“Yes,” Maria said. “We had to chop a little around the edge of the carcass before we could pry it out.” She explained that they had rigged up a crude travois from mammoth tusks and dragged the frozen specimen to the river. It was floated back to the base camp and moved into the shed, where the temperature was below freezing even in the daytime.
Karla examined the hole. “There's something strange here,” she said.
The other scientists clustered around her.
“I don't see anything,” Sergei said.
“Look. There are other bones much deeper in the permafrost. They are evidently thousands of years old.” She reached into the hole and scraped out some decayed vegetation and showed it to her colleagues. “This stuff is not very old. Your little elephant came into the hole more recently.”
“Perhaps it is my poor English, but I'm not sure if I understand what you're saying,” Sato said politely.
“Yes, what are you saying?” Sergei said with no attempt to hide his impatience. “That the mammoth is not part of its surroundings?”
“I don't know what I'm saying. Only that it is odd that the flesh is not rotting.”
Sergei crossed his arms and looked around at the others with a triumphant grin on his face.
“I understand,” Maria said. “I'm surprised we didn't see it before. This ravine still floods from time to time. It's possible that a flash flood washed the specimen away from a wall farther along and that the baby floated here, where it lodged in the hole and froze again.”
Sergei saw that he was losing his conversational edge. “We're not here to look at holes,” he said brusquely. He led the way about a hundred feet from the discovery site to where the ravine branched off.
“You go with Maria down there,” he said, pointing to the left-hand branch. “We'll examine the other ravine.”
“We've already been down this one,” Maria protested.
“Look again. Maybe you'll find some more of your floating mammoths.”
Maria's eyes flashed. Sato saw that a salvo was coming and intervened. “We had better make sure our hand radios are tuned to the same channel,” he said.
With a verbal brawl averted, they all checked their walkie-talkies; and made sure the batteries were good. Then they split up into two groups, with the three men going one way and the women the other.
“What's wrong with Sergei today?” Karla asked.
“We got into an argument over your theory last night. He said it was all wrong. I said he wasn't giving you credit because you were a woman. He's such a male chauvinist, my husband.”
“Maybe he just needs a little time to cool off.”
“The old goat will be sleeping with an iceberg tonight. Maybe that will cool him off.”
They both burst into laughter that echoed off the walls of the ravine. After walking several minutes, Karla saw why Maria had been so angry about being ordered to the left-hand branch. There were few bones to be found. Maria confirmed that the expedition had partially explored the other gorge and found it far richer in bones than the one they were in.
As they scanned the walls of the gorge, Maria's hand radio crackled. Ito's voice came on.
“Maria and Karla. Please return immediately to the point where the party split up.”
Minutes later, they were back at the place the ravine forked. Ito was waiting for them. He said he had something to show them, and led the way along the tributary to where the other two men were waiting in front of a section of banking that looked as if it had been blasted open with dynamite.
“Somebody has been digging here,” Sergei said, stating the obvious.
“Who could have done such a thing?” Sato said.
“Is there anyone else on the island?” Karla asked.
“We didn't think so,” Ito said. “I thought I saw a light a few nights ago, but I couldn't be sure.”
“It appears that your eyesight was working very well,” Sato said. “We are not alone on the island.”
“Ivory hunters,” Sergei pronounced. He picked up a splint of bone from the hundreds of broken pieces that littered the ground. “I had no idea they had found this place. It's a sin. There's no science here. It looks as if someone has taken a hammer and chisel to it.”
“Actually, we use a portable jackhammer.”
The words came from thickset man who stood looking down on them from the top of the bluff. His broad face, his narrow, hooded eyes and high cheekbones advertised his Mongol ancestry. A thin mustache drooped down on either side of his mouth, which was wide in a thin-lipped grin. Karla had studied Russian while she was in Fairbanks and got the gist of what he was saying. The assault rifle cradled in his arms spoke louder than any words.
He whistled and a second later four more men appeared in the gorge, two from each side, all armed with similar weapons. They had tough-looking, unshaven faces, with sneering mouths and hard eyes.
Sergei may have been vain and disagreeable, but he displayed an unexpected courage born of scientific anger. He pointed to the broken bones. “You did this?”
The man shrugged.
“Who are you?” Sergei said.
The Mongol ignored the question and looked past Sergei.
“We are looking for the woman named Karla Janos.”
The man was staring at Karla, but she was startled to hear her name from the stranger's lips. Sergei glanced at her in reflex, then thought better of it.
“There is no one here by that name.”
The Mongol issued a curt order, and the man nearest to Karla grabbed her roughly by the arm with his dirt-encrusted fingers and pulled her away from the others.
She resisted. He squeezed her arm so hard it bruised. He smiled when she grimaced in pain, and he put his face close to hers. She almost gagged on the odor of his unwashed body and his foul breath.
She glanced over her shoulder. The other scientists were being herded along another ravine. The man at the top of the banking had disappeared. As she was hustled out of sight, she heard Maria scream, then male voices shouting.
