“You must be Bryson McGann. Monique Sinclair. It's a pleasure to meet you.” Her hand clasped his in an incredibly strong grip, slender fingers wrapping around his. Yet the softness of her touch surprised him, sensual, electric. McGann replied, “I don't believe I've had the pleasure before, Ms. Sinclair.”

“You haven't, Mr. McGann. I'm paid well to know everything about places I travel to, the people, their business.” A red fingernail brushed against her chin. With a slight tilt of her head, she began, “Let me see. Bryson Donald McGann, 34 years old. You have a master's in marine bio-geological science. You served six, no, seven years in the U.S. Army attaining the rank of captain before resigning your commission. Your decorations include the Distinguished Service Cross, among others. Very impressive, Mr. McGann. Your employment with NESSA is closing on the three year mark. Your father is CEO of IMT, whom I hope to be working with more closely in the near future.” The woman raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, jutting her chin to the side before she continued, “Oh, and you are, I believe, what they would call a problem solver. Have I left anything out?”

“Actually, a number of things, Miss Sinclair, but I wouldn't trouble yourself in learning them,” McGann replied. Their eyes locked, hers flared. He noticed a slight tensing of her body. He shifted himself automatically into a neutral stance, acquired from years of martial arts training. A moment of silence hung between them. While other men might have taken offense at her brash personality, he found her conversation amusing. She was good at playing the game.

A Bryson McGann Novel

H.A.A.R.P.’S

FURY

by William Beck

Exigent Press, Nashville, Tennessee

© 2004, 2010 by William Beck.  All Rights Reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any part thereof in any form whether in print, electronic format or any other media. Reviewers may use brief excerpts with the permission of the author or publisher. This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

First Edition January 2004

Second Edition June 2010

ISBN  978-1-57843-077-2

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication Data

Beck, William

  H.A.A.R.P.’s Fury / by William Beck.—1st ed.

      p. cm. – (A Bryson McGann novel)

  ISBN 0-9748730-8-x (alk. paper)

 1. Government investigators—Fiction. 2. Missing person—Fiction. 3. Weather control—Fiction. 4. Ocean mining—Fiction. 5. Alaska—Fiction.

I. Title: HAARP’s fury. II. Title.

  PS3602.E28H15 2004

813’.6—dc22

                                                                                2004005734

Cover and interior design by Hugh Daniel, hpdDesign

The NESSA logo is a trademark of William Beck and may not be duplicated in any fashion without the permission of the author.  © 2010 by William Beck. NESSA logo by Marla MacMichael

Published by Exigent Press, Nashville, Tennessee

For more information about William Beck, visit his website at:

www.booksbybeck.com

Dedication

Timothy Lawton…

…a man of circumstance, a man of courage with an eagle’s heart, a man I am honored to call friend.

Acknowledgements

Of the countless novels I have read over the years, so often I would bend back the crisp, white pages and completely pass by the author's acknowledgements. Not until I was blessed with a gift did I realize, to the fullest extent, the enormity of creating a published work.

Keeping that thought in mind, I have penned these words in hopes that whoever reads them will take a moment and give them careful consideration. There is little accomplishment in life that occurs merely as the result of one individual. The fulfillment of a dream is deeply entwined with a fabric of love, nurturing, and a host of many individuals who have cared enough to simply believe.

The writing of this work began as an idea over twenty years ago with the inspiration to write children's literature. Time and life conspired against me and without my realization, together, they continued to shape the events that led to the writing of this novel.

A mystery, a miracle, and a long lesson in faith and patience eventually brought H.A.A.R.P.'S FURY to fruition. There were numerous instances of life events, tragedies, and various pitfalls that could have caused me to quit. Still, that dream, that desire to write, lingered. It challenged me to continue.

Most importantly, I feel I must share with you that I have been blessed by God our Father. It has been by His gifts and great patience with me that this novel came to life and the next begun. I am thankful and humbled.

To my parents, Donald Bryson and Margot, you instilled in me a sense of courage and expected that I only do my best. You gave of yourselves countless times and provided more than imaginable. I am grateful.

To my brother, Donald, I thank you greatly for your help with ideas, inspirations, and military weaponry. Also, I am grateful for that miraculous catch. You robbed me of a home run and taught me more of determination than I thought possible.

Mercia, Linda and James, I am deeply grateful for your input, and love. Your candor and encouragement continually fueled the fIre of this novelist's soul.

Fred, the countless hours of conversation and laughter have been priceless. I thank you for your technical assistance, inventing the MICRO-SUN, and most of all, the friendship. 12:45.

Robert Stein, Colonel, USAF (Retired), thankfully you were placed in my life when I needed a mentor. You availed yourself to my dream and I am forever indebted.

I owe a great deal to Hugh Daniel and Westview Publishing in Nashville, Tennessee. Thank you for your insight and artistic talents. I look forward to the possibilities.

Thank you, Rae and Danny, for having patience. Hopefully, I did not take too much time away with my writing. I love you both.

Lastly, my praise falls on Rebecca. A woman of immeasurable talent, strength, and honesty. I applaud you for your undying belief in me and my dream. I am without words for your wisdom, patience, and all the times I should have listened and finally did. You're an excellent editor. You are that beacon that guides me along the charted course and without whose assistance H.A.A.R.P.'S FURY would never have been completed. I look forward to our time with RED 7. Even more than all this, I thank you for your love, my beautiful wife.

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart…”

                                    - [Col 3:23]

“For in all things good must prevail, without it, hope has no destiny.”

                                    - William MacMichael

H.A.A.R.P.’S

FURY

Prologue

Colorado - 1858

An indigo veil curled itself above the jagged range of saw-toothedpeaks rising skyward above the Colorado Territory.  Granite spires, their summits capped with receding glacial ice, waited impatiently for the first of winter's snows to replenish their white cloaks. The vigilant sentinels standing in muted silence remained unchanged through the years while far below in the high country meadows, life played itself out under their watchful gaze.

Groves of shimmering, golden-leafed aspen dotted the landscape, rustling in the light morning breeze. The last vestige of summer's purple lupine, once colorful soldiers guarding the meadow, withered under the assault of frosty days. Even the crimson-hued Indian paintbrush gave up its radiant display, in favor of lifeless brown petals.  Deep green conifers burnished the fringes of the slopes, their distinctive, heady scent filling the air.

The high country seemed to sense the passing. Autumn's air abounded with a palpable crispness, almost electric, heralding the forthcoming change of seasons. Circling over the deep blue-green waters of the mountain lake, an eagle rode the currents, its shrill cry splitting the peaceful solitude. Small herds of elk grazed nearby, contentedly foraging the remnants of withering summer grasses. Ever alert, a bull would occasionally lift its massive antlers into the air, scenting the wind. With their safety assured, the herd would continue grazing, preparing themselves for the arduous winter.

Amidst this magnificent splendor, a lone, buckskin clad figure stood peering at the awe-inspiring panorama before him. The years had transformed the Scotsman, now looking every bit a mountain man. Lean muscles supported his tall frame and carried him easily over the backcountry's steep terrain. Protruding from under the fur cap, his long brown hair fell nearly to his shoulders and his thick beard shifted at the wind's calling. A weathered face, handsomely rugged, possessed a set of knowing eyes that held intuitiveness well beyond his twenty-nine years.

The dappled gray mare standing beside him raised her head, snorting softly, steam pouring from her nostrils.  The black gelding, inherited from Sam Miller, ignored her call.  Instead, the animal pawed the ground, burying its muzzle to nibble in the dewy grass. Both horses bore the weight of large packs of supplies necessary for their master's survival. Furs of various animals caught in his traps over the summer were also strapped tightly to their backs.

Duncan McGann released his eyes from the vista and set off on a final inspection of his trap lines. With the beaver nearly gone, other furs did not bring in much money.  But it was enough to sustain him during the winter months, in addition to helping the blacksmith back in Denver. 

All too soon winter would impose itself on the land. The first snowfall was generally light, a soft white quilt covering the slopes in powdery frosting. However, within several weeks, a thick white blanket would hide the ground until the spring thaw.  Only death awaited those caught unprepared, or the fools who thought they knew how to survive the winter in the mountainous terrain.

Six years had passed since his arrival to the high country of Colorado. The Scotsman thought back to the events that shaped his life and the changes that had occurred. Only with time's passing had he found some contentment in these mountains that stirred the memories of his Scottish highlands. Even after this many years, ghosts from his past still haunted him. Remembrances of a different life, one that could have been and now would never be, still tore at the fabric of his being.

The life Duncan McGann experienced growing up had been a good one. The family's estate, nestled along the eastern coast of northern Scotland, was comprised of several hundred acres south of Aberdeen. Walter McGann, Duncan's father, was a fair man ensuring his workers had adequate shelter for their families and received fair wages.

His benevolence was held in high regard and the well-respected name of McGann rested on the tongues of many in Aberdeen. 

On his eighteenth birthday, at his father's insistence, Duncan left behind his family and his beloved, Mary Drummond, enrolling at the University of Edinburgh. Five years passed quickly and the boy grew into a man. In that time, the few journeys he made home found Mary still waiting for him. Her willingness to remain faithful never wavered.

In Duncan's absence, another set his eyes on Mary Drummond. Wil Fraser, a red haired, barrel-chested oaf, three years older than McGann, made his intentions well known to all who would listen. Fraser's obnoxious demeanor evoked the wrath of many, but with his family's ties to the Scottish hierarchy, they dared say little.  Arrogant and overbearing, the family despised those they felt were below them in social status. The Frasers used their wealth and power for their own gain, often lining the pockets of certain governmental leaders when in need of favors.

A year before, on an earlier journey home from Edinburgh, Duncan McGann found the brutish Fraser engaged in his favorite pastime, drinking at the local pub. He announced his displeasure with Fraser's harassment of Mary Drummond and his dislike for the man's petulant behavior.  A bitter loathing gripped the drunken Fraser and he lunged at McGann, a dirk held tightly in his hand. The blade cut a swath of air where McGann stood only moments before. Duncan countered with a well-placed blow, burying his fist in Wil Fraser's abdomen.  The force of the punch sent him to the floor and the drunken man released the contents of his stomach beneath him. A roaring jeer welled up among the tavern's patrons, most glad to see Fraser get his comeuppance. McGann pushed a knee into Fraser's back and jerked painfully on a clump of red hair.  Fraser's open mouth unleashed a cry of pain across the pub. McGann made it clear that he never wanted to hear of any more trouble. The oafish Fraser agreed, yet silently, he vowed his revenge for the embarrassment as he lay in the rancid puddle soaking into his shirt.

Unknown to either Mary Drummond or Duncan McGann, fate set another stage for the soon to be newlyweds. A fierce rainstorm swept the Scottish shore that cold, dark night in April of 1851.  Strong winds raged in off the North Sea hammering the town of Aberdeen.  The gale's fury became an ominous warning of the changes about to occur in Duncan McGann's life.

Filled with more than his normal share of whiskey, Wil Fraser staggered from the pub into the drenching storm, untouched by the wind's harsh chill. His mud-splattered, leather boots splashed vigorously across the cobblestones of the darkened streets. He moved purposefully, knowing exactly what he would do.  The whiskey still burned a raging fire in his belly, convincing him that Mary's eyes beckoned, urging him on.

His fist pounded the door of the small cottage on the outskirts of Aberdeen. Mary opened the door as a blinding flash of lightning illuminated the hideous sight standing before her.  Fraser's wet hair lay matted across his brow covering the bloodshot eyes glaring luridly at her.  Thunder exploded in the sky above as Mary attempted to push the door shut. Fraser's hand shot out almost tearing it from the hinges.

Mary Drummond was no match for the inebrious Fraser.  His fist struck her on the mouth, sending Mary tumbling backward over furniture, landing painfully on the floor.  Warm, red liquid dribbled from her lips. She ignored the blood, too frightened to care, rising to her feet in defiance of her attacker.  Fraser backhanded her with a second blow and this time Mary fell limply to the floor. 

Fueled by the craving desire building in his loins, Wil Fraser's lust heightened beyond control. Easily jerking Mary from the floor in his massive arms, he threw her roughly onto the wooden table in front of the fireplace. He tore the unconscious woman's clothes from her body, exposing the unopened softness. The sound of Fraser's labored breathing filled the room while thunder continued to roll in the night sky.  In the flickering orange-yellow light of the fire, he pushed himself into her, groping her breasts as he rode out his vile pleasure. 

Soon it was over.  Fraser lay panting on top of the woman. She awakened to the fetid smell of his hot, stale breath. Her loins ached from his brutal assault. Mary pleaded and tried to push herself away but it only infuriated him. Fraser's meaty fist struck the woman repeatedly.  To end her screams, he grabbed her head in his hands and smashed it into the table until the woman ceased her struggle. Mary's shattered skull oozed with her own warm blood, soaking into the wood beneath her.  Wil Fraser stared down at the lifeless body of Mary Drummond and spewed out a wickedly remorseless laugh. He dressed himself and hurried into the stormy night.

Duncan McGann sensed something was wrong long before arriving at Mary's home that next morning. He dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, spurring the mount onward. The door to Mary's home stood open and McGann jumped from the horse before it came to a halt. Breathless, he flew into the cottage. What he saw before him gouged itself into his memory, a sight he would live with the rest of his life. 

Tears fell from his eyes at the sight of the partially clad Mary Drummond. Battered almost beyond recognition, a lock of her flaming hair lay across the vacant eyes. Ugly purple bruises left their shadows over much of her body.  He gently lifted her head feeling the crushed skull in his hands. He called out her name, willing her to live. Instead, he was rewarded with only the icy feel of gravely pale skin. He sunk to his knees with grief and spotted the only clue to Mary's murder lying on the floor below the table. A woolen scarf monogrammed with the letters, WF.

The pounding of hoofs at full gallop signaled the end to Duncan McGann's mourning. McGann walked outside as guards from the local constabulary, Wil Fraser, and Fraser's father arrived.  They dismounted from their horses. His attempt to explain how he happened upon the ruthless scene did not matter.  They bound him and carried him to the jailer's cell. The trial was quick, ensuring the one responsible never met justice. Duncan McGann was charged with the heinous act of murdering the young woman, his plea of innocence falling on deaf ears. Fraser money had bought and paid for McGann's iniquity.  The court sentenced Duncan McGann to be hung by the neck until dead.

Fortunately, Duncan's father had friends of his own.  On the night before the execution, a group of loyal followers rescued Duncan from his cell, saving him from the gallows. Several miles away, his father waited in the darkened forest. A purse of gold coins, the stable's swiftest mount, and the family Claymore were all he could offer his son. The Scottish broadsword was a weapon banned by the English in 1745. Well cared for and carefully hidden, the heirloom had long been a symbol of the McGann family's heritage. Duncan rode away into the night, remembering his father's strong embrace and the sadness in his eyes, knowing his only hope of survival was leaving his homeland forever.

Several nights later, under a dimly moonlit sky, he stood on the wooden deck of the Molly Bern, in the relative safety of her dark shadows. The small, two-masted bark plied the coastal waters making regular journeys to sell the goods stored in her holds. The ship would see him safely to Portsmouth, on England's southern coast, where McGann would book passage on a vessel heading for New York's harbor. 

In the early morning hours, she sailed from Dundee with the rising tide. The Molly Bern left her berth riding low in the water, her holds brimming with cargo.  Above decks, sailors balanced precariously in the rigging while the straining canvas of the topsails billowed under the mounting breeze. Running for the open sea, the ship sent sprays of white foam across her bow each time she plunged into a trough between the waves. Now under full sail, Duncan McGann eyed the vanishing coastline as his homeland blended into the darkness.

It took little time for him to decide in which direction to head after arriving in the United States.  The tales Duncan McGann heard of majestic peaks and endless woodlands captured his spirit. He also realized that the farther west he traveled the less questions would be posed about his background.

McGann found himself in Denver near the end of August.  Soon after he arrived and quite by accident, he met up with Sam Miller. McGann stumbled into him when he left a store with an armload of supplies. For some strange reason Miller took a liking to the young man, forming an almost instantaneous bond. The crusty, bearded mountain man took the newcomer under his wing and began Duncan's education.

Sam Miller spent most of his days in the high country, preferring solitude to Denver's growing populace. The trapper enjoyed the company of his new friend, well aware that an ally in this environment could be a valuable asset. Under Miller's tutelage McGann learned the essentials of how to survive in the back country.  Duncan was a quick study and by the following summer could hunt and trap nearly as well as the older man.

In the summer of 1852, they traveled to a Cheyenne camp Miller had visited on several occasions. During their stay, Duncan McGann befriended Black Elk. The Indian's father had been a French fur trapper.  Shortly before Black Elk's sixteenth birthday, in the autumn of 1840, his mother and father were killed in a raid on the camp.

Black Elk had learned his father's language and could speak it fluently.  Required as part of his education at Edinburgh, Duncan's mastery of the French language became a common ground between the Indian and himself, strengthening their bond. Over the many months he stayed in the Cheyenne camp, Black Elk taught Duncan much of the Indian ways.

McGann and Miller had been back several times over the years and had planned to return to the Cheyenne camp in the summer of 1858. However, a rockslide tragically claimed the old man's life in the spring of that year.  Duncan left Sam's broken body under the rubble. Unable to do anything else, he gathered the man's belongings and moved on. Once again, Duncan McGann experienced death's loneliness.

McGann buried the reflective moment and the day wore on. The sun disappeared and the afternoon sky lost its cerulean color.  Low clouds clung desperately to the gray monoliths, enveloping the peaks and bringing with it the threat of winter's white dusting. Walking up over a rise, he found shelter in a thicket of pines, offering some protection from the rising wind. McGann quickly gathered kindling as cold seeped in through the great buffalo coat. White flakes of snow drifted lazily from the sky above, while something innate tugged at him, setting his senses on alert. From his vantage point above the creek below, McGann had clear view in each direction. Unsure of exactly what was disturbing him, he put it aside and went to replenish his water supply. Once again fate would change the life of Duncan McGann.

After refilling the skin, he stood and caught a flash out of the corner of his eye. He almost missed it. A second look sent his hand plunging into the cold water, capturing the prize.  His fingers curled around the glistening yellow lump that weighed at least three ounces. The allure of gold beckoned him as he spent the next hour panning gravel from the stream, finding a number of smaller nuggets until his frozen hands could take no more.

In the stillness of the late afternoon, a light hazy fog grew over the evergreens lining the banks of the creek.  An unanticipated report of a rifle shot rang out, piercing the silence, its echo fading with the afternoon light. McGann, alerted to the possibility of danger, rushed up the embankment to the spot where he had hidden his horses. The Scotsman pulled the two Hawken rifles from their protective cases along with a telescope from a leather saddlebag. The Scotsman concealed himself behind a moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree, sweeping the quickly moving creek with the lens.

Another volley sounded, this time closer, and a lone figure burst from the trees leaping into the frigid, waist deep water.  Duncan brought the glass into focus filling the eyepiece with the image of a man over two hundred yards away.  Two red-tipped feathers hung in braids on each side of the Indian's face, bouncing with each stride as he struggled through the flowing waters of the creek bed. Black Elk, wearing a mask of grim determination, ran for his life.

Unexpectedly, from below his vantage point and to the left, a third shot sounded. McGann turned, surprised to see three more Cheyenne attackers approaching from the opposite direction. Without hesitation, Duncan McGann pulled the Hawken tightly against his shoulder, pulling back the hammer.  His finger curled around the trigger and a thunderous explosion erupted from the barrel, followed by a cloud of bluish-gray smoke. The Indian who had taken aim at Black Elk toppled backwards, lifeless into the stream. McGann ignored the other two, armed only with bows, returning his attention to his friend.

Eight warriors materialized from the stand of pines, running along the creek bank in deadly pursuit of Black Elk. One in the group skidded to a halt and raised his rifle, firing on the fleeing Indian. Black Elk clutched at his side, stumbling from the creek onto the bank of the opposite shore. A red stain grew on his leather shirt.

With no time to lose, McGann raised the second rifle, sighting in on his target, absorbing the recoil.  The massive .54 caliber lead ball struck its mark, heaving the man who wounded Black Elk backwards in a dance of death. Quickly, he reloaded a rifle for a final shot with the long guns. Carefully taking aim, the marksman fired again, ending the life of the only other Cheyenne carrying a rifle.

From his left, the war cry of the two remaining Indians sounded as they ran from the pines behind McGann. Instinctively, he rolled to his right as an arrow found a spot in the log he used for cover.  Duncan drew his twin Navy Colt pistols from their leather holsters and thumbed back the hammers. The powerful weapons bucked in his hands. A bullet ripped through the throat of one of the warriors and he fell lifelessly to the ground. Missing with his first shot, Duncan fired again at the second man. The Indian was almost upon him, a raised hatchet in his left arm. This time McGann's aim was accurate. The bullet stifled the man's war cry, his face wearing a mask of disbelief.  The Colt's projectile cored a hole into the center of his chest. He dropped to one knee, expelling his last breath, and fell over face first beside McGann.

Flying to his feet, Duncan McGann retrieved the great sword from the pack strapped to the back of the gray mare, and rushed headlong on a course to save his friend, adrenaline coursing through his body.  His feet pounded the frozen ground carrying him into the battle while the sword's scabbard slapped at his side with each step. Duncan brought the handguns to bear and fired on the run as he closed the distance between himself and Black Elk's attackers. His first two shots missed, the third found its target.  Four bullets were left in the Colts and five warriors remained.

Black Elk turned towards McGann, yelling a cry of defiance at the men intent on his death. McGann did not know the extent of his friend's wound, and Black Elk gave no indication as he stood poised to defend himself, knife in hand. Duncan snapped off two more quick shots sentencing the two closest opponents in front of Black Elk to their deaths.

A painted warrior leaped from the water, grappling with the wounded Black Elk in a struggle for life. McGann was prepared to fire another volley when he stumbled over a rock, the two revolvers flying from his hands. Only one option remained. Instinctively he pulled the Claymore from its scabbard, preparing it to do its deadly work.

With Black Elk fighting for his life, that left two other warriors facing the Scotsman. The nearest lunged at him, swinging a hatchet with a vicious blow that nearly took off the top of Duncan's head.  He reacted quickly, countering his opponent.  McGann spun on his heel in one rapid movement, the sword's blade striking the man. The heavy steel's sharp edge tore through the Indian's body cutting short the dying man's scream of death.

Duncan's move left him out of place to face his final attacker.  The Indian warrior, unfazed by the death of the other man, rushed at the Scotsman. In that brief moment, Duncan realized his foe was Black Elk's brother, Fallen Horse. 

Hatred danced in the Indian's eyes, the gleaming blade of his knife swung in front of McGann. The Cheyenne warrior reacted quickly, intent on taking the white man's life. McGann stepped to the side but not soon enough. Fallen Horse's knife cut through the thick buffalo coat and struck McGann's arm when he rushed past. Fortunately, the hide offered some protection, although the searing pain almost caused the sword to slip from his grasp.

Fallen Horse sprang up from behind. Duncan anticipated the move. Holding the weapon with both hands, he thrust the pommel of the sword behind him. McGann heard the wheezing grunt as the heavy sword crushed two of the Indian's ribs.

Duncan stepped away and turned, wasting no time. Close to exhaustion in the cold mountain air, McGann's breath poured from his mouth in ragged torrents of steam. He held the bloody sword at his side in the fading twilight. Fallen Horse clutched his injured ribs, pain clouding his face. The Cheyenne pushed himself to his feet and lunged forward, determined to end the life of the man before him.

Death filled the eyes of Duncan McGann. He had not asked for this battle but he would be sure of its end. Years of pent up rage seethed within him, boiling to the surface. The face of Wil Fraser took the place of his enemy.  Unleashing all his fury, McGann stepped forward and swung the blade, its metal cutting the air with a wicked shriek. The heavy sword easily severed the Cheyenne's arm and bit deeply into his chest. The force of McGann's strike nearly toppled his foe, yet somehow the warrior remained erect. Fallen Horse's breath flew out of him in an explosive exhalation of blood-tinged mist. With the last of his strength, the Scotsman brought the Claymore up and swung it in a deadly arc. Fallen Horse never felt the teeth of the cold steel bite into his left shoulder.  The horrible sound of splitting flesh filled McGann's ears as he pulled the sword through its finishing stroke. Blankly, the Indian stared at his opponent unable to accept what occurred. The lower portion of Fallen Horse's body crumpled onto the icy ground while his head and shoulders splashed into the creek staining the clear waters.

McGann leaned heavily on the broadsword letting it support his weight. He stared in morbid fascination at the remains of the dead body floating away in the cold waters of Dry Creek. A throbbing pain grew in his arm and he gripped it tightly to staunch the bleeding. Letting his gaze shift toward his fallen friend, McGann eyed the Cheyenne warrior lying unmoving next to Black Elk. Duncan McGann fell to the ground, exhaustion taking its final toll, the demons of his soul forever vanquished.

Chapter One

Fort Lewis, Washington 1998

“Lieutenant,” a voice shouted.

Bryson McGann turned at the call searching through the mix of maintenance crews and helicopters. He spotted a lone figure making his way toward him. From the tarmac outside the hangar, the sounds of whining turbines signaled a chopper coming to life. The fevered pitch of the twin engines increased, sending the rotors into a cyclonic spin. As the aircraft lifted off, McGann pulled the dark, aviator lenses from his face and walked back into the bay. 

McGann eyed the unknown sergeant carefully and wondered to what unit he was assigned. The man appeared to be in his mid-forties. Tall.  Fit. His mannerisms dictated an air of authority far above his rank. McGann's instincts flared, signaling caution. Interestingly, the sergeant paid no attention to those surrounding him.  Instead, he focused his gaze intently on the young officer.  Unable to find an actual cause for his concern, McGann dismissed the thought and returned the salute.

“Lieutenant,” the sergeant stated coolly.  “I'm Sergeant Mallory.”

As if reading his thoughts, the sergeant continued without offering him the chance to speak, “Major Cooper wants you and Lieutenant Canton to report on the double. Your friend is already in that vehicle on the other side of the hangar, sir.”  Without waiting for a reply, the man turned and walked toward the car.

McGann followed the sergeant to the parked vehicle and slid into the back seat.

“Seems we're popular fellows these days,” Canton smiled. “Any idea of what's going on?”

“Not a clue. Why not ask the sergeant?” 

Before Canton could pose the question, the man driving the sedan responded.

“You two made someone's shit list?” Mallory smirked, returning his sight to the road ahead. Silent.

McGann shot back, “Well, T. C., whatever the case, I'm sure only our best interests have been taken into account.” His familiar lopsided grin followed the remark.

McGann and Canton found themselves standing in Major Cooper's office.  However, the man standing in front of them was dressed in civilian clothing and obviously not the major. “Have a seat, gentlemen. Seems you two won't be making the return trip with your company.”

The two lieutenants stole a glance at one another, not quite believing what they just heard. Puzzled looks crossed their faces. Their unit had just completed a Special Ops aviation training exercise and were preparing to head back to Ft. Carson, Colorado the next day.

“Sir?” Canton responded.

“I have new orders for both of you,” the stranger stated flatly, peering down at them through smudged lenses.

“Excuse me, sir, but if I may ask, who are you?” McGann queried.

“Gentlemen, at this point my name or what I do is irrelevant,” he snapped. “Suffice it to say, your commanders have been informed and have knowledge of your whereabouts. This is top priority.”  He paused for effect, letting his starched white shirt crackle as he placed his hands on his hips. “Looks like you're heading north. You two are the beneficiaries of an all expense paid trip to Fort Wainwright.”

“Alaska?” Canton mumbled.

McGann tossed a look in his direction, “You know of any other, T. C.?”

They reached out, each taking a set of TDY orders from the stranger positioned in front of them. The men quickly scanned the temporary duty orders stating they proceed to their next duty station. The papers gave no indication as to when the assignment would be completed.

“You'll proceed immediately to McCord Air Force Base, where air transport has already been arranged. Sergeant Mallory has seen to it that your personal effects will be sent back with your unit.” 

McGann opened his mouth to ask a question but was cut off before being able to say a word.

“Questions? Stow'em.  You'll be given whatever information is required on a need to know basis at the appropriate time.” The man gazed at both of them with piercing eyes before finishing, “That's all, gentlemen.”

The two men stood and left the headquarters building. They jumped into the back of the military sedan as Sergeant Mallory pulled away from the parking space.

*     *     *

“What do you make of this, Bry?” Canton asked. “Three days in this deep freeze and no one's talking.”

“That's the army, T.C.  Hurry up and wait. Obviously somebody wanted us here for a reason. Something else to cheer you up?” McGann offered, tossing a magazine down on a table.  “Just when you thought it couldn't get any better.   An arctic front's moving in tomorrow.  That ought to improve your outlook on life,” McGann quipped.

“Great,” the only response Joe Canton could muster, before the two men left for their nightly duties.

McGann and Canton reported for duty at command headquarters. Unexpectedly, they were greeted by the stranger who had handed them their TDY orders.  This time he was attired in Navy dress blues. The gold braids on his sleeve indicated he was a commander.  His identification badge showed the face of the same man the two lieutenants were looking at, along with the name of Thomas Smith, his rank and where he was assigned. Naval Intelligence.

Commander Smith led them to an office and wasted no time getting to the point. McGann and Canton listened intently as he stated the necessary facts for their mission. They raised numerous questions and he provided appropriate answers. Just as he finished, Smith tossed a packet of maps and pertinent flight information in front of them. Their destination and its coordinates were clearly defined: a Black Ops Project site on the Kokolik River, northwestern Alaska.

“Get to work, gentlemen,” Smith ordered.

Two hours later, McGann and Canton sat in the pilot seats of the UH-60 Pave Hawk helicopter.  Gauges and instruments glowed in an array of colors as they adjusted the volume of their headsets. With practiced ease, their fingers skillfully adjusted dials. The snapping click of toggles switching on echoed through the cabin. The twin turboshaft engines wound up as the rotors began to spin at dizzying speeds overhead.

Eight men of senior rank entered as the entrance on the right side of the chopper slid back. Quietly taking their seats, the door closed behind them with a heavy thud. Wasting no time, the officers buckled themselves in before liftoff.  

The sound of the powerful engines rose in to a high-pitched whine. Canton's voice crackled into McGann's headset indicating his checklist was complete. Lieutenant McGann engaged the controls and felt the chopper rise up into the sky. Bryson McGann stole a glance at the Breitling watch strapped to his wrist.

Time.

0230.

Chapter Two

Northwest Alaska 1998

The piercing sound of the alarm awoke First Sergeant Reggie James from his sleep. James stirred, looked at the clock through tired eyes, and cursed the intrusion. 0230. His hand reached out into the darkness and fumbled to quiet the annoying start to his day.  Rubbing sleep from his reddened eyes, James trudged across the floor into the bathroom, only to be greeted by a tired face staring back silently from the mirror. Stinging nettles of hot water poured from the shower, encouraging his black, well-muscled body to fully awaken. Carefully, the razor's sharp metal blade stroked his face, erasing the new day's stubble.

Toweling off, his mind wandered over his military career.  He had risen quickly through the ranks. The Silver Star, CIB, and Purple Heart earned in Operation Desert Storm had not hurt; the fact he was competent and skilled, certainly a plus. His 201 File mirrored a spotless reflection.

James’ promotion to First Sergeant happened five months ago, prior to volunteering for this assignment. Only thirty-three, with just over eleven years time in service, James rode the fast track. A toothy grin in the mirror reflected back at him as James pondered the idea of being promoted to Sergeant Major in another four.

Pulling on his uniform, James had one more thought. Coffee. There was no better way to get off to a good start.  Long before he reached the mess, its aromas collared him while wafting hints of baking bread stirred his appetite. Too bad breakfast would have to wait.

A long Texas drawl greeted him when he entered the mess. “Morning, Top,” the familiar voice of Corporal Moss said. 

“Yeah, it's morning.  No doubt about that. Just too damn early in the morning.”

“Get ya'll something to eat, Top?”

“Just coffee.  By the way, don't say nothing to nobody about you seeing me here this early.”

“What's happening, Top?” the drawl inquired.

Taking a sip of the strong black liquid, 1st Sgt. James furrowed his brow.  “It don't matter none to you, soldier. If you don't do what you're told, I'll have your Texas ass roasting marshmallows for 'skimos' the rest of your military career,” he grinned.

“Hey, you know me, Top, tighter than a drum,” Moss chuckled.

“You got any of those steaks left?”

“Yeah, you want one?”

“Sure do,” he replied, savoring the final swallow of coffee. “I'll be back around 0600. How about some eggs to go with it?” the noncommissioned officer added as an afterthought.

“No problem, Top.”

Turning before he left, James chided, “With that attitude, corporal, you just might get a promotion sooner than you think.”

The first blast of cold arctic wind sucked the air from his lungs. It always did. Even though the insulated gear kept him warm enough, it still amazed him how he had not grown accustomed to the frigid climate. This morning was no different.  In the pitch- blackness, James pulled the compact night vision device down over his face and adjusted the head strap. Cold fingers worked at focusing the controls. Through the eyepieces, transformation of his surroundings into a ghostly white, surrealistic realm appeared as the monocular lens drew in the ambient light.

Reggie James pushed off and skied to the perimeter defense station a half a mile away.  Almost three months had passed since he accepted this special duty assignment. Like the rest of the military men who volunteered, he had no one at home, no family anywhere. All alone, forty-eight enlisted men, three officers, and seventeen civilians lived in this frozen, God forsaken wasteland above the Arctic Circle.

Aside from the daily mundane duties, a good deal of his time was occupied by ensuring the perimeter defense network remained constantly at the ready.  The PD, as the Army abbreviated it, took precedence, especially now with the proposed testing finally at hand. His duty to see that his men and the CIV's could do their scientific work remained paramount above all others. First Sergeant Reggie James' determination pulled him through on many occasions. He enlisted everything in his power to see it happen here.

The PD sat back into a natural, rocky outcropping about four hundred yards from the Kokolik River, the only way in or out, except for air transport. Over land was completely out of the question, due to the hostile mountain ranges surrounding the desolate area. James thought mounting an operation to breech the defense network nearly an impossible task. Yet, he left nothing to chance.

Although self-contained, the hidden site remained the project's Achilles heel. Prior to its construction, questions of uncertainty arose regarding how the H.A.A.R.P. might affect the defensive network.  The decision was made to house the PD a discreet distance from the main control center.  Given the improbability of an attack due to the remote region, the original plans overruled anyone's misgivings. And locating the defensive network was nearly impossible, unless you knew its exact position. It was virtually invisible, concealed behind camouflaged four-foot thick, titanium-steel doors made to look like the surrounding rock. Short of a small nuclear device, the rocky shelter provided an impenetrable fortress.

Only four men were required to run the system per shift and enough supplies were stored to last for a month's siege. The PD could alert the project's small force of fighting men long before intruders arrived. Once deployed to strategic locations, they would be able to eliminate any enemy invaders that survived the host of defensive equipment designed to protect the complex.

Inside, the latest techno-wizardry graced the confines of the defense network. Computer terminals and data banks glowed and blinked in an array of different colors. Thermal scanners, motion sensors, seismic detectors and other machinery, were in place to protect and monitor all that went on in and around the H.A.A.R.P. project.

Chapter Three

H.A.A.R.P. Project Site

Staff Sgt. Jimmy “Scan Man” Page knew it all, an acknowledged genius when it came to the electronics. When a problem arose, you called the Scan Man. It was no coincidence that he volunteered to work in the early hours of this particular morning. He had planned it exactly this way for months.

Ten years of duty to Uncle Sam.  Ten more, and a check.  What then, a part time job? And what would he have to show for it? The idea left a bitter taste in his mouth. No, Jimmy Page wanted something more. Much more.

The sergeant's love of gambling made him a prime target.  Unknown to the Army, Page had gathered a pile of mounting debt.  In over his head, the sergeant's benefactors quietly erased his unfulfilled financial obligations, but not without a much needed favor in return. They offered a proposition he could not refuse.  The way Page figured, his life would be better off as an expatriated American than a forty-year old retired sergeant looking for another job.  Their money would buy him a lot of happiness for a long time. Yes, his new life included much bigger plans.

Corporal Kyle Dean leaned back in his chair to relax when he abruptly threw himself forward, a puzzled look on his face. The former California surfer enlisted in the military to leave the beach scene behind him, hopefully acquiring some skills for later use in civilian life. “Hey, Scan Man, my screens just locked up,” the corporal hollered, unsure of what happened.

“I can't see shit,” Sergeant Ron Womack shouted. “This is nuts.”

A thick, Bronx accent fired back, “Hey, mine's gone to hell too,” Frank Diamatto yelled, throwing his hands in the air.  The corporal's fingers pushed between thick strands of wavy black hair.  “What the fuck is...”

Scan Man cut him off in mid sentence, “Everybody, take it easy.  I'll check it out. Probably just a minor glitch.  Don't sweat it. If there's a problem, we'll have it fixed in no time.”

Dean nervously toyed with his blonde mustache, asking tentatively, “You think they started the drill early, Sarge?”

“Look, you guys just relax,” Page implored, his voice defusing the tension filling the PD. “The brass wants this as smooth as a baby's ass. They wouldn't screw this up. Count on it. Besides, we've got plenty of time to fix whatever it is. The test isn't until 0700. That gives us about three and a half hours.”

“Back up's fucked too, Scan Man,” Diamatto exclaimed.

“Hey, chill out, Tomato,” Dean retorted, “If Scan says he can fix it, he can fix it.”

Raising his hands, Jimmy Page appeared as if he were trying to calm the waters. A look of concern on his face did a good job of camouflaging the smile that lay hidden just beneath its surface. The scheme had taken months of preparation. Page's plan rapidly knit itself together, closing the circle. The cards were drawn and Jimmy Page held an inside straight. Time.  0320. Right on schedule, he thought.

