlit beach, gently massaged by waves, as if the room looked out upon the Caribbean. Soft music played throughout the room. A glimpse into a marble bath showed a jetted tub and a steam shower.
She shook her head, imagining Hartnell meant this all to be a surprise.
Well, we have our own surprises.
She crossed to the bed and placed her bag on the duvet. Camouflaged compartments in the case hid a dissembled SIG Sauer. For the moment, she refrained from opening anything. Instead, she used the time to inspect the rest of her room.
Finally, a knock sounded on the door that led to Painter’s room. She crossed over and swiped her card to allow him inside. He stepped silently into her room, while she stood with her arms crossed. He paced from one end to the other, both there and in the bathroom. He held a device in one hand, pausing every now and again to bring it closer to a wall or vent.
With a satisfied nod, he said, “Looks like both rooms are clear. Should be safe to talk.”
“What now?” she asked, stepping to her bag, ready to retrieve and assemble her weapon.
“We find Safia.”
She read the strained worry in his eyes, but she needed him thinking clearly, focused, for all their sakes.
“She’s alive,” Kat assured him. “They wouldn’t have brought her all the way out here onl
y to kill her. They need her for something.”
“But for what?”
“That’s a good question. If we can figure that out, we might have a better chance of finding her.” She glanced toward the door. “But where to start?”
He focused on her question, his anxiety visibly waning. He finally pointed toward the hallway.
“We start with a couple of cups of the world’s best coffee—then we get to know our neighbors.”
11:26 P.M.
It makes no sense.
Seated in the station library, Safia rubbed her tired eyes. She and Rory had spent the better part of the day copying the hieroglyphs found tattooed on the Egyptian princess’s body. The age and leathery mummification had made it a painstaking chore. It also didn’t help that they had to accomplish this task while in biosafety suits.
Some sections had been easier to read, as if they’d been inked years ago instead of millennia. Others required using ultraviolet or infrared lights to draw the images from the skin. Then there was the challenge of anatomy, like trying to get to glyphs between her desiccated thighs or read tattoos on her toes that were so very small.
After nine hours, they had slowly built a copy—which they had digitized for easier manipulation, transforming each age-mauled glyph into a more readable version. She had one section of the reconstruction up on her laptop. It had a moth-eaten appearance, full of gaps and missing pieces.
Even with the most careful work, some of the tattoos ended up being irretrievable. In a final attempt to learn more, she and Rory had positioned a 3-D topographic scanner around the body seated on the throne. The device’s four lasers would map every nook and cranny, delving deep into the epidermal layers. Its imaging software could even stretch and extend the skin, hopefully revealing more.
But it was a slow process, requiring hours to run.
Leaving it to work overnight, she and Rory had come to the library. They were attempting to translate the few intact sections recovered from the body, but so far they were making no headway.