Shots rang out, the noise echoing off the walls of the gully. She tried to run back to her colleagues, but the man grabbed her by the hair and jerked her back. First came excruciating pain, then anger. She whirled around and tried to claw his eyes out. He pulled his head back, and her fingernails scraped harmlessly against the stubble of his scruffy beard.
He lashed out with the back of his hand. Karla was stunned by the blow, and offered little resistance when he put his foot behind her legs and pushed her down. The back of her head hit the ground and galaxies whirled before her eyes. Her vision cleared, and she saw the man staring down at her with amusement, then lust, in his piglike eyes.
He had decided to have some fun with his lovely captive. He put his gun safely out of reach and began to unbutton his fly. Karla tried to crawl out of his way. He laughed, and put his boot on her neck. She pounded at his ankle and struggled to escape. She could barely breathe.
The man coughed suddenly, and the grin on his face changed into a mask of shock. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. He pivoted in slow motion, his boot slipped off Karla's neck and she saw the hilt of a hunting knife protruding from between his shoulder blades. Then his legs turned to rubber and he collapsed.
Karla rolled over to keep from being crushed by the falling body. Her elation was cut short. Another man was coming toward her.
He was tall, and limped when he walked. The sun slanting into the ravine was behind him and his face was obscured in shadow. She wanted to get up, but she was still dizzy and disoriented from hitting the ground.
The man called her by her first name. It was a voice she hadn't heard in many years.
Then she fainted.
When she came to, the man was bending over her, holding her head in his hands, soothing her bruised lips with water from a canteen. She recognized the long jaw and the pale blue eyes that were filled with concern. She smiled even though it hurt her cracked lips.
/>
“Uncle Karl?” she asked as if in a dream.
Schroeder placed his fox-fur hat under her head as a pillow, then went over to retrieve his knife, wiping the blade on the man's coat. He picked up the dead man's assault rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Then he took his hat back, placed his arms under her body and lifted her like a fireman carrying a smoke-inhalation victim.
Voices were coming along the ravine.
Pain shot up his leg from his ankle, but Schroeder ignored it. Stepping smartly, he carried Karla in the opposite direction, vanishing around a bend only seconds before the Mongol man and the rest of his gang found their companion. It took them only a second to see that he was dead. Crouching low, they advanced along the wall of the ravine with their weapons cocked.
Schroeder ran for his life. And for Karla's.
NUMA 6 - Polar Shift
24
LESS THAN TEN HOURS after leaving Washington, the turquoise executive NUMA jet descended from the skies over Alaska and touched down at Nome airport. Austin and Zavala exchanged their jet for a two-engine propeller plane operated by Bering Air and took off within an hour, heading toward Providenya on the Russian side of the Bering Strait.
The flight across the strait took less than two hours. Providenya airport was on a scenic bay surrounded by sharp-peaked, gray mountains. The town had been a World War II stopover for lend-lease aircraft being flown to Europe from the United States, but those glory days were in the past. There were only a few charter planes and military helicopters at the airport when the plane taxied up to the combination flight tower and administration building, a tired-looking, two-story structure of corrugated aluminum that looked as if it went back to the time of Peter the Great.
As the only arriving passengers, Austin and Zavala expected to be processed quickly by customs and immigration. But the attractive young immigration agent checking paperwork seemed to read every word on Austin's passport. Then she asked for Zavala's papers as well. She placed the passports and visas side by side.
“Together?” she said, looking from face to face.
Austin nodded. The woman frowned, then she signaled an armed guard who had been standing nearby. “Follow me,” she barked like a drill sergeant. Gathering their papers, she led the way to a door on the other side of the lobby, with the guard taking up the rear.
“I thought you had friends in high places,” Zavala said.
“They probably just want to give us the key to the city,” Austin replied.
“I think they want to give us a shot,” Zavala said. “Read the sign over the door.”
Austin glanced at the red letters on the white placard. Written in English and Russian was the word QUARANTINE. They stepped through the door into a small, gray room. The room was bare except for three metal chairs and a table. The guard followed them into the room and posted himself at the door.
The immigration agent slapped the papers down on the table. “Strip,” she said.
Austin had caught a few hours of sleep on the plane, but he was still bleary-eyed and wasn't sure he had heard her correctly. The woman repeated the order.
Austin smirked. “Gosh. We hardly know each other.”
“I've heard the Russians were friendly. But I didn't know they were that friendly,” Zavala said.
“Strip or you will be made to strip,” the woman said, glancing at the armed guard to emphasize her point.
“I'll be glad to,” Austin said. “But in our country, ladies go first.”
To his amazement, the woman smiled. “I was told that you were a hard case, Mr. Austin.”
Austin was beginning to smell a rat. He cocked his head. “Who would have told you something like that?”
The words were barely out of his mouth when the door opened. The guard stood aside and Petrov stepped into the room. His handsome face was wreathed in a wide grin that looked lopsided because of the curved scar on his cheek.
“Welcome to Siberia,” he said. “I'm glad to see that you are enjoying our hospitality.”
“Ivan,” Austin said with a groan. “I should have known.”