“I'll be back in a few.  You guys keep your eyes on those video input terminals and data screens. Dean, you come with me. I'll need some help in the terminal relay room.”

“Ah man, I hate the T-Room, Scan. Why don't you take Tomato with you?” whined the ex-surfer.

“Cause, I out rank you. Good enough answer, corporal?” Jimmy Page shot back. “Any other questions?” he asked, through a thin smile.

“Shit.” Kyle Dean pushed himself out of his seat, following reluctantly behind Page. “Whatever you say, Sarge,” the young corporal added, exasperation filling his voice.

The T-Room held the guts of the operation, insuring the perimeter defense system ran like clockwork. Monitoring systems covered the interior of the room with blinking gadgetry, LED readout panels, and soundless displays of data indicating proper calibration and operation. The distinctive scent of warm electrical equipment filled their nostrils while the low hum of machinery assailed them as the men entered the room.

Both set about their work, searching for the source of the problems, checking the mass of electronic circuitry.  Ten minutes had passed. Dean was busily working when Page called out, “Think I found something. Come here and give me a hand.”

“Scan Man, you're some kind of shit. I barely got started and you found the missing piece of the puzzle.” Dean strode across the room. “What you got, Scan?” the words were cut in the middle of his sentence. The paralyzing impact caused his body to spasm and become rigid as he fell to the floor, completely unaware of what occurred. 

Jimmy Page smiled and gave Dean a quick kick before yelling frantically for help over the intercom, “Diamatto, get your ass in here. Something's wrong with Dean. I don't know what happened, but it looks bad. Womack, try and get the Op Center on the horn.  Dean needs medical attention. Now.”

Diamatto rushed breathlessly into the T-Room.  Puzzled, he bent down over his unconscious friend. “What happened?”

“I think he's fried,” yelled the Scan Man.

Diamatto's frenzied actions appeared almost comical to Jimmy Page. His actions stopped abruptly when 50,000 volts of electricity surged into his body.  The hand held device the sergeant wielded didn't kill his compatriots, but left them incapacitated for the next several hours. Certainly long enough to do his intended work.

Page yelled to Womack, “You got anybody yet?  Where's the Doc?”

“I'm trying Scan, Commo is down. What do we do?”

“Keep trying,” Page's voice tainted with feigned panic.

Womack's preoccupation with alerting the Op Center gave Jimmy time to load the computer program. If Op Center security wanted to monitor the PD for any reason, everything would appear normal; all perimeter scanning devices functioning properly, all video displays of the entire project indicated the area to be free of any intruders. Their lack of awareness to the coming event opened a portal of vulnerability, stabbing into the heart of the complex.

Scan Man made his way stealthily back into the main control room. Sergeant Womack, completely unaware of what hit him, catapulted into a dark void. The jolt of electricity flinging him from his chair left his body as limp as a rag doll.

Nerves scraped raw from the tension, Page centered his mind, intent on the assignment before him. He could not allow himself to get lost in the daydream of the new life that awaited him. One mistake, and a permanent home awaited him in the penitentiary at Leavenworth. The prospect of prison conjured up a disquieting idea. With his task complete at the PD, Sergeant Jimmy Page, soon to be millionaire, undertook the next part of his plan.

Chapter Four

Perimeter Defense Center

Snow fell in singular, meandering wet flakes appearing and disappearing in front of the night vision devise attached to the first sergeant's face. Scan Man came to life in the form of a greenish-white apparition through the lenses James wore. Instinctively, the soldier dropped into a crouch, partially hidden behind a snow bank, observing Jimmy Page. Why was the man leaving his post? And where could he possibly be going? James wondered. Page turned, methodically scanning the area. Satisfied his movements went undetected, he moved away from the PD rapidly.  James felt foolish at first, almost calling out, but decided against it. Something stopped him. Years of training told him to sit tight.

Cautiously, James approached the PD.  He slipped the magnetic edge of the plastic card into the grid, sliding it through the scanner that allowed him access into the main corridor.  Upon entering, a blast of hot air assaulted the sergeant.  Its stifling warmth washed over him and James quickly pulled off his cold weather gear. 

Rounding a corner, he entered the control room.  Everything seemed in order.  Data relays were up and running, video screens checked out, and the usual assortment of blinking lights winked on and off.  It took only a moment to register the fact that no soldiers sat at their posts. The room held steadfast to its quiet vigil, its pulse thumping.

“Sergeant Womack.”  No answer followed, only hollow silence. Louder than before, James yelled, “Womack, Diamatto, Dean, can you here me? It's Top.”  He moved around the control room and cautiously opened the door leading to the T-Room.  A quick search of the room revealed nothing. The sergeant found it strange that all the defensive systems were up and functioning and the control panels indicated the network to be intact. The fact that one man had left the building and no one was minding the store pushed James' senses to full alert. His right hand slid the Beretta from its holster, deftly working the slide and chambering a round. A gnawing feeling slowly chewed its way through the lining of his gut.

The sergeant's search of the remainder of the building found the three men in a storage area, all alive but unconscious. His efforts to arouse them failed. James could find no visible wounds under his careful inspection. Whatever type of device Page wielded, it exacted its toll effectively.

Alarms erupted in Reggie James' head. His neck crawled, the flesh standing in small pillars. Fear gripped him. He spun quickly in a crouch, swinging the weapon into target acquisition at the sound.

Nothing.

No one.

Only the pulse of his own heartbeat rang in his ears.

The corridor stood empty in each direction. The heating system cycled on, ductwork crackling, popping with the temperature change. “Son of a bitch,” James cursed, inhaling a deep breath as he ran down the numbers.

One of two possibilities unfolded before him. This was either some idea of an elaborate exercise to test the readiness of the PD that he was unaware of. If so, he would let his displeasure be known. Only an idiot would call for a drill hours before actual testing. It did not figure that way to him. Major Donnelly seemed smarter than that. Or, the other option left the unthinkable. Running back to the main control room, James attempted to raise the Op Center.  His efforts went unrewarded.

James had no doubt somebody was going to need a new ass when he got done chewing. He blew out a forceful breath, helping to break open the infectious stillness. Suddenly, life had become very complicated for Reggie James. He did not like complications and certainly not this day. 

Deciding the best approach would be to follow Page, he braved the cold once more. Sergeant Page headed off in the direction of the river. One of the snowmobiles might be faster, but skiing afforded James a stealthy approach. It could be a crucial factor in finding out what Page's true intentions were. James buckled the bindings on his skis and pushed off.

The scraping slash of skis on icy snow cut the darkness. Clouds of steam spewed from him with each bellow-like breath, the only other sound in the early morning. Even the wind quieted, ceasing its mournful wale. He pushed himself harder in an attempt to catch the Scan Man.

Thick wet flakes now fell from the sky, adding to the heavy white cloak blanketing the landscape. Reggie James cautiously scanned the surrounding terrain. Several minutes later, he spied the icy river in the distance when the moon winked briefly from behind a cloud filled sky. Alerted by an innate sense, he stopped abruptly.  Pausing in the darkened quietude, an eerie feeling enveloped him. James flattened and slid across the icy white ground, crawling soundlessly, positioning himself behind a jutting boulder. 

At first glance, only the river lay in front of James. Page had hidden his tracks expertly and it took some time to find him. James finally spotted the soldier concealed in the snow close to the river's edge. The winter white camouflage uniform blended well with the terrain, disguising the form of Jimmy Page. Reggie James was realizing just how good the Scan Man was.

*     *     *

Less than two miles away, a radio crackled inside the cockpit of the hovercraft. Capable of speeds up to sixty knots, the craft could go almost anywhere. Frozen rivers posed little threat. The hovercraft simply floated on a cushion of air, leaving little if any evidence of their passing. Over two hours ago, the four craft left the freighter, riding the Arctic seas. They separated and later converged at the mouth of the Kokolik River, intent on their covert mission.

“Arctic Wolf, Arctic Wolf, this is Wolf Pack….  We are within three minutes of target.  Contact has been established with Wolf Cub,” an English sounding voice said dryly, awaiting a reply.

After a brief silence, a mechanically altered voice emitted from the speakers. “Affirmative, Wolf Pack.  Proceed as planned. No further contact until target has been breached and package wrapped for shipment.”

“Affirmative, Arctic Wolf.  Out.”

The dim, green glow arising from the instrument panel bathed the hooded leader in a ghostly light. St. John's medium build belied the strength underneath the dark clothing he wore. He stood looking out the windows of the hovercraft, knowing the moment was imminent, anxious to get on with the mission. His team was ready.  Only if Page failed to inactivate the perimeter defense warning detection system would there be a problem. Hopefully luck would hold, at least, for Page's sake.

Scan Man waited patiently, blocking the biting cold from his mind. A steadily increasing drone of the powerful diesel turbofan engines caught his attention. His fingers found the proper adjustment, sharpening the image intensification. Rabid eyes anxiously surveyed the terrain in all directions. Nothing revealed itself, yet that lingering feeling of being observed slithered along the length of his spine.

*     *     *

From their snow covered positions, both soldiers watched in anticipation of what was to come. Reggie James' mind offered many questions, but still no answers. Someone was going to a hell of a lot of trouble just for a drill. His thoughts traveled back over the last three months since his arrival. Page always seemed to be working. Until now, he had not given it much thought.  Never hurt to have good soldiers. Now the unfolding drama made him question Scan Man's intent.

The Op Center was impregnable. No one could enter without a key. But unfortunately, Jimmy Page might be that key. The first sergeant erased that thought from his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the events taking shape.

The hovercraft's engines grew louder as they rounded the river's bend, sounding like millions of angry hornets. They moved swiftly toward the bank, to the spot where Page lay in hiding. James riveted his eyes on the four approaching silhouettes. Moonlight pierced the clouds. A momentary spotlight flooded the area, bathing the river in a pale glow, its blackness contrasting sharply with the white snow. 

It was enough.

Even without the aide of the night vision devices, James recognized these were not U.S. troops. The mercenaries' unknown identities made their presence even more troublesome. Four squads of ten men quickly assembled themselves on the shore. Each man carried pistols and MP5 submachine guns. Long round cylinders protruded from the end of each barrel. Their purpose was to effectively diminish the noise of gunfire. James knew if the mercenaries were using subsonic ammunition, capable of traveling less than the speed of sound, the deadly weapons would be almost whisper silent.

*     *     *

The traitor stood, brushing the snow from his uniform and checked his watch. “You're right on the money, man, 0345.” Page reported to the intruder's leader.  “The PD is down. The continuous play of the prerecorded monitoring system will fool them long enough for us to get into the Op Center.  Time to rock and roll,” Jimmy stated, arrogantly.

St. John's English accent from underneath the black hood addressed the sergeant curtly, “The next com check is at 0400, correct?”

Scan Man simply nodded in agreement. “Don't worry.  That's taken care of, too. I can monitor any incoming stuff.  If I need to, I can cut into the prerecorded message. No problem, man. Everything's under control and on target.  We'll be in before they know what happens.”

Flashing eyes leered at the traitor, “You'd better hope so. Your life depends on it. Let's move, sergeant.”

Page led the way, the group quickly skiing off on a course for the Op Center.  With the element of surprise on their side, and a way in, the H.A.A.R.P. project stood little chance. Crawling from his position in the rocks, James threw a quick glance in the direction of the mercenaries. Putting to practice his acquired skills, the first sergeant followed the group back to the op-center.  James managed to avoid the mercenary's rear guard but he needed a plan in a hurry.

Chapter Five

Operations Center

Fatigue continued to take its toll on Dr. Lawrence Alberts.  He ran a hand through the thinning hair and rubbed his reddened eyes. The weary scientist's steady diet of too much coffee and too little sleep had become the norm lately.  His frayed lab coat draped itself like a wrinkled skin over his stooped shoulders. The stress of this job had aged him beyond his forty-six years. Hopefully, all would go well today. Only then Alberts could take advantage of some greatly needed rest. He missed his wife and daughter.  California seemed farther away than ever from the Arctic Circle, and the thought of sun-lit beaches appealed to him.

Dr. Richard Stein approached him with the computer-generated images of the latest weather conditions. “Larry, things look real good,” he voiced, gazing through the thick lenses. “Just as predicted. The front is moving in on schedule.”

Lawrence Alberts exhaled loudly and nodded his approval, viewing what Stein held in his hand.  “I hope so, Dick. H.A.A.R.P. is taking its toll. Frankly, I'm surprised everyone is doing as well as they are, considering the time we've put into this.” Alberts scribed a quick note on the clipboard's checklist. “Look, Donnelly just walked in. Do me a favor.  Check to see if there are any further problems with the power surge controls.  We can't afford any screw-ups with that when the system comes on line. I need to check the antenna array one more time.” Alberts added quickly, “Oh, by the way, thanks for your hard work these last few months.”

“No need, I want this as much as you,” Stein remarked, already moving off across the room.

Alberts bent over the display panels of the antenna array controls, his mind running the checklist, long since memorized. The project had come a long way from interrupting Russian radio transmissions. If this worked, he knew the possibilities were phenomenal.

Major Donnelly moved next to him. The familiar rasp of Donnelly's voice permeated the room. “Morning, Doc. Look like it's a go for today? Things on schedule?”

“It appears so, Major.”  The scientist's lanky frame standing nearly a foot taller than the army officer, stared down at Donnelly.  Alberts found him likeable, yet a chasm separated them. He attributed it to being two men from two different worlds thrown together out of necessity.

Shuffling a stack of papers, Captain Stires walked into the control room. After spotting the two men, he moved directly toward the pair. “Morning, gentlemen,” he said casually. “Major, I've briefed the squad leaders as requested. They are prepped for this morning's testing. It's wrapped and ready, sir.”

“Good,” Donnelly replied.

*     *     *

Entry into the outer corridor of the Op Center had been accomplished with ease, thanks to the traitorous Scan Man. Page moved with confidence entering the security corridor alone. A video link filled with the face of Corporal Sam Johnson. A grainy black and white image revealed the puzzled expression at the unexpected presence of the Scan Man.

“Morning, Sam. Damn sure is cold out there this morning,” Page remarked, shaking the chill from his body.

“Hey, Sarge.  What are you doing back from the PD?”

“Beats me. The major called, said he wanted my butt here on the double. I'm just being a good soldier,” Scan Man winked and smiled. “You want to open the inner corridor and let me in so the major does-n't have my ass for breakfast?”

“No problem,” the corporal laughed. He entered the access code allowing the security doors to part.

Page wasted no time. The sergeant moved beside Johnson, and in one quick motion shoved the stun device into the soldier's body, activating the triggering mechanism. Johnson fell from his chair, completely unaware of what happened.

Jimmy Page worked furiously with practiced movements, having rehearsed this scenario in his mind countless times. In all probability he could do it blindfolded. His fingers flew across the keyboard expertly, giving him access into the system.  Page slipped the prerecorded data disc into the computer.  Video displays on the security monitoring system gave no hint of the impending danger.  One display even showed Johnson sitting at his duty station. All the systems were up and running. Everything appeared normal in the cold, dark morning, inside and out of the Op Center.  No one had any idea of just how quickly all their lives would change.

After accomplishing his assignment, Page opened the doors, allowing St. John and the rest of Wolf Pack to enter the building.  They moved soundlessly down the corridors, making the enlisted personnel sleeping quarters their first stop. Soldiers were rudely aroused from slumber, staring with blinking eyes into the cold, blue barrels of the silenced H&K MP5 automatic weapons. The militant band moved to other areas of the building undetected, quickly taking control without a shot being fired. Surprise had been swift, and now, almost complete. Only the Op Center control room remained.

Ten mercenaries stormed the room eliciting shouts and raised voices from the CIV's and soldiers. For a brief moment, Major Donnelly thought an elaborate hoax was occurring. Surprise fled from his face when all too quickly the realization of his error struck full force. These were not U. S. troops pointing their weapons at the members of the H.A.A.R.P. project. The stunned group of workers and soldiers could offer little resistance.  For the intruders, things were perfect so far. St. John's venomous voice erupted from behind the black hood demanding the hostage's undivided attention. Donnelly roared, “Who are you? What the hell do you think you're doing? This is government property.”

Cold, reptilian eyes stared back unblinking, allowing the silence to escalate. “Major Donnelly, don't look so stunned,” St. John said, with a wicked smile. “Yes, I'm well aware of who everyone is under your command and the purpose of this project. If you cooperate, no one will be harmed.” He paused, scanning the room. “Otherwise, the alternative will not be very pleasing. Hmm, Major? The rest of your personnel are being brought here as we speak. I'm afraid there is no time for questions, only compliance to my wishes. I do hope you understand.”

Jimmy Page entered the control room unescorted and stood behind the leader of Wolf Pack.  Lieutenant Dickson gritted his teeth with rage and lunged instinctively at Page. A cold steel barrel to the side of his head from one of the attackers ended his attempt. Dickson collapsed to the floor while Page laughed in amusement. “Sorry, LT.  There's a new life waiting for me. It pays a little more that Uncle Sam,” Scan Man chuckled. “I'll be thinking of you though when I'm lying on a sandy, white beach somewhere.”

“Quiet,” the mercenary leader ordered.

Murmurs spouted from the hostages when the rest of the captives of the H.A.A.R.P. project arrived in the control room under armed guard. They gazed into each other's eyes searching for hope, for answers, and found none. Resistance at this point would be futile. Without weapons, slaughter awaited. Each soldier had been willing to make the ultimate sacrifice when they volunteered for this assignment. Proposed as a possibility, few, if any, felt death would become a reality.  Their fate now lay in the hands of a group of mercenaries. They had no choice but to obey.  An immediate death sentence in a harsh, frozen land waited if they failed to comply.  Duty and honor were empty words when you were unarmed and staring in the face of death.

Chapter Six

Security Breech

It took all of 1st Sgt. Reggie James acquired skills to kill the two roving sentries outside the Op Center's entrance. He managed to do it quickly, silently, and unaware that keen eyes observed his every movement. James entered the security corridor catching two more intruders by complete surprise. His captured, silenced weapon spit two quick bursts, ending the lives of his intended targets before they could react. James ran a quick check of the internal security monitors. His efforts yielded only pre-recorded views of everyone at their duty stations. Performing a system override with the tap of several keys, his fingers removed the control disc inserted by Page. In an instant, the entire event played out before him. A quick flick of the volume control and the animated figures came to life as their voices erupted over the intercom. A cold arctic wind ripped through the entrance.  James attempted to ignore it, unsure if it was the cold, or something more. He had no one to rely on but himself and survival skills the Army taught him. Reggie James remained the only hope for his fellow soldiers and the H.A.A.R.P. project.

Combat instincts came to life with adrenaline pumping through his system. His own footfalls rang with brilliant clarity in his ears. He moved with deliberate precision. He was wired, all battle senses on alert. James entered a utility access corridor, hoping that his route had been overlooked by the intruders. His luck held. He arrived a short distance from the control room area undetected. James held his breath, peering from behind the access panel, checking the corridor for any signs of the invaders.

Beads of sweat gathered on his brow as Reggie James crouched outside the control room. Without a plan, he was flying by the seat of his pants. Only one idea came to mind. The soldier could think of no alternatives. Somehow, he would rush into the room, taking out as much of the opposition as possible and capture the leader of the mercenary group. Not much of a plan, yet it was his only shot. He held the element of surprise and if his luck held, he might pull it off.  Hopefully, some of the men could overpower the guards and join in the melee. Reggie James took in a deep breath, steeling himself, when fate offered him an opportunity.  The Wolf Pack leader left the control room and James was there to greet him.

The Englishman stepped into the corridor and halted abruptly. St.John's eyes widened in disbelief when the barrel of the submachine gun lifted his chin to an awkward angle, cutting off any cry for help he might have made. James whispered, “Not a sound, or your head will be part of the walls, you son of a bitch. Get your squad leaders out here on the double,” he commanded, acerbically.  “When they step into the hallway, tell them to drop their weapons.  Understood?”

The hooded leader nodded slightly, grunting in recognition of the order.  “Squad leaders,” the voice barked into the headset he wore. They entered the hallway, alarmed to see St. John held captive.  “Wyatt Earp is here, gentlemen,” the irritated voice informed them. “Drop your weapons.” They quickly followed his command.

James sent a knife-edged stare into the group leaving no doubt of his intentions. He would not hesitate to take any of their lives.

“What is it exactly you hope to accomplish with your little stunt, First Sergeant James?  If you kill me, your actions will bring an immediate death sentence for everyone here. We'll still get what we want and you'll have lost. I should think surrender is your only option if you wish to live. Then we'll forget about this incident,” St. John sneered.

James shoved the barrel up harder under the Englishman's chin. “Shut the fuck up, asshole.” His mind raced, St. John's words cracking the veneer of his fortitude.

“Seems to be a bit of a standoff, wouldn't you say sergeant?”

Reggie James knew the clock was running. He weighed options and discarded them rapidly.  If he didn't move soon there would be no other chance.

The tall, lithe figure that watched him killing the others moved unheard in the hallway, rapidly closing the distance to James.  Before James could utter another word, slender fingers grasped his chin, jerking it up at an acute angle. The kiss of razor-sharp steel from the knife pressed against his throat. Startled by the sudden turn of events, the MP5 jumped in his hand and reflexively his finger caressed the trigger. The soft spit of a single bullet went unheard outside the hallway.  It almost ended the Englishman's life. Instead, the bullet tore a ragged wound through his left ear.

“Bugger,” the pained voice cried between gritted teeth.  He ripped the gun from the sergeant's hands.

Before another word was spoken, gleaming metal flashed under the fluorescent lighting of the hallway.  Reggie James gasped as the knife entered his back just below the rib cage. Surprisingly, he felt no pain. He tried to speak but the words would not come. The force of the blow deflated his lungs. His attempt to turn the tide on the attackers failed as he slumped to the floor in a heap.

“Why'd you do that?” St. John spit out painfully.  His left hand pressed tightly to the wounded ear to staunch the bleeding. “You almost got me killed.”

“I did it because I enjoyed it,” the feminine voice replied casually, throwing her head back in defiance.

With a wave of his hand, two of the team members came to his aide. “Take the bleeding coffer into that room across the hallway and leave him until we are ready to go. I don't want the others to see him. Get somebody to clean up this damn mess. Make it quick,” the Wolf Pack leader snapped. “Thanks to our valiant sergeant, we are now behind schedule,” he said, checking the time. “Get me someone to bandage my ear.  Now,” the words shot out forcefully, expelled through clenched teeth.

Reggie James lay in the corner of the dimly lit room. Funny, he thought, still no pain. This seemed different than his wound in Desert Storm.  His mind wandered aimlessly, floating.  A warm liquid pool spread around him. James feebly scrawled four bloody letters on the underside of the shelf next to him. His final duty.

The last few breaths came quickly in ragged gasps. The realization he would never become Sergeant Major James struck him.  Somehow, it no longer seemed important. Reggie James' last thought vanished. His life ebbed, and darkness enveloped him.

*     *     *

The mercenaries returned to the hovercraft with their hostages and the dead. No trace of their presence remained inside the building. Blowing winds and snow erased any hint of their tracks by 0700. Lieutenant McGann and the inspection team would find the Op Center deserted. Cold and dim, the moon watched from above, shrouded in the nigrescent sky.  

Chapter Seven

Rendezvous

The four hovercraft cut a straight course to the mother-ship.  No stealth was needed now, only speed as they left the river behind for the open waters. The window of opportunity closed rapidly on the project's attackers. Wolf Pack had a total of eighty-eight minutes to complete their mission. If they were not onboard by 0639, the overhead flight of Night Star, a naval surveillance satellite, would capture their presence on film. Turbulent, swelling seas made accomplishment of the task increasingly difficult in their race for the ship. 

From inside the cockpit, St. John sent a brief message.  “Arctic Wolf, Arctic Wolf.  Do you copy? Over.”

A sharp reply crackled through the intercom, “Affirmative.”

“Target acquisitioned, package secure.  Rendezvous with transport, now twenty-five minutes. Over.”

A slight pause delayed the answer from the metallic sounding voice, “Night Star will pass overhead very close to the time your mission is to be completed. I'm confident you will be successful in your assignment. Am I understood?”

“Affirmative,” the Englishman's only response.  The alternative was not something he wished to consider.

All the hovercraft rendezvoused with the ship at the prescribed location, with little time to spare. It required an expert seaman to maintain the ship at the same speed and course as the hovercraft in the heavy seas. Glaring deck lights split the darkness as the first two craft pulled along side the ship. Large cargo booms hoisted each craft onboard with a delicate touch, placing them below decks without incident. The last pair was being lifted aboard when a large wave crashed into the side of the freighter, heeling her unexpectedly to port. 

The hovercraft on the starboard side of the vessel swung precariously on its cables, causing one to snap and sending the craft smashing back into the rusting hull. Another wave washed over the smaller vessel while the cargo ship's bow fell into a huge trough.  Straining under the weight of the two craft, the aging freighter rose from the black, angry sea, when one more of the eight support cables snapped. Sudden lurching of the hovercraft threw its occupants about violently, injuring a number of the captured men. The starboard boom operator compensated for the mishap, eventually pulling the craft over the safety of the main deck. The rough ride ended for the craft's occupants when it was lowered into the waiting hold. The hydraulic deck covers slid into place, and the hostages were taken to secure quarters. Time. 0637.

Night Star passed over the H.A.A.R.P. project site at precisely 0639, its telescopic lens taking pictures of a wide area from high above the earth. The relays sent back to NAVSPAC, images enhanced with the aid of computers, gave no indication of what occurred. The photos revealed only the mountainous Alaskan terrain, the H.A.A.R.P. project site, and a lone ship fifty miles off the coast.  The multi-million dollar, high-tech satellite offered no further clues when the pictures were later scrutinized. No traces, no hint of any wrongdoing would be found. Only unanswered questions.

Inside the spartan stateroom of the ship, Ian St.John poured a glass of Bushmills Irish whiskey over the ice to ease his throbbing wound. The mercenary leader did not want his mind clouded by the effects of narcotics quelling the pain. He needed to remain alert until his assignment's completion. Guards brought the two ranking Army officers into the stateroom. They were soon joined by the intriguingly beautiful, black haired woman.

“Gentlemen, please have a seat,” she gestured with a wave of her hand.

The two soldiers remained silent, standing in place. Their inaction gave no indication they even heard her voice. Donnelly and Stires continued to look straight ahead, unflinching, wearing a brave face.

St. John rose from the aging, black leather chair, wincing.  His quiet voice did little to hide the guile behind the penetrating eyes. “We can do this the hard way, or the easy way.  The choice is yours. Don't think for a moment I'm playing games, gentlemen. I have my orders concerning your safety, but I will not hesitate in the slightest to shoot any or all of you, if I must,” he said, walking directly in front of the two men. “Now, sit down,” the bellowing voice commanded.

Captain Stires turned toward Major Donnelly, the look of defeat sweeping across both men's faces. Donnelly nodded slightly, and they each took a seat in the straight-backed chairs.

“Much better, gentlemen.  I'll not waste anymore time. I'm sure you have many questions. They're of no consequence at this point. What you should be concerned about is the safety of your men and the civilians.” A wave of pain shot along the side of his head, causing a grimace to spread across his face. St. John touched the bandage gingerly and returned to his chair. 

Miya simply looked on in amusement, “Our orders, as Mr. St. John alluded to, are to insure your eventual return to safety.  You're probably wondering why?” she said.

The two men listened unbelievingly to the empty words.

“We expect your full cooperation in controlling your people while on board. Doing so will save the lives of everyone,” the woman continued. “I'm not concerned about your government ever finding us. That's why we have revealed ourselves to you.”

“Your heroic Sergeant James almost foiled our plan. Fortunately, he failed in his attempt,” the mercenary leader added, from behind his desk. “Simply put, gentlemen, the question is, do we have your cooperation?”

“I think you plan to kill us and you'll get no cooperation from me or my men,” Major Christopher Donnelly replied in a calm, steady voice.

“Perhaps an actor would have better suited you, Major.  Your confidence is remarkable, quite valiant, but incredibly stupid.” St. John strode across the room. His fingers found the hidden panel. “Let me show you something.” With the push of a button, a large screen appeared, forming from the opening where a wall had been. “This is our projected course through the Pacific.”

The two soldiers gazed at the map, memorizing the approximate coordinates where St. John's finger pointed.  They soaked in every detail, committing it to memory as best they could. “Precisely,” he pondered momentarily.  “Here, gentlemen,” his finger falling on the spot. “You and your men will be transferred aboard another ship. From that point, you'll be taken to a deserted island in the Southern Pacific. After one week, your government will receive notification of your whereabouts. They'll find you and the group will have a free ticket home. Provisions of an ample nature will sustain you until your rescue.”

“Why?” Stires asked.  “Why aren't we expendable?” he said, an undercurrent of hatred running through his voice.

Miya responded, “Your lives, Captain, are immaterial to us. Frankly, my choice would have been to leave each of you at the project site with a bullet in your head. I do not set the rules, gentlemen. Only because of that, your lives are spared. When we depart, the only person going with us will be Professor Alberts.  Unfortunately for him, he has no choice.”

Ice clinked on the sides of the crystal glass holding the remaining portion of the mercenary leader's drink, catching the attention of the two soldiers. “I'm tiring of this conversation. In exactly eight hours, you'll be transferred to the other ship. Either that, or you'll be disposed of. The slightest provocation on the part of you or your men will be an instant death sentence for everyone. Their blood will be on your hands, Major.  Is that what you wish for your men?” He paused, letting the deadliness of the message settle in. “So you see, gentlemen, in a short time, we'll be just a part of American history.  One, I'm sure, your government would rather forget,” his laughter echoing in the room.  “Miya and I must prepare for our departure. I suggest you take advantage of our hospitality.”

Miya's fingernail etched a quickly fading white line on Stires’ cheek as she swayed in front of the two broken soldiers. Looking back over her shoulder she spoke, “Your men are being fed as we speak.  Those who were injured in the hovercraft have received medical attention. Remember, the easy way or the hard way, it's your choice.”  After a brief pause, her terse command split the air,  “Guards. Take them to their quarters.”

Jimmy Page entered, receiving contemptible glances from the two soldiers being escorted from the room. “What's up,” he asked, passing closely to his former compatriots. “Time to leave?”

“Yes and no, Sergeant Page,” St. John replied.  “A slight change in plans has taken place.

A look of consternation swept the Scan Man's face.  “I thought we were going together.  Why the change all of a sudden?” his voice asked, warily. 

“I've received new orders. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Jimmy, don't be concerned,” Miya cajoled.  “After the soldiers leave, you will be transferred to another ship. The ship will sail to Singapore so you can begin your new life. For your troubles, you'll receive another two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Consider it an added bonus,” Miya remarked.

The lure of more money turned up the corners of his mouth. “Okay, that works. Yeah.  Just be sure Robin Leach won't be greeting me.” His attempt at humor provoked a brief smile from the woman.

St. John laughingly replied,  “Mr. Page, you are a remarkable man. I confess I misjudged you. In addition to being a traitor and whatever else one should call you, you are also a humorist. Maybe you missed your true calling. Hmm?” the Wolf Pack leader said, sarcasm staining his voice. St. John stood quickly, swallowed the remaining amber liquid, letting it trickle down his throat, savoring its warmth. “I hope you enjoy your new life, Sergeant.  I'm sorry, my mistake, Mr. Page.  Come Miya, it's time.” the English accent called. Scan Man stood alone in the room.

Chapter Eight

Escape

The submarine pulled alongside the rust-streaked hull in the darkness of the Arctic spring morning.  The ship rose and fell, laboring in the waters of the swollen seas. A cold, northwest wind raked the frozen decks, its ragged teeth tearing at the three passengers preparing to depart.

“Where are you taking me?” Professor Alberts demanded.

St. John said nothing.  Miya shoved Alberts roughly into the basket waiting to lower them to the submarine running parallel with the ship. “It doesn't matter.  Besides, you'll find out soon enough. Be thankful you are still alive, Larry,” she shouted, caustically.  Her words faded, carried away by the howling wind.

The thick steel hatch closed over them upon entering the submarine. Lawrence Alberts had the feeling he just entered a tomb as the guards escorted him to his cabin. The submarine maneuvered away from the ship, sliding silently beneath the waves.

St. John gingerly fingered his bandaged ear and transmitted the following scrambled message from his quarters, “Arctic Wolf.  Do you copy? Over.”

After a slight pause, the familiar voice responded, “I assume the transfer of the cargo is complete.”

“Affirmative.”

“You two have performed satisfactorily.  Miya, open the case on the table in front of you,” the voice commanded. “You deserve it.  Enjoy.” The conversation ended abruptly.

Miya unlatched the aluminum case, gently removing the black box from the padded cushion it rested upon. Long, slender fingers stroked the cover of her gift. St. John watched in fascination, amazed, her reactions sensual in the way she caressed the closed container.  Her soft pink tongue lightly grazed her lips, moistening them, her pupils dilated in anticipation. She held her breath momentarily and then expelled it, gently lifting the lid to reveal her prize. A small blue light lit the interior of the package, followed quickly by an orange one that winked on, tempting her.  The detonator was armed. She could wait no longer.  Her eyes blinked rapidly.  Sucking in a quick breath, Miya stroked the small switch.

The lumbering vessel continued on its course, heading to a destination in the warmer waters of the Pacific. Jimmy Page enjoyed the taste of his new freedom. He languished over a breakfast of champagne and caviar, unaffected by the rough seas. Thanks to video, he was watching the latest NBA game.  His bet was on the Bulls. No team stood a chance against Jordan.

Two decks below the hostages were detained in separate quarters; enlisted personnel in one area, officers and civilians together in another.  Both groups attempted to come up with a reasonable means of escape. Since coming on board, they found none. Each plan carried the weight of many lives and no guarantees. Their treatment so far surpassed any expectations by the hostages. Quite possibly, they might be spared if they did nothing. It would have been easy to kill them and leave them behind, or drop them into the frigid ocean waters. The chance of survival dangled on an unraveling thread.

Over the past twenty-six hours, Kim Sun, the North Korean captain of the ship, had gone without sleep. His blood-shot eyes burned from watching the radarscopes and overseeing the steering of the vessel in heavy seas. He did not dare let himself relax. He had too much at stake. His days at sea were coming to a close. Five hundred thousand dollars, his payment, would make him a rich man.

With the departure of the man and woman now complete, he regained control of his ship. In a few more hours, after the rendezvous with the other vessel, he would relish the enjoyment of undisturbed slumber.  Kim Sun was momentarily dumbfounded at the escalating rumble coming from deep within the ship. The cacophony of sound spread rapidly throughout his entire vessel. Speechless, the full effect of the untoward event paralyzed him. His life flashed quickly.

A quizzical expression crossed Dr. Richard Stein's face, then an awareness of what was about to ensue launched a scream that reverberated within the confines of the steel hull. Major Donnelly hung his head, quickly saying a prayer for his men. Enlisted members of the project had mixed reactions; some uttered curses, some cried out. A few laughed, knowing their fate. All hope of survival suddenly vanished.

The rumble quickly escalated into a deafening roar, filling each person with the knowledge they had but a moment to live. The explosion delivered by the shape charges performed perfectly.  Some minimal damage to decks above the bilge occurred in the initial blast. However, the catastrophic force of three hundred pounds of C-4 explosive completely blew the bottom from the aging vessel. The ship's forward progress only made the inevitable happen more quickly.

Black, near freezing waters rushed upward through the interior of the ship. Contact between the boilers and the icy waters caused a secondary explosion that tore apart the stern of the ship, killing all H.A.A.R.P. personnel instantly, sparing them a more horrific death. The sea coursed rapidly into the freighter, eagerly taking lives.

*     *     *

Jimmy Page rose from his chair to see a huge fireball flinging pieces of the ship skyward in all directions.

He had nowhere to go.

No escape.

Water rose quickly over the decks.  Page reached for the green bottle and swallowed a last taste of champagne. Comprehension of the double-cross assailed him. Sucked into a trap, blinded by his greed, he would never live to spend the blood money.  He laughed without feeling while the sea rushed in to surround and silence him, claiming another victim.

Sounds of tortured, twisting metal filled the interior of the submarine, indicating the explosion sent the doomed vessel into her death throes. Miya relished the thought of the terror on board. A soft, low moan emitted from deep within, her eyes closed, her body shuddered, a delicious smile spread across her face, sated by the destruction she perpetrated. Salaciously, she enjoyed the moment, reading St. John's thoughts. She peered at him with a glazed look, satisfaction framing her face. Miya turned and left his room, laughter filling the hallway.

St. John watched in amazement, bewildered by her venereous pleasures. He had killed many times, rarely finding enjoyment. Rather, certain jobs needed doing and he simply complied. The Wolf Pack leader wondered what made her tick.

Chapter Nine

January 2008

Hidden in the shadows of the Caucasus Mountains, the village of Kremusch waited expectantly.  On clear days, a breathtaking view of the Caspian Sea awaited all those willing to take time. Majestic peaks around the town offered a beautiful backdrop for painting a picturesque scene of the small village. Now, villagers saw little each day except the snow filled skies and fog settling in around them.

Yuri Mishnovod stepped out into the frozen morning air.  Gray skies hung heavy with the threat of another blizzard. Each morning brought only more of the same. No sunlight, no hint of clearing. Snow began to fall the previous September.  By November, the roads leading into the village became impassable. Now, the middle of January, the possibility of several more months of winter brought sadness to Yuri Mishnovod.

Fate brought this man a position he had not wanted. As their leader, he felt obligated to find assurances to renew the people's spirit. Each day with words of encouragement, Yuri spoke to these villagers he had known his entire life, attempting to offer each some hope.  The difficulty grew as the days passed. They looked at him knowingly.  In their eyes, the truth revealed itself. Many would die this year.  With each new day, hope faded and the sound of his words rang hollow even to himself. Yuri wondered if he would survive.

Once again Yuri Mishnovod began his trek through the village streets. Harsh winds blew swirling, powdery snow into white misty veils, conjuring up many unpleasant memories. When the snows first came, men gathered to talk about how it would end and the roads open. There would be food for all again. As time passed, the look on the faces of the villagers told the tale of their plight. Perhaps another month at most, and what little food supply there was, would vanish.

The few horses and cattle could provide some sustenance though not nearly enough for the remainder of the winter.  When the animals were gone, only one course presented itself. Yuri shuddered at the thought, a wave of nausea overwhelming him. Would they be able to do it once the food ran out? Questions he was unwilling to face hunkered in the back of his mind. Images of the dead came to life, their flesh stripped, food for the living. He forced himself to forget it. 

Yuri wondered why no assistance came.  He had no way of knowing that the entire region was inundated with vast amounts of snowfall. Already many had died, cut off from the outside world.  No way existed to reach the starving masses; for the dead it did not matter anymore.

Katiana's familiar voice called out to him from her doorway, “Good morning, Yuri.”  Her face, round, beaming its ever cheerful smile, warmed him in spite of the chilling weather.  Soft brown eyes beckoned him from underneath a scarf tied around her dark hair.

His hand flew up in a wave as he replied, “Good morning to you, Katiana.”

“I have made some tea. Would you care for any?” she asked.

How could he resist the offer?  Hot black tea waited for Yuri beside Katiana's hearth. A few moments to take his mind off the troubles of the village would not be so bad. He enjoyed the company of this woman. His wife died three years before from an illness that had spread through Kremusch. Yuri longed for the soft touch, the smell of a woman, especially on cold winter nights. He hoped Katiana felt the same. He planned to ask her to marry him, if they survived the winter. 

The aroma of fresh bread wafted toward him from the open door, providing an appetizing greeting. The pleasant warmth inside her home helped erase the painful memory of his wife. Shaking off a white powdery covering from his heavy wool coat, Yuri shut out the winter behind the closed door.

Jagged summits rose high above the village, lost in a shroud of gray winter clouds that continually released their snowy burden onto the mountains below.  More snow fell over the past two months than in an entire winter season. It clung desperately to the craggy peaks, looming as a menacing presence to the unsuspecting people in Kremusch.

The mountain watched silently.

It could do no more.

The first bits of ice and snow meandered down the mountainside and stopped. Silence crept across the frozen peaks. The wind stilled in anticipation. All too quickly it began again. The weight of tons of snow became too much. In an instant, the side of the mountain relinquished its hold on its burden. An unstoppable wall of snow and ice plummeted down the face of the slopes in a maddening race. Within moments it reached a speed of ninety miles per hour.  The massive avalanche plowed into the tree line above the town, snapping trees like matchsticks, tearing them from the frozen earth. This unthinking white wall of death destroyed instantly.  Nothing in front of it survived.

The strong tea tasted good. He sipped it carefully, watching her movements. So graceful, he thought. The idea spread his mouth into a wide grin. Yuri Mishnovod laughed to himself. 

Love.

Katiana turned toward him, a crimson glow kissing her cheeks. Then her hand trembled. The knife fell. Yuri noticed the expression, masking the smile that lit her features only moments ago. A look of concern fell over him. His ears perked, now aware of an unfamiliar sound. Without warning the shock of what was about to happen exposed itself. Fear, clawing insidiously, tearing at their inner core, clutched them, and her smile vanished.

Katiana hurriedly followed Yuri outside. The wind whipped at her heavy coat, pushing her.  She felt her feet slip in the snowy street and Yuri's hand's catching her.  His strong arms pulled her up effortlessly, still running forward. Katiana's world slowed, each moment stretching into hours. Voices became distorted, fading as the increasing din of the approaching avalanche moved closer.

Already, others stood poised outside their homes.  Some gathered in the streets, listening and watching. They all hoped. Yet all knew. Children clung to their mother's legs, crying, frightened. Several people called out Yuri's name, searching for guidance. 

Wind blown snow blinded the villagers, eyes straining against the gray-white backdrop. The earth trembled beneath their feet.  Then, it appeared, a monster fulfilling their worst fears. Racing with furious abandon it bore down on the hapless village, its frenzied roar growing louder.  The wall of ravenous destruction slammed into the village, obliterating everything in its path.

With only moments left, Yuri pulled her close, gently laying her head on his shoulder.  Never more would he gaze into those soft brown eyes of Katiana. He held her tightly, vainly shielding the woman from the coming death and whispered his love for her. 

Lost in the clamorous bedlam, she never heard his words. Yuri felt her body ripped from his by the impact. The cascading avalanche threw him into the air, tossing him effortlessly, pummeling his body, and draining it of life. The entire village ceased to be. Starvation no longer awaited the mountain people of Kremusch. Now they did not have to face the horrors of cannibalism. Perhaps, it was best this way. 

The avalanche finally played out its life, appeased. It no longer had the capacity to kill and to destroy indiscriminately.  Across the mountains the thunder faded into silence. No one would discover what happened to the village until long after the snows melted. Only ghosts stilled by winter's tragic drama knew and they would remain forever silent.

Chapter Ten

February 2008

Storm systems besieged the western coast of South America. Relentlessly, rain fell in endless quantities hammering the land, swelling rivers and flooding the countryside. Mudslides roared down on unsuspecting villages, burying lives without regard. Homes and villages were swept away leaving little trace of their existence. Highways ravaged by the ceaseless downpours crumbled, leaving many mountainous roads impassable. Farmers watched helplessly as fields inundated by the torrential soakings turned into muddy swamps, destroying their livelihoods. It seemed as quickly as the rains came, they mysteriously ended. The daily struggle to survive the onslaught of destruction plagued the peoples of the region. When would the rains finally end? No one knew.

Among the Ecuadorians, the elders held whispered conversations about the ancient gods exacting revenge on the people. Although many were a mix of Spanish and Indian, the once proud blood of the Incas still coursed through their veins. Now mainly Catholic, most people no longer followed the old traditions. Yet, still some believed the ancient gods brought the curse that plagued them now, their penitence for turning away from the generations old ways. No other explanation satisfied them.

Twenty-one year old Maria Santos would hear none of it.  Her faith did not allow for such talk. Besides, her thoughts focused on the wedding celebration of her friend, Luisa Ortiz, as she packed a bag, eager to leave Turon. 

Maria stepped in front of the mirror, holding up the red, hand-made dress she would wear.  Long, dark braids hung past her shoulders as a brown smiling face admired itself. Turning slowly side-to-side, she thought about the young man, Javier.  Louisa introduced Maria to him some time ago. The memory of that moment still rested on her heart. He was handsome. Perhaps Javier might ask her to dance. Maria laughed out loud, finishing her task. She walked through the house placing her paja toquilla tightly on her head. Strong gusty winds were blowing and she did not want to damage her best straw hat.

No rain fell as Maria hurriedly walked to meet the bus to Cantar. The trip normally took about two hours but with the weather, it might possibly take longer.  She climbed aboard the bus, its paint faded and peeling from years of neglect. Brakes squealed in a high-pitched whine each time the driver slowed along the mountainous road. Expertly, the man maneuvered the creaking vehicle, jostling along the highway, stopping at one point to allow a truck to pass where rains erased a small section of road. The remainder of the journey was uneventful and filled with expectation for Maria Santos.

The young woman caught a glimpse of Cantar in the green valley below, as the aging vehicle followed the twisting, sloping road toward its destination. A ray of sunlight leaked from behind the clouds, soon followed by another.  Maria Santos wiped away the smudges on the grimy window.  For her efforts, patches of blue sky unveiled themselves to her.  She struggled with the rusted window until she pulled it down. A refreshing coolness filled the bus.  Clouds evaporated. Her prayers to the Virgin were being answered.  Surely it was a good omen for the wedding.

Miraculously, the weather remained clear and people rejoiced for more than just the marriage of the newlyweds. Maria rejoiced too. The wedding was a splendid event and Luisa Ortiz made a beautiful bride. Maria enjoyed the reception and the dances with Javier.  The young man had grown even more handsome than she remembered. When they were finally alone, he stole a kiss in the shadows while they thought no one noticed. Maria's head spun with excitement. Her world danced, her heart sang.

The bad weather returned with a vengeance two days later.  Howling winds and rains deluged Cantar.  Small muddy rivers formed, working their way through the streets. Reluctantly, Maria made her way to the bus. By the time she arrived, her clothing soaked from the downpour made her cold and miserable.

One look at the bus for the ride home made concern for her safety grow.  This vehicle looked much worse than the one she arrived on. Wiper blades labored at a frantic pace, attempting to clear the rain-splattered windshield. Spots of rust dotted the aging wreck, like leprous sores devouring flesh. White smoke spewed from the tail pipe, exhaling the wheezing engine's exhaust. Maria stared hesitantly before entering. The mustachioed driver, annoyed with her delay, furiously waved her onboard. She quickly asked a blessing for herself and the handful of other travelers already seated.

With great skill, the driver coaxed the rusting hulk along the highway.  Rains fell even harder and Maria prayed the driver would bring them safely home. She saw nothing outside the window as water poured down and the glass filled with condensation on the inside.

Worn tires lost their tenuous grip on the slick surface causing the bus to fishtail on more than one occasion. Shouts of panic arose from the passengers. Somehow, the driver managed to keep them from sliding over the edge of the high cliffs. 

Lightning flashed in an arc of brilliant white light, filling the afternoon sky.  A thunderous roar echoed across the mountain.  The young woman crossed herself and said a prayer to Mary.  She eyed the other passengers, most of them nervously watching the driver and praying there would be no more problems.

Another agonizing hour passed and then Maria found herself standing alone. The sound of the laboring bus engine faded in the distance. The rains had ceased. She carefully avoided the puddles, walking the mud filled road to her home.

Two miles away an earthen dam outside the town of Turon held back the rising water.  Once nearly dry, the reservoir now could hold little more. Tons of water pressure strained against the earth as more water poured in from the surrounding slopes. Strong winds pushing the water against the dam sent it lapping over the edge, taxing the earthen works even more.

The ground, well past its saturation point, finally gave way to a small rivulet of muddy water that worked its way out the barrier's face. Soon another trickled out a few feet away.  A small fissure erupted, sending a cascade of water and mud down the embankment into the riverbed. The opening caused by the rent allowed streams of water to pour from the dam, splitting the earth in several other places. Relentless pressure became too much, the ground loosened and gave way.  In an instant, the entire face of the dam disappeared. No longer confined, millions of gallons of raging brown water bore down on the town where Maria Santos lived.

Maria cocked her head. A bewildered look took root and flared across her face at the preternatural sound. At first, it merely whispered in the distance. Most people took no notice. A few walked casually out of their homes, uncertain of the strange noise. Others milled about in the streets like small animals unsure of a lurking danger. 

Maria ran for home, frightened by the steadily increasing roar.  Her arms and legs pumped furiously carrying her closer to her family.  Fear kept her from looking at the approaching menace. Yet she needed to know.  Screams filled the air behind her, and quickly dissolved in the thunderous pandemonium. Panting from the exertion, she stopped and turned, only to view an unimaginable sight. Wide eyed with terror, Maria stood awe struck, no longer able to move.

An eighteen foot wall of mud and water ripped into the town, catching it unaware of the destruction bent on erasing any trace of its being. Maria watched helplessly as homes vanished. People and animals were sucked up and tossed about like toys in the violent floodwaters.

Time seemed to slow for the young woman, her mind compensating for the inevitable. Petrified, she stood, arms dangling limply at her sides. Her suitcase dropped from her fingers, spilling its contents into the street. Some of her clothing blew about in the strong winds. Now splattered with droplets of mud, Maria's beautiful red dress lay crumpled in a pile.

Resigned to her fate, she stared unblinkingly at the angry wall of water rushing to devour her.  Maria closed her eyes at the last moment, praying for salvation. Sounding like hideous evil laughter the clamor of the rushing torrent captured her, sweeping her away. 

She felt nothing.

Just like the other living things that once inhabited the town of Turon, they were only memories.

Chapter Eleven

Seattle, Washington, March 2008

Oversized white china plates were whisked away from the crisp linen tablecloth once they finished their gourmet meal. Martin's, noted for its seafood, provided Bryson McGann with another exquisite dining experience. The Dungeness crab's succulent flavor, enhanced by a special white wine sauce created by Chef Martin, lingered on his palate.

The waiter soon returned. “Would you gentlemen care for dessert or after dinner drinks?”

“I'll have the special house-blended coffee, black,” McGann replied. A black silk turtleneck encased by a finely tailored Harris Tweed jacket hid the lean, muscular body of Bryson McGann. His six foot, one inch frame belied the two hundred and twelve pounds it carried. Coarse brown hair lay above a set of expressive hazel eyes capable of emotion and at the same time impenetrable. They possessed a knowing far beyond the capability of most. His voice was strong, filled with a familiarity, yet instantly demanding one's attention.  “How about you, T. C.?”

Joseph “Two Crows” Canton, NESSA's Assistant Projects Director, looked at the waiter, “Hennessy, VSOP, please.”  Violet Italian silk, tied in a perfect Windsor knot, fell from the collar of the crisply starched shirt. An expensive gray woolen suit, fitted to perfection, covered his massive torso. Canton turned, peering out the window of Martin's restaurant on Puget Sound. “That's something I never tire of seeing,” he said. Fully a head taller than the man seated across from him, Canton's thick body left no doubt of his strength. An infectious vitality resonated from the big man, and for most who met him, an instant bond formed with his easy nature.

The Sound was alive with activity.  Ferries plied the waters unceasingly, day and night.  Seaplanes landed frequently, carrying tourists and businessmen alike to their destinations. Seattle hummed, riding a wave of expansion. The city's tremendous growth over the last ten years brought numerous problems. Residents braved increasing traffic, a burgeoning population, and a host of other problems, resigning them to live with these trials on a daily basis. Yet, Seattle remained a vibrantly beautiful city. 

Overhead lighting indirectly lit their faces. Mirrored reflections of the two handsomely rugged men stared back from the darkness in the restaurant's window.  Each different, yet tied with a family bond that held fast over the years; the men, more than friends, had grown like brothers since childhood. The waiter brought the two men their orders, placing it on the table before them. McGann leaned back in his chair, savoring the aroma from the steaming coffee, letting it fill his senses. He sipped the dark liquid, its richness fulfilling.

“So Bry, how's Ashlyn?” Canton asked, almost shyly.

“Thought you'd never ask,” McGann chuckled. A straight nose hovered above a set of full lips that formed into a slightly lopsided grin, curling up at the right corner.  “Actually, I haven't seen her for a couple of weeks. She stays pretty busy at the project. But just before I came back yesterday, she sent a note for me to give you.” 

Canton reached for it.

“Something sweet, T.C.?” McGann chided his lifelong friend, observing Canton's reaction intently.

Canton's large hands carefully opened the envelope, unfolding the stationary.  Eagerly, “T.C.” read the brief message.  “Please convey my same feelings to her.  I'll be flying out the day after tomorrow,” Joseph Canton stated as a matter of fact. He brought the glass snifter to his mouth and inhaled the fragrance of the heady libation, savoring the fragrance of the brown liquid before tasting it.

A booming laugh erupted from Bryson McGann. “Ever since we were kids, you've never been much for words. In light of that, I'd say you've got it pretty bad for the good Dr. Sanders.  Would that be a correct assumption, big brother?”

Canton's eyes rose above the rim of his glass. “Your intuitiveness is matched only by your discerning eye, little brother.”

“Is that another Indian saying, or something you just made up?” Bryson asked tauntingly.

The two men laughed, sharing between them a lifetime of memories.

“What time are you flying out tomorrow, Bry?” Canton asked.

“0630. Looks like good weather.”

Canton's pager interrupted their conversation while he sipped another taste of his cognac. A name and phone number appeared on the screen. “That's the page I expected earlier.  Never a dull moment in this job.”

McGann refilled his cup from the silver coffee pot sitting on the crisp white linen. “I'd say Assistant Projects Director for the National Earth Seas Science Agency isn't too bad for someone thirty-four.”

“It keeps me busy.  If I wasn't, I'd probably be getting into more trouble with you, in some remote corner of the world. I'm getting too old for that,” Canton grinned. He pulled the slim phone from his coat pocket and tapped a memory keypad, instantly dialing the local number.  T.C. spoke briefly before cutting the connection.  “Look, I've got to run. I'll see you in a couple of days out at Billings. Next dinner's on me. Thanks, little brother.”

The two men grasped each other's hands. “See you soon, Bry.”

“Be good,” McGann replied.

Muted conversations from nearby tables hung thickly in the air, surrounding him, invading his thoughts. The waiter returned with the receipt, thanking him for the tip. McGann took one last swallow of the excellent coffee and walked outside into the foggy night air.  The teeth of a cold March wind bit into him, blowing in from across the waters of Puget Sound. Far across the water, a ship's horn wailed hauntingly in the murky darkness.

Bryson McGann climbed into the leather seat of his black Hummer. The turbocharged diesel engine roared to life as he turned the key. Gripping the wheel, McGann jockeyed the massive vehicle into traffic, accelerating past Martin's. Weaving his way through the lanes, he took a right on Broad and another on Denny.  A surge of growth seemed to change Seattle's skyline on a daily basis. Lights from well-lit office buildings shone like beacons in the darkness above the city.  Over his left shoulder, Seattle's trademark Space Needle glowed eerily in the mist, hovering serenely as it had for more than forty years above the town's citizens.

The steady pulse of the Hummer's engine faded as the familiar voice sprouted from the disc player, singing about rum drinks and sailboats somewhere in the lower latitudes. The catchy calypso beat helped pass the time. His luck held. McGann made most of the lights without stopping between the restaurant and the interstate. The vehicle growled with acceleration, speeding up the entrance ramp to I-5 and headed north. From there, it was only a short drive to his residence overlooking Lake Washington.

Chapter Twelve

Pacific Ocean - Equator

Years at sea brought him a certain kind of wisdom about men and life. It taught him what it took to command a ship. His crew knew him to be one who expected a job to be done right, but a fair and honest man, too. Nothing happened aboard the vessel he did not know about. The Orion was a part of him and he treated her with great respect.

Eric Lars fit the stereotypical image of a seaman, scanning the horizon from the port rail of the forecastle. Lars inhaled deeply, lingering over and enjoying the sea's scented smell. Once blonde, now graying hair surrounded a weathered face, courtesy of his vocation. A light breeze ruffled his white beard.  Crow's feet etched the corners of his strong, gray eyes. This tall figure of a man found pleasure in command. He was at peace on the ocean.

Near perfect weather offered smooth sailing for Captain Eric Lars and his valuable cargo.  The trip from California to the tropics was a run he could almost accomplish in his sleep. After six years, he still had not tired of the job. Rather, Eric Lars' past knew of longer voyages and ships incomparable to the Orion. His friends would hear him jokingly say he captained a cruise ship. It seemed that way sometimes. When the Orion left its California port, Lars knew he would return in fourteen days. The run was five days out, five back and four on station. Vancouver Space Technologies paid him extremely well for his services. Retirement loomed over the nearing horizon and he would have the means to enjoy it to its fullest. Eric Lars had no complaints.

Over the course of thirty-two years, he had sailed on and captained many vessels. By far and away, the Orion was the best.  She had known no other captain at her helm. Built in Bremerhaven, completed in 2002, the two hundred and eighty-seven foot long ship was a marvel of engineering.

Just looking at the black-hulled vessel's sleek lines offered the appearance of a very fast ship. Two massive turbo-diesel engines generated 5800 horsepower each, enough to push her top speed to an impressive thirty-six knots. At first glance, one might confuse the Orion for a privately owned ocean-going luxury yacht with her angled bridge and knife-like bow.  One look at the top deck indicated another purpose besides pleasurable cruises. This deck housed an impressive array of antennae. Some were used for navigational purposes, and others for satellite tracking once the rockets were launched from the ocean platform.

Only the latest technology available graced the interior of the ship. Some of the equipment had been designed specifically for the Orion. Because of that, it took only half the normal crew to maintain a ship of her size. Computers controlled everything on board from water temperature in the showers to engine output efficiency. 

The bridge's computer guidance system could steer her accurately to within fifty feet of any spot on earth. Digitally controlled systems received constant updates on various types of information from wave height to wind direction. Sensors in the hull determined water pressure against it, constantly relaying data. All this data allowed for instantaneous adjustments in course and engine speed, keeping her steady in all types of weather.  With the added benefit of over the horizon radar, satellite navigation, and anti-collision warning, there was little the Orion could not do. The end result, the ship could almost sail through a hurricane without anyone at the controls. Sometimes, Lars wondered why they needed a captain at all. He didn't care enough to ask.

Below decks, two Russian Zenit 4XL rockets lay in secured storage, precious cargo already stored in the nose cones.  An excess of the relatively inexpensive rockets and proven reliability made them an excellent choice for the appointed task. The Zenit's capability for carrying up to three satellites was an added bonus.

The green people were pleased with the Zenit 4XL. Its fuel of kerosene and liquid oxygen, when burned, left a simple by-product, water vapor and carbon dioxide. From an environmental standpoint, it offered many advantages.  Since launching took place at sea, no people or villages stood in harm's way.  There were no protesters from Green Peace or other groups to hamper launches. This kept the investors and the company happy.  Eric Lars wondered at the past events that brought him to be in his current position.

The idea for launching a rocket from a sea base was by no means a novel idea. The deck of an aircraft carrier became the first sea launch site, after World War II, in nineteen forty-nine.  German scientists helped the U. S. Navy successfully launch a V-2 German rocket. Between the years of nineteen sixty-seven and nineteen eight-eight, a joint effort by Italy and the United States resulted in the launching of numerous rockets from a converted oilrig platform off the coast of Kenya, in Fuji Bay.  The successful tests never materialized into much more.

In the mid-nineteen eighties, an Australian group attempted development of an international spaceport near Cape York, off the northeast coast of Australia.  The venture caught the attention of many prominent investors. The idea looked profitable and promising. However, speculation concerning the failure of the business revolved around rumors implicating the work of one of several different governments.  The idea of international terrorists involvement caught more than a few people's attention. Many believed the stringent cost cutting measures implemented by the company resulted in its failure. The skeptics never liked the project to begin with, and long before predicted its demise. However, the real cause of the dismal failure lay buried along with the key figures that helped bring about an end to the business.

Others tried, yet many failed to establish themselves as a viable space industry.  Based in Kourou, French Guinea, the European Space Agency hoped to develop a lucrative launch site. Through the years, ESA overcame a number of obstacles.  New technology provided the company with the Ariane Five, capable of carrying greater payloads. On the first launching of this rocket, trouble developed with the inertial guidance system. Improper computer software intentionally installed in its computers brought about the Ariane Five's destruction thirty seconds after lift off..  Fiery debris rained down on nearby villages, along with toxic chemicals. ESA came under intense media fire, causing its investors to reevaluate decisions.

The Chinese experienced their share of failures. Unproven technology and the help of those who did not want to see China as a country with a space program slowed the efforts of the Communist country. The Chinese enterprise withered.

Russia's space program faced its own share of difficulties.  At Baikonur Cosmodrome, in Kazakstan, launch failures were a common occurrence. Saboteurs had caused many of these failures and the destruction of numerous rockets in the upper atmosphere.

Similar problems plagued other firms, quickly bringing about their demise. While ESA and a couple of other companies remained in business, new investors, wary of the failures, shied away.  Consequently, these space programs never materialized into the businesses stockholders expected.

Near the end of 1998, Ocean Launch Systems, a newcomer in the business, sent a rocket into space from its own sea base. A team of international rocket scientists and a consortium of businesses spearheaded funding for the project. Fees charged for placing a satellite into orbit ranged from forty-five to one hundred and twenty million U. S. dollars. With the expected success of the business, investors smiled. The prospect of lucrative payoffs made it an extremely attractive although risky venture. The owners of Ocean Launch Systems discriminated against no one. They were businessmen. Money was money.  It mattered little where the cash came from. If there were those willing to pay the fees, they provided the needed service.

Ocean Launch System's design for a launch platform, borrowed from existing oilrig technology, had many advancements.  The Japanese were the first to design motorized oilrigs. Once built, the rigs would propel themselves wherever needed. This offered many advantages over the old style platform rigs. The newest floating structure, the latest in platform technology, was an engineering marvel.  Given its stability in rough seas, the housing of more equipment and personnel was a benefit far outweighing production costs.

Nineteen months after the first successful launch, the unthinkable happened. A tremendous explosion ripped apart a rocket, minutes before launch. The propellant, kerosene and liquid oxygen, ignited, creating a firestorm that blasted through the command center with searing heat, vaporizing everyone instantly.  The transformation of the platform's upper deck into a blazing twisted mass of steel left hysterical survivors scrambling for their lives on the two decks below.  Normally, the platform's stability would have been unaffected by the initial blast. Somehow, a second massive explosion occurred within moments of the first, causing the stabilizing pontoons to fail. The rig sank thousands of feet into the inky depths of the Pacific Ocean. No survivors remained.

Days later, the company dispatched a ship with an ROV, a remotely operated vehicle, to the scene. The mini-sub, capable of great depths, slid below the blue waters of the Pacific and made its descent onto the wreckage. Live video enabled the technician to steer the ROV to its destination. It took some time, but once the vehicle found the remains of twisted metal, it became evident why the launching platform failed. Inside the command center of the surface ship, a video screen played out the silent otherworldly scene. Twin beams of light moved across the remains of the pontoons, revealing large jagged, gaping holes caused by the explosion. In a short period of time they filled with water, sinking the platform like a stone.  Little doubt remained why the rig sank.

A news reporter aboard the ship interrupted televised programming around the world. In major cities and homes, televisions flashed live images of the platform's destruction. Rumors quickly circulated about what group was responsible for the sabotage. No answers surfaced. The apparent demise of the space industry seemed more than coincidence. Several months later, most people forgot about the incident. The cause of the intriguing mishap remained unsolved, the perpetrators unfound.

Technology evolved in the twenty-first century, permitting routine digital communication transmission through satellites. Phone and television lines became obsolete. Telecommunications' rapid growth, especially into third world countries, rode a tidal wave of expansion. Better technology meant more satellites were needed to handle the world's demands. The market was wide open and Vancouver Space Technologies meant to have its share. 

The first viable ocean launch platform's total destruction nearly ended the idea of sending orbital vehicles into space from sea until

Vancouver Space Technologies stepped in with an influx of cash and ready technology.  VST drew investors back to the project with promises and a sound business plan. Stockholders, assured more safeguards were included in the rocket launch program, and the fact they were a subsidiary of Durnulqc Enterprises, made the idea an attractive gamble.

*     *     *

Jacques Durnulqc founded his company in 1842. Jacques' son, Philippe, expanded it by mining the Northwest Territory and the Yukon for gold, and eventually other ores. Investments grew and the Durnulqc enterprises began operations globally.  There seemed no end to the company's “Midas Touch.” 

More and more, the Durnulqc's expanded into other developments with the advent of growing technologies. Each venture brought success, filling the company's coffers.  Over a period of one hundred and sixty-eight years, they built an empire of industries and wealth, keeping it involved in a tangled web of business ventures, partnerships, and takeovers, occupying an army of attorneys seven days a week.

Chapter Thirteen

Pacific Launch Site

“Captain to the bridge please,” the Orion's first officer, Gunther Meir, spoke over the intercom.

Lars stirred from his thoughts. He knew what the call meant, it was just part of the routine. Roger Sterns would want to know the Orion's estimated time of arrival at the launch platform. Lars emitted a sigh of exasperation, gave one last look across the vast ocean, and made his way from the bow to his assigned duty.  He detested the rat-faced, little man, always scurrying about, involving himself in other's affairs.

On his arrival to the bridge, the captain gave Meir a quick nod, picking up the handset of the radio.

“Lars here,” his Scandinavian accent rolling across his tongue.

“Morning Eric.” Sterns' greeting never changed. “Hope you’re well,” the dock master's shrill voice called out.

“Yes, Roger, I'm fine.  Dispense with the pleasantries this morning,” the captain answered, annoyed by the interruption. Before Roger Sterns could say anything else, Lars continued, “The Orion will dock at precisely 1320 hours. Are there any other questions, Roger?”

Sterns replied, “Please be sure to follow proper docking procedures upon arrival. The last time you arrived you...”

“Yes, Yes,” the captain replied tersely.  “I will be sure to follow all your rules and regulations. Orion, out.” He turned to his first officer, “That furunculous little man is a pain in my ass.”

Peter Meir broke into a wide smile. “Ja. Every trip the same thing,” his heavily accented voice touted. “You'd think after this long, the man would have something more clever to say,” the first officer remarked.

“I don't know why I let him irritate me so much,” the captain replied, mulling it over.  “Maybe, Peter, he should come sailing with us.”  A mischievous shadow mushroomed into a smirky grin. “We could show him a little bit about life at sea. What do you think, Mr. Meir?”  The two men erupted into booming laughter. 

From a distance of three miles, Eric Lars viewed the incredible piece of man-made machinery.  It reminded him of a great mythical beast rising up from the ocean's depths. The one hundred and fifty thousand square foot upper deck hovered three hundred feet above the Pacific Ocean. A four-story building, housing a communications center and living quarters, sat on one end of the top deck. On each side of the building, twin red and white spires towered another one hundred and fifty feet sending and receiving an assortment of transmissions. Ten massive pillars, supporting the structure, rode atop two pontoons over five hundred feet in length.

The Orion followed all the proper procedures. The ship docked at precisely 1320 hours, dwarfed by the launch platform. An army of workers made preparations to unload the Orion's cargo.  Doors at the stern of the ship opened, enabling huge cranes to raise the Zenits into the hangar on the upper deck. Already, a rocket sat poised on the platform awaiting the next day's early morning launch. The pointed nose of the one hundred and ninety-eight foot vehicle aimed toward a cloudless blue sky.  Technicians ran through a multitude of checklists ensuring the scheduled launch would proceed according to plan. Lars watched the finely tuned operation, amazed at the efficiency.

The Orion rode the calm seas of early morning one mile from the launch platform. With personnel evacuated and on board, the ship became VST's floating command center.  The rocket's computer controlled guidance, telemetry, and eventual downrange flight were monitored from the Orion. A lift off from the equator, in the direction of the earth's rotation, would give the vehicle an added boost in obtaining orbital velocity of about seventeen thousand miles per hour.  This equated to more propellant boosting the satellite, and allowing a greater payload of electronics as well.

The first light of day rimmed the eastern horizon, a sliver of orange rising imperceptibly, waiting to reveal itself to the world.  Golden fingers shot out across the deep blue waters of the Pacific, erasing remnants of the fading darkness. Soft light bathed the decks of the Orion, while the humid air of the tropics hung in a cloak over the early morning.

From its onboard position, a team of technicians monitored all aspects of launch coverage. Banks of computer terminals displayed a myriad of technical data. A large flat screen, covering almost the entire length of one wall, indicated the projected flight paths of the vehicle. Each subsequent revolution of the earth, displayed in different colors, indicated precisely where the satellites would be released into orbit. Vancouver Space Technology's satellite would be last.  

Mission control supervisor, Frank Retter, kept a close eye on all aspects of the imminent launch. “Mission sequence proceeding as planned. T minus 30 seconds.  We are a go for launch. “  The familiar voice reverberated on the Orion's PA system.  Seconds ticked by.

“All systems go. T minus 10 seconds and counting.”

Lars, along with most of the ship's crew, stared in rapt fascination at what was about to happen. Eager eyed sailors stood transfixed, waiting for the moment.

Retter's voice again cut into the still morning, “Begin ignition sequence. T minus four, three.”  Even at a distance of two miles Retter's voice was drowned out by the deafening roar of the rocket's engines. A thunderous explosion belched from the bottom of the Zenit rocket, steadily intensifying in volume. A fiery light, rivaling the sun's brilliance, lit the early morning sky.  Slowly at first, the man-made fire-bird rose from the platform. White clouds of billowing smoke rolled out, spreading across the waters. The rocket continued unerringly on its prescribed course, gaining speed, the sound of the powerful engine growing fainter, streaking through the eastern sky.

Lars sipped strong black tea from the starboard taffrail of the bridge, watching the rocket. The Zenit quickly flew downrange, becoming lost from sight in a matter of minutes. A fading white contrail remained the only hint of the rocket's existence.

No longer able to see the launch vehicle, Eric Lars turned and entered the bridge to begin his daily duties. Over the next three days this scene would be repeated two more times. There were two telecommunications satellites for an up and coming African nation.  One weather satellite for the Chilean government, and another for Durnulqc Enterprises to map possible mining sites in the Northwest Territories.

Chapter Fourteen

Billings Seamount

Sunlight glinted off the windscreen as Bryson McGann watched the Olympic peninsula disappear from sight behind the aircraft's tail. Allison T406-AD-400 engines droned with a steady hum as they propelled the MV-22 Osprey out over the water.  The second generation of Ospreys began service in 2002 with the Marine Corps. The twin-engine plane offered a pilot the horizontal flight of fixed wing aircraft, and the vertical lift capabilities of a helicopter.  National Earth Seas Science Agency obtained several and in McGann's opinion, they were the perfect choice for the work at the Billings seamount.

Through dark green lenses of his aviator glasses, the pilot viewed the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Visibility appeared limitless from his vantage point at sixteen thousand feet. Puffs of white cotton drifted lazily across the azure sky in all directions, while whitecaps licked the tops of the rolling waves below.  After making a quick check of the instrumentation panel, rechecking navigational guidance for the proper heading, McGann switched on the autopilot, releasing the steering controls.

Since flight time of more than an hour remained, he wanted to review the syllabus of Ashlyn Sanders’ presentation.  Dr. Sanders would be one of several people addressing the meeting. Representatives of government agencies, private industry, and numerous NESSA officials planned on attending the meeting.

She had sent a note asking for Bryson's opinion on a couple of matters for several reasons. In part, the exploration of the seamount dealt with his area of expertise, marine bio-geological sciences. Ashlyn knew he would provide her with an honest answer, more importantly though, Sanders trusted him. She considered him a friend, even though they met less than three months ago. Adjusting himself in the seat, Bryson shifted his frame into a more comfortable position and opened the cover.  A scan of the first two pages yielded a detailed account of the seamount's formation.

The Billings seamount sat two hundred and seventy miles off the coast of Washington.  Its formation began a quarter of a million years ago. Movement of the Pacific plate over a hot spot in the earth's crust caused a great upheaval, and the birth of a now long extinct volcano. Eons passed, constantly changing the formation of the earth's surface. Over the millennia, landscapes were carved and gouged with the melting and freezing of the glacial masses. Vast sheets of ice, in some places miles thick, covered a majority of the Northern Hemisphere in the Pleistocene era of the last great Ice Age.  During the periods of increased temperature, sea levels rose and then later fell. Geologic turmoil reigned.

At one point in time, the seamount was possibly an island or atoll. Now, it lay hidden under the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean, covering an area of one hundred and fifty-three square miles. Ocean currents welled up around the extinct volcanic formation bringing with it plankton, the building block of the sea. Due to this fact, the area thrived with abundant life.

The occurrence of such formations was certainly not unique. Throughout the oceans of the world, seamounts existed in many places. The uniqueness of this area lay in the fact that a sister seamount rose up out of the sea floor just six hundred miles to the north, off the British Columbian coast. Durnulqc Enterprises explored this undersea region, attempting to mine the rich veins of copper and manganese hidden there. The project, hampered by numerous problems, renewed itself with the discovery of polycarboamolite. PCAM became the scientific jargon for it. 

The ore demonstrated a number of uniquely inherent properties. The dull, reddish-gray metal, extremely malleable yet incredibly strong, required a temperature of over thirty-eight hundred degrees to melt it. It bonded readily with aluminum or steel, increasing their tensile strengths dramatically.  More importantly, at least to the military scientists, the metal proved to be totally non-reflective of radar signals, no matter the shape of the object.

Three and a half years passed since the discovery of polycarboamolite by Durnulqc Enterprises. The Canadian government kept this a secret of highest classification. When word leaked of the existence of PCAM, the U. S. scrambled to mobilize a search of the Billings area. Their efforts yielded a discovery far beyond expectation.  A joint effort by both governments proved futile in their attempts to locate the ore in clandestine operations at other seamounts around the world. Only these two areas off the coast of North America held any prospect of giving up the new metal.

In August of 2007, NESSA began its mining project, attempting to keep the environmentalists happy.  The media bought the idea of underwater mining techniques that were environmentally friendly and ran with it. Public support grew for the project. Well-known environmental groups were a harder sell. It took some doing, but after allowing representatives access to the operation and a good public relations job by the right people, they gave their endorsement of the Billings project. The real intent of mining the Billings seamount remained a mystery.

McGann broke away to scan the horizon and check in-flight instrumentation. The pilot enjoyed the conveniences of modern technology but left nothing to chance. He scanned the skies assured no other aircraft were visible. For him, flying demanded all the senses, even with modern technology.  His father, a helicopter pilot in the waning days of the Viet Nam War, taught him how to fly.  On his fourteenth birthday, Bryson soloed. At sixteen, he owned his own plane. McGann piloted a helicopter at eighteen. Twenty years of flying under his belt, and the taste never soured.

The flight training paid off during his military career.  After completion of a special-ops HALO mission, a high-altitude low opening parachute jump into Iraq, their rescue plane was unable to make a rendezvous point due to unfriendly fire. The crippled chopper limped back to its base leaving the SOG team stranded. Wounded, Captain McGann along with Joseph Canton safely evacuated the members of the team.