Petrov was carrying a bottle of vodka and three shot glasses, which he placed on the table. He came over and threw his arms around Austin, and then crushed Zavala in a bone-crunching bear hug. “I see you have met Dimitri and Veronika. They are two of my most trusted agents.”
“Joe and I never expected such a warm welcome in a cold place like Siberia,” Austin said.
Petrov thanked his agents and dismissed them. He pulled up a chair and told the others to do the same. He unscrewed the cap from the bottle of vodka, poured the glasses full and passed them around.
Raising his glass high, he said, “Here's to old enemies.”
They clinked glasses and downed their drinks. The vodka tasted like liquid fire, but it had more wake-up power than pure caffeine. When Petrov went to pour another round, Austin put his hand over the glass. “This will have to wait. We have got some serious matters to deal with.”
“I'm pleased you said we. I felt excluded after our call.” He poured himself another shot. “Please explain why you found it necessary to hop onto a plane and fly halfway across the world to this lovely garden spot.”
“It's a long story,” Austin said with a weariness that wasn't all due to the hours on a plane. “It begins and it ends with a brilliant Hungarian scientist named Kovacs.”
He laid the story out chronologically, going back to Kovacs's escape from Prussia, bringing it to the recent past, with the giant waves and whirlpool and his talk with Barrett.
Petrov listened in silence, and, when Austin was done, he pushed away his untouched glass of vodka.
“This is a fantastic story. Do you truly believe that these people have the capacity to create this polar reversal?”
“You know everything we know. What do you think?”
Petrov pondered the question for a moment. “Did you ever hear of the Russian 'woodpecker' project? It was an effort to control weather for military purposes, using electromagnetic radiation. Your country followed the same line of research for similar purposes.”
“How successful were these projects?”
“Over a period of time, there was a series of unusual weather events in both countries. They ranged from high winds and torrential rains to drought. Even earthquakes. I'm told the research ended with the Cold War.”
“Interesting. That would fit in with what we know.”
A slight smile cracked the ends of Zavala's lips. “Are we sure it ended?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you looked out the window lately?”
Petrov glanced around the windowless room before he realized that Zavala was speaking metaphorically. He chuckled, and said, “I have a tendency to take statements literally. It's a Russian thing. I'm well aware that there the world has experienced a number of weather extremes.”
Austin nodded. “Joe makes a good point. I don't have the statistics in front of me, but the empirical evidence seems to be pretty strong. Tsunamis. Floods. Hurricanes. Tornadoes. Quakes. They all seem to be on the rise. Maybe this is a hangover from the early experiments.”
“But from what you say, these electromagnetic efforts are causing disturbances in the ocean. What has changed?”
“I don't think it's that difficult to understand. Whoever is behind this has seen a reason to focus on a specific end with a specific goal in mind.”
“But you don't know what that goal is?”
“You're the former KGB guy. I'm just a simple marine engineer.”
Petrov's hand went to the scar. “You're far from simple, my friend, but you're right about my conspiratorial twist of mind. While we talked, I remembered something one of your government officials, Zbigniew Brzezinski, said many years ago. He predicted that an elite class would arise, using modern technology to influence public behavior and keep society under close surveillance and control. They would use social crises and the mass media to achieve their ends thro
ugh secret warfare, including weather modification. These people you talked about, Margrave and Gant. Do they fit this role?”
“I don't know. It seems unlikely. Margrave is a rich neo-anarchist, and Gant runs a foundation that does battle with the multinationals.”
“Maybe you are a simple engineer. If you were part of an elite class that had conceived a plot against the world, would you advertise it?”
“I see your point. No, I would lead people to believe that I opposed the elite.”
Petrov clapped his hands. “You don't know how pleased I am to learn that the latest plot against the world is being hatched by Americans rather than a mad Russian nationalist with czarist pretensions.”
“I'm glad to know that this is making you warm and bubbly, but we should get down to business.”
“I'm completely at your service. You obviously have a plan or you wouldn't be here.”
“Since we're not sure of who, and don't know why, we're stuck with what. Polar reversal. We have to stop it.”
“I agree. Tell me more about this so-called antidote you mentioned.”
"Joe's the technical guy on our team. He can explain it better than can.
“I'll do my best,” Zavala said. “From what I understand, the idea is to cause a polar shift using electromagnetic transmissions beamed into the earth's mantle, creating sympathetic vibrations in the inner core. You can compare these transmissions to sound waves. If you're in a hotel and you want to mask loud voices from the next room, you could turn on a fan and the vibrations would neutralize the racket. If you wanted to mask a higher tone, like a hair dryer, you would need a different set of frequencies. It's called white noise, or white sound. You might hear it as a hiss or something like rustling leaves. This antidote is comparable. But it wouldn't work unless you had the exact frequencies.”
“And you think this woman, Karla Janos, knows about these frequencies?”
“She may not know it, but the evidence seems to point that way,” Austin said. “Aside from the global implications, there is an innocent young woman here who could lose her life.”
Petrov's somber expression remained the same, but his eyes crinkled in amusement. “That is one of the many reasons I like you, Austin. You are the embodiment of gallantry. A knight in shining armor.”