His commendation read like a novel. Using wit and cunning, Captain McGann managed to elude enemy forces for four days. Without regard to his wounds, he managed to obtain a helicopter, evade detection, and safely evacuate all members of his team. For gallantry and heroism above and beyond his duty, the Army awarded McGann a Distinguished Service Cross and a Purple Heart.

McGann just finished the report when his headset crackled to life. “Flight Seven-Niner-Niner-Oscar.  Do you copy, over?”  Jerry Kesten, an air traffic controller on duty, called out.

“Affirmative,” McGann answered, crisply.

“We have you on visual, ten miles out.  Turn right to heading, Three-One-Two, and begin your descent.  You are cleared for landing on Platform One, landing space three. Be advised, current wind speed on the flight deck is sixteen knots with occasional gusts up to twenty-five.”

“Roger.  Thanks, Jerry.”

“Anytime, partner.  Oh, Mac, you've got a visitor here. Good looking redhead with a pretty smile. Says she wants to see you as soon as you get in. Any idea who that might be?” Kesten asked his friend in jest.

Bryson McGann smiled, “Tell Doc Sanders I'll see her soon. Seven-Niner-Niner-Oscar, Out.”

Landing an Osprey, even for accomplished pilots, is a task not undertaken lightly.  It requires skillful maneuvering to tilt the rotors and change from horizontal to vertical flight. McGann amazed his instructors, accomplishing his training in a third of the time required for most pilots. Bryson McGann's extraordinary talent proved beneficial many times in the course of his flying career.

Gradually reducing forward airspeed, the plane flew over the landing site while the rotors tilted back into the vertical position. The plane began its descent. He kept one eye on the instruments and the other on the rising deck below.  A sudden crosswind caused the plane to rock slightly.  McGann compensated instinctively, gently touching down. The pilot shut down the engines and made a quick check of the hour on his Breitling Colt Super Ocean watch.

He spoke into the headset with a mischievous voice, “Hey, Jerry.  Do me a favor.  Relay a message to Seattle for Assistant Projects Director Canton.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Send this. Right on time to the minute. You lost the bet and owe me one, T.C.”

“Anything else?”

“No. He'll know exactly what it means.”

“You got it, Mac.”

McGann donned his weathered Flying Tigers cap, and placed it snugly over his head, shading his eyes. His broad shouldered frame rose easily out of the seat and exited the plane. The flight deck crew busily set about the task of chocking the wheels while another team of personnel came to unload the plane's cargo.

A stiff breeze carried with it the smell of the ocean, embracing him. Bryson McGann relished the crisp scent, tugging at the zipper of his leather jacket to stave off the brisk winds.  A fast paced walk carried him across the deck. A strong gust threatened to tear the door from his hand as he entered the access corridor.  Once inside the main hallway of platform three, McGann took the elevator down to the second level. When the doors slid back, the familiar face of Ashlyn Sanders appeared.

Bryson McGann had grown fond of this lady.  Her easy demeanor, a good sense of humor, and no nonsense approach to work made her quite likable. He understood why T. C. displayed more than just a passing interest in her.  She obviously felt the same towards T.C.

Seven months passed since she and Canton first met in a meeting in Seattle. Joe told Bryson he admired her tact at handling the NESSA director.  Her consulting firm offered more than the others for less money, and her doctoral degree in Marine Eco-Systems did not hurt to seal the contract either.  Director Randall Sumner wanted Dr. Sanders' firm to study the effects of mining on the under sea life.  Also, he needed to know the best way of causing as little impact to the environment as possible. Only thirty-five, Sanders’ reputation was purported to be good. That is why NESSA hired her.  Within a month after that first meeting, the couple became inseparable.

Auburn hair, pulled back into a ponytail, encircled a pretty face that broke into a wide smile. Blue eyes opened in delight. Her athletic form moved in fluid motion toward him. Ashlyn threw her arms around his shoulders.

“Hey stranger, it's good to see you.  You sure are a hard person to get a hold of. I heard you were flying back from Seattle this morning, so I thought this would be a good time to come topside and get some air.”

“Hey yourself,” McGann quipped. “It's been awhile. Good to see you, Ash,” McGann returned the embrace. 

“How's Seattle?” Sanders asked expectantly.

“You mean, how's T.C., don't you?”

Her face reddened slightly and her mouth curled upward, “You know me too well, Bryson McGann.”

“Seems you're pretty taken with Mr. Canton.  He's not a bad choice but you could do better,” his words teasing her.

“A man like you, I suppose?” Ashlyn laughed, jabbing his shoulder playfully.  “If you're up for breakfast, I'm buying.”

“As long as that's the case, sounds good to me,” McGann said.

Chapter Fifteen

Morning Meeting

The empty table in the dining facility overlooked the Pacific, giving them a limitless view of the ocean's expanse. Together they enjoyed the quiet moment, comfortable with one another.  McGann broke the silence, “I reviewed the syllabus on the flight out. Your explanation of those two key points sounds reasonable to me. “I'd stand your ground.”

“I hoped you'd say that,” she replied. “That's my plan.”

Breakfast came, and they languished over fluffy omelets.  Sanders' eggs were stuffed with melted cheese and mushrooms while McGann preferred the sapidity of flavors delivered by his Denver omelet.

“T.C. and I had dinner at Martin's last night,” McGann said between mouthfuls. “We caught up on some old times.  The two of us haven't had a chance to do much of that lately.” 

Ashlyn sipped her coffee. “Did he say much about me, us?” she asked, inquisitively. 

“He misses you terribly when he's not with his other girlfriends,” he chided.

She threw a darting look followed by a quick smile in his direction. “If I didn't know you better, Bryson, I'd be terribly upset,” Sanders remarked, feigning a Southern accent. She placed a bite of the omelet in her mouth, relishing the delicate blend of flavors. “I thought I'd catch the shuttle flight back to Seattle in a few days. I have a ton of paperwork at the office,” Ashlyn remarked between bites.  “It will give me the chance to see Joe, too.”

McGann clipped the end of her sentence, “I guess he wanted to surprise you, but T.C. said he'll be out here the day after tomorrow.”

“He must be coming out to meet the Durnulqc representative before she leaves.”

Bryson peered over the rim of his coffee cup quizzically, “Who?”

Sanders continued, “Durnulqc Enterprises is sending a representative to the meeting tomorrow.  They’re interested in a collaborative effort of mining PCAM. Frankly, I'm surprised that NESSA’s going for it. Didn't you get the notice?”

“Been too busy to check the updates on my E-mail. T.C. didn't mention it either.  He must have thought I already knew.  Besides, we have an unwritten rule. Never discuss business over dinner, especially at Martin's.”

“Apparently, they've developed a new method of mining underwater with lasers in deep water sites,” Sanders replied.

“NESSA attempted that before I began working on this project.  If I recall, they weren't too successful,” McGann remarked.

“The Canadian government gave the go ahead to share the new technology.  They haven't divulged much on the actual process and that's one of the reasons the rep is coming here. Durnulqc wants all the players in place before they give us a taste of what they're doing,” Ashlyn said.

“Didn't they exhaust their supply of PCAM at the Bowie mount over eighteen months ago? From all reports, they claimed the amount of material mined was extremely small. If we're cooperating with them, it must mean some high rollers in the governments of both countries are involved.” He sat back in his chair, wiping his mouth before continuing. “My father has known Fletcher Durnulqc for some time. He's a pretty shrewd businessman. If he wants in, there must be money in it. I can't imagine he was too happy about International Mining Technologies winning the contract for the Billings project.  From my understanding, he leaves nothing to chance. Once he sets his mind on something, he's relentless.”

Ashlyn looked across the table at him. “Aside from the fact that your father's company offered a lower bid, were there any other reasons Durnulqc didn't get the job?”

“One of his stipulations was minimal governmental interference with the day to day operation. NESSA wouldn't take the hook.  The president insisted on tight reins. PCAM is still classified top secret.”

“How does your father feel about a competitor coming in to work with IMT on the mining operation?” Sanders queried, concerned.

McGann pushed away the empty plate. “I'm sure he's not excited about it. But I don't think he'll have a lot of choice in the matter if they deal Durnulqc in. One benefit would be the laser mining technology. It'll be an interesting meeting if nothing else, Doc.”

Ashlyn gazed out the window, following the course of a lone gull cruising the air currents. “I was told we need to roll out the red carpet for this representative. Director Sumner wants her to have the VIP package.”

“Her?”

“She's an Executive VP.  I'd planned to take her on an underwater tour of a number of sites and Station 7.  If they really have the ability of deep water mining techniques that we are unaware of, it's a good place to start.”

“More coffee?” Bryson asked.

“Yeah.  Sounds good. But on one condition.”

“Fire away.”

“Enough about work. Let's change the subject. You didn't finish telling me about Duncan McGann.”

“Inquisitive today, aren't we Doc?  Not much to tell, really,” McGann said, quietly.

“I'm interested and I've got the time,” Ashlyn implored.  “I'd really like to hear it. So, why was Fallen Horse trying to kill his brother?” Sanders’ attention fixed itself upon the raconteur.

Bryson began where he had left off the last time they spoke.

“Fallen Horse accused Black Elk of killing the chief's daughter, when in actuality, he's the one who murdered her when she refused his advances. Fallen Horse vowed to find Black Elk and make retribution for the girl's death. Black Elk narrowly escaped from the camp and it was not until several days later that his brother caught up with him. After Duncan killed Fallen Horse, a snowstorm moved in across the mountains. He found shelter in a cave and took Black Elk there. I guess the Indian was in pretty bad shape. But he managed to survive a fever and after three days regained consciousness. When he was coherent, he told Duncan about the vision.”

“About what?”

“Black Elk's horse had broken a leg. He was alone and on foot, with no way of outrunning his enemies. The night before the attack, Black Elk prepared himself to die. He claimed the Great Spirit came to him in a dream, and told him a mighty buffalo would save him from death. The Indian knew there were no buffalo left in the mountains.  It was not until he saw Duncan running with the long knife in his hand and wearing the great buffalo coat that he knew what the Great Spirit had spoken was the truth.”

“How?” she asked.

The overhead intercom interrupted their conversation. A blaring speaker announced that the morning shuttle would depart for the mainland in fifteen minutes. The voice also paged Ed Grunnel back to the flight deck. Several people walked by, finished with their breakfast. One called out to McGann telling him he would be able to meet with him around noon. He waved a hand in recognition as the group trundled off.

“He just knew Duncan would find him,” McGann said stroking his chin. “Much of the Indian culture is steeped in mysteries we can't comprehend. It's something that just is.”

“What happened after that?”

“Well, since they couldn't leave until Black Elk regained his strength, Duncan began exploring the area. Near their shelter, he discovered a vein of gold. After several more weeks the two men made it back to Denver.  In the spring of 1858, they met the Russell brothers. Duncan and Black Elk became silent partners in their gold mining operation along Dry Creek. The news spread about the discovery and that next year, in 1859, the Pikes Peak Gold Rush began.”

“Is that how the McGann family started mining?” Sanders questioned.

“Hey, you're way ahead of me,” he chuckled.

“My apologies, Mr. McGann,” she smiled, while he continued the story.

“Accepted,” Bryson mused. “Actually, they started the year Duncan married, in 1861. Black Elk had no family left. The Indian and the Scotsman were constant companions and business partners, something that was not well received by many people in those days, by the way. They set up a small company and began mining different ores and minerals throughout Colorado. The business flourished. Things just took off.  A case of being in the right place at the right time.  Together they invested their small fortunes in rail and shipping, and in less than ten years, were wealthy men. The business has grown ever since.” Bryson gazed out across onto whitecaps below, pausing before continuing, “Black Elk eventually married and both men vowed their children would always be blood brothers.”

“So that's why you and Joe call each other brothers?” answering her own question.

“He hasn't told you much about the family, has he?” McGann grinned.

“It's kind of hard when I'm stuck out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and he's in Seattle,” she said defensively.

McGann stared at her.  Silent.

“I'm sorry,”  her voice softening.  “I miss him, a lot.”

“No need to apologize.”

“Joe told me his name is Two Crows and you're the only one who he lets call him T.C.”

“That's true. I've been calling him that since we were kids. To the Indians, the crow is a wise and sacred animal. But I just don't see how that fits him,” the corners of McGann's mouth bowing.

“And what's your Indian name?” Sanders inquired.

“Ghost who walks with the wind,” McGann answered, continuing before Ashlyn could ask about the choosing of his name.  “Our grandfathers left some requirements for their future offspring.  Each member of the family must have a Native American name. Every child would learn their ways. From the time we were six, every summer was spent in Wyoming, acquiring survival skills handed down through the generations. On our fourteenth birthdays, we were left in the wilderness together for two weeks.”

“Apparently, you learned them well enough.  That must have been interesting,” Ashlyn remarked, letting her chin come to rest on her hands.

“Also, every child would attend a university, obtain a degree, and every male member would serve in the military for at least three years.”

“Seems a patriotic streak runs in the family.”

“The requirement's necessary to receive each person's share of their inheritance,” he said, taking a quick sip from the steaming mug.

“Joe told me you both served together for a period of time in a special-ops group?”

“He was in for six years. I stayed seven. I took some time off after I got out, finished my masters, and I've been with NESSA for almost three years now.  So, there you have it, the history of the two families in a nutshell.”

“I'm sure there's more to it than that,” Ashlyn stated.

“Actually, there is,” McGann retorted.  “But that's another story, and there's not nearly enough time. Oh, I almost forgot,” McGann added, between the remaining swallows of coffee.  “Do you remember me telling you about the VDH, the experimental virtual diving helmet and rebreather system Dr. Pierson was working on?”

“You mentioned something about it several weeks ago.  Why?”

“I brought one back with me.”

“How did you get your hands on one of those?” Ashlyn asked, astonished.

“It pays to have friends in the right places. Actually, I talked T.C. into letting me borrow it for a few days. I told him I couldn't think of anyone better to evaluate it within the NESSA organization.”

“Joe let you have it, just like that?” Sanders’ mouth dropped open in astonishment.

“It took some coercing, and the fact that Pierson is in Washington, D.C. for meetings. I thought it would be a good time to try it out.” “Bryson McGann, a thief. I'm shocked,” Sanders added playfully. “How's it work?”

“The helmet has a built-in microcomputer that runs all the techno-gear.  Behind the faceplate, there's a flip down virtual screen. Once it's activated, the computer sends out modulated radar signals and scans the infrared spectrum simultaneously.  Signal return is almost instantaneous, near enough to real time so you can't tell the difference.  On screen there's a heads-up display with compass, target distance, battery life, and time at depth. There's more but I'll spare you the details. The amazing part is it's able to provide visibility up to a hundred feet, in poorly lit conditions. In total darkness, Pierson claims the viewing distance is twenty-five feet.”

“That would be a tremendous help to commercial divers,” Ashlyn remarked.

“Probably, but I think it'll be some time before it gets declassified.”

Ashlyn tipped her mug, draining the contents, and checked the time. “I've got to run. I need to make my final preparations for the meeting this afternoon.”

“What time is the Durnulqc representative arriving?” McGann asked.

“1500. Don't be late,” Sanders said, leaving the table.

“I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Left alone with his thoughts, Bryson McGann wondered at the capabilities of Fletcher Durnulqc. The man knew how to pull the strings. His attempt to involve himself with this Billings project failed when his own father's company won the bid. Yet, he seemed on the verge of grabbing an inside seat if the laser development worked as well as the claims. A feeling swept over him, gnawing and troublesome, leaving him unsure of Durnulqc's intent.

McGann left the mess and walked down the hall on his way to check out the VDH system.  He wanted to be well acquainted with the device before trusting his life to it.

Chapter Sixteen

Platform 1

Passing a lounge area, he heard the familiar voice of Vernon Charles, a CNN anchor, coming from a T.V. monitor.  His special report on worldwide weather pattern changes and its effects piqued McGann's interest. Bryson McGann walked in and fell in the thickly padded chair to pick up the remaining portion of the report.

Charles brought to each viewer's attention distressing facts about radical global climate changes occurring over the past ten years. Recently, record snow and rainfalls occurring in specific areas of the world were causing starvation and death to thousands. Floods and mud slides caused property damage well into the billions.

Parts of Eastern Europe suffered heavily under the onslaught of severe late snowstorms. Winter's icy grip should be yielding to spring thaws, yet snow continued to pile higher.  Already, thousands had perished in many isolated regions.

Asia, hit hard by severe drought, reeled under a mounting death toll. Months without rain precipitated a food shortage of immense proportions. Organizations providing aid could not infuse shipments fast enough to meet the rapidly growing demand. Panic gripped people in its cold talons. Armed bands sprang up everywhere, intent on stealing any food supply available, no matter what the cost.

Even the U. S. suffered the onslaught of abnormal weather. Incessant rain pounded cities and towns along the Eastern seaboard and brought its own disturbing problems. However, the sporadic nature of these storms did not yet bring the devastation felt in other parts of the globe.

The Midwest and Great Plains suffered under the increasing strain of tornadic activity.  Interestingly enough, the Pacific west coast enjoyed unseasonably warm weather.  Normally wet winters, with the occasional coastal snowfalls, were absent. Blue skies predominated while average temperatures remained in the sixties. Residents of the Pacific Northwest basked in the placid weather conditions.

Charles continued his grim reminder of nature's fury.  Pictures of destruction flashed on screen. This global problem also wreaked havoc with international markets. Stock prices wavered precariously in the face of the world's troubles. Crop failures meant commodities and future markets were left in the dark about investments, and the potential to lose hundreds of millions of dollars loomed on the horizon. More importantly, a worldwide famine could develop if no end came to the drastic weather patterns.

The reporter's byline went on to speak about the U.N.'s upcoming talks with world leaders on current weather problems. An international summit was scheduled in Washington, D.C., in just over two weeks. Perhaps, a message of confidence would stabilize business ventures and, in turn, prevent total collapse of international markets.

Suddenly, Charles paused, somewhat baffled by the interruption of his own program. A quick message in his earpiece explained the situation. The video screen split. Now, two images appeared, Charles, and that of another CNN reporter.  “Ladies and gentlemen, this message is just in from our reporter in Wichita.  Go ahead, Carol.”

Wet, brunette hair clung to the dirt-streaked face of reporter Carol Tucker.  Her coverage of a murder trial in Wichita, Kansas came to an end when an unexpected tornado roared through the city.  Her attractive face could not hide the terror of what her eyes witnessed. Tucker was having a great deal of difficulty maintaining a calm composure. She glanced off camera and asked in a frantic voice, “Are we live?”

Behind her, people walked with dazed faces unsure of what to do. So shaken by the earlier events, it took a moment for her to begin her report. “This is Carol Tucker live from what is left of downtown Wichita.  Just forty-two minutes ago, at eleven-o-three A.M. local time, a tornado touched down outside the city limits. The trail carved by this killer storm, from all reports so far, indicates a path of over three and one half miles wide.”

She paused while a cameraman panned a shot of the city streets from atop the government building. McGann watched intently as the screen displayed only a minute portion of the storm's lethal effects.

Rattled by her experience, Tucker continued her report in a trembling voice. “While it's not uncommon to see tornadoes this time of year, no one here ever remembers anything of this magnitude before.” Her voice faltered momentarily, “From my vantage point atop the Judicial Building, as far as I can see, there are...”

Transmission of the live video feed stopped briefly, the screen a mass of grainy lines. Vernon Charles asked if she could still hear him. “I understand that Carol Tucker can hear me but the video feed is not working.” He began to question her before the live shot returned.

“Carol, CNN headquarters just received a report from the National Weather Service indicating wind speeds were clocked at over four hundred and twenty miles per hour.  Do you have any confirmation of this?”

The transmission returned with the face of Tucker bearing a puzzled look. She looked off-camera for any indication the information was correct. “No. Vernon, as of this moment everything around the area is in chaos. I don't know where that information came from.” Tucker frowned in concern, “If that report of wind speed is accurate, that throws the tornado way off the Fujita Scale.  However, it may very well be true. From up here, it looks like an atomic bomb leveled the city.  I don't know how we were lucky enough to survive. All around, the streets are littered with debris. The loss of life here must be tremendous,” the reporter stated, choking back tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

McGann marveled at the destructive force of the killer tornado. It seemed incomprehensible to him that a tornado of this magnitude grew without warning.

From off-camera, Tucker received a soggy piece of paper as she brushed back a strand of wet hair.  “Vernon, this information just came in. Only moments ago the tornado roared through Hutchinson, Kansas. That would put its ground speed at over eighty miles per hour.  I don't see how,” the reporter's jaw dropped.

The live transmission again faltered. Within a moment it returned.

“Apparently, the wide spread destruction from this monster storm has touched the lives of residents of that community as well. God help them. This is Carol Tucker, CNN news, reporting from Wichita.” 

The stunned face of Vernon Charles, shaken by the devastation, reappeared. “Joining me now is CNN’S chief meteorologist, Warren Andrews. Warren, what happened in Wichita?  Did the citizens have any warning?”

Andrews gave a brief explanation about how these types of storms formed. Warm gulf moisture meeting head on with a cold front often potentiates the precipitation of cyclonic events in the area. Interestingly enough, the National Weather Service had no indication of any possible tornadic activity in the area. Local forecasts predicted only a slight chance of showers scattered across the region.

Bryson McGann flicked off the picture pondering what had been emblazoned on the video monitor only moments before. The gruesome scene of mass destruction defied description. Deaths due to this incredible twister would be horrendous; property damage in the billions. He never recalled hearing of a tornado with such a high wind velocity or destructive force. Bryson McGann left the room, unsettled by answers he did not possess.

Chapter Seventeen

United Nations - New York

Wind driven rain poured down along the corridor of New York's East River.  Angry waves slapped the Manhattan shoreline, sending plumes of dark water spraying into the streets. Aligned neatly along East 44th Street, member nations’ flags whipped and snapped against their lanyards in the fierce wind outside the easily recognizable building. What once men only dreamed of, had turned into a burgeoning administration of players. Responsible for overseeing millions around the world, the ever-present UN offered many suggestions to the globe's daily crises. Its weak-kneed posture rarely allowed it to enforce its goals with impunity, making it necessary to negotiate settlements.  The world wide governing body had grown dramatically in size. One hundred and ninety-four nations now considered themselves members in good standing.

Across the city, many New Yorker's, long fed up with the rain, dreamed of sun filled beaches somewhere on a tropical coast. Niya Adi was no different.  She let her thoughts drift, remembering past visits, lying on the white sand watching her skin turn a coppery-bronze in the warm sunlight.

Her eyes flew open quickly, bringing her back to reality, relinquishing her hold on the daydream as the black limousine's wet tires squealed to a halt. Only the gloomy skies of Manhattan waited to greet her.  A guard in front of the security entrance made the appropriate checks and allowed the car to proceed past the checkpoint. Once inside the underground garage, her driver parked and made a quick check of the area before opening her door.  He hurried her into another security entrance and stopped inside a small room, prepared for the daily routine of strict security measures. The woman placed her face into the view port of the retinal image scanner and then placed her hand on a screen for palm print analysis. In another room two guards monitored her actions closely.  The machine confirmed the identity of the Secretary General of the United Nations.

The bulletproof glass door glided open silently, exposing the hallway that led to the private elevator to her office.  Each day since her election in September the previous year, the same routine ensued.  The elevator whisked her away quickly, carrying Niya Adi to her appointed duties.

Paneled mahogany walls gave an appearance of a dark dungeon in the face of gloomy weather.  No sunlight filled the expanse of windows this day.  Only sickly artificial light lit the confines of her immense office, doing little to help brighten her mood.  Setting down her brief case, she stared up at the blue seal of the UN, an image of the world from above the North Pole surrounded by olive branches. A world that for the last five months became her daily concern, her cross to bear since being chosen for the position. Secretary General Adi stepped in front of a mirror to make sure she looked presentable for the start of another day.

The reflection showed several small streaks of gray running through her jet-black hair that was pulled back tightly.  Niya Adi's angular face and high cheekbones, highlighted by with a hint of rouge, and full lips presented a pleasing picture. She worked hard at keeping her slender figure looking much younger than her fifty-two years. The Mediterranean features of her unlined skin still brought stares from many men. She found it amusing. Her charm and a smile often worked where diplomacy failed, and she was not above using it to her advantage. She allowed men to think what they wished, letting them have their fantasies. Her loyalty belonged to only one. Quickly, she brushed an errant hair into place and turned toward her desk.

The phone rang, interrupting her work and without pause, the voice of Wilhelm Rugg emitted from the intercom.  He rapidly spewed out the day's agenda for the General Assembly.  Not waiting for her response, he continued with other matters until she questioned him. A proven ally in the political arena she faced each day, their friendship grew over the months. His exuberant charm captured her and their relationship advanced to another level.

Rugg gave his guidance willingly, accepting more from her in return when finally offered.  The man pleased her. She enjoyed his gentle touch and how he made her feel, always ensuring her happiness. Wilhelm Rugg had his own agenda, the added benefit of making love to this attractive woman only made it more pleasurable.

Just prior to the nine A.M. general assembly, streams of delegates and staff poured into the great hall. Over eighteen hundred people sat in the large auditorium waiting for the meeting to begin.  Members prepared notes, translators waited expectantly to begin their tasks, others walked around pressing the flesh until the last moment. Conversations promptly fell to hushed whispers with the arrival of Niya Adi.  The few members left standing found their seats. The meeting commenced.

Hours passed. Respected members offered their comments.  Several well-known scientists provided possible reasons for the dramatic changes in worldwide weather patterns. This was the first real attempt to find answers to the global problem.

Sporadically over the past several years, certain areas of the globe were hard hit with violent storms bringing about death, destruction, and starvation. First labeled the product of greenhouse gases, or El Nino, it received little recognition when it involved only third world countries. The media used it as fodder, occasionally bringing up the topic when they lacked for noteworthy news coverage of other crises. Not until vitally economical areas important to the world began to feel the effects, did the subject receive proper recognition.

Wilhelm Rugg saw to it that the topic of weather stayed off the UN floor as long as possible. Those were his instructions. His efforts behind the scenes ensured the subject received little international attention until Secretary General Fujikawa Mitzuki finally gave in to global pressure. Rugg advised the man to ignore the news hounds, but to no avail. Mitzuki's concerns about the planet's destructive weather forces quickly became the hot topic on the nightly news. He carried the cross well, seeking help from world leaders, rallying the cause. When no more could be done to stop him, Rugg placed a phone call fulfilling an obligation to his employer. 

Two weeks later, Fujikawa Mitzuki's death filled the headlines.  He perished in a bizarre boating accident, quickly bringing an end to the subject of global weather problems. Several other newsworthy events arose almost simultaneously, taking the attention away from his mysterious demise.

People, still relatively unaffected by the inclement weather, quickly lost interest in the topic when a sudden crisis in the Middle East reared its ugly head after four years of uninterrupted peace. A group claiming to be Islamic terrorists attacked a Jewish school brutally murdering teachers and children, sparing no one. The entire Middle East threatened to boil over in war when Israel retaliated with air attacks on its neighbors to the north.

An airliner carrying French president, Pierre Monteure, crashed on departure from Aeroports de Montreal.  Monteure's attendance at a celebration of the second anniversary of Quebec's independence added much needed weight to the country's status. His untimely death rocked the world, setting it on its heels. Investigators suspected several possible causes, but in the final analysis found no plausible explanation for the engine failure. In the end his death remained a mystery, at least to the world.

Finally, an unseen terror struck in the heart of Beijing.  The press displayed the gruesome details of approximately fifteen thousand deaths, due to the release of a potent nerve agent. Grotesque images of bodies littering the streets filled televisions in the homes of millions around the world. No one claimed responsibility for this reprehensible act of mass slaughter. 

Through it all, Rugg was there. Curiously, he marveled at the unfolding events, and the long reach his employer wielded. Following guidelines provided for him, he used his persuasive talents overseeing the election of Niya Adi.  Her twenty-three years in the world wide political arena made her the perfect choice. A well-respected political figure, this able woman accepted her appointment graciously. Unknown to Adi, the acquiescence of leadership positioned her as an unwitting pawn in a very serious game.

The long hours resolved with plans for further discussions to continue until the end of the week. Exhausted from the day's dealings, Niya Adi gathered her papers and walked from the Assembly area.  The Austrian followed closely behind as they left the main hall, catching her in a few, quick strides.  He handed the Secretary General an outline to review for the following day's talks.

“Will you join me for dinner, Niya?” the Austrian asked.

“Yes, I'm starving.”

“I must make a phone call first. I will meet you in your office in a few minutes.”

“Don't be long.” Her face sprouted into a playful pout. “Please,” Niya implored.

“Anything you wish, Liebshen,” he answered affectionately.

Rugg locked the door to his office and pulled the metal case from his desk drawer.  Removing the satellite uplink phone, he entered the coded number and touched the scramble sequence control. The Austrian thumbed the wheel of his lighter, touching the flame to the cigarette that parted his lips. His lungs greedily sucked in the hot smoke.

Rugg checked his watch. Impatiently, he drummed a steady beat with the pencil on top of his desk. Wilhelm Rugg sighed, knowing his only option was to wait for the voice on the other end of the line. Anything else would be detrimental to his health. A quick tap of his finger sent the forming ash into the crystal ashtray.  Besides, he thought, the money in his bank account continued to grow at a steady pace so long as he remained faithful.

A recorded voice answered.  It told him to wait.

He exhaled smoke through his nose and crushed the stub of the cigarette, leaving only a wispy gray line rising from a dying ember.

“Yes,” a metallic sounding voice finally returned.

“It went better than expected,” Rugg responded.

“Does she suspect anything?”

“I believe not, sir,” the Austrian replied, dutifully.

“Have her continue the quest. I want the media exploited to its fullest. Up until now, what the world witnessed were just examples. Soon, I will show the masses just what lies in store, unless my demands are met.”

Rugg checked his watch again. He did not want to keep her waiting long.

The voice on the other end continued, “Let the world think Ms. Adi is responsible for sounding the alarm. Let the credit go to her.  The world will listen if a beautiful woman of power speaks. You must continue to guide her in every way, Herr Rugg.”

Rugg listened carefully, reviewing the plans to be set in motion in the coming days. The job expected of him would be difficult, but his unwavering confidence held on course. The voice brought him back to the moment. “Any questions, Herr Rugg?”

“No sir.”

“Good.”

Small pulsing tones of the phone connection ending sounded in his ear.  He replaced the phone in its case, locking it in his desk. Rugg leaned back in his leather chair, taking a moment to plan his strategy. He must carefully choose just the right words. His livelihood depended on it. Rugg thrived in his current lifestyle, well practiced in the art of deception. She may have seen through his ruse, had he not been so skilled. This woman was no fool. He would have to make certain she remained unaware of his true intent. A wrong move could spell disaster and wreak havoc on his plans.

He would play her delicately, with the practiced fingers of a master musician embracing a beloved instrument. Wilhelm Rugg enjoyed the challenge. He rose from his desk with only one thought on his mind, dinner with Niya Adi.  He would fill it with others later.

Chapter Eighteen

NAVSPAC

Sitting behind her desk at the Naval Space Command Center in Dalghren, Virginia, Operations Specialist 2, Kelly Wardin, yawned and rubbed her bleary eyes. Slender fingers played at the back of her neck, massaging the tight muscles. She shook her head attempting to clear the cobwebs as her brown hair danced just above her shoulders. Not even Navy coffee made up for the lack of sleep.  Last night's party lasted far longer than expected. Almost everyone from the section turned out to say goodbye to Petty Officer Tildon. She would miss him, but that was the Navy.  Here today, transferred tomorrow, and if you were lucky you received a good assignment.

The Navy recently reassigned Kelly to this new job. She had hoped for a duty station at Cheyenne Mountain, in Colorado Springs, NAVSPAC's other center of operation.  Although disappointed at first, she had grown fond of the Chesapeake Bay area. Kelly progressed rapidly in her five months at the Naval Space Command Center.  She actually began to feel like a needed member of the team. NAVSPAC, she laughed at the thought. The Navy had an abbreviation for everything. Sighing heavily, Wardin snapped back to reality with one glance at the daily assignment sheet.

Kelly Wardin was in charge of the geo-location of radio frequencies of satellites in earth orbit, the GOFER. She found it interesting. Not only were U.S. satellites under the NAVSPAC Center's watch, but they maintained responsibility for privately owned and operated satellites as well.

Every four hours, on each shift, a report of projected orbital paths of the different satellites spewed from the computer data terminal.  Any potential problems were noted before a situation resulted. The orbiting vehicles could be signaled, programming minute course directional changes, avoiding a possible collision in space. With over eight thousand orbiting vehicles of various sizes, their orbital paths needed close scrutiny.  Although many satellites did not fall directly under the responsibility of NAVSPAC, orbiting vehicles were still carefully monitored.

Kelly Wardin cleaned the cloudy smudges from her lenses before looking at the report. Carefully, she scrutinized the list, scanning the information before delivering it to the Space Warning Petty Officer, SWAPO, in Navy jargon. 

OS 1 Reuben Diaz called out, not looking up from behind the Navy issued gray metal desk. “Wardin, you going to have that report in here today or what? That party must have slowed your motor.”

A smile clipped the corners of her mouth when the OS1 saw her standing at his desk. “I've got it right here, Chief,” Kelly replied.

“Okay, give me the down and dirty.  Is there anything in the section report that can't wait until after my meeting this morning?” The SWAPO rifled through a separate stack of papers finding the ones needed for his morning meeting.

Wardin bombarded Diaz with a ton of information, “Everything's routine. All sats holding in assigned Geo-Sync patterns. Computer indicates no need for any course changes over the next four hours in any satellites under our command. All systems up and functioning appropriately.”  Barely taking a breath, Kelly continued, “As a point of interest you might want to be aware at 0548, local time, Vancouver Space Technologies launched a rocket into orbit, probably another Zenit 4XL.”

OS 1 Diaz turned and reached for the coffee pot behind his desk. Kelly never remembered a time when it wasn't filled with the strong Cuban coffee.  Diaz pulled a bottle of aspirin from his desk drawer.  His pounding head beat a steady rhythm, left over effects from Tildon's party.  Diaz grabbed his coffee and washed down the bitter pills.

“Sounds good to me. I don't need any calamities today.”  Diaz rubbed his temples wishing away the pain. “I have enough problems to worry about with the upcoming inspection,” Diaz replied irritably, sipping more of the hot liquid.

“Well you know,” she paused.

“Yeah, spit it out,” the SWAPO remarked, annoyed time was slipping by.  “I'm always monitoring who launches what, how many, and when.” OS 2 Wardin continued, “It seems that VST has launched a number of space vehicles over the last few years. I plotted their geosyncs, Chief.”

“So what?” Diaz questioned.

“Let me turn your computer on and you can see what I'm talking about.” Kelly moved in around the corner of his desk and punched the keypads, bringing up the proper screen before the OS1 could speak.

“What am I looking at?” the chief asked impatiently.

“It's right here on the screen. They have a network of satellites encircling the globe.”

Diaz sat silently, somewhat perplexed, and unsure of her point.

“This is a list of all current orbiters,” the GOFER replied, dropping the list of papers on his desk. “Supposedly, they're for their own industrial related purposes, telecommunications, mining operations, and the list goes on.”

Pressing several more keypads, Wardin changed the screen again.  A colored display showed a three dimensional image of the earth surrounded by a grouping of satellites at a distance of four hundred and eighty miles above it.

“This is a plot of their assigned tracks in relation to the earth. It shows each satellite's exact location. If they are using them for industrial purposes, why have them in so many locations around the world? Doesn't make sense. It seems like an extreme waste of money to have that many satellites. Also, why have them overlap areas of operation? Plus, the altitudes are all wrong.”

The OS 1 folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair.  “Wardin, I've been in this man's Navy for eighteen years.  I've seen some pretty strange things. Let me ask you a question. How long have you been in the Navy?”

“Almost four years, chief,” Kelly replied.

“You have been at NAVSPAC for close to five months now. Correct?” Diaz questioned.

Kelly nodded her answer tentatively.

“I don't know if you are aware of this or not, but they're a private company.  Being a private company, they can do whatever they want as long as they operate within the confines of the law.  O.K., Wardin?”

“Aye, Chief,” she replied, already knowing the direction of this conversation.

Diaz hurriedly gathered the papers on his desk and shoved them into his brief case, adding, “Are they doing anything illegal that you are aware of, Wardin?”

“No. Not that I'm aware of,” Kelly sighed.

“Well if that's the case, I don't care how much money they spend on satellites. What I do care about is this. If we're assigned to watch orbital vehicles, then we do that job to the best of our abilities. That's what you need to be focused on while on duty.  Is that clear?”

Kelly looked down. She picked up the list off his desk, about to turn from the room.

“Let me put some wind back in your sails, Kelly.  You've done a good job in a short period of time,” Diaz offered.  “It's nice to know when I can count on someone.”

Wardin lifted her eyes.  A faint smile appeared.

“Kelly, we've talked about this before.  You need to drop this idea of conspiracy, industrial espionage, or whatever it is you are trying to tell me about these satellites. We're here to ensure they stay up, not question why they are going up.” Diaz paused, slugging down the remaining drops of black liquid. “Besides,” he added, “if something was going on, there are plenty of other people involved with the government who keep an eye on those type of things.” Diaz grabbed his cap and started to walk off. 

She stood, staring at him, unsure of what to do next.

“When I return, we need to discuss tomorrow's inspection. Make sure section leaders are up to snuff,” his voice trailing. 

Kelly Wardin watched him leave the office.  She did not have all the answers, and did not know what it all meant. But one thing she was not able to do, was forget about it.

Chapter Nineteen

Earth Orbit

Upon completion of the third revolution around the earth, a communications relay from mission control in the Pacific Ocean signaled the payload carrier of the Zenit 4XL. Sunlight glinted on the outer shell, while the third and final set of bay doors opened, releasing the last of its cargo.  Small thrusters on board fired, pushing the satellite away from the rocket.

Computers in the satellite itself now took control. The manmade object unfolded two great wings, sunlight flashing brilliantly off the reflective panels. These wings captured and stored the sun's energy to supply solar power for the orbiting vehicle. In front of the orbiter, a large metal parabolic disc opened, locking into place.  The onboard computer adjusted course slightly, with the aid of small rocket thrusters. The satellite hovered silently above the blue sphere below.

Once proper orbit was accomplished, computer controlled programmed events took place inside the satellite, many routine. Most of these engaged monitors and instruments for data programming and information retrieval. A number of them enhanced contiguous stabilization of geo-synchronous orbit. Several onboard began relay and testing sequence modes for continuous self-monitoring of operational systems. A few maintained direct contact with VST's command center. Two systems remained dormant to be used at a later date.  The final system initiated its intended purpose. Through the cold, dark, black void of space, the satellite signaled the others like it, sending an encoded message.

Communicating.

Once it received a transmission from the others, the signal ended abruptly.  The twenty-third satellite placed in orbit by VST began its dual mission, searching different areas of the earth for mineral deposits and something far more sinister.  A number of its sister satellites began the assigned mission previously.  Many areas of the globe already felt the effects of their assignment.  With the addition of one more satellite, the grid would be complete.

Chapter Twenty

Conference Center

A flurry of activity occupied the flight deck crew while helicopters arrived throughout the day ferrying people to the meeting. Four decks below, conversation spilled from behind closed doors into the hallway greeting McGann as he arrived for the three o'clock meeting. Several big-league players of both the Canadian and U. S. governments, including one of the Assistant NESSA Directors, Dr. Kate Harper, and IMT and Durnulqc representatives were in attendance. A number of onsite project directors and key staff members also were there per request.

Bryson McGann moved into the room quickly scanning the sea of faces milling about. A familiar voice called out from behind.  They spoke briefly and moved on. He caught a glimpse of a tall, slender figure across the room. An expensive business suit clung to her shapely figure. Jet-black hair hung below her broad shoulders, dancing with each movement of her head. Long slender legs supported her six foot one inch frame. The woman cast a striking pose, even from behind. McGann figured she would be stunningly attractive.

It took some time for McGann to make his way across the room. Ashlyn Sanders happened to glance in his direction. Tossing a quick wave in the air, she motioned for him to come and meet the Durnulqc representative. Monique Sinclair, to say the least, was captivating. Emerald green eyes carefully inspected the man standing before her. Her full lips, glossed in a muted red, served to enhance Monique's flawless skin.

Before Sanders could introduce them, she offered her hand, making the introduction. “You must be Bryson McGann.  Monique Sinclair. It's a pleasure to meet you.” Her hand clasped his in an incredibly strong grip, slender fingers wrapping around his. The softness of her touch surprised him, sensual, electric. McGann replied, “I don't believe I've had the pleasure before, Ms. Sinclair.”

“You haven't, Mr. McGann.  I'm paid well to know everything about places I travel to, the people, their business.” A red fingernail brushed against her chin. With a slight tilt of her head, she began, “Let me see. Bryson Donald McGann, 34 years old. You have a master's in marine bio-geological science. You served six, no, seven years in the U.S. Army attaining the rank of captain before resigning your commission. Your decorations include the Distinguished Service Cross, among others. Very impressive Mr. McGann.  Your employment with NESSA is closing on the three year mark. Your father is CEO of IMT, whom I hope to be working with more closely in the near future.” The woman raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, jutting her chin to the side before she continued, “Oh, and you are, I believe, what they would call a problem solver.  Have I left anything out?”

“Actually, a number of things, Miss Sinclair, but I wouldn't trouble yourself in learning them,” McGann replied. Their eyes locked, hers flared. He noticed a slight tensing of her body.  He shifted himself automatically into a neutral stance, acquired from years of martial arts training. A moment of silence hung between them.  While other men might have taken offense at her brash personality, he found her conversation amusing. She was good at playing the game. Sinclair quickly compensated, adjusting her position, almost unnoticed.

“I must say I am impressed, although I would expect nothing less from a representative of Durnulqc Enterprises. Your knowledge is matched only by your charm and beauty.”  McGann proffered, raising the corners of the woman's mouth slightly. Ashlyn stood between the two, unsure of what to say, amazed with Bryson's cool response to Monique Sinclair's verbal sparring. Carl Schmidt's booming bass voice erupted from the microphone, interrupting the trio, requesting people find their seats.

Sinclair turned toward Ashlyn breaking off her gaze with McGann. “Ms. Sanders, I would like to speak with you later this evening if you could spare the time. Mr. McGann, I find you unlike most men.  You are unique, challenging. I'm sure we'll speak again before I leave.” She turned sharply, leaving the two standing there. 

Bryson tilted his head in the direction of their seats. “Piquant, wouldn't you say, Ash?”

“What was that all about?”

“Just a game.”

Carl Schmidt introduced a number of the guests to the audience. He provided a brief synopsis of NESSA's involvement with the project. Bill Jacobs, an IMT spokesman proceeded in an engaging discussion on the role of IMT, and the benefits of advancing underwater mining technology.  With practiced ease he worked his way through his speech, not mentioning Durnulqc Enterprises as a potential partner in the venture.

“Bill is as polished as ever.  A great PR guy and honest to a fault,” Bryson whispered to Ashlyn Sanders.

“A man of integrity.  Like yourself, no doubt?” she toyed.

“You are as kind as you are astute, good doctor,” McGann replied.

Jacobs asked for the lights to be turned down. “Dr. Sanders, you may have the floor.”

Ashlyn rose from her chair and walked to the podium. Her greetings completed, Sanders activated the state of the art video control panel. The coastline of the Pacific Northwest came to life in the form of a holographic image. Soon, images of both the Bowie and Billings seamount emerged in great detail while Ashlyn spoke about the discovery of polycarboamolite.

Listening intently, McGann sensed the eyes focused on him before he turned and looked in their direction. Her gaze hovered above the rim of her water glass. Swallowing the cool contents, catching a drop at the corner of her mouth with a flick of her tongue, Monique Sinclair held the stare momentarily before averting her attention back to the speaker.

Ashlyn continued, impressive detail captured the concentration of the audience. Suddenly, a six by six foot hologram of the Billings area burst into view, displaying platforms, Subsea stations and future potential mining sites. Her discussion included the role of her consulting firm in conjunction with the NESSA project.  Specific concerns over ecological problems were touched upon. When Ashlyn displayed Subsea Station 7, Monique Sinclair interrupted.

Sinclair stood and walked briskly to the podium, the sound of her heels pounding above the rising murmurs of the attendees.

“Excuse me, Doctor Sanders, if I may? Ladies and gentlemen, I believe Dr. Sanders was about to explain exactly why you've been unable to mine the rich vein of PCAM at Station 7.”

The audience looked on in disbelief that the woman would take command of the meeting in such brusque fashion. Sanders stepped back, perplexed by her predicament. McGann observed the reactions of individuals, fascinated by the tactics of Durnulqc's representative.

“The difficulties you are facing are the same ones that faced Durnulqc Enterprises at the Bowie seamount,” Monique Sinclair stated. “Precisely, how do you work at great depths on steep terrain, set up a functioning station for mining operations, operate efficiently, and all without upsetting the ecological balance?”

“Exactly the point I was trying to make, Miss Sinclair,” Sanders countered indignantly, attempting to regain control.

“I thought I might be able to answer those inquiries more quickly since Durnulqc Enterprises already met the challenge. It's certainly no secret that your government, NESSA, and IMT are currently working on undersea laser mining techniques. However, we know you are no where near the point of effective operation.” 

These statements brought numerous stares and hushed conversations from the audience. Monique allowed the disturbance to continue briefly, unaffected by their reactions.

“Miss Sinclair,” Gerald Hansen, a NESSA official called out, “I'm not sure where you derived your information from. However, I don't believe this is a topic for discussion at this meeting,” he said peering from behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses.

“Quite the contrary, Gerald,” her informal attitude defusing the crowd. “I, if anyone, fully understand the concerns you have. If you permit me to continue, I'm confident you will find what I am about to tell you fascinating.”

Embarrassed and unable to finish her presentation, Sanders returned to her seat, staring disbelievingly at McGann. “What right does she have taking control like this?” a scowl furrowing lines in her face. “Where did she get her information anyway? Who exactly is this Fletcher Durnulqc?” she whispered contemptibly.

“Hold on, Ash,” McGann motioned.  “One question at a time and save them all for later.  Now isn't the time. As I said before, she's an interesting woman.”

Sanders resolved herself to silence, her mood dark. She gathered her notes and vehemently shoved them into her brief case. Ashlyn had more than a few questions for Monique Sinclair and she would not be afraid to ask them.

Admittedly, Bryson McGann was impressed by this woman.  Within a few minutes Sinclair had captured the attention of all, explaining in riveting detail the problems they experienced and how it would be possible to correct them using a cooperative effort.  McGann caught a glimpse of Kate Harper, typically a skeptic in most situations.  Even she seemed engrossed by what she heard.

“I'm sure you are all aware of the limits of your current laser technology, so there is no need to go into great detail about it.  Suffice it to say, it leaves much to be desired for undersea use.  What would be beneficial is a system that establishes an opening into the mount. A cavern in the solid rock large enough to begin exploration,” Monique Sinclair paused for a moment, eyeing the audience carefully.  “Since PCAM is unaffected by the heat generated from laser blasts, an added bonus is the ore can be easily mined after obliteration of the rock base. This in turn yields reduced work time and major cost reductions which will markedly increase profits.”

“This all sounds very nice, Miss Sinclair,” a voice arose from the group with a haughty coolness. “And in theory might work, but as you indicated, we are nowhere near that level of technology.”

“Exactly why Canadian Laser Labs, in conjunction with its parent company Durnulqc Enterprises, may have an answer to your, no, if I may rephrase that, our problem. We are ready to put into operation a laser device that will do exactly what the holographic images just demonstrated.”

Stunned faces gazed at the speaker, amazed that laser techniques were as advanced as Sinclair alluded to. The woman smiled, well pleased with the reactions of shock and elation that the technology existed to mine PCAM. Monique Sinclair spoke crisply into the microphone while raising her hand to still the room. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, what you're about to witness should answer many of the questions and concerns you have. This is an actual test that occurred two months ago.” Her slender fingers inserted a mini-disc into the visual display terminal. Ashlyn Sanders' holographic image of the Billings seamount fragmented into smaller and smaller pieces until nothing remained. In its place, a new scene appeared.

An underwater, computer enhanced video image of the Bowie seamount burst forth. The audience watched while the underwater crew performed the job of establishing an opening into the rock base of the seamount with conventional techniques. After accomplishing the task, a surface ship lowered an incredibly large titanium alloy door on thickly banded steel cables. Workers enclosed in rigid JIM suits, tethered to the ship above, began the task of attaching the vault like door to the rock base itself. Once in place, pumping mechanisms within the door removed water from the interior of the small cavern, pressurizing it to sea level.

Next, a small submarine docked to one of the access ports in the massive door.  Crews worked at removing the laser devise from the submersible vehicle, placing it in the cavern. A portable control panel attached by strings of cables sat patiently, awaiting its assignment.  A technician adjusted the dials to the proper setting, delaying the firing of the laser for ten minutes.

The cavern stood silent except for the sounds of dripping water after the workers were evacuated into the waiting underwater vehicle. The scenes flashed forward to a ten second countdown before firing of the laser commenced. A piercing ring sounded once the laser began its work, with a pale green glow filling the corners of the darkened grotto. Fifteen seconds into the test, the tone from the laser changed into a pulsing electrical sound just before an incredibly brilliant flash of light shot forth. In the corner of the screen, thermal data, pulse wave scans, and other pertinent information displayed itself during the experiment. The laser shut down and suddenly the cavern was cloaked in a black veil of darkness.

What followed next dumbfounded the onlookers. Two hours after the laser accomplished its work, the video continued showing a stream of workers entering the cavern. Portable lights flashed on showing an area fifty feet wide, seventy feet long and twenty feet high. The scientists, government representatives and project personnel sat spellbound at the event played out before them.

The room was soundless. Monique Sinclair stood smiling at the conference members. She had replaced the somewhat hostile environment with a room full of docile children eager to play with a new toy.

Bryson McGann leaned forward resting his elbows on the table, contemplating the scenario. He scanned the disbelieving faces across the room all knowing what they witnessed seemed impossible, yet it happened.

Lights flooded the room. Dr. Schmidt spoke first, mumbling, “Remarkable, absolutely remarkable, Ms. Sinclair.”  He stood, his large hands pumping together, spurring the audience into a round of raucous applause for their guest. Sinclair left the podium making her way into the center of the room, instantly encircled by a swarm of inquisitive men and women. Each spoke briefly, confident that an arrangement of some type could be reached. A marriage of technologies of IMT, NESSA, and those of Durnulqc would be an asset in allowing the project to advance at a rapid pace.

Ashlyn Sanders raised her voice so McGann could hear her, “I don't know what to say.”

“I would say Ms. Sinclair is very good at what she does,” his tone even.

“Oh, she's good. Monique Sinclair is very good at what she does,” her voice filling with anger.  “She embarrassed me in front of the entire group. I let her take total control of the meeting. She stole my presentation. How do you think that makes me look as a project consultant?”

McGann threw an arm around her shoulder. “Hey, don't beat yourself up over this. From the looks of things, I'd say no one is upset with you.”

“Don't patronize me,” Sanders shot back. “Think about it. Doesn't it strike you as odd that Durnulqc Enterprises possesses secret information? They send her to candy-coat the fact with her winning smile and charm and now she has people eating out of her hand. What's going on around here? Can someone tell me?” Ashlyn stood, snapping the locks on her briefcase, glaring at the Durnulqc representative.

From across the room Monique Sinclair turned, looking past Sanders, her emerald eyes focused intently on Bryson McGann. He gave a slight nod of his head, evoking a pleased expression from the woman.

Refocusing his attention on Ashlyn Sanders, he remarked, “It's my opinion Canadian Laser Labs, if they have what they claim, possess a valuable asset. The potential benefits of such a device are incredible. Think about it, Ash.”

“How can you be so calm about all of this?” Sanders blurted.

“I don't take it personally.”

“Obviously not.”

“Dr. Sanders.  A quick lesson.  If an opponent attacks you from the front, simply Tai Sebakke.”

Screwing up her face she asked, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“An effective way of defending yourself.  When you're attacked head-on, at the last possible moment, step to the side of your opponent. Then continue the attack or ignore it, depending on the situation.”

“Are you telling me to ignore this?” Sanders questioned angrily.

“That choice is yours to make. I'm only offering a defense,” he paused, turning his palms upward, fingers spreading acquiescently.  “In answer to your previous question, I'm very concerned about the prospects of Durnulqc having access to what occurs at this project. As I said before, Monique Sinclair’s an interesting and also a potentially deceptive woman.”

McGann watched the careful ministrations of Monique Sinclair capture the throng of people surrounding her.  Her wiles sealed the possibility of a joint venture at the Billings Seamount. As the afternoon wore on, the crowds slowly thinned and Bryson McGann slipped from the room.

That night sleep was elusive as he lay in his bed. Thoughts of the intriguing, beguiling woman plagued him. They lingered in a recess, worming their way to the surface each time he attempted to bury them. Far too many questions remained. What would become of the newfound alliance with Durnulqc Enterprises? Would the VDH and rebreather system function as well in its first real test dive outside the lab? Could Ashlyn commit herself to take Monique Sinclair on an underwater tour of the Subsea stations after their collision at the meeting?

McGann finally drifted off into a dreamless peacefulness.

Chapter Twenty-One

Platform 1

Occasional sunlight broke through the network of patchy, gray clouds drifting lazily above the Pacific. Four-foot swells, pushed along by light breezes, meandered past Platform One on their journey toward the Olympic Peninsula. The acrid smell of aviation fuel along with the distinctive sound of rotors cut into the late morning air.  Several helicopters, preparing for departure, awaited the imminent arrival of their passengers. Flight crews scurried about the deck insuring takeoffs would proceed as slated. The few remaining members of yesterday's meeting waited impatiently for crew personnel to take them to the helicopters. Last minute conversations regarding upcoming meetings, followed by handshakes, signaled the moment of departure. Each person took with them an informational disc and a ream of hard copy techno-data to review prior to their next meeting, courtesy of Fletcher Durnulqc.

Inside the cavernous pontoons supporting the floating platform, docking bays and repair stations held an assortment of watercraft. The massive hulls offered a safe harbor from the elements.  Davits busily moved vessels from their moorings into the ocean and back as needed. Extremely large vessels could even motor, when necessary, through immense hydraulic doors into specially designed berths. “Red” O'Brien rode herd over the entire operation, ensuring it ran flawlessly. Twenty-seven years in the Navy gave him the experience needed to run it efficiently. 

Last minute preparations by a crew of technicians preparing Mini-Sub 814 for its 1100 hours departure, preoccupied the stocky, red haired Irishman. O'Brien left nothing to chance and did not mind telling anyone. Within the hull of the vessel, technicians ran through a pre-departure checklist. Whenever a boat or sub left the platform, he knew no mechanical reason existed that would hamper its return. In the time he had been overseeing this project, not one boat or sub malfunctioned. He stepped onboard the sub, spot-checking the support crew, making sure everything was in working order. 

Bill Matthews would pilot the boat today along with Susan Connors, the onboard marine technician. O'Brien liked them both. They were hard workers. A quick check of his watch showed 1053.  When Doc Sanders and that Durnulqc woman arrived, he wanted the sub ready for departure.

Number Two elevator made a rapid descent from the upper decks and opened out into the expanse of the pontoon. Ashlyn Sanders stepped out onto the catwalk, turning in the direction of docking bay three, followed closely by Monique Sinclair.  O'Brien's cherubic face, his mouth clamped onto the stump of a black cigar, greeted the two women as he exited the dock master's office.

“Morning, Doc,” the retired Navy man said in a gravelly toned voice.

“Hi yourself, Red. I'd like you to meet Monique Sinclair.  She's the representative for Durnulqc Enterprises out of Vancouver.”

O'Brien looked up at the tall woman, removing his cigar with one hand and reaching out to shake her offered hand with the other.  He was surprised by her unusually solid grip. “It's a pleasure, ma'am,” he said, a schoolboy's smile lighting his face.

“The pleasure’s mine,” Monique replied.

Ashlyn cut in, “Which boat are we running today, Red?”

“814. I figured we'd give our guest the luxury model. She's ready to go,” he said moving off, replacing the stump of the cigar.  “If you'll follow me, ladies.”

Monique shot a quizzical look in Sanders’ direction.

“It's the newest sub in the bunch,” Ashlyn quickly replied, aware of Sinclair's uncertainty.

The sound of whirring electric motors caught their attention as davits moved into position over the vessel. Ashlyn spied Bill Matthews through a view port, sitting at the con. He signaled with a wave of his hand through the thick window.  O'Brien led them down a ladder into the interior of the mini-sub. After the brief introductions, Susan Connors prepared the vessel for departure. O'Brien said goodbye and closed the hatch with a resounding thump, dogging the locks.

The ladies made their way forward to the viewing area of the thirty-four foot submarine. The twelve-foot round Plexiglas view port would offer a superb look at the underwater world they were about to enter.  From their seats, they saw three sets of metal arms poised silently, awaiting commands.  A halo of lights surrounded the huge eye of the vessel, providing light and color to the dark world below the surface. Along the walls, an array of equipment glowed, emitting an electric hum.

Hydraulic arms of the davits locked onto the mini-sub, closing with a metallic clang. The submarine shuddered slightly.  The davits' mechanisms easily lifted the vessel from its mooring. Doors on the exterior of the pontoon opened, filling it with morning sunlight. Only the horizon of the Pacific Ocean lay before them.

From his office, O'Brien viewed the scene on the video display monitor as the submersible vehicle came to rest in the gently rolling swells. Inside, Bill Matthews engaged the sub's powerful electric motors while Sue Connors finished an inspection of the pre-descent checklist. Soon the waters of the Pacific enveloped the steel hull of the underwater vessel, in a dark blue shroud.

Bryson McGann entered the operations office looking for Red O'Brien. Engrossed in his work, the dock master was unaware of the visitor.  Creeping across the room, McGann closed the distance between himself and the unsuspecting O'Brien.

“Hey, Red,” McGann barked.

The ex-Navy man, startled by the intrusion, jumped from his seat, heart racing. “Holy Mother of Christ, Son of Mary.  What the hell you trying to do, McGann. Give this old salt a heart attack?”

A contagious grin spread across McGann's face.  “It'll never happen, Red. You're too damn ornery for that.”

“Always have a come back, don't you Mac?” the red haired Irishman remarked.

McGann lifted the wooden box in a gesture of peace. Slowly opening the lid, he revealed its contents. “I brought you a few of those Dominican cigars you're trying to kill yourself with.”

“Bless you, my boy.  If nothing else, you have good taste,” O'Brien quipped.

“Save one for me and I'll join you later.”

“Anytime, my friend. Say, you just missed Doc Sanders and that Durnulqc woman. They seemed pretty chummy,” his Boston accent intoned.

“That's interesting, after the presentation Ms. Sinclair made yesterday,” Bryson remarked, dryly.

“Heard about that. You just never know with women, Mac. Anyway, sent them out in 814.  Matthews is giving them the grand tour ending up at number seven.”

“Being generous with the new boat, aren't you, Red? It wouldn't have anything to do with the fact she's an attractive lady now, would it?” Bryson asked coyly.

“Just want the guests to have the best, Mac. She's a looker, though,” the dock master added.

“Yup, she is that,” Bryson commented.

“By the way Mac, your gear’s stowed on the boat and they're ready when you are.”

“Sounds good,” McGann tossed back at O'Brien passing through the operations room door.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Test Dive

Slicing through the rolling swells with ease, the forty-foot boat sped toward its destination. Eight miles from Platform One the twin diesel engines slowed, bringing the boat to a halt. The craft bobbed, drifting on the slight current while the crew made final preparations for Bryson's dive. McGann's sea sled, which he would use to propel himself underwater, rocked gently alongside the boat.  Bryson McGann came topside as the deck crew finished final preparations. The cool, salty breeze felt good on his face.

A quick computer check revealed a fully charged battery for the Virtual Dive Helmet, and perfectly functioning heads up display.  With help from one of the crew, McGann pulled on the deep-depth dive suit over his thermal garment. When pressurized, a flexible titanium mesh lining inside the suit provided protection from crushing depths. This latest technology had recently become standard issue for all deepwater NESSA divers.

Once below the surface, the suit would keep him warm. However, sitting on the boat waiting to dive, he found it extremely uncomfortable. A trickle of sweat inched its way along his back.  Eager to enter the water, McGann reached for the VDH and connected it to the stainless steel collar of his dive suit. It locked into place with a metallic snap. One of the crew attached the hoses for the rebreather circuit to the helmet. It functioned perfectly. 

This latest breathing device, unlike scuba tanks, recycled its own air. The unit scrubbed carbon dioxide from the system, venting it, providing enough oxygen for up to twelve hours. Computer simulation indicated the unit is capable of attaining a depth of twelve hundred feet. Bryson McGann could swim undetected through the depths without the telltale trail of bubbles and noise left by conventional scuba equipment.

McGann slipped into his fins and stepped off the transom, the splashing sound echoing inside the metal helmet. Immediately, a cascade of miniature bubbles surrounded him, momentarily disrupting his vision. It always brought back the memories of his first dive with T.C. All too quickly the moment passed. He floated to the surface, swam effortlessly to the sea sled, and engaged the controls.  A quick thumbs up to the crew and he disappeared beneath the waves.

Prior to descending to the total darkness below, Bryson ran a quick systems check at two hundred feet. A miniature camera inside the helmet sent a continuous live video feed back to the surface vessel for systems analysis. Switching on the virtual vision system, the black liquid crystal screen brought to life the undersea world beyond the helmet's faceplate. Lights on the sea sled provided more than adequate lighting at the current depth. The virtual vision system quickly adjusted with impressive results.

Nutrient rich waters allowed life along the vertical wall of rock to flourish in abundance. Plant like animals grew in odd shapes, spending their lives attached to its surface. A vast array of colors opened before McGann, thanks to the diving helmet he wore. Without the aid of the mechanical device, what little sunlight penetrated to this depth, gave no hint to the beauty it held. A large hammerhead circled silently, near the edge of his lateral visibility, which extended out to a distance of two hundred feet. Schools of fish darted nervously about, keenly aware of the shark's presence. He ignored the predator and moved on.

An hour passed quickly as McGann tweaked the system, experimenting and adjusting controls using the voice activated response. Walter Pierson's design enabled a diver to call up any needed function, which then appeared inside the helmet's faceplate, simply by speaking. The VAR functioned flawlessly, indicated by a response from the communications technician. He checked the time on his Breitling Super Ocean, turned the sled onto a heading of two hundred and thirty-one degrees, and with a quick burst of speed, dove for deeper water.

Reaching his destination, Bryson settled the underwater vehicle onto the sea floor at a depth of four hundred and eight feet. Once in place, he shut down the lights on the sled. He found himself immersed in total blackness. Other divers may have found this alarming, causing them to panic. McGann waited patiently.  Without artificial lighting the helmet displayed a black screen. In less than five seconds, the virtual vision displayed his surroundings to a distance twenty-five feet away. The image of the ocean floor took on a grayish-white grainy appearance due to the absence of light. Still, it proved more than adequate in the total darkness. Currently, the display indicated lateral visibility, depth, and direction. His voice command pulled up the other information he requested. After completing the required tests, he switched on the sea sled's lights. The undersea world again filled with color.

Without warning, the system flickered on and off.  The helmets' screen turned totally black, pitching him into momentary darkness. He could hear the crew topside calling, but the malfunctioning VAR would not allow him to respond. McGann heard Rich Owens' voice fill the helmet, “Mac, we are receiving a non-image. Do you copy, over?”

A tense moment passed onboard the surface vessel.  The technical crew, unable to communicate with the diver, held their breath. Continued attempts to contact McGann failed. Everyone knew if McGann were in trouble he would be forced to save himself.

A reply finally came, “I'm not quite sure what happened but I'm adjusting sequence gain now.” He paused momentarily while making the correction. “How's that look on your end, Rich?”

“It's a go. Video display now indicates normal system functioning. VAR checks out too, Mac,” Owens replied.

“Affirmative.  It's back on line,” Bryson replied, calm. “Rebreather circuit is A-OK.”

“You want to abort the rest of the mission?” Owens asked.

“Negative. If I have any further problems, I will.”

“Okay, it's your call.  We're standing by.  Over.”  Owens' voice faded.

McGann powered up the sled, heading for one final trial in deeper waters. Racing through the sea, McGann skillfully maneuvered the underwater vehicle around a series of rock formations in the direction of Subsea Station 7.  In the corner of his field of vision, the diver glimpsed a dark shadow rapidly moving toward him. When he turned, it disappeared. He brought the sled to a halt, hovering in the depths. He sensed its presence behind him. Swiveling his head, McGann turned again in its direction. Another of the creatures brushed passed. From underneath the sled, it swam at a rapid speed on a direct course for him.

Bulging dark eyes stared unblinking at the human who invaded their domain. Playfully, the sea lions skirted in front and behind him. He followed the pair for a while, enjoying the game of cat and mouse, amazed at their agility.  The diver finally left the creatures behind him when they headed for the surface.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Seamount Exploration

One hundred and forty feet below the Pacific, inside the pressurized dome, workers were in the slow process of mining polycarboamolite. Drilling a vertical shaft into the sea floor surface took place round the clock. The methods by which conventional tools yielded the first load of material from this site had been extremely tedious.

Casting their gaze out the Plexiglas eye of the mini-sub, the two women watched several divers preparing the ore. The team inflated large pneumatic lift bags, floating the first load topside.  The dive master carefully controlled the rate of ascent so the bags would not send the platform holding the ore rocketing upward as the precious material rose to the surface. Once there, a cargo ship hoisted the precious material aboard.

Undersea mining in its current state, at best, became a lesson in patience. Workers faced extreme challenges and danger.  IMT and NESSA were both adamant in assuring undersea pollution and destruction remained minimal. This slowed procedures even more. Matthews turned right onto a new heading; destination, Station 7.  Sanders explained in detail to Monique Sinclair several of the problems faced by NESSA Director Sumner.  Opposition from many inside the Washington Beltway attempted to hinder the mining process, calling for an end to any environmental destruction.

The Pentagon became a driving force behind the urgency of mining PCAM. The Joint Chief's communiqué clearly spelled out the military's need. Although the Pentagon openly supported the project’s environmental concerns; in reality, they would undertake any method available for obtaining PCAM by the quickest means possible. If the environment suffered by their recklessness, so be it. The spoils of their prize were thought to be a greater benefit. The potential of having a fighting force equipped with planes and ships coated with this new material was something the armed forces meant to have.

Mini-Sub 814 silently cruised the waters in the area of Station 7.  Rich in sea life, the seamount offered up a vast array of aquatic creatures for the occupants viewing. Attracted by its lights, schools of curious fish encircled and darted around the odd looking steel vehicle. Hundreds of feet below their current depth, the cold watery blackness stored a treasure of far greater value.

Susan Connors opened the hatch, descending from the con into the compartment where the two women sat viewing the undersea realm. Undisturbed by her presence, Ashlyn and Monique continued their discussion. Pouring herself a cup of tea from a thermal container, Connors glanced out the large view port.  Artificial lighting brought to life the unique environment seen by few people. Susan Connors never tired of watching the strangely silent world.

Several minutes later, Bill Matthews' voice came over the intercom, requesting her to come topside to the con. Reluctantly, she filled her vision with one last look and returned up the ladder sealing the watertight compartment behind her.  They were beginning to descend into the Station 7 area, where her assistance was needed in navigating the mini-sub through parts of the underwater canyons and spires. Just two weeks before, an ROV was destroyed due to an underwater rockslide in the vicinity. 

The submersible vessel propelled itself over the edge of a plateau into the depths. The potential mining site, where an immense supply of PCAM awaited excavation, lay in a treacherous area. The idea of abandoning this site became very real. The problems inherent to underwater mining, in addition to the challenges of the terrain, made the problem of extracting the valuable ore extremely difficult.  Yet, if Durnulqc Enterprises provided the laser equipment Monique Sinclair alluded to, the undertaking would be more than worth the risk associated with it.

Matthews' voice interrupted the women's conversation. “Ladies, we're almost at the site. Current depth is seven-three-zero feet. After traveling through these spires, the mining site will be off the right side of the sub. As you know, this area’s unstable, so please make sure you’re strapped in your seats.” A downward angle of the bow indicated the final descent to Station 7.

Expertly piloting the sub, Matthews and Connors weaved their way through the rocky formations. The guests were treated to a surreal setting in front of the view port as tall, rocky spires rose up from the ocean floor.  Surrounding rocks dwarfed the mini-sub as Matthews steered the vehicle on its final approach. A swift current made the task more difficult at such a slow speed. Suddenly, the crevasse loomed ahead.

“Do you think you can get us in close with this current, Bill?” Ashlyn asked, expectantly.

“I've been in worse. Once we're past the opening, it'll be a piece of cake,” Matthews replied, confidently.

The women peered intently at the geological formation. Monique Sinclair's fingers flew across the keypads on the computer terminal attached to her seat. A diagram of the crevasse rotated on her screen aligning itself to their current heading. She quickly searched the onboard data reference frame. Dimensional scans were faultless. “Yes, this is perfect,” Sinclair shouted. “Take us in now, captain,” the woman spoke, authoritatively.

Barely moving, the mini-sub entered the crevasse that opened into a larger cavern.  Lights on the sub flooded the chamber allowing a visual scan in the clear waters.

“Better than I imagined. This is it,” Monique said excitedly into the headset microphone.

Ashlyn smiled, “Great, I'll just...”

Her words were cut short by a crashing sound pounding on the hull of the vessel. The impact of the rocks pushed the sub into a wall inside the small crevasse, wrenching the passengers in their seats.

“Time to leave, ladies,” Matthews cautioned.

The vessel reversed engines, backing its way out of the cavern. Another thunderous impact sounded on the hull. Then, a rumble reverberated through the steel hull as an avalanche of rocks crashed on top of the sub. The women watched in horror, as an immense boulder narrowly missed the Plexiglas bubble, crippling one of the hydraulic arms and destroying lights on the left side of the boat. Matthews continued his vain attempt of piloting the sub into the open waters. In the wake of another cascade of rocks, the right engine failed, disabling the boat.

Inside the vessel, Matthews' heavy breathing escaped into the microphone. Warning lights flashed and alarms rang inside the con. Susan Connors sat apprehensively, maintaining her focus on the controls. The two passengers gripped their seats, their concerns escalating.

Ashlyn, close to panic, yelled into her microphone, “Damn it, Bill. What's happening? Get us out of here.”

Monique Sinclair stared in fascination, contemplating the events. The sub bounced off the opening of the crevasse, shifting the vessel's position violently, tossing its occupants in their seats.  The small boat's impaired maneuverability lessened their chance of escape with each second's passing. Just when the sub cleared the opening, the undersea avalanche unleashed all its fury.  The mini-sub, swept up in the rock-slide, careened down the sloping face of the rock wall at Station 7. 

Urgently, Matthews cried out over the intercom, “Steering's shot. I'm losing it! Get into the aft dive chamber.  Now.”  Another brutal lurching of the vessel caused his seat harness to snap, flinging him like a toy inside the con. The impact slammed his body against the steel hull, fatally crushing his skull. Sue Connors shrieked in horror as she watched her friend die.

The speed of the mini-sub slowed as the incline of the wall flattened. Grinding along the rocky surface, the hull managed to remain intact while the scene played out in horrific realism before the two women. Sinclair and Sanders desperately clawed their way into the dive chamber. 

Connors' attempt to reach the safety of the chamber failed. She slipped and fell from the ladder into the compartment below.  A burst of pain coursed through her body.  Her ankle lay twisted, bone protruding from the skin. An artery spurted a stream of blood with each heartbeat from the shattered leg. Every movement brought incredible misery.  Through tear filled eyes, Connors followed the growth of the crack forming on the view port's surface. Pressure from the surrounding depth spread the fissure quickly into a web. The woman pulled herself along the steel deck, fighting her way to the dive chamber.  Suddenly, she cried out in terror. 

Inside the chamber, Ashlyn Sanders watched helplessly at the monitor.  Before she could react, the Plexiglas imploded, sending a torrent of water pouring in on the injured woman. Her opened mouth scream went unheard. Tons of water rushed in, crushing her body into a lifeless form. Ashlyn sank to the floor as all electrical power ceased. The dive compartment was pitched into total darkness. Within moments, emergency lighting came on, bathing the two women in a muted orange-red glow. 

Mini-Sub 814 came to rest on the edge of a deep abyss at a depth of almost eleven hundred feet below the surface. A few more yards and the sub would have plunged over the underwater cliff into the depths, crushed long before it reached the bottom, another forty-five hundred feet below.

How the women managed to survive remained a mystery.  Fate was either being kind, or possibly saving the cruel joke of their death for a later moment. Monique Sinclair's finger reached out, touching the warm, sticky moisture along Ashlyn's hairline.  A superficial laceration trickled a rivulet of blood down her face. An ugly, purplish discoloration began forming on her forehead. Monique Sinclair's quick fire assessment found her without injury.  Somehow, the woman managed to come through the ordeal unscathed.

“Where's the first-aid kit?” Sinclair asked.

Ashlyn pointed to a cabinet above Monique's head.

Monique cleaned and dressed the wound. “Looks like the bleeding has stopped. Any ideas?”

Sanders took a quick mental inventory of the dive compartment. “First, we need to get into those dive suits,” she said, rising unsteadily. “It's going to get cold in here real fast.” A pile of equipment lay tangled together on the floor.  They worked swiftly in the dimly lit compartment, putting on the suits and attaching the rebreather units. One of the four dive helmets lay useless on the floor, its faceplate broken, while another had its collar attachment ring bent from impact with the hull. The remaining two were intact.

“We may need these sooner than we think.” Sinclair motioned towards the water, slowly leaking in around the bulkhead door of the compartment.

“Shit,” Ashlyn replied, rifling through the cabinets and eyeing the rising water.  Minutes passed when she finally called out to Sinclair, “I found the GMD transponder.”

Ashlyn opened the exit tube placing the Global Maritime Distress transponder inside. Without electrical power, it required manual operation to open the outer hatch cover.  Despite her efforts, it would not budge. Monique found a pry bar and together the two women strained, managing to turn the wheel slightly.  Slowly it gave way, finally opening. They waited expectantly, listening.  The exit tube flooded and the transponder began its ascent to the surface. “Now let's hope someone picks up the signal,” Ashlyn whispered.

Upon reaching the surface, an automatically transmitted radio signal was sent to an orbital satellite. The spacecraft then relayed its own transmission to the nearest monitoring ground station, alerting them to the warning. A flashing strobe light on top of the cylindrical container flashed out a powerful beacon for nearby surface vessels. Perhaps now there was hope of being rescued. With water covering their feet, time became their biggest enemy.

Uncertainty brought with it a silence until Monique Sinclair asked, “You really think they'll find us?  We're not due back for a couple of hours.” A quick check of her watch confirmed her words.

Sanders leaned back with her head against the interior hull. Her fingers gently touched the bruised area of her forehead. She eyed the slowly rising waters with concern. “Don't know,” she said absently, shrugging her shoulders. “We need a flashlight.  The emergency lighting might shut down too.”

The thought of being plunged into total darkness spurred the women on their search. Ashlyn checked a storage container in back of the compartment. Nothing.

Monique searched two overhead compartments before she found a flashlight. “Good news, bad news, I'm afraid,” she exclaimed.

Ashlyn turned.

“I found a flashlight but it's not for underwater use.” Sinclair worked the switch sending a bright spray of light into the small compartment. She flicked it off to conserve the battery.

“It'll work until the compartments flooded. Keep looking,” Sanders said, continuing her search efforts.

“I'm sorry about your friends,” Monique said, sincerely.

“Thanks,” Ashlyn returned with a solemn tone.  “At least they died quickly.  But right now, I'm more concerned about us at the moment. The question’s how are we getting out of here?”

Monique asked, “What do you suggest?”

Ashlyn stared at the dark haired woman and simply replied, “Wait.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Deadly Abyss

Aboard the surface support vessel, technicians monitored Bryson McGann's underwater equipment testing. All systems functioned appropriately with no further mishaps occurring. Captain Rich Owens finished checking McGann's monitoring equipment when one of the crew told him about the call from Platform One. Owens skirted the deck carefully as the boat rolled with a wave.

He took the radiophone from its cradle, “Go ahead, One.”

“We received a message from the Coast Guard station south of Taholah, on the Olympic Peninsula.  They're receiving a satellite transmission for an emergency GMD signal several miles from your current location. They called to inquire if any emergencies have occurred around the project site. You know something we don't, Rich?”

“Negative, One. We've hardly seen any of our own boats.  Are you picking up any fishing vessels or pleasure craft on radar?”

“Negative.”

“This area’s out of the shipping lanes. If it came from a commercial vessel, it seems like the Coast Guard should have picked up the signal long before now.  Are they sure about this?” Owens questioned.

“That's affirmative.  Coast Guard received the first signal thirty-five minutes ago. They didn't call right away.  Thought maybe it was a bad read, or somebody here goofed and let one fall in the drink. We've checked all around, and you're the last stop,” the voice from platform communications center answered.

“Can't help you. I'll tell the crew to keep an eye out and call you if we hear of anything. We'll check out the area once McGann gets back on board and we're underway.”

The captain stood on deck, scanning the horizon in all directions through the binoculars. The laser range finder inside the powerful optical device indicated the boat off the starboard bow was four point three miles from his current location. Another boat, on a general heading toward Platform 5, and a NESSA ship lying at anchor were at a distance of six miles. No planes had passed overhead during the day.  The question of where the GMD originated intrigued him. He had no clue of the peril Mini-Sub 814 faced in the dark waters over a thousand feet below the surface.

Owens moved back inside the cabin to take a message from McGann. He stated his location and that he was on his way back to the boat. Owens thought Walter Pierson might complain to the director about equipment being taken without his knowledge, but he would be glad to know it worked as predicted, except for the one minor incident. If McGann felt confident it could be easily corrected, that was all he needed to hear. 

Owens watched the video feed sent from McGann's helmet. “Impressive technology, Mac.  Do you have an ETA?”

The familiar voice replied, “Approximately thirty minutes now that I've completed all the testing. Why, what's up?”

“Got something strange going on up here. The Coast Guard informed us they received a GMD several miles from our location. I said we'd check it out when you were back on board,” Owens responded.

“What are the coordinates?”

“I'll download them to the sled's computer.  Just a moment.” Owens' fingers tapped the keyboard sending the number sequences of the GMD's original location to McGann.

Bryson McGann watched the numbers appear before him on the green colored screen of the sled's console. The onboard computer converted the numbers to a position on the geo-locator grid. In the depths, a faint orange and green glow lit the screen with a three dimensional map. The Billings area came to life, followed by a blinking dot with a three-dimensional reference of the exact location from which the transponder signaled an emergency.  The image reflecting off his faceplate indicated depth and terrain of the immediate area. The transponder's signal originated from the Station 7 area.

Bryson McGann felt his gut tighten into knotted bands. The diver turned his sea sled on a heading for Station 7.  “Rich, call O'Brien. See if he's had any contact with 814. I'm close to 7 now.  I'll check it out. Get back to me. Fast.”

McGann powered up the sled to its maximum several feet below the surface, the whirring hum of the electric motors echoing in his ears. Closing in on his destination, he forced himself to remain calm. Just as the sea sled broke the surface, he caught sight of the flashing strobe light before it fell into the trough of a wave.

Maneuvering the sea sled along side, he reached out and plucked the transponder from the water, switching off the intense beacon.  He turned the cylindrical canister over.  A small metal nameplate attached to the bottom of the red metal tube yielded the information he feared. The words struck him full force as he read them, fully aware of their meaning. National Earth Seas Science Administration.  Global Marine Distress System Transponder, Number 39986-0021.  Besides the normal information associated with this equipment, the final line read, Vessel: Mini-Submersible, 814.

McGann listened to Owens’ voice informing him that no one had made contact with the mini-sub recently.  “Tell them that signal came from 814 and I'm on it. Get rescue out here now.”

Without hesitation, McGann slipped the canister into a leg pocket of his protective suit. The sled came to life, full throttle. Bryson McGann descended rapidly into the dark depths on his search for the endangered sub. Past the point where sunlight offered its last glimpse of the surface world, he pushed on. A check of his console indicated the sled's power supply to be in the low range. He diverted all power to engines and underwater lighting systems. Immediately, the sled's geographical positioning monitor ceased to function. McGann ignored it, putting it from his mind. It was not in Bryson McGann's nature to give up. He would not allow himself. If there was any a chance of finding someone alive, he would try until his own need for air forced him to return to the surface.

Arriving in the Station 7 area, he willed himself to remember the map of the underwater terrain. He visualized the area in his mind and several times thought he found the location, but to no avail. Weaving his way through the strange geological formations known as the Spires, McGann knew he must descend deeper to find the errant sub. The depth would strain the limits of his rebreather circuit. He hoped the titanium reinforced breathing hoses did not collapse under the intense pressure. The search continued in the cold darkness. An auxiliary warning light flashed on the sled's console, indicating the power supply would soon switch to back-up. His eyes searched in desperation.

*     *     *

Inside the submersible, the women sat in silence. The damaged bulkhead slowly gave way to the pressure exerted by the seawater.  It continued to leak into the dive chamber, now almost to their knees. 

Cold.

Bone chilling.

The dive suits helped, but still it crept into them. Steam spewed from their mouths with each exhalation.

Without warning, the tortured groaning sound of metal filled the compartment. Outside, rocks shifted, causing the sub to slide several more feet. It now hung precariously over the edge. Inside the cold compartment of the vessel, beads of sweat formed on Ashlyn Sanders’ brow.  If the rocks shifted again, she dare not imagine the consequences.

Before she could speak, the emergency lighting flickered and failed. Their world masked itself in total darkness. Sinclair groped for the flashlight, finding reassurance only after switching it on. A near panic expression framed her face, lungs pumping. “There's only one thing that frightens me...total darkness,” the woman exclaimed, uneasily.

“I wondered if anything bothered you,” Ashlyn tossed in her direction. “It's good to know you're human. Right now, I think it's a good time to put these dive helmets on before something else happens, or that light dies.”

After Monique Sinclair's helmet sat securely in place and she attached the rebreather system, Sanders began the task of putting on her own gear.  Once seated and locked down, she turned on the communicator. “Everything all right?” she asked, tentatively.

“Seems to be functioning appropriately,” Monique replied, her composure regained. “Not the best situation to be in, is it?”

“I could think of a lot of other places I'd rather be at the moment,” Ashlyn Sanders replied grimly.

They waited in silence: neither sure of what else to say.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Subsea Station 7

Even with the specialized dive suit, McGann felt the effects of the pressure as he continued exploring the depths. The force of it began to squeeze him, making the slightest exertion more difficult.  McGann let it slip from his thoughts and focused on the task he had undertaken. He almost swam past the opening in the rock while looking in another direction. Then the crevasse offered up its silent clue.  Rubble strewn from the rockslide appeared at the extreme edge of his vision. It sank into the darkness. Faced with no other choice, the diver continued his perilous journey, unsure of what lay ahead.

In the failing light the sled provided, he almost missed it. Buried under the rocky debris, Mini-Sub 814 lay on her side, helpless. Fortunately, the battered vehicle's escape hatch remained accessible. He retrieved a pry bar from the sea sled, tension gripping him like a vice. Hesitantly, McGann tapped the bar on the steel hull of the disabled vessel. He placed his dive helmet on the hull, listening for a reply, waiting anxiously.

His own communicator would not work with any communication devices inside the sub. Walter Pierson had seen to it that the VAR sent a scrambled message so only the team monitoring the dive could speak with the diver, since the technology still remained a secret.

Within the confines of the compartment, the women stared nervously at one another.  Water rose more quickly now, hugging their waists. Each thought about the inevitable, neither ready to admit it. Facing death never came easy.  Dying in this confined tomb, over a thousand feet below the surface seemed even less of an appealing choice. Locked in their thoughts, they almost missed it.

Sinclair cocked her head. “Did you hear that?” she asked excitedly.

Closing her eyes, Ashlyn strained to listen inside the dive helmet. There was nothing. She made a quick decision to remove the helmet knowing the consequences if the compartment suddenly flooded. Puzzled at first, she thought it was an object moving in the current, banging on the hull. After a moment, the realization struck her that the noise was repetitive, intentional. Listening more closely, Ashlyn recognized the rarely used but unmistakable message in Morse code.

A-S-H-L-Y-N.

Sanders gripped the iron pry bar, pinging out an SOS from inside the sub. She repeated it several times and put her helmet back on. Monique sighed with relief, tension draining from her face. The possibility of escape had now become a reality.

Bryson McGann heard the faint hammering sound of the distress signal. He knew at least one person remained alive. McGann twisted the hatch cover, wrenching the steel ring with all the force he could muster.  It moved slightly under the relentless pressure his aching arms applied.

Slowly.

Little by little, the wheel turned until free, finally spinning easily.  

Once inside the outer compartment, McGann closed the hatch. The women acted quickly, working in unison to open the outlet valve, forcing the water from the interior of the compartment chamber.  They watched the inside hatch cover wheel spin open, and were greeted by the grinning face of Bryson McGann. Both the women stared at him, now chest deep in water.  He took off his helmet helping the women with theirs.

“Bryson,” Ashlyn shouted as her helmet came off.  A nervous smile filled her face.

“A very timely entrance, Mr. McGann, and certainly appreciated,” the raven- haired woman stated.

“Speaking of time, that's something we may not have much of. If those rocks begin to slide again we're in trouble. We're sitting right on the edge of the drop off,” Bryson replied.

Not sparing a moment, he set about explaining the plan of action for their escape. He knew it would be difficult.  With the sled's power minimal, getting to the surface might become a problem if they were forced to swim. The strain of swimming at this depth made the task much more hazardous. In their excitement, the women neglected to find any fins. Now with the water rising so rapidly, they were out of time, a fact that would hinder their ascent.

Both women recited the plan of how they would make their escape from Mini-Sub 814. Once he knew they fully understood, he spun the wheel, flooding the outer chamber.  Ashlyn and Monique waited expectantly in the now neck-deep water.

Opening the hatch of the exit chamber, seawater rushed in until the compartment filled, equalizing it to ambient pressure outside the now useless vessel. Like a giant hand, the intensity of incoming water wrenched his grip from the wheel of the exit hatch, forcing him beneath the water.  Then, only the unrelenting pressure of their depth made it difficult to get the women out of the vessel.  McGann struggled to free them from what would have become their coffin.  First Sinclair, then Sanders made their way through the hatch.

Upon returning to the sled, they found the power supply nearly drained, its electric motors inoperable. The weakening light emitting from the vehicle faded with its last bit of power.  Bryson set down his dive light and rapidly scrawled instructions on a slate. In brief detail he spelled out how the trio would proceed.

Focused on McGann's instructions, the threesome was caught unprepared. Another avalanche ensued, raining down on top of them. Relying on instinct, McGann's arms flew out clutching the two women. If they slipped from his grasp, in all probability, it would mean their death. Tightening his hold around their wrists, he felt himself slammed from behind. Pain instantly seared his entire body. Fortunately McGann's helmet and rebreather unit took the main force of the blow.

The trio toppled over the edge of the chasm, followed closely by the sled and dive light. Rocks soared past on their downward journey.  The fading beacon spiraled into the depths, flashing in the darkness until its light was lost forever. 

Monique realized before Ashlyn what happened. An image of McGann's body reeling from the assault of the avalanche flashed before her.  Somehow the rock that struck her rescuer missed her. Sinclair's other hand shot out, latching on to McGann's wrist with intense pressure, knowing her life depended on it. Monique Sinclair's world quickly went spinning into a dizzying void.

Ashlyn turned toward Bryson at the moment the rockslide began. A large rock struck her helmet.  Miraculously, the faceplate remained intact. Unleashed within the dive helmet, her scream echoed, unheard by the others. The impact brought her dangerously close to blacking out. Through a foggy haze, she felt McGann's grip loosening on her wrist as they sank into the inky blackness.

Close to unconsciousness, his concept of time became distorted. The pressure of Monique Sinclair's grasp aroused him. The realization that Ashlyn's wrist was sliding through his hands awakened him fully. His fingers tightened around her hand with an incredible vice-like force. If he lost her now, Ashlyn Sanders would experience a terrifying end. McGann had no idea how far into the depths of the abyss they plummeted, but the water pressure squeezed him relentlessly.  The impact damaged his breathing circuit, but at least for the moment, it still provided an adequate air supply.  His attempt in contacting the surface support vessel proved futile. The VDH malfunction threw McGann into a world of darkness, forcing him to rely on learned skills.

In his special operations training, numerous dives were conducted under low and no light situations. Thankfully, for the three of them, the training paid off.  Most divers panicked in situations like these. Plunged into total darkness, without a visual reference to maintain a sense of direction, a diver easily becomes disoriented, unable to determine in which direction to ascend. Almost instantaneously, vertigo occurs, further compounding the situation, leading to panic. Soon, hyperventilation sets in. The hapless diver feels unable to breathe adequately, often times ripping their breathing apparatus from their mouths in an attempt to get air.  Instead, they find only water, quickly drowning.

With their malfunctioning equipment and their near fatal fall, McGann had no idea in which direction the surface lay.  Unlike scuba equipment, the rebreather emitted no telltale bubbles rushing past his face that would rise to the surface. He willed himself to remain calm. Pulling the two women closer, he squeezed their hands, waiting for a response. They replied, although Ashlyn's grip seemed weaker than normal. Once assured they knew he was all right, he encircled their arms around his waist, clasping their hands together.

McGann unzipped the pocket on the leg of his suit, pulling out the GMD. His legs pumped in rhythmic fashion, maintaining their depth. In the darkness, he tied a piece of nylon cord to his rebreather and the lanyard of the transponder, releasing it.  The upward tugging of the positively buoyant devise gave him a reference point. He now knew in which direction to swim toward the surface.

With that problem solved, the battle to survive began in earnest. Without fins, the women were of no help in swimming at this depth. His respirations increased under the labored strain. The ambient pressure, well over a thousand feet below the surface, made McGann's task extremely grueling, equivalent to lifting several times their combined body weight.

Not only did the pain he experience make ascending to the surface harder, the damaged rebreather circuit began to take its toll.  McGann's respirations rapidly increased. Sweat poured off his face inside the helmet. The buildup of carbon dioxide in the rebreather, due to a malfunctioning valve, made his efforts more difficult.  McGann had no idea how far from the surface the group was. He knew if they did not reach it in time, he would lose consciousness. That would spell disaster.  His legs ached from the physical strain as well as the anaerobic metabolism occurring due to lack of oxygen. With each breath, fire raged inside his chest. Bryson McGann blinked away the sweat now streaming from his face. His only thought, continue to the top, toward life.

Near panic, Monique Sinclair fought to control her fear in the blackness. She strained for any hint of light, a signal of safety.  The force of the ocean's pressure sat like a crushing weight on them. The women's struggling attempts to aid McGann in his rescue efforts were proving futile in the fight for their lives. Time had no meaning.  It seemed an eternity since they left the mini-sub. Ashlyn observed Bryson slowing down. Looking up, she saw what might be a faint glow of light. Could it be the surface, or was her mind playing a cruel trick?

Relentless pain ravaged his body.  The cry for oxygen became intolerable. Bryson's labored respirations came in ragged gasps. Simple movements turned into almost inhuman tasks. Still the man would not quit, it was not in his being. McGann would struggle, demanding his body cooperate until he could go no farther.

In his weakened state, the transponder slipped from his hand. Vertigo swept over him instantaneously.  He fought to maintain control. The simple task of finding the device meant life or death. Desperately sweeping his hands blindly in front of him, he searched the water, struggling in vain until his fingers brushed the cord. McGann pulled the tethered transponder closer, and once reassured of direction, they continued.

Light from the surface grew brighter.  Sinclair worked her aching legs in a rhythmic motion. The intense pressure of the depths had passed, and the two women's efforts now seemed to make a difference. Gazing into the face of Ashlyn Sanders, she offered a reassuring nod. Sinclair watched McGann shaking his head from side to side, trying to clear the fog enveloping him. She knew something was wrong. A carbon dioxide warning indicator flashed on the rebreather's console, instantly alerting her. Neither she nor Sanders could help him until they reached the surface. The man's steadfast determination amazed the Durnulqc representative.

Another man may have given up, submitted to fate, but not Bryson McGann. Nearly impossible now to breathe, it took all his resolve not to rip the helmet off in his search for air.  His lungs screamed. Tortured muscles in his arms and legs cramped in agony with each upward stroke. Unable to comply with his mind's commands, McGann's arms and legs flailed wildly, clawing toward the surface.  He exhausted the last of his reserves.

Bryson McGann's world spun out of control as the transponder slipped again from his grasp. This time it was too much. He sensed himself plummeting into the darkness, lost. In his last conscious moment, he felt a strong pressure wrapping around him, squeezing his chest.

McGann knew he failed.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rescue

“Yeah, we're searching in the area now.  McGann had signaled there were survivors before his communicator quit working,” Captain Owens called in to Platform One's operation's center.  “Wind's picking up. Seas are getting pretty rough, too. We'll stay out as long as possible.”

“Understood,” the rescue coordinator replied.

Several choppers were dispatched in the search for the imperiled divers, in addition to the surface support vessels aiding in the recovery efforts. 

Tensions mounted.

Minutes ticked by. 

A squall line making its way across the Pacific toward the Washington coastline whipped frothy whitecaps on top of the building waves. The deteriorating weather hampered the rescue attempt.

The powerful strobe-like beacon came to life the moment it broke the surface. Still attached to the lanyard, it signaled the location of the unfortunate trio below.  Sanders and Sinclair struggled with the burden of McGann's suddenly limp body.  Gripped by a new dilemma, the two women pushed themselves in their fight to leave behind the unforgivable depths.

The pilot of the Sea King rescue helicopter, on its second pass over the vicinity, luckily spotted the flashing strobe just prior to moving the search to another sector.  Deftly, he piloted the craft in a tight circle, maneuvering above the beacon's brilliant arc.

“I have a visual. Strobe flash confirmed to starboard, three o'clock position. We're on it,” shouted the copilot of the chopper, alerting everyone involved in the search operation.

“Affirmative.” Ed Felton removed his headset, replacing it with a dive mask. Without further thought, he leapt into the swelling seas.  He swam with practiced ease, having performed this operation numerous times over the years in search and rescue duty.  Felton followed the length of cord tethered to the trio of divers, unsure of what he would find. Instantly, he assessed the situation and reacted. Wrapping his massive arms around McGann's chest in a vice-like grip, Felton made a rapid ascent to the surface.

The helicopter dropped a raft into the angry gray swells as the rescue diver pulled the unconscious McGann to safety, quickly removing his helmet. Wind-whipped waves crashed over the sides while the women heaved their fatigued bodies into the raft. Cold rain pelted the group, its effects helping revive McGann.  Slowly, the exhausted man aroused. When his vision cleared, he saw the two disheveled women hovering over him, hair hanging in long wet strands, surrounding concerned faces.

The helicopter lowered a basket and one by one, pulled the group to safety.  Once securely aboard the Sea King, the rescued occupants of the doomed mini-sub headed for the medical facilities at Platform 1. The doctors eventually cleared the three divers after thorough examinations and a number of lab tests.

Bryson McGann now lay in his bed, weary from his brush with death. The dinner conversation with Ashlyn and Monique, from earlier in the evening, flooded his mind. Still uncertain about Sinclair, the feelings tugged at him. McGann did not know what hovered beyond the border of conscious thinking, making him feel this way, but he had learned to trust his intuitions. Something about the woman implied caution.

A quiet tapping interrupted his thoughts.  Opening the door, a look of surprise passed over his face. Monique Sinclair, wrapped in a skintight, black silk jump suit that only enhanced her attractive figure, stood poised in the hallway.  Long, black hair spilled around her smiling face as she raised the bottle of champagne. In her other hand, she held out two crystal flutes.

“May I offer my thanks once again and a glass of champagne, Mr. McGann?”

“It would be hard to say no,” Bryson replied.

Without hesitation the woman entered his room.  McGann eyed the black silk clinging to her, a second skin moving with fluid lubricity. Monique stopped and turned abruptly.  She tossed her black mane over a shoulder while predatory eyes followed his every movement. He took the green bottle, removing the wire basket and pushed the cork from its neck with a distinctive pop. Bubbling liquid spilled into the glasses. She extended one to McGann. He lifted the delicate flute, touching Sinclair's, crystal ringing in the stillness. The icy, crisp tasting wine trickled down his throat, leaving behind a hint of sweetness.

Monique Sinclair inched closer.  Slender fingers brushed against his cheek. Her tongue darted out, moistening parted lips. “I must find a way to thank you properly, Mr. McGann,” the temptress whispered, drawing even nearer.  Her arms uncoiled, wrapping around his neck, her body almost touching his. Heady scent from her perfume swirled in an unseen mist. Monique's lips brushed against his tentatively, exploring until he responded. The woman pressed herself into McGann, eager to fulfill her desires.

The garment's thin material did little to hide her taut form, nipples stiffening into peaks of arousal underneath it.  He felt her breathing quicken. The fevered warmth of her body burned with raging fire against him. He breathed in her scent, its effect dizzying, holding him captive. McGann kissed the woman, fully tasting the sweetness of the champagne and the softness of her mouth. A delicate tongue danced across his lips, finding an opening, darting inward. Responsively, his hands slid upward along her flanks, following her natural curvature. A muted sigh escaped from deep within her.  Monique Sinclair's fingers kneaded their way through his hair while his lips found the delicate spot in the softness of her neck.

After a moment, Monique Sinclair stepped away from him. Slowly unzipping the jumpsuit, she watched his reactions. The parted material sensuously revealed her flawless body.  The woman let the garment fall from her shoulders. She pulled McGann to the bed. Her pupils dilated, her cheeks flushed with desire. She fell into the sheets, beckoning him to fulfill her hunger.

She eyed him lustfully.  Her boldness did not shock him. Instead, it left him wondering even more about this unusual woman. Painted red nails traced thin lines across the firm smoothness of her belly.  They found their way into her impassioned moistness. Sinclair's desires dictated the pace. Languidly at first, then more rapidly, her slick fingers worked until her feverish movements elicited a sharp inhalation. Monique's back arched with excitement. She rode the wave of intoxicating pleasure washing over her.  Her body shuddered in delight. “Bryson. Please...” she whispered, hoarsely.  

Even though the woman stirred him, McGann set his desires aside. It was not that he did not find her attractive, quite the contrary.  The image of the lithe vixen lying on his bed would be a temptation most men would fall prey to. He found her attitude perplexing, and it troubled him. McGann reached down and picked the silky material off the floor, feeling its slippery coolness in his hands.

Fiery green eyes flared, erupting into a scorching execration. Monique Sinclair's face peeled back into a feral sneer. “You bastard,” she cried, jumping from the bed. “You think I fuck every man that looks in my direction?” Sinclair ripped the fabric from his hand, pulling the thin material up over her shoulders, zipping the jumpsuit in one quick motion. “You'll regret this decision, Bryson McGann,” her voice icy cold, menacing. The slamming door rocked on its hinges as her footfalls faded in the hallway.

McGann stared at the door in disbelief, half expecting the Durnulqc representative to reenter and burst into another tirade of rage. He plucked the tight cords of stiff muscles in the back of his neck. Slumping into a chair, McGann turned on the television monitor.  After surfing a number of channels, he stopped to follow a late night news conference already in progress. A panel of renowned scientists and meteorologists were holding discussions about the abrupt changes in weather patterns.

These unusual occurrences were causing destruction, flooding, mudslides, and the list continued. Heavy snows were accumulating in parts of Europe, bringing nations to a standstill. Rains of monsoon proportion and high winds whipped across Indonesia. Memories of the killer tornado in Kansas haunted him. No continent remained unaffected by the destructive weather patterns. The panel of experts offered no explanation of this phenomena, only guesses.

Death tolls were on the rise. People wanted answers that were not forthcoming. It made no sense. What was responsible for the increasingly bizarre weather? Why was the entire world feeling the effects?

He turned off the monitor. 

He needed to rest. It had been enough for one day.  A fleeting vision of Monique Sinclair lying on his bed crossed his mind. McGann filled the glass, sipping its contents, and put the incident to rest.

At least the champagne was still cold.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Earth Orbit

In the blackness of space, the last of his satellites slipped into orbit. Others like it were already revolving in a geo-synchronous path, waiting. Alerted to the presence of a new orbiter, computers inside each of the space vehicles began sending and receiving scrambled encoded messages from one another and the ground relay station. Mindless machines knew nothing of the damage caused below on the planet's surface. The satellites only mission; perform as instructed.

Around the world, experts scratched their heads, toying with computer weather models, finding no clues. Weather developments eclipsed many other news events occurring around the globe. TV news programs filled the airwaves, constantly shocking the public with scenes of destruction. Some claimed it to be the end of time. For many it would be.

The stakes in the game were minuscule at this point. In fact, raising the ante only served to hasten the intended purpose. A cold wicked smile spread slowly across his face. Soon, very soon, the dream would become reality.  Lessons now being learned by the masses served only to fuel his wickedness. He suffered no pangs of remorse at any of the deaths, his intent focused on much more. The course of events unfolding around the earth was proving to be only the opening act in a much larger drama to come.  The world had witnessed nothing yet. It had only begun.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Current H.A.A.R.P. Project

The scientist maintained the routine for years, well enough to not need a clock. Each morning, he awakened at 0600, showered and shaved. His escort arrived at 0700, taking him to his morning meal. At 0730 the workday began; lunch at noon, dinner at six, the end of his workday.  After eating his evening meal, a guard escorted him back to his room. Adequate rest was of prime importance in order that his labors continue uninterrupted, and he was denied little if it benefited the project. For most of the years, each day passed unchanged. He knew nothing of the outside world. At times, it seemed not to exist at all. The routine never wavered, maintained day and night, up until the last year or so. The guards were becoming lax, not as precise in their searches and checks of his equipment and room. At first he thought it was some type of ruse. Finally, he realized an opportunity opened itself. He developed a plan and hoped it would be enough.

Upon his arrival at the complex, he attempted to stall the project, resisting in anyway he could. They expected it. After permitting this to continue for several weeks, to let him feel successful, they took him from his laboratory and brought him into the darkened room. Before his eyes, an immense screen captured in all too vivid detail the surveillance footage of his family's daily routines.

Time passed on screen.  His wife and daughter appeared in ever changing scenarios. His young daughter's school, her riding lessons, playing with a group of friends, each scene tore at his inner fiber. Small fissures evolved into larger cracks threatening to topple his resolve. Pain spread through the man as he watched his wife carry on her life without him. He managed to hold his emotions in check until the final pictures erupted in front of his eyes. A glimpse of his wife's naked body undressing in their bedroom, enraged him.  They achieved the desired effect.  It flung him over the edge. His screams of anguish filled the empty room.

After viewing the tape, these people explained in great detail what would happen to his lovely wife and daughter if he continued to refuse to cooperate. They knew of someone who took great pleasure in pleasing himself with women, and especially children, before he tortured and mutilated them. The fate of his family lay in his hands. No other choice lay before him.

The eventual outcome of his own life, he knew well. When the project became operational, he would be of no further use. Defiantly, he offered a bargain.  If they left his family alone, he would work.

They agreed.

The project began.

That had been ten years ago.

Only over the last year, the careful scrutiny of his every movement eased. He overheard one of the guards give away an indication about the complex's location. He devised a method months ago of locking in and downloading bits of information from the mainframe undetected. The computer shot out bits of data in random order.  His laptop coded, separated, and stored the information for later retrieval.

Months passed. He amassed a wealth of material about the facility. He found a number of beneficial items in helping plan his attempted escape. The guards’ work schedules and location within the complex was annotated. In and outgoing flight times, as well as routes and destinations were listed also. Indiscriminant in its downloading, the computer included mundane items such as inventories of food supplies, desalinization of seawater intake procedures, aircraft parts, clothing inventories, and a host of other non-essential information. Defensive positions and weapons along with detailed three-dimensional schematics of the entire complex were stored there as well.

Once saved, he separated the essential information from other items, classifying and storing these under file names that could be recalled at a moment's notice. Through his endeavors, the network of orbiting satellites and the destructive potential they possessed lay encrypted in the hard drive's memory.  He had one last task to accomplish, a plan for the programmed destruction of the entire complex. He slipped a gold colored, dual scan nano-disc into the laptop, downloading his files.

Dr. Lawrence Alberts formulated his escape carefully, questioning every move, looking for every possible way for it to fail. He knew the weekly supply flights were too well monitored.  Quite by accident, he stumbled upon the fact that every third week, a plane arrived at 2300 hours, staying until 0100, and then departing.

On two occasions, he patched into the security camera system and observed the jet aircraft in the back of the hangar.  No guards. The pattern repeated itself both times. The plane was refueled and left alone. Just prior to departure, two pilots returned with an aluminum attaché case. Walking around the outside of the plane, they focused their attention on a pre-flight check. Alberts scrutinized their activities, noting their movements carefully.  The time of departure remained unchanged on both occasions. The sound from its engines faded as the plane taxied from the hangar. 

Alberts knew of no reason for the plane's visit, but it offered him the only possible escape route off the island.  Several carefully worded questions directed at the guards yielded nothing more than what Alberts already knew.  It seemed the personnel watching him were unaware or unconcerned about this flight.

In all probability, if he waited another three weeks for the plane's return, he would be dead. The H.A.A.R.P., now fully operational, functioned perfectly and already displayed its powerful talents to the world. Alberts fully understood the destructive capability of his work. He must escape tonight or face the sentence imposed upon him. Lying on his bunk, waiting, he felt no effect from the previous night's sleeplessness. Tension tightened his neck muscles into iron bands.  His mind raced from the anxiety and the possibilities that lay ahead. Odds were definitely not in his favor. He could not abandon his only hope. 

Quickly, his fingers tapped the keyboard of his computer.  Over the last two months, he painstakingly copied video from the security systems. The scientist amassed enough time to show an entire night of his sleep. Dates and times on the spooled video were changed to reflect the current date. He prayed silently it would be enough to keep the project's guards at bay. 

A sound from the hallway caught his attention.  A passing guard shuffled by.  Alberts caught his breath. The door to his room had no lock, simply because they knew escape was impossible. Lawrence Alberts wanted to prove them wrong. The footfalls continued to pass, eliciting a sigh of relief from the scientist. After all his work and years of toil, the project evolved into an instrument to forever change the existence of mankind. Along with the information, the secret to destroying this evil place rested in a padded leather disc saver tucked inside his pocket.

Light spilled in from the hallway when Alberts opened the door to his room. The stark lighting stung his eyes, blinding him momentarily until his pupils adjusted to its brightness. Crepe soled shoes silently made their way across the tiled floors.

In case anyone questioned him, he would say he was heading for the main control room to work. His insomnia provided a revelation on increasing power to the H.A.A.R.P.  Alberts would spit out scientific jargon and energy wave field data. He felt the guards would become bored and allow him to move along. Hopefully, he could convince them.  If not, it spelled disaster. 

Alberts managed to slip through the corridors unnoticed. He found himself standing in front of the utility supply tunnel encircling the entire complex. Voices echoed in the silent hallway beyond, footsteps drawing nearer.  Alberts’ hands trembled. He fumbled with the plastic coded identification card. In his haste, instead of catching it, he sent the card skidding across the floor.  The sound of the wafer-thin plastic exploded in a cacophony of sound, pealing like a church bell in his ears. A voice of one of the guards sounded from around the corner. Paralyzed with fear, his leaden legs struggled, unable to propel him across the floor to retrieve the key to his survival. Tension fueled by the prospect of his capture sent trails of sweat inching down his cheeks. Another guard's voice now joined in the conversation, finally spurring the scientist to action.

Lawrence Alberts quickly snatched it from the floor and placed the card into the mechanism that provided access into the tunnel. His heart pounded, shaky fingers tapped in the correct entry code numbers. The door opened with a slight whooshing sound. He wasted no time. The man jumped through the portal, unaware of the door softly closing behind him.

Alberts ran until his breath came in raspy, heaving gasps, almost collapsing. He tried to calm himself, but the adrenaline still coursing through his body heightened his awareness, the feeling electric. Alberts listened intently, unsure of his next move.  Each sound assaulted his overwhelmed senses. He stood in the shadows for what seemed like hours unknowing if anyone was following him. Part of the prisoner wanted to stay, fearful of the dangers lurking ahead.  To survive at all, he must continue. Satisfied they remained unaware of his intentions, he moved again.

Overhead lights in the tunnel flashed above him in his race from darkness into light and back again. Fueled by his desire to escape, the fleeing scientist pushed ahead, acutely aware of his vulnerability. Thoughts of his family spurred him onward until he found himself standing in front of the entryway to his destination. Sweat streamed from his face, his damp uniform clung tightly to his back with a sickening coldness. Sucking in a deep breath, Alberts pulled open the door to the cavernous hangar.  Moving from shadow to shadow, he eventually found concealment behind a stack of wooden pallets near the jet. Alberts hunkered down, afraid at any moment he might be spotted. Every sound pounded into him, every movement caught his attention. He had no explanation if discovered.

The unmanned plane sat in the same spot where he first viewed it on the security videotape. Two workers busily connected a refueling hose, filling the wing tanks. Another penned a notation on his clipboard, standing underneath the tail section while inspecting the work on the craft's rudder. 

Alberts turned his wrist to check the time, 0112.  Though behind schedule, the workers moved quickly with practiced skill. From out of an office door, two men appeared dressed in black jumpsuits.  One carried a small leather satchel, the other an aluminum attaché case. One of the pilots spoke with the man underneath the plane, pointing up at the tail section. The other black-suited man pointed to his wrist, indicating his disdain at not being able to leave. The man in charge nodded, shrugged his shoulders and pointed to a spot on his checklist.

It mattered little that Alberts was unable to hear their muted conversation. He silently watched in horror.  His chances of leaving this place alive slipped away through his hands like grains of sand with each minute ticking by.  So close to escaping. His stomach ached, wrenching itself into a twisted mass. Hope melted away like the last of winter's snow.

From his place of concealment, Alberts watched the worker climb down from the tail section, his task finally complete. With refueling long finished, the pilots nodded their approval at the mechanic carrying the clipboard. Together they headed for the ladder, granting access into the craft's cabin.

Overhead an intercom blared, calling out the pilots’ names, instructing them to return to the air traffic control office.  The two men paused, and turned in unison walking back in the direction they came from. Looks of disgust filled their faces. One shook his head, contemplating their already late departure.

Alberts did not allow himself the time to ponder the possibilities. Without hesitation, he acted.  Quickly glancing in each direction, the scientist sprinted for the security of the aircraft. Taking the steps two at a time, he climbed aboard. Safely inside the craft, Lawrence Alberts searched frantically for a place to hide.

The interior of the jet offered relatively few choices.  In the aft cabin, he found a small storage compartment. He struggled, managing to squeeze into the space, closing the door.  Bathed in darkness, Alberts waited. The cold dampness of his sweat soaked shirt chilled him. Fear continued its relentless hold.

Time crawled in the confines of the compartment. Finally, a dull thud of the cabin door closing greeted his ears. Turbofan engines whined to life, filling the small space with their distinctive sound. The pitch of the engines increased as the plane rolled forward. It turned in several directions, then stopping. Pain tortured Alberts with the sudden revelation his captors had discovered his scheme. Visions of his face being obliterated by a gunshot terrified him.

The jet lurched forward, accelerating rapidly, picking up speed. 

Faster. 

In his hiding place, Alberts felt the sensation of the ground giving way beneath him. The plane lifted from the runway, rising at a steep angle. The pilot turned the aircraft onto a heading for its intended destination.

For the first time, Alberts actually felt he had a real chance of escaping his prison. A glimmer of hope enveloped him. 

Tears fell from his eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Early Morning

The guard's boots rang in the empty hallway with each step drawing nearer to Lawrence Alberts' room.  Assignments never changed at the complex. Every day the same routine began at 0600. The pay made the boring task worthwhile for Tony Perez.  His thoughts rambled about how to spend all that money accumulating in the foreign bank account. Maybe a tropical paradise? Booze and a tight-assed blonde with a great tan? Yeah, definitely booze.  Not a bad place to start. What more would he need? Just the idea became an enticing diversion. The man snapped back, he couldn't afford to let his mind wander.  Failure to do his job was not an option, at least not for long.

A quick search yielded an empty room.  At 0602, the guard radioed into the security command center.  “I need Rickert now.”

Annoyed at the beginning to his day, the man in charge of security yanked the microphone from the worker monitoring incoming calls.

“Yeah,” the man said impatiently.  “What's up?”

“Rickert, I'm in Doc Alberts’ room.  It's empty,” Perez reported.

“What? Hold on,” the security commander replied, agitated.

After a long pause, Rickert's irritated voice returned, “Video's got him in his room all night. Perez, are you sure?”

“Well, he sure as shit ain't here, boss.”

“Damn it. Where's that son of a bitch?” A klaxon sounded throughout the complex. Armed guards moved to seal all exits and began a search of the entire project site.

Unable to find the scientist, Rickert cursed and sighed heavily.  His day had just begun and already it had soured. The security commander sent a scrambled satellite uplink. Almost instantly, the satellite connected him to a computerized voice on the other end of the line.

Rickert paced nervously, contemplating the right words.  His attention quickly returned to focus on the dilemma when the voice answered.

“Yes,” the only word spoken.

“Sir, somehow Alberts escaped.”  Closing his eyes, Rickert waited expectantly for the rage to unleash itself upon him.

Silence.

Taking a deep breath, the security commander continued,  “We searched the entire complex. Nothing.”

“How?” the voice demanded.

“The only possible way would be onboard the plane.”

“Did it depart on schedule?”

“No, sir.  It left at 0247. Mechanical difficulties.”

“Good. I'll handle the situation. At this point, it doesn't matter,” the voice intoned. The line went dead. The conversation ended.

Rickert stood in amazement listening to the emptiness. He shook his head blinking away disbelief. Moments ago the best he hoped for was to continue living another few minutes. The reply, unbelievable as it seemed, still echoed in his ears. He smiled. Maybe today wouldn't be so bad after all.

Chapter Thirty

Yukon Territory

Over the snow laden reaches of the southwestern corner of the Yukon, the aircraft carrying Professor Lawrence Alberts streaked through the air, high above the cloud layer thousands of feet below.  In the predawn sky, stars splashed spots of white light onto an inky backdrop.  Pallid orange sunlight would soon fill the cockpit, replacing the need for the pale colored lights on the instrument panels. The two men at the controls rested comfortably in contoured leather seats, occasionally checking the instruments while the auto-guidance system flew the plane.

Banking into a slow right hand turn, on a new heading, an auditory collision alarm sounded in the cabin. Instantly alert, the two men sat upright, focusing their attention on the green flashing light on the anti-collision radar screen. A quick glance let them know another aircraft was rapidly approaching from the opposite direction, sharing the same altitude.

“Where the hell did that come from?” the pilot questioned. “Haven't seen anything the whole trip and now this pops up out of nowhere.”

“One hundred and fifty miles out. That baby’s moving,” his copilot responded, checking coordinates.

“Gotta be military.  No commercial craft moves that fast.”

A computer calculated the distance and the time it would take the aircraft to collide with it. The anti-collision control guidance system reacted to the incoming airplane, its command gently lowering the angle of the starboard wing, banking the craft even further to the right than originally intended. This new course placed the jet eighteen hundred feet below and one half mile from the incoming aircraft. The two men watched the guidance system automatically bring them to their new heading and altitude. Once completed, they viewed the screen as the mysterious plane passed their previous location, turning in a tight arc and diving to their present course and altitude.

“Looks like we got some real hot shot fly-boy playing games up here. Tighten your belt.  Keep your eye on that radar,” the pilot commanded.

Years of training and many hours in the cockpit of fighter craft provided him the confidence for his next move. He disengaged the autopilot and turned the jet hard left. It slid through the frozen skies, engines screaming. Skilled hands pushed the controls forward, increasing speed. The digital altimeter ticked off the numbers in rapid sequence. Dropping eight thousand feet to the top of the cloudbank, the pilot leveled off. 

Inside the cabin, the two men watched in amazement. The plane's radar indicated the other craft traced their exact maneuver in the cold morning sky.

“I don't like this,” the copilot remarked, nervously.

The captain turned in his direction, nodding his concern.

Suddenly, a black, diamond shaped silhouette passed over them, almost close enough to touch. In the wake of its powerful engines, the craft created a vortex that violently rocked the jet carrying Lawrence Alberts. The two men fought to regain control of their aircraft. Without hesitation, the pilot sent his craft plummeting through the clouds.

The stakes were just raised. The men realized this was not a game anymore. Someone found out about them. Both men knew if they had any chance at all of surviving the cat and mouse game, it would be at a lower altitude. Onboard computers could help the jet hug the mountainous landscape.

Digital imaging of the surrounding terrain appeared on a screen in front of the captain's chair.  Expertly, he jockeyed the aircraft through the mountains and into the valleys below.  Even with all the latest electronic gear to aid them, flying a few hundred feet above the ground at this speed left little room for error.  Both men hoped it would be enough. Focusing attention on their own survival, they failed to notice crossing into Alaskan airspace above the Wrangell Mountains.

Lawrence Alberts did not comprehend what had just taken place. First a course change, then a sudden steep dive followed. He thought the aircraft would crash. Thankfully, it leveled out and all seemed well.

Taken by complete surprise, Alberts screamed in terror when the plane dove a second time, falling through the skies. The violent action of the plane caused a brief period of weightlessness, slamming the scientist into the wall of the compartment. Blood spilled onto his tongue, leaving behind its thick, warm taste. The unexpected descent sent his stomach reeling, causing it to empty its contents. The rancid smell within the small space sent his head spinning. Fear returned until he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Death waited with great patience for the H.A.A.R.P. project director.

Chapter Thirty-One

Death Watch

The unknown pilot of the fighter craft tracked the private jet for some time, insuring it to be the intended target.  Instincts led him to believe the auto-guidance system of their plane would perform as it did. Maneuvering the black aircraft into the proper position, he prepared for attack. Unexpectedly, the smaller jet darted through the sky in hopes of eluding its adversary.  The action of the other plane painted a grim smile on the face of the fighter pilot.

Whoever was flying that aircraft was either a fool or knew quite a bit about evasive tactics. It made no difference to him. They had no chance of escape. He pushed his powerful engines once more and descended into a steep dive, trailing his adversary into the thick clouds.

Within moments he positioned himself behind the smaller plane. The canopy's heads up display gave an image of his intended target maneuvering evasively, hugging the surrounding landscape.  Onboard the computer-controlled radio monitored numerous frequencies at once. It gave no indication of anyone being aware of the deadly game being played in the morning skies. Against orders, the fighter pilot allowed the two men in the other plane a little more time to live, giving himself a chance to enjoy the lethal encounter.

*     *     *

Red streaks flashed by the cabin window as tracers left behind a fading trail, missing the intended target.  Reacting automatically, the pilot threw the aircraft into a tight right hand roll. Next, he pulled back on the controls, rolling up and left in an effort to elude any further deadly projectiles. Violently lurching skyward, the pilot's stomach tightened with the squeeze of the G forces on his body.  The private jet went unscathed in the first assault.

He could not believe the other pilot missed his evasive maneuver.  A glimpse of the black jet filled his eyes as it flew past. In combat, he knew a chance not taken could become a deadly mistake. Without weapons, it simply became a matter of time and it seemed unlikely the pilot of the attacking jet would make another error of that proportion.

“Only two ways out,” the copilot said frantically, checking the sky for the return of the uninvited marauder.

“What?” the pilot shot back.

“We stay up here, we're screwed.  Dive for the deck and land this crate,” the copilot shouted, unnerved.

“Fuck. It's a crapshoot either way.  What do you want to do?”

“I say, let's hit the deck.  Terrain nav computer indicates a site three miles from here. Flat. Only suitable place. If you're gonna do it, damn it, do it now,” his voice rising close to panic.

The pilot made a snap decision, sending the craft into a steep dive and the relative safety of the frozen terrain below.  Impact of the thirty-millimeter cannon shells shuddered through the plane. Several of the shells tore through the rudder control line. No indication of damage alerted onboard computers until hydraulic pressure fell.

In the cabin, alarms sounded, blaring out a warning of imminent danger.

Fire erupted from the right wing of the jet. Black clouds of swirling smoke surrounded orange tongues of flame darting across the wing.

The two men struggled to maintain control of the jet. Descending rapidly, they took the plane in, wheels up.  Just when they prepared to touch down, another volley ripped through the fuselage, moving forward into the cabin of the aircraft. Two shells shredded the copilot's body, spraying blood and flesh across the cockpit, killing him before his brain registered the impact. Another blew apart the steering controls, sending the jet into an uncontrollable landing.

The plane hit the snowy surface hard. The left wing struck first. Bent and twisted from the crash, it tore away from the body of the plane tumbling in a strange dance across the snowy landscape, alive with flames.

The wing's separation from the fuselage caused the plane to roll to the right, lifting the nose. The rear one third of the plane struck the ground, shearing the tail section in an agonizing groan of twisted metal. The tail spun wildly out of control across the frozen earth.

The remainder of the jet impacted, crumpling the aluminum shell of the fuselage. The pilot, somehow still alive, watched from within his tomb. His world became a surrealistic slow motion ride. Strangely calm, he viewed his final moment with detached regard. Again, the nose of the plane rose into the air, and this time plowed into the frozen earth, exploding in a massive fireball.

The tail section carved a jagged path, coming to rest in a deep snow bank. Alberts awoke. Breathing labored. His body alive with pain. The scientist struggled to free himself from his confinement. He coughed up the blood collecting in the back of his throat. Remnants dribbled from his mouth, clinging in several long strands at the corners. Waves of spasms flared through him. Another coughing frenzy ignited a fiery torch in his chest from broken ribs that shredded his right lung. His left leg and arm, broken by the impact of the crash, hung limply at his side.

The H.A.A.R.P. project director edged his way out of broken remains of the fuselage, pulling himself onto the snow.  It took every bit of will to draw a breath. His mind clouded from the lack of oxygen, the scientist struggled with a last great effort.  Lawrence Alberts pulled the nano-disc from his shirt pocket, feeling its covering of warm stickiness. Slick with blood, it slipped between his fingers. Dull eyes flickered in panic. He strained to find the key to the world's salvation. Groping in snow, his hand, machine-like, opened and closed mechanically until he felt the rounded edge of the disc. Satisfied, his fingers wrapped over it in an unrelenting grasp.

A warm red shadow spilled from his mangled body, staining the cold white blanket he lay upon. Alberts painfully turned his head toward the sound. Eyes stared at the aircraft's approach, no longer able to focus. The scientist's last breath was lost in the wake of jet engines trailing overhead.

*     *     *

Inside the cockpit of the black fighter, the pilot viewed his instruments, reflecting on the destruction he caused. The killing did not bother him. Rather, he relished the game.  He wished he could have met the other pilot on more equal terms.

He pressed a button on his instrument panel. The ground below came alive on a screen inside the cockpit. A full color picture of the scene showed in graphic detail the destruction of the plane carrying Professor Lawrence Alberts.  A computer digitized the information and sent out a signal. The images would be carefully reviewed, each frame enlarged, no detail unnoticed.  The black fighter jet's pilot had every confidence no one survived the crash.

Mission complete.

Pushing the throttle forward, the pilot charged the afterburners with life sending the sleek, black jet streaking south over the Gulf of Alaska.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Platform One

Bryson McGann awoke, his body still aching from the tortuous demands of the nearly fatal rescue of the two women. Slowly, he pulled himself from the relative comfort of his bed, and let the hot stinging spray of the shower massage away some of the throbbing soreness. Feeling better, McGann dressed quickly, intent on finding a steaming cup of coffee.

The door to his room slid back as he prepared to leave when a familiar face greeted him.

“Seems I can't leave you alone without you finding some trouble to get yourself into. You're just lucky you made it back without my help,” Joe Canton admonished insincerely.

McGann looked up at him, saying nothing.

“How you doing, Bry?” T.C. asked.

“The way I figure it, probably lucky I'm alive. Right now I need some coffee.  Want any, T.C.?”

The two men walked to the deck lounge. Together they found a table and a couple of mugs.

“Did you see Ashlyn yet?” McGann asked.

“I did. I flew in early this morning. She said she'd catch up with us later in the day.”

“Good,” McGann remarked, relishing the black liquid, its caffeine slowly reviving him.

“By any chance, did you happen to meet Monique Sinclair? The rep Durnulqc sent out here?”

“I did.” Canton gingerly swallowed the steaming brew.  “She introduced herself to me on the flight deck when I got in.”

“When was that?” McGann interrupted.

“About a quarter to seven. Said she was catching an early flight back to Vancouver.  She gave me the skinny on how you saved her life. And she wanted me to make sure I thanked you again. Seems Ms. Sinclair couldn't say enough about you, Bry.”

“It must be my natural charm and appeal,” McGann offered wryly. 

“Not only that, she's not a bad looking lady.” An infectious grin spread across the big man's face.

“Good looking she is, T.C.  But you don't know the half of it.”

The two men filled their mugs, discussing the incident from two days ago. McGann let Joseph Canton in on the details from beginning to end.

“You know,” Canton interrupted.  “You almost became famous. You're the current world's record holder for deep dives without a rigid dive suit. There's only one problem little brother, it's classified.”

“My chance at fame extinguished in a heartbeat,” McGann quipped.

A look of concern passed over the Assistant Projects Director's face, changing the subject. “Sumner was pretty upset over the deaths of Bill Owens and Susan Connors. He's known Owens for a number of years. I guess he took it upon himself to tell his wife,” Canton remarked.

Both of them stared out the windows of the deck lounge, alone with their memories. Silent. Neither was a stranger to death. They tasted its bitter flavor on a number of occasions during their military careers. The sense of loss for good people gripped them, leaving them to ask why.  Sometimes it just happened. Good people die.

Nobody knew the reasons.

Two pilots entered the lounge, walking by their table, ending their reflective moment. T.C. finished the mug's contents, reaching for the carafe and a refill.

“Anything new you need to catch me up to speed on, T.C.?” Bryson McGann asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Your butt needs to be sitting in front of a video-phone at 1200 hours. You have one hour and twenty three minutes to look presentable,” Canton remarked, checking the clock on the wall.

“Oh?”

“Sumner wants to speak with you about your heroic efforts.  What I don't know is, if he wants to congratulate you or chew your backside for putting your life at risk, too.”

“I can't undo what's been done, T.C.  Besides, I would never leave a good looking woman stranded in the ocean.” McGann smiled, knowing Canton would have done the same. They finished their discussion and Canton left for the administration office, informing McGann he would meet up with him shortly before noon, in one of the video link cubicles.

At eleven fifty-nine, Bryson McGann pulled up a chair next to Canton. His face was now clean-shaven, offering no clue to his earlier rakish appearance. The neatly pressed flight suit framing his body clung tightly to his trim physique.

“What do you think, T.C.?”

“Not Brooks Brothers. But, it'll do.”

A muted pulsing tone alerted the two men of an incoming call. 

On the video screen in front of them, the image of Marion Turner dressed in an expensive gray business suit appeared. The familiar salt and pepper hair pulled into a bun wound tightly around her oval face. Pale, blue eyes peered hawk-like over the rims of the reading glasses attached to a pearl chain, loosely hanging on her neck. Carefully checking to see if they were presentable, and only after completion of her inspection of the two NESSA employees, did she address them. Precisely at 1200 hours, her southern accent flowed like thick molasses, “Gentlemen. Good afternoon.”

“Afternoon to you too, ma'am,” McGann drawled, mimicking Sumner's secretary.

Canton winced and kicked his friend under the table.

The stern face offered only a glimmer of a brief smile. “The director will address you shortly,” her image fading.

Canton was about to say something to McGann when the screen revealed the interior of Director Randall Sumner's office.  Forty-three floors above the city streets, the director's office presented a commanding view of Seattle and the Cascade Range. Sumner stood alone at one of the many windows, enjoying a day filled with clear blue Seattle sky. Behind him, a white-capped Mt. Rainier jutted above the landscape.

The former general kept himself in peak physical condition, demanding a rigorous daily regimen for himself. Wide shoulders and a narrow waistline gave no indication of his fifty-four years. Slightly graying hair and a matched set of neatly etched crows feet wrinkled into being whenever his familiar paternal smile erupted. Yet when called for, iron willed determination brought out a ferocity equaled by few.  Standing two inches shy of six feet, the tenacious director was unafraid of anyone or anything. For those who experienced his steely determination, especially when vehemently defending his organization, a newfound respect grew even if they did not like the man.

Officially, Sumner retired from military service with two stars on his shoulder.  His acceptance of directorship of NESSA brought him a tougher challenge than many he faced in the military.  The organization became a highly controversial department of the government from its inception eleven years earlier.  People complained it was a waste of taxpayer dollars. His job as second director was to change that image. Slowly, his leadership brought the agency back on course.  Even the press had some good things to say. 

His ties to the president, and the flawless military career, gave him a well- respected status in political circles. Having a few influential friends in Congress certainly did not hurt either.  Sumner bore the weight of his position well, but was thankful for any ally. 

Both men sat quietly waiting for Sumner.  Turner often allowed the video link to catch him unaware. She had worked for him in various offices during his military career for over twenty years.  Marion Turner knew him well and she enjoyed their little game. McGann eyed curiously the object Sumner was holding. His right hand held a small circular device with a reflective gold colored surface about an inch and a half from the ever-present pipe, resting in Sumner's left palm.  Only the faintest trace of smoke rose up out of the bowl.

McGann reached forward and tapped the keyboard attached to the video link. Instantly, a white lined rectangular box surrounded the head of Randall Sumner.

A quick tap of another key enlarged the area, filling the screen with his face. Sumner moved the ornately designed piece above the pipe bowl. He puffed twice and a plume of gray smoke billowed up, swirling around his head until the air filtration system erased any trace of its existence.

“Interesting device, Director,” McGann offered, beginning the conversation.

Taking the pipe from his mouth, he turned toward his desk, the camera automatically panning back for a wider view of the richly paneled office.  “It would seem so. A newfound friend I met in Chicago gave this to me after a conference last week. He happened to be seated next to me at the smoking bar.  We struck up a conversation and just seemed to hit it off.  If I recall, he said he was an electrical circuit engineer.  We were enjoying a very good scotch when I lit my pipe and he gave me this. He invented the device, called it ... uh, the Micro-Sun. Kind of a catchy name, don't you think? And as they say gentlemen, the rest is history.”

McGann interrupted, “From the looks of that curvilinear surface, my guess is, it's optically ground glass.”

Sumner turned the device over carefully in his hand, inspecting the knurled edge. The polished surface winked back a star-like reflection as it moved under the lighting.

Canton turned toward McGann, always amazed at his friend. He quickly focused his attention back to the hand held device.

“I believe, sir,” McGann paused.  “The coating could be gold, but is more likely titanium nitride applied through a vacuum deposited method, no doubt.”

“Very clever,” Sumner mumbled.

“Looks exactly like gold, yet it's cheaper to produce and the difference in reflective properties would be negligible. Also, the titanium would offer a greater durability.”

Sumner wiped a smudge from the surface of the ornate glass piece. Smoke whisked away as he exhaled.

McGann went on, “If I remember my physics correctly, it must function by reflecting the infra-red wavelength spectrum. The heat rising from the tobacco’s focused back to a pinpoint spot at the focal length of the mirrored surface, about an inch and a half away.  This allows whatever embers remain lit to be rekindled almost instantly.”

“Yes,” Sumner stammered, looking at McGann.  “I suppose, something like that.” Walking across the room, the thickly padded carpet muted his steps. He took a seat behind the highly polished teakwood desk, overflowing with pictures and memorabilia from his military days.

“I've finished that report you requested and will fax it to you after our meeting,” Joe Canton interjected.

“Good,” Sumner replied. “Is the situation as we expected?”

“Yes, sir.  Actually, indications are the project’s ahead of schedule and should be completed before the target date.”

Sumner leaned back in his chair.  “Excellent.” The fingers of his hands folded together except for the index fingers that formed into a point, resting on his chin. He took a moment before he spoke. “Mr. McGann. Mr. Canton.  I must tell you Dr. Pierson’s not too pleased with either one of you at the moment.”

A distressed look crossed Joseph Canton's face. 

“Gentlemen, the truth is, I listened to the man rant and rave in this office for over thirty minutes about both of you.  The context of our conversation dealt with theft and destruction of government equipment, noncompliance with NESSA rules and regulations, and so on. I think you get the picture.”

Canton stole a glance at his lifelong friend. Bryson McGann sat coolly in his seat, poker-faced. 

Sumner set the pipe down, releasing a puff of gray smoke into the air, sucked away almost immediately.  “I agreed with him to a point. I also reminded him that his equipment functioned well beyond his own expectations. More importantly, two lives were saved because of it. Monique Sinclair's death would have taken some explaining to Fletcher Durnulqc. Fortunately, that didn't happen.”  The director shifted into a more comfortable position before continuing, “What's the current disposition of the equipment, Mr. McGann?”

“I sent the pieces back on a flight about a half hour ago. I also added a few recommendations for improvement for Dr. Pierson,” Bryson replied, evenly.

“I'm sure Dr. Pierson will enjoy hearing your candid remarks,” the Director replied.

Canton couldn't help but chuckle at the reply.

“Is there something you wish to add, Mr. Canton?” Sumner questioned, his brow line fused.

“No, sir.”

Randall Sumner's demeanor softened. “Mr. McGann, aside from the fact you absconded with NESSA property obtained by your friend Mr. Canton, your personal act of heroism went far above and beyond anything expected of you. Putting your own life at stake saved two others. This seems to have become a habit of yours.”

Canton prepared to speak when Sumner raised a hand stopping him. “My suggestion to both of you is not to let this happen again. I don't need Pierson going over my head about improper use of secret government projects. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” both said in tandem.

“Bryson, I want you to know I'm placing a letter in your file commending you for your actions.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No thanks needed. By the way, I spoke with your father, briefing him on the incident. He said he's proud of you, but not surprised. Seems you've been pushing the envelope since the beginning.”

“You have no idea,” Canton remarked, evoking a smile from the NESSA director.

“I believe I’d like to hear about some of those things over dinner sometime.”

The director paused momentarily, tapping the burnt contents of the pipe into an ashtray.  Sumner leaned forward and spoke again. “Fletcher Durnulqc called, expressing his gratitude over the fact you saved Ms. Sinclair's life. Apparently, your charm worked on Ms. Sinclair.  You must have made quite an impression.”

McGann shifted in his seat reaching for the glass of water on the table in front of him. He remained silent. Canton noticed the uneasiness and smiled knowingly.

“He went on to say that next week he's hosting an affair at his estate in Vancouver and expects both of you to attend.  I gave him my assurances you’d both be present.”

“It sounds like we have no choice,” McGann voiced, lifting the corners of his mouth, turning toward T.C.

“Absolutely not, gentlemen,” Sumner shot back. “Your schedules are already taken care of so you’ll be able to go. There’s one last thing you need to know, Joe.”

“Yes?” Canton asked.

Bryson McGann looked warily at the video screen. The sound of Sumner's voice changed. Concern washed over his chiseled features. The unexpected statement caught the two men totally off guard. Joseph Canton sat unmoving, staring straight ahead, unable to believe the words spoken by the NESSA Director.

“Joe,” Sumner paused, not quite sure where to begin. “I know you and Dr. Sanders are close.  This makes it especially difficult.  Shortly before our conversation, I received a fax from Dr. Sanders.  Basically, it's a letter of resignation, effective immediately.”

“What? She didn't say anything to me.” It looked as if Canton had been struck by an explosion. “Can't you refuse her resignation?” he asked dumbfounded, his dark eyes clouding.

Sumner continued, “Given she's an independent contractor and not a NESSA employee, there's not much I can do.”

“What do you suggest?” McGann injected.

“I suppose there are some legal ramifications to her sudden departure, but court proceedings are lengthy and may not do any good. If her intentions are to work elsewhere, forcing her back may be detrimental to the project. To make matters worse, she caught a flight out at eleven.” He lowered his head slightly, looking out from underneath his heavy brow. “I'm afraid Ashlyn's already gone, Joe,” the words, almost whispered.

Canton went rigid, his mouth agape. Disbelief colored his features. “Where?” he croaked, the only word he could muster.

“Fletcher Durnulqc’s offered her a consulting position in one of his firms in Vancouver.  She expressed her regrets at leaving and indicated he offered a salary she couldn't pass up,” the Director said, candidly.  “I'll let you read it.”

A copy of the fax Sanders sent to Director Sumner's office appeared. The letter, only a few lines long, yielded little except to highlight Durnulqc's more than generous salary.  The last two lines on the paper were an apology for her hasty departure and hopes for continued success of the Billings project.

After reading the letter, Canton regained his stoic composure, swallowing back the sour taste rising from his stomach. McGann knew Joe's way of coping and the pain he must be feeling at the moment.

Sumner provided several more minor details, although Joseph Canton heard none of them. A cold emptiness seeped into the NESSA assistant projects director.  A malevolent wind tore at his inner self, giving no chance of escape. His world crumpled into smoldering ash.

Bryson McGann asked a number of questions and listened carefully to the responses. Sumner did not relish being the messenger of bad news. He sat uneasily in his chair, his fingers tracing small circles on the polished briarwood of his pipe before signing off.

“Thank you, sir,” Canton mumbled.  The big man rose out of his chair, squaring his broad shoulders, and walked despondently from the room.

McGann let his friend go. He knew the man needed some time alone. Bryson pushed back in his seat, reviewing everything Sumner conveyed during the conversation. Things just didn't add up. Ashlyn's sudden departure, atypical of her character, and with no warning or goodbye, left him with a vexed feeling.

Bryson McGann sat alone in the room in front of the darkened screen. Questions needed answers. A few became much clearer. Others lingered, waiting to be exposed.

Chapter Thirty-Three

NAVSPAC

Brown eyes peered through the lenses perched atop the nose of Kelly Wardin as she watched the change of shift bring a flurry of activity to the office.  Navy personnel scurried about, recanting the events of the previous shift to the oncoming men and women preparing to begin their workday.  Today seemed no different as she curiously viewed the daily grind from her office.  The morning supervisor's meeting yielded predictable results. Nothing new to report. All systems monitoring and tracking space vehicles circling the globe showed each to be in its proper orbit.

Her coffee cup filled, Kelly sat down behind her desk and sipped the creamy, sweetened liquid, burying herself in the mundane daily paper work required by the U. S. Navy.  At 0800, her day would really begin. Every four hours a computer spit out a report, detailing facts about each satellite under NAVSPAC's watchful eye.  Analysis included information about projected flight paths, total vehicles in orbit, numbers owned by individual companies, and reams of other data. All this was necessary to avert the possibility of a potential catastrophe.

Kelly glanced at the wall clock. 0811.  The printout would be complete, ready for review and filing. All the information was available on computer and stored on disc, but the Navy liked paperwork. Each report was filed and stored for thirty days, then destroyed. Shredded. Just another quirk of military life.

She opened the door and walked outside her office.  The main room was alive with activity.  Twenty-two other sailors sat in front of consoles or standard issue gray metal desks, going about their assignments. Phones rang, computers flashed information on screens, and conversations filled the place. On the far wall, a display indicated the orbits of certain space vehicles, denoted by various shades of color.  Specific satellite tracking could be called up with the touch of the keyboard. Wardin retrieved the hard copy and closed the door to her office, rapidly scanning the detailed report.

It had taken about a month, but once familiarized with it, Kelly Wardin could weave her way through the report quicker than anyone in the section. Today was no different.  She diligently patrolled the 0800 report. Her wire-rimmed glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose and automatically a finger flew up to push them back in place when she paused, unsure of the printed material before her.  Wardin pulled the previous shift report out, flipped to the appropriate page and compared the information.

Impossible.

She rechecked the data.

“No way.  Gotta be a misprint,” she said aloud, to no one. “How could it be anything else?” Only the sound of her voice filled the quiet office with unanswered questions.  Wardin turned around and her nimble fingers flew across the keyboard of her computer.  She skillfully dissected sections of the report. In front of her eyes, various screens packed with a multitude of information changed with each keystroke. Intent on finding an answer, the OS2 continued the search until the appropriate material revealed itself to her.

Only because of her sagacious nature was she able to find the well-hidden discrepancy buried within the report. One small paragraph on page twenty-seven, appearing in a section most personnel would pay little attention to:

NAVSPAC: 6 Mar 08.  System analysis- Projected Geo-Syncs: directive: Sat. tracks//info: All orbiting vehicles located in assigned orbits except as follows: Unable to verify tracking of twenty-four (24) satellites since 0759 hours EST.

VST-authorization: 0023TTNJ998//priority code:  AVF-97L.

“Diaz,” Kelly's tremulous voice called out, opening the office door. “Diaz, get in here now,” her voice cried louder.  All work stopped momentarily in the outer office.  Puzzled faces peered up, a silence hanging in the air.  A few strange looks passed her way, which she chose to ignore before work began again.

CPO Reuben Diaz strode into Kelly's office wearing a perplexed expression.

“They're gone,” Kelly exclaimed. “Close the door,” she motioned.

“What's gone?” Diaz responded.

“As of 0759 hours today, twenty-four satellites orbiting the earth no longer exist.”

“Whoa, Kelly.  Twenty-four satellites just don't disappear.”

“I'm telling you they're no longer up there,” Wardin interjected, angrily.

Diaz scratched his head. “Kelly, if this is another one of your wacky theories, I'm not going to be too happy.”

Kelly Wardin shoved the 0800 report at OS1 Diaz.  “Check it yourself.”

Diaz thumbed his way to the end section containing the tabular data and statistical information. A furrowed brow appeared above his dark eyes. “What's the problem, Kelly? Everything adds up.”

“Exactly, the tabular data adds up.  Now check page twenty-seven, section three. The unobtrusive paragraph in small print at the end of that section,” Kelly said, her remark clipped.

While the SWAPO found his way to the appropriate page, Kelly typed in a string of commands on her keyboard. Several screens flashed by in rapid sequence until she came upon the Orbiting Positions Locator. 

“Look,” Wardin commanded.

Diaz looked up from the stack of papers he held in his hands.

“Each report confirms the exact number of satellites in proper orbit, except in the OPL. This kicked out the paragraph in the 0800 report. If there's a problem with missing vehicles, it would confirm it in this section,” Kelly stated.

“You're saying none of the previous reports show this?”

“Exactly.  NAVSPAC tracking accounted for the presence of every satellite that’s been there for months. Now at 0759, twenty-four are missing.”

“Wardin, this makes no sense.  I don't get it,” Diaz replied, scanning the information.

“Four possibilities, chief.” Wardin continued,  “One. A training exercise dreamed up by someone in Naval Space Intelligence with nothing better to do. Two.  Someone hacked into the system and deleted information as a prank, or in all probability, for more serious reasons. Three. The missing satellites are some type of ultra-top secret system we weren't supposed to find out about. Four.  Options two and three are more likely.  The problem is, whoever entered the system must have been unaware of the OPL,” Kelly added, breathlessly.

The SWAPO stared disbelievingly at Kelly Wardin, unsure of what to make of the situation looming in front of him. He let his fingers play at the corners of his wiry gray-flecked mustache. “Keep a lid on this. I'm going to do a little fishing. Hopefully, this is just some type of computer glitch.”

“What if...” Kelly trailed off.

“I know someone who owes me. I'll bump this upstairs and see what happens.”

“Do you think?”

“Look Kelly, I know as much about this as you do,” Diaz said, concerned.

“Keep me posted, Chief. Okay?”

“I'll let you know.”  He turned before leaving her office. “Regardless of how this ends up, damn good job, Kelly.” 

Diaz closed the door to his office, sat down, and blew out a long breath before picking up the phone. He replayed the events of a few minutes ago. It just did not figure. His fingers touched the phone, hesitating, he lifted the receiver from the cradle.

Lieutenant Commander Rich Farrell owed him one for saving his butt a long time ago and now it was time to collect. If the brass were playing games, checking for section readiness, Diaz wanted to know. If it was more than that, the ball needed to start rolling. Diaz purposefully left out a number of people on the way up the chain of command. He trusted Farrell, the guy was a straight shooter.  OS1 Reuben Diaz needed some honest answers and he needed them in a hurry.

“NAVSPAC Headquarters, Seamen Rydell speaking, sir.”

Dispensing with the pleasantries, the Navy veteran barked an order into the phone. “This is CPO Diaz, I need to speak with Lieutenant Commander Farrell, now.”

“Sir, he's in a meeting.  May I take a message?” a young sounding voice asked.

Diaz thought this must be a green-faced kid. He hated to pull rank on the young sailor.  However, this situation needed attention and Diaz was not in the mood to wait. “No, seaman, you may not take a message. I need him now.  I suggest you follow orders, son. If I have to come over there, you'll wish you never heard of me. Is that clear, Seaman Rydell?” Diaz threatened.

“Yes, sir,” the young sailor snapped back.  Diaz heard the receiver drop and the sound of a chair scrapping across the floor. 

Diaz waited patiently.  It took some time.

“This better be good. Can't it wait?” Farrell questioned sternly.

“No, sir,” Diaz replied.

“What do you got?” Farrell's voice softened.

The SWAPO provided Lieutenant Commander Farrell with a brief synopsis of the morning's event. Diaz included only the details that Wardin made him aware of, leaving any speculation up to Farrell.

When he finished, Farrell asked, “Is there anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Sit tight. I've got some calls to make and I'll be over.”

The phone line went dead.

*     *     *

High above the earth, each of the twenty-four satellites had received the same encoded signal. Onboard computers routed the message through a series of microprocessors, unscrambling the code. The effects of this message began a series of events that would change the world.

Sunlight bounced off the reflective solar panels with a gleaming brilliance in the cold darkness of space. Long, wing-like projections of orbiter twenty-four moved, folding together, locking into place. Twenty-three other satellites performed the same function simultaneously.  Next, the wings released from the main vehicle body, silently drifting away in the weightlessness of space. Once jettisoned, the panels' rocket thrusters fired a burn of two minutes in length. The now useless solar panels gathered speed rapidly, hurtling away, sent on an endless journey into the far reaches of space.

Soon another command caused the parabolic dish attached to the front of the now wingless satellite to fold inward. This too detached itself, drifting slowly away until thrusters propelled the useless dish on another course,  vanishing in the star-lit blackness.

Nothing reflective remained on the outer surfaces of all twenty-four satellites. The exterior of each was covered with a dull reddish-gray metal. If their sudden disappearance from global tracking monitors caused a stir, it did not matter now. 

Each orbiting vehicle forming the grid received and executed the command in unison. A carefully calculated firing of onboard propulsion systems hurtled each vehicle into another orbit, closer, and in a new position above the blue sphere below.  With geo-synchronous orbit obtained, they hovered expectantly, cold unthinking machines of destruction.

They waited for the next command to begin the final stage of their deadly mission.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Operations Center

Farrell arrived in forty-five minutes still perplexed by the information OS1 Diaz gave him over the phone. The Lieutenant Commander had been around the Navy long enough to know when a potential problem reared its ugly head.  Some discreet checking was the order of the day. His efforts yielded nothing. 

No drills.

No inspections.

No tests.

OS2 Wardin caused quite a stir in her section with the report.  Diaz had each member of that office pour over data looking for solutions under the guise of a practice drill for section readiness. Kelly noticed the look on Lieutenant Commander Farrell's face when he saw the section scrambling in all directions. His brow gathered into a single line, forming a ridge above his deep-set eyes. His mood did not appear jovial.

Farrell accompanied Diaz into her office, closing the door behind them. Kelly began to stand at attention.

“Skip the formalities, Wardin.  What do you got?” the Lieutenant Commander snapped.

Kelly replayed the morning's events for the officer.  Farrell flattened out a wrinkle in his blue jacket after taking off the coat.  Brass buttons winked under the office lights with his movements.  Ninety minutes passed while the three of them poured over the entire report in great detail. Kelly Wardin turned to her keyboard and typed in several other commands. No indication of any other problems cropped up.

“Diaz?” the officer asked, stifling a yawn.  “You got any stuff you call coffee around this place?  I was lucky enough to be the OD last night and need something to shake these bones awake.” The coffee steamed as Farrell sipped it gingerly while the computer scanned through a number of different reports, eventually offering up the needed information. “Stop.  Go back. There, pull that up,” the officer ordered.

Diaz cocked his head to one side, squinting at the information before him. Farrell picked up on something Diaz missed. It puzzled him.

Kelly Wardin stopped immediately, enlarging the screen.  With a quick keystroke, the entire twenty-four inch monitor came to life with the desired data.

“OK. Let's check orbital search pattern command.” After a moment, a text of relay readouts materialized in front of the Navy personnel. “Good. Now recheck sequence tracking relays,” Farrell said, his voice softening. He raised the mug again, enjoying the contents.

Kelly performed as commanded, pausing only briefly to slide her fingers across the tightening muscles of her neck. When the final command entered the computer, it spewed back a volume of data.  Kelly flashed through the information along with the two men. She sat back in her chair, stunned.  “No,” Wardin exclaimed.  “This can't be right. It just can't be.”

Reuben Diaz shoved his hands into the pockets of his uniform, looking sheepish. His brain was having trouble comprehending what his eyes saw.  “I guess we missed one, sir.”

A smile of satisfaction raced across Farrell's face.  “There's the problem. Scan the tabular data index and see what it shows,” the Lieutenant Commander said excitedly, almost spilling his coffee.  Well pleased to find the answer before more of his morning escaped, a data check gave precisely the information Farrell expected. All satellites were accounted for and each in their appropriate orbits above the earth.

“I rebooted the observation recognition software before you got here,” Kelly's voice faltered. “I'm positive sequence tracking indicated the program to be in active search mode. Sir, I checked this earlier.”

Before Wardin could continue, the officer cut her off.  “Obviously, it wasn't. There's no other explanation, Wardin.  Somehow, program scanning locked on to VST's sats, and an inactive relay triggered.”

“Sir, I...” the GOFER stammered.

Diaz quickly interjected, “Yes, sir. Must've been what happened.”  

Intensely digesting the printed material and disregarding the conversation between Diaz and the naval officer, Wardin coursed through the information, not placated by the officer's rapid-fire solution.

OS1 Diaz remained unsure about the situation himself. A part of him wanted to investigate further.  Another told him to quit beating a dead horse. His friendship with Farrell went back a long way and finally the SWAPO realized there was no point in antagonizing the situation, merely acceptance of what seemed to be the obvious.

“I suspect the next report will confirm this information,” Farrell remarked, confidently.

Kelly reacted to Farrell's remark, but a gunfire look from Diaz quelled her enthusiasm. She remained silent.

The officer prepared himself to leave but turned back before exiting. “Look, people make mistakes. I don't know how this one occurred and it really doesn't matter at this point. Don't let it happen again. Understood?” his voice stern.

“Aye, sir,” Kelly mumbled.

Farrell's question hit Diaz headlong. “Why didn't you pick up on this before you called me?”

“I thought we covered all the bases, sir.”

Farrell stared briefly at both of them before speaking. “Next time there's a problem, square it up before you call. Have your personnel stand down from the drill,” he paused, not really expecting an answer.

Silence hung in the air, thick and oppressive after the officer left. Diaz swallowed what remained of his now tepid coffee.  His fingers intertwined behind his head. The SWAPO emitted a long slow whistle. “I'm not sure how, but we screwed up, Kelly.” 

“Do you think he's pissed?” Kelly questioned.

“It's not the end of the world. He'll get over it. Actually, he's a pretty good officer.  I'm sure he didn't get much rack time last night and pulling him out of his meeting with the old man will take some explaining. Farrell's probably just steamed about that. Anyway, it's water over the gunnels. Let it go.”

“Diaz. I checked and rechecked everything before I spoke with you. Things don't add up. I wouldn't of missed anything that obvious,” Kelly intoned dejectedly.

The SWAPO stood and stretched.  “Don't forget, I missed it too and I've been at this a lot longer than you.” His hand reached out in a fatherly fashion, rubbing her shoulder.  “It's been a long morning. Take a break. The sats are there, end of story.  Forget it.”

Wardin looked up at him and in one quick motion shut down the active search screen. Her finger rebounded to the bridge of her nose and slid her frames back into their proper position. “I hope Farrell's not sitting on the next promotion board,” she offered, lightly.

Diaz left her office, not bothering to look back.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Vancouver, British Columbia

Dressed in formal attire, the black tie pinched at Joseph Canton's neck. He found himself pacing anxiously across the floor of the immense suite's living area Fletcher Durnulqc had provided for him and McGann. The big man weaved in between the luxurious furnishings, checking his watch again. 1825 hours. Time crawled at a standstill. Each moment brought him closer to the hour he did not wish to face.

French doors led out onto the balcony, and he hoped the fresh air might revive him. The unseasonably warm March winds tousled his black hair.  Any other time, the commanding view from the suite on the fortieth floor of the Wyndham Hotel would have impressed him.  Not today.

From high above the West Vancouver shoreline, Canton impassively watched several large freighters plying the waters of the Georgia Straight, far west of the city.  Below his vantage point, English Bay sparkled in the waning light, its waters alive, dotted with several colorful spinnakers. Fortunate sailors were taking advantage of the unusually good weather.  On the street, pedestrians gathered in small clusters watching the sailboats jibe and tack in an effort to catch the changing winds. A number of couples stood along the bank alone, oblivious to goings on, immersed in their own feelings. Taxis motored past, filled with passengers speeding to unknown destinations across the city. 

Inside, a phone rang interrupting the moment. T.C. crossed the room and answered tersely.  The call from the concierge's desk informed him the limousine sent by Mr. Durnulqc arrived and at their convenience would take them to the Durnulqc estate. Canton gruffly thanked the female voice and cradled the receiver.

“Bry, you ready yet?  Limo's here,” his voice edgy. 

“Yeah.  You?” McGann called back.

“Let's go.”

Bryson McGann entered the living area. “You don't look ready, T.C. I think your tie needs a bit of work.”

“I'm dressed. Leave it at that.” Canton glanced at the image staring back at him in the hallway mirror.  His normally easygoing features lay hidden, clouded by emotions, and to make matters worse, McGann was right, his bowtie was askew.

“Wound a little tight, aren't you, T.C.?”

“I'll be okay once I get there. Do you think she'll be at this gala event we're forced to attend?” Canton asked, unsure if he really wanted an answer to his question.

McGann checked the mirror one more time, satisfied with his appearance. “More than likely, Ashlyn will be there. Can you handle it?” His words struck the big man like a left hook.

Canton's temper flared momentarily and subsided. “I don't have much of a choice, do I, little brother?”

“Not really.  I'd say your choices are somewhere between one and none.” McGann slapped his friend on the back. Canton's demeanor had changed with Ashlyn Sanders’ unexplained departure.  Bryson McGann knew it disturbed his friend greatly, but he could do little to remedy the situation. He hoped with time the memories would become just that. “Look at it this way, at least the food will be good,” he offered, the attempt at levity not gaining much ground.  A quick smile brightened Canton's bruised features and then faded.

The limousine carried them along the banks of English Bay on Marine Drive. McGann took in the view.  The city reminded him a lot of Seattle. Across the bay, Vancouver's mix of the old and new carved the skyline. This city, too, felt the pangs of increasing growth; tall buildings standing spindle straight reached upward into the skies. At times, traffic clogged the arteries in and out of the city.  Forced delays brought about the blare of angry horns. The census had taken an upward turn with the introduction of Durnulqc's numerous high-tech industries. Rapid expansion lured job seekers from around the globe, turning Vancouver into one of the fastest growing areas along the Pacific coast.

All too quickly, the vehicle entered Route 1, and sped along the new eight-lane highway, leaving the city behind.  Just past Horseshoe Bay, the driver exited and entered a two-lane road taking them into the countryside. Motoring several more miles along a tree-lined drive, the chauffeured vehicle finally pulled into the entrance of the Durnulqc estate. Flanked on either side of the tall, wrought iron gates, a pair of exquisitely carved black and white marble griffins overlooked the drive. Stationary sentinels perched atop massive pillars peered silently with glowering eyes at the intruders to their realm.

A small forest of lush cedar and hemlocks draped the lane in dusky shadows as it wound around the paddocks and stable. A pasture full of Arabian horses ambled about, grazing in the twilight. Several graceful heads rose at the sound of the passing black limousine, while a young foal bucked and pranced on wobbly knees attempting to maintain pace with its mother.  

Durnulqc's home materialized in an ostentatious display as the vehicle rounded the corner in the drive. On each side of the neatly clipped, manicured lawn, well-groomed hedgerows laced themselves around the perimeter of the flower gardens, abounding in a plethora of radiant hues. An ornately carved fountain bubbled over with water, cascading onto the tiers below, finally spilling twenty feet into a large, circular pool at the base. Bathed in the glow of hidden spotlights, the imposing facade of the sixty-room mansion stood as a monument to its owner's portentous affluence.

Numerous limousines and expensive European sedans sat parked along the boundary of the circular, brick drive.  Another limousine, just ahead of theirs, pulled away after it emptied its passengers. Their driver waited patiently until motioned forward. He handed the two guests' invitations to the security guard who scrutinized them carefully.  Using a small hand held computer, the formally dressed guards scanned each invitation. Within a moment the guest's face appeared on screen.  Once assured confirmation of each person's identity, they were allowed to exit their vehicles.

The two NESSA employees surveyed the exterior of the impressive granite mansion. Two massive doors stood open, a portal beckoning guests inside. Italian marble flooring spread out in a magnificent foyer leading to a grand staircase with gilded banisters. Hanging above the entrance, a chandelier sparkled with light from the many faceted, teardrop-shaped crystals dangled from the lamp. Without a doubt, Fletcher Durnulqc lived in opulent splendor.

Guests milled about in each room of the house, free to enjoy all Durnulqc offered.  The party looked like a gathering of the world's populace, in addition to Vancouver's elite.  A vast array of ethnic origins were represented here, mostly business associates of Durnulqc Enterprises, or one of its many subsidiaries. Occasional laughter sounded above muted conversations. Scattered groups discussed a variety of topics, all enjoying the splendid hospitality.  Music filtered from the grand ballroom while the stringed orchestra played. An invitation to a gathering hosted by Fletcher Durnulqc was one few refused.

A waiter passed before the two men, offering champagne.  The long stemmed crystal glasses sat perched atop a silver tray.  Each took one, and sipped the excellent vintage. The cold, effervescent liquid, only slightly sweet, left a crisp, tart taste on their palate.

“I overheard someone say the champagne’s from Durnulqc's own vineyards,” Canton remarked.

“It tastes familiar.  Seems our host lacks for very little.”

They walked along entering another room, and found themselves staring at Egyptian antiquities. The walls had been painted to represent an ancient pharaoh's tomb. Bryson McGann eagerly poured over the artifacts on display. 

“I'm going to see if I can find Ashlyn.  Do you mind, Bry?” Canton asked.

He shook his head, amazed and engrossed at the museum quality pieces owned by Durnulqc. Glass cases filled with gold, gems, pottery, and other priceless objects lined the perimeter of the chamber.  Poised in the center of the floor, another case held a golden headdress worn by an ancient Egyptian priest.

A familiar voice called out. “Why, Mr. McGann, it's so nice to see you again,” Monique Sinclair spoke pleasantly.

He turned in her direction. Monique's long black hair offered a vivid contrast against the layered, white silk full-length gown. It flowed around her shoulders falling into a deep V, forming a triangle between her ample breasts. The liquidity of her movements made it appear as if she were floating across the floor.  Adorning her neck, a simple gold necklace held a four-carat, flawless, pear-shaped diamond. The jewel sparkled, catching the ambient light with each stride. She stopped in front of him, saying nothing, eyeing him in hungry fashion.

McGann smiled. The game continued. Her brazen approach in Durnulqc's home seemed inappropriate, but it did not surprise him. “My pleasure, Miss Sinclair.”

Before speaking, she held the gaze a moment longer, prolonging the silence. “I didn't know if you’d be attending or not,” her voice traced with seduction.

Several waiters entered the now crowded room, one stopping to offer the couple hors d'oeuvres. She waved him away with a casual flick of her wrist. As an afterthought, she added, “How rude of me. Would you care for something more?” Before he could answer she summoned a waiter, taking two glasses, handing one to McGann.

“Champagne perhaps?” Sinclair's voice taunted.

Her fingers brushed his. Her tongue darted across her lower lip, as she waited for his reaction. Finding none, the beautiful woman spoke again. “Please enjoy the evening, Mr. McGann.  You may find a number of the rooms interesting. There are many priceless artifacts from various historical periods. You'll find Fletcher has eclectic tastes.” 

McGann nodded his thanks with a tilt of his head. “Maybe you should offer tours, Miss Sinclair.” 

The remark caught her off guard.  “You'll excuse me, Mr. McGann,” flashing one last glance at him. She turned abruptly and left.

McGann continued to pour over Durnulqc's antiquities when Scott Freeman, a NESSA assistant director, called out from behind.  “Bryson, I was wondering if I’d see you here.” McGann gripped the hand firmly, delighted to have someone take his mind off his earlier conversation with Monique Sinclair.  From the ballroom, the mellifluous strains of the orchestra continued to play.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Durnulqc’s Estate

Joe Canton wandered through the mansion's impressive rooms. Actually, he was surprised to see a number of people he knew or worked with. Their conversations helped pass the time, yet his uneasiness remained.

He found himself passing by an elegantly framed, full-length mirror outside the ballroom. The stringed instruments had just finished playing, a round of applause came to life from those inside. Only by chance did he happen to see Ashlyn's reflection.  The quick passing of her image conjured up many memories. She quickly became lost in the crowd of people. Canton turned and followed, hoping to find Ashlyn Sanders. 

After some time, he caught sight of her.  Canton watched her conversing with a group of what looked like fellow scientists. When the conversation ended, Sanders left the room and he followed her outside into the garden.

“Wait,” the only word Canton uttered.  Unsure of what else to say, he hurried to catch up with her, reaching for her arm to slow her down.

Sanders turned sharply at his touch. A stern look greeted Canton. “Joe, I wish you hadn't come.”

“Frankly, I had no choice in the matter.  If it were up to me,” his voice trailed off.  Canton sucked in a deep breath, pain welling up inside.

“Look Joe, it's over,” the pitch of her voice raised.  Ashlyn's words pierced like cold steel. His hopes were to find some answers. Any answer, but this.  Gently, he reached out to stroke her chin.  The woman's hand flew up in response, pushing it aside. Her sudden reaction stunned him.

“Why didn't you say something before you left?”

“Nothing to say, Joe,” she shot back aguishly.  “Durnulqc offered more than I could ever hope to make on my own. I thought about it and decided it was right for me. Part of the deal required me to leave without notice. Cut all the strings.”

Canton stared wide-eyed in amazement at the drastic change in her personality.  His eyes closed and he shook his head in disbelief, listening to words he did not want to hear.  His mouth opened but she cut him off. 

“Point is, Joe, it all boiled down to money.  Let's face it. Durnulqc has it. I want it. We were going nowhere.  I made a decision. It's the right one for me,” Ashlyn remarked bluntly.  She turned away, only stopping when he called her name.

“Ashlyn,” the big man called hoarsely.  “Don't...”

“Forget it, Joe,” she said harshly, unable to face him. “I'm out of here tomorrow for several months.”

“Where?”

“Mining. You punched your ticket and the ride's over.  Leave it at that.”

The sound of her heels faded on the flagstone walkway.  Ashlyn Sanders vanished behind a row of hedges. Canton found himself alone. A constricting band of pain encircled his chest, squeezing him.  His stomach knotted in disappointment.

He sat beside a small fountain contemplating the conversation. Passersby looked at him without much regard and moved on. They spent little time wondering why the man sat by himself when such a splendid party waited to be taken advantage of. Soft melodies filtered into the balmy night, yet it did nothing to ease his lingering pain. The stinging reality caused moisture to form at the corners of his eyes. Joseph Canton quickly brushed it aside, pushing the pain into a deep recess, bracing himself against the sorrow.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Grand Ballroom

McGann drifted through the rooms of the mansion until he found himself facing the entrance to the grand ballroom. A waltz played and couples danced in time with the music. Surprisingly, a few of the dancers were actually good. The entire place reminded him of a movie set. The only thing missing were the cameras and a director yelling, “Cut.” Everything seemed too perfect. McGann began to understand the compulsiveness affecting each detail of Durnulqc's life.  Order for everything, nothing out of place.

An arm suddenly wrapped around his and a soft voice spoke. An attractive blonde a few years older than himself asked for a dance. Before he could respond, she took his hand and led him into the swirling crowd of men and women. His arm found its place in the small of her back and she followed his expert lead. They moved in perfect unison, dancing for several waltzes together.  When the music ended, they stood and talked. His conversation with his comely dance partner evolved into a pleasant distraction, unlike the interlude with Monique Sinclair earlier in the evening.

He turned his attention to other thoughts when Fletcher Durnulqc materialized in the center of the room. He politely excused himself from his lovely companion, with the possibility of another dance later. 

The crowd gathering around the amiable host moved aside when he began to speak, giving him plenty of room. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?”

Bryson knew a number of details about Durnulqc, but had never met him. Various numbers circulated over Fletcher Durnulqc's age, no one knew exactly.  From behind and across the room, McGann estimated the man to be a bit taller than himself. He appeared fit.  The wealthy man cut a striking figure, taking on the appearance of someone much younger than his years. A black tuxedo hugged his physique like a glove. In bold contrast to the dark suit, a head of white hair pulled into a shoulder length ponytail tied with a black ribbon hung from his head, bouncing with each step.

Durnulqc continued, “I am pleased and moved by your presence this evening. I thank you all for coming,” his hands spreading in an open gesture to his guests, bowing slightly.

McGann listened closely to the well-rehearsed speech. Fletcher Durnulqc's words flowed, ambling in a smooth, continuous stream, wrapping themselves around eager ears. McGann noticed it was more than Durnulqc's money captivating this audience. No doubt existed he possessed a charismatic personality that captured these people, demanding their rapt attention. Bryson expertly weaved between guests, navigating through the throng of people to avoid being noticed, trying to see the face of Fletcher Durnulqc.

“There are several reasons for this gala event tonight. The first of which is,” he nodded to a far corner of the room. A smaller man than Durnulqc, wiry, with thinning, sandy colored hair stepped smartly across the room. His eyes darted continuously in all directions, casually observing, yet completely aware of the smallest detail, the slightest movement in the crowd. McGann watched, alerted by an innate sense from years of training, memorizing each distinguishing characteristic about the man. “Thank you, Mr. Vickers,” Durnulqc said, receiving the large cardboard replica of a bank draft.

The angular features of the hawk-faced individual stared back at Fletcher Durnulqc. Vickers' eyelids moved like nictitating membranes, opening and closing rapidly over a dark set of eyes. The man cocked his head and gave a slight nod toward Durnulqc. “Yes, sir,” he uttered, in a slight English accent, before returning to the spot he occupied in the corner of the room. McGann absorbed it, making a mental note of the man hovering on the fringes of the crowd.

“Ms. Appleton, Mr. Marischow, if you please,” Durnulqc waved a large hand, tracing an invisible path for the two to follow into the middle of the floor. 

Each went quickly to their spot beside the evening's host. Marischow, a middle-aged man, with a balding pate sported a bushy mustache that he stroked constantly.  Along side of him, his assistant director stood in a dress too tight; that revealed too much, and clashed with dyed red hair.  Both wore beaming smiles, aware of what lay in store for their foundation.

“As I'm sure most of you know, these two fine people have the awesome responsibility of overseeing the day to day management of the World Children's Fund.  Their task is daunting. The efforts of the organization have done much to alleviate suffering and pain for many unfortunate children worldwide,” Durnulqc paused, theatrically. Applause spread through the crowd.

Ms. Appleton spoke briefly regarding the WCF's role around the world. Marischow smiled, nodding his approval at the sound of her words, all the while toying with his mustache.

When she finished, Fletcher Durnulqc continued, “Tonight I am honored, on behalf of Durnulqc Enterprises and its subsidiaries, to present this check. With this money, I pray we can begin to put an end to starvation and disease for those unfortunate souls who are offered no choice in life and have barely enough to exist.”

Until now, the amount of the draft remained hidden.  In one quick motion, Durnulqc's hand tore away the covering on the check's face revealing an astonishing sum in the amount of twenty million dollars. Marischow stepped forward, eagerly pumping Durnulqc's hand, beaming at the fortune. It took a moment. A tumultuous roar of applause erupted through the room. Voices buzzed with talk of Durnulqc's philanthropic generosity and compassion.

The white haired man raised a hand to still his guests. “Please. Please, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you.” Someone in the crowd raised a glass, saluting the benefactor.  Soon the rest of the people followed suit, toasting their host with cheers.

His infectious smile spread across the crowd with a thickness invested in it. “The second reason we are here tonight is this.” His hands folded in front of him before he continued. “Since this is such a wonderful gathering of all my friends, I could think of no better time to announce this news.” He stopped, letting the tension build to a crescendo. His left hand gestured and Monique Sinclair sauntered forward.

Guests parted as the woman dissected a path through the sea of faces. Sinclair moved across the black and white marbled floor and stood beside Fletcher Durnulqc. McGann took in the scenario. It gave the appearance of being well rehearsed. Sinclair, clothed in white, standing on a black marble tile, and Durnulqc, in his black tuxedo standing atop white marble flooring, were the king and queen of a chessboard, basking in their own satisfaction and glory.  The pretentious nature of the entire spectacle seemed unnoticed except by Bryson McGann.

Vickers cocked his head, aware of the movement on the dance floor, locking an icy stare directly on McGann. He returned the gesture with a hint of a smile, sending it back in the direction of the Englishman. Each time McGann moved, it seemed Durnulqc, innately aware of his movements, moved also, not allowing McGann to see his face.

“I’ll make this brief so I don't keep you in suspense.” McGann's attention turned again to Fletcher Durnulqc. “Tonight I’m announcing the engagement of Ms. Sinclair and myself.” In his hands a red velvet box opened, revealing an incredibly large diamond.  Its brilliant flash under the lights shot out like a laser in all directions when it slid onto her finger.  She smiled and kissed him. Another explosion of applause struck the room.

“Finally,” he added,  “I wish to formally thank the man, who, without his sacrifice, Ms. Sinclair and I would not be announcing our intent to marry this evening.”

Fletcher Durnulqc finally turned in McGann's direction, fixing his eyes on the man he exalted. McGann marveled at the taller man's unique appearance. Without wrinkles, the taut, alabaster skin gave no hint of Durnulqc's age. Thin, reddish lips rested in a straight line above a strong chin. On the ridge of his brow, fine white hairs grew in perfect rows. Yet, it was the eyes that attracted McGann's attention. Watery-pink orbs filled with immense black pupils peered back at him.

McGann blinked, freeing himself from the almost hypnotic stare of the albino. White teeth flashed in an emotionless gesture meant only for the crowd's pleasure.

“A toast, to Mr. McGann,” the evening's host commanded.  Glasses lifted in a salute, most guests unsure of exactly what they were toasting. Rather than displease Durnulqc, they simply followed suit. Bryson received a few pats on the back and several people shook his hand. Music swelled across the room as couples filled the dance floor. 

Bryson McGann could not remove the haunting image of Fletcher Durnulqc from his mind. The eyes are a path into one's soul, he remembered reading once. If so, McGann saw only emptiness in a pair of cold, reptilian eyes.

Bryson sensed more than felt it. A menacing undercurrent rose up, enveloping him in a spiral of swirling tension. Its wicked fangs bit into him, clawed at him with sharpness, alerting him. Keenly aware of the need to listen to his intuitions, McGann let the wave wash over him. Life's lessons had taught him to listen to its call.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Encounter

He made his way from the ballroom, searching for Joe Canton. A quick glance at his Breitling indicated it was close to eleven. Vickers materialized in front of him, blocking any further movement. McGann stepped to the side and attempted to leave.

“Mr. McGann,” the accented voice said.  “If you have a moment, Mr. Durnulqc requests the favor of your presence.” McGann drew in the hawk-like facial features of Durnulqc's bodyguard. His image burned into McGann's retina, capturing the minutest details. The wiry man said nothing more, expecting the other man to follow.  The statement did not offer choice, merely a command.  He noticed several things about Ian Vickers, one of which was the bulge underneath the right arm of his jacket. Durnulqc surely had enemies. McGann thought the scanners built into the doorways would have been enough, along with the security detail posing as waiters. Perhaps it was a requirement of the job or he simply liked the reassurance of cold metal. Whatever the reason, McGann knew Vickers was no stranger to harm's way.

Vickers led him through a hallway filled with medieval weaponry and a sentinel standing in ancient armor.  An unseen doorway opened into an elevator that took them on a silent ride to the third floor of the mansion. When the door opened, Vickers ushered him into the dimly lit room, asking him to wait, never letting his eyes leave Bryson McGann before he left.

Portraits of the previous generations of Durnulqc's lined the walls in mute testimony to the family heritage. The similarities were uncanny. To McGann's eyes, it seemed the same person was transported in time from one generation to the next. Their clothes changed, but their faces remained the same. He noticed, without thinking, no portraits of Durnulqc women hung in stately silence along with their male counterparts.

Bryson wandered around the immense room. On one wall, hundreds of leather bound books sat on well-oiled wooden cases from floor to ceiling. A scent of old leather exuded from their resting place. Hidden in their fragile, yellowing parchment, a wealth of probably long forgotten information existed.

Inside a large glass case, an exquisitely hand built replica of the Flying Cloud sat under full sail. McGann worked his way around the five-foot model of the clipper ship. Each block and tackle, every fitting, the rigging meticulously strung, exact in every detail. The craftsman who built the reproduction must have spent many hours slaving under the appointed task.

“Are you a sailor, too, Mr. McGann?” Fletcher Durnulqc called out, making his way in from the terrace outside the room. The roof of an adjoining wing blended into a cleverly designed veranda that faced the open waters to the west. McGann pretended not to notice the hint of a shadow behind the evening's host, passing by the glass doors. McGann looked up and saw only the ghostly apparition of Durnulqc's form.

He moved in the direction of the voice, passing a bank of monitors staring back blankly at him. When Durnulqc entered the room, automatic lighting adjusted to provide a warm glow, diminishing his stark-white features in the muted atmosphere.

The two men eyed each other, sparring silently.  McGann let the tension mount, forcing Durnulqc to speak first.

“Are you taken aback with my looks?” Durnulqc queried.

McGann shook his head. “No. Intrigued, yes.”

“Good. Join me in a drink, Mr. McGann.  Scotch?” He lifted the quarter of a century old Oban from the bar and poured three fingers of the amber colored liquid over several frozen cubes. McGann reached out and took the crystal tumbler offered to him. “To your continued good health, Mr. McGann.”

Bryson raised the glass, tasting the mellow peat flavor of smooth aged scotch. Its warmth ran through him lighting a small glow in the pit of his stomach.

Durnulqc continued, “As a child, I was ridiculed because of my looks. My own father sent me away to school. Each year I returned for two weeks in the summer.  Even then, he had little to do with me. It’s my belief, I was an embarrassment to him.” Fletcher Durnulqc turned away.  Without waiting, he called, “Come. The night air is much more pleasant.”

The footsteps of the two men rang on the veranda's flagstones. McGann did not reply.  He allowed Durnulqc his soliloquy.

“I made a promise to myself,” he paused, sipping the whiskey. “When I became an adult I would never be an embarrassment again. I swore I would never let anyone laugh at me,” his eyes flared, at the resurging memories.  “Are you aware I took over the family business at a young age, when my father died suddenly?”

“I understood his death was due to mysterious circumstances,” McGann interjected.

The white haired man's lips writhed back at the corners before settling into a placid smile, eyes glaring in the diffuse light.  “You see, Mr. McGann, I’ve taken the business well beyond anything my father might have imagined with his limited vision. Enough of that,” his demeanor changed, warming. “It seems you are a man of capable talents.”

Bryson stood silent.

“As you might assume, I keep a dossier on each guest. I also have a photographic memory.  Let's see, your list of accomplishments is quite long. A pilot since the age of fourteen.  A remarkable soldier.  I would have thought your military heroism would have provided a higher honor than you received.” Durnulqc stopped to swirl the scotch and observe McGann's reactions before continuing. “It really doesn't matter now, does it, Mr. McGann?”

Bryson allowed his silence to play out.

“You are also a diver of quite capable talent, I might add.  And if I remember correctly, you hold the rank of NiDan in the martial art of Go-Ju. Now you work for NESSA, employed as a solver of puzzles for the organization.  Would that be correct?” Durnulqc paused for effect, took in a quick breath and continued, “Impressive, to say the least, Mr. McGann.”

McGann followed the engagement, amused.

“How rude of me to forget,” he said wryly.  “You’re also the son of one of my staunchest competitors in the mining industry.  Your father is well, I trust?” his chalky face wrinkled into a thin, unnatural smile.

McGann swirled the liquid, the ice pinging against the side of the crystal tumbler.  “It seems you also possess an intriguing background.” He waited just long enough before looking up into Durnulqc's face. “International businessman, philanthropist, equestrian, pistol marksman and certainly one of the world's wealthiest men.”

The duelers continued the verbal assaults, words darting in and out like the thin steel of a rapier in the hands of an expert swordsman. Neither giving, nor gaining ground.

“Are you a man with enemies?” McGann questioned, invectively. 

Durnulqc turned to face McGann head on, a chuckle boiling up out of his throat. “What makes you say that, my friend?” he responded, insincerely. 

“Does Vickers always carry a weapon in your home?” McGann asked pointedly. 

“Do you find that distasteful, Mr. McGann?” 

“Not particularly.  It's just I wouldn't think he'd need it here.” McGann continued before Durnulqc could speak. “Perhaps we should ask him to join us, and not leave him lurking by the doorway.  Oh, by the way, my compliments to the physician who repaired his wound.  He must be a remarkable plastic surgeon.”

Stealing from the shadows, the Englishman approached the two men rapidly with determined footsteps. The employer allowed him to approach within several feet before he raised a hand, stopping the bodyguard. Ian Vickers halted abruptly, not giving ground.

A deeper, insidious laugh erupted from the white-haired host, splitting the night. “Please, Mr. McGann, let us finish our drinks.” Durnulqc waved an arm into the night. “The world’s an ever changing place. Are you changing with it, Mr. McGann?”

Thirty feet below, clusters of people walked about the grounds unaware of the conversation above them. A fingernail moon hung low in the dark sky, its light diminishing with the fog rolling in across the waters. Carried by a light breeze off the Georgia Straight, the misty veil oozed into the men, cool dampness clinging to their skin. Its touch sent a shiver down McGann's spine. Or was it something more?

Durnulqc finished his drink. A quick flick of his tongue at the corner of his mouth retrieved the remaining moisture. “Weather is an interesting phenomenon, don't you think? One moment peaceful, the next incredible forces capable of untold destruction.”

“Do you predict the weather, too?”

“No, no. Not by any means. Rather, I am simply mesmerized by the unfolding chain of events around the globe.”

Bryson McGann stared into Fletcher Durnulqc. Hidden in part by the shadows and the fog, Durnulqc's face became a hideous, grotesque mask in the dim light on the veranda. Tightness gripped his loins, reviling at the site standing before him.

“I think our conversation has ended. Enjoy the rest of the evening, Mr. McGann.” Durnulqc spun quickly, stepping away, vaporizing into the misty night with the ever- present Englishman.  

McGann stood alone with his thoughts. He swallowed the last of his drink in a quick gulp. His gut twisted while replaying the conversation that just occurred with the beguiling Durnulqc. Innuendo and deceptive threats all part of a well practiced game for the evening's host. Confronted by life's complexities, undaunted by personal malady, yet angered by his family's treatment of him; throw in the fact of his father's mysterious death, and a number of interesting events shaped his being. Fletcher Durnulqc, a man of many personas, was not a man to be reckoned with lightly.  There were probably many ghosts in his past, more than he admitted publically.

Bryson McGann found his way to the first floor.  The party had not dulled. Soon he found himself engaged in a conversation with several people from NESSA. He let the tug on his sleeve steal his attention.

“How's your night been?” T.C. asked, dully.

“Probably more interesting than yours, from the looks of things.”

“A few too many glasses of champagne and a conversation ending like a bad movie script,” Canton replied. The big man’s sullen mood was clearly evident. “Let's get out of here.”

Together they waited for the limousine to take them back to the hotel. In a darkened corner of a third floor room, a hawk-like face surveyed the two men in silence as they departed.

“So, Mr. Vickers, what do you think of Mr. Bryson McGann? Hmm?”

Vickers spit the word out, “Difficult.”

“Your gift of choosing proper verbiage is sublime, Mr. Vickers. Difficult, indeed.”

“Miss Wu is waiting in your suite, sir,” he said casually, without casting his eyes from the window.  “Shall I send Miss Sinclair up?”

“Oh, yes. Please do, Mr. Vickers.”

Fletcher Durnulqc licked his lips, knowing well the lustful needs of Veronica Wu.  His secretary offered more vocational skills than just typing. His mistress and future wife eagerly enjoyed the pleasures they shared together with him. A mental image of the two beautiful women entwined in their passionate lovemaking stirred his longing. Durnulqc bit his lip in anticipation, immediately tasting the warm, coppery fluid. His tongue slithered out to catch a warm drop dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Fletcher Durnulqc waited impatiently for the women to fill desires he needed sated.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Seattle, Washington

Muted light filtered through the open glass doors of the balcony. Curtains parted, moving randomly, a captive of the wind's delicate hold. Flashes of the city and blue lake below came and went, offering momentary glimpses of the bustling town. Revealed only to be lost again, the dancing curtains yielded brief vignettes of the scene being played out in real time on Seattle's streets.

Normally an early riser, McGann took advantage of his last day of leave from the project, ordered by NESSA's director.  Soon enough, the long hours at the Billings project would catch up with him. The grind would begin again.

The irritating ring of the video-phone awakened Bryson McGann from a fitful sleep. Throwing back the covers, he padded across the carpet and caught the phone in the middle of its fifth ring. T.C.'s familiar voice greeted him as McGann switched on the live feed displaying Canton's image.

“Yeah,” McGann responded blearily.  His hands worked their way across his face, attempting to erase the web of sleep surrounding him.

“Turn on your TV now.  Check out the news,” his friend commanded.

“What's going on?” an alerted voice asked.

“Just do it,” the APD instructed.

McGann reached for the remote keying the proper button. Instantly, the fifty-inch flat screen came to life. A local news anchor on KOMO spoke about the transmission received at eight a.m. local time.

“Apparently, all regular broadcast programming was interrupted across the country,” the reporter intoned in a serious manner.  “We will replay that tape in a moment for those of you just joining us.”

McGann turned back to the video-phone catching the concerned look carved onto the face of his friend. Just about to speak, Bryson stopped himself when KOMO replayed the earlier transmission.

Forming slowly, the earth came into focus.  The tape showed the blue planet rotating from space. Wispy clouds flew above the blue orb's oceans and colorful landmasses that came and went as the globe spun. After several revolutions, the image began to fade. Replacing the planet's representation, a matrix of a human head emerged on screen.  As the head revolved a quarter turn, images of different races came to life. African, European, Asian, Polynesian, Latin, Arabian. The faces remained silent, surreal, obviously computer generated. Nondescript forms were of nobody and yet everyone. Ethnic features of great detail appeared and faded while the slowly spinning head continued to turn. Behind the holographic simulacrum, quickly changing weather patterns formed and dissipated. Sunlit blue skies gave way to cloud filled scenes. Malevolent storms flashed lightning and displays of a howling wind's fury and destruction came to life and faded. Endless scenes depicted a variety of weather scenarios melting away to form another.

The computer driven icons continued their metamorphosis before McGann's eyes. When each face appeared, it deepened into a mask of fear, the smile forming into a hideous grin.  Skin melted away into a bloody pulp as fire engulfed each head, before the next likeness formed. Then the cycle repeated itself.

Precisely two minutes after it started, the transmission ended abruptly without explanation. The local newscaster returned to the TV screen, replacing the bizarre events Bryson McGann witnessed. He listened inattentively to the broadcast as he directed his attention to Canton.

“What the hell was that all about, T.C.?”

“That's the question inquiring minds want to know.  Far as I can tell this went worldwide. A couple of NESSA remote teams reported picking up the signal.”

“Source?” Bryson asked.

“Unknown.”

“We're talking some pretty sophisticated equipment,” McGann remarked. “No one has an angle on this?”

“Not yet. If they do they're not talking to us at this point. It's sewn shut. I called a buddy at Langley.”

“And?”

“Officially, no comment.  Said he wouldn't even venture a guess at this point. Off the record though, he indicated the possibilities run from prank to the unknown, little brother.”

McGann paused to pour some much needed coffee, pushing out a sigh. “That's an expensive prank. Got to be more to it. Sumner in today?”

“He left late last night for a meeting in D.C.”

“Any word from the Four Horsemen?” McGann asked, referring to the four assistant NESSA directors.

Canton chuckled at the remark. “Not yet. I'm waiting for them to arrive.” Canton watched McGann, knowing he was processing the information by the distant look on his face.

“I planned on heading out to Billings tomorrow, but I think I'll stick around. I'm interested in hearing what Sumner brings back with him.”

“Good idea. I'll keep you posted,” T.C. responded before he faded from the screen.

A shift to CNN did little to shed further light on the situation.  The news network confirmed the live broadcast went worldwide, filling screens with the odd likeness of the rotating head. McGann switched off the TV, lacing up his jogging shoes. 

No clouds hung in the bright morning sky above Seattle. The fair weather brought out runners of all ages for their daily exercise. Cool air, as well as joggers, brushed past him as McGann began his six-mile run along the shores of Lake Washington.  He enjoyed his time alone. McGann's breathing fell into a steady rhythm with the pounding of his feet on the pavement.

Soon McGann focused on the morning's apparition, forgetting the grueling pace he set for himself. Rivers of thoughts poured through his mind, flowing over a steep waterfall, crashing, then exploding into a shower of theories. The raging current of ideas moved swiftly downstream finding their way into quiet eddies. Finally they surfaced in the still pools, taking form.

McGann stopped suddenly.  He reversed direction, heading back for his apartment. His noetic proposals seemed somewhat reasonable. Yet time would tell if they held any promise of truth. Bryson McGann decided not to wait. Some things he did better on his own. Investigating the possibilities just became a priority.

Chapter Forty

Operations Center - H.A.A.R.P. Project

A bank of onboard computers flashed in recognition of the constant relays sent and received. Each terminal worked independently, yet together, performing the necessary functions of its intended purpose. Essentially the machine operated itself, sending out information and receiving data it interpreted and updated constantly.  Software entered into the programming system picked up on any problems it occasionally encountered. If no solution occurred, it rerouted the information, searching for an answer.  Then if it recognized the problem went beyond its own abilities, the satellite would send an emergency alert.

A secure downlink connected it to the earth station hidden in the vastness above the Arctic Circle where the super computer whirred, providing appropriate answers for potential problems. The massive mainframe had immense capability and with it, the ability to reason logically on an advanced level. It likened to that of a living organism, the brain of the operation. Besides a handful of technicians, only four others knew of its whereabouts. Every attempt in design had been made to ensure secrecy of the computer's existence and purpose.

Mysterious events shrouded the demise of three, small high-tech companies responsible for building the super computer. Unfortunately, the rest of the world failed to notice, being bombarded by what was considered to be more newsworthy.  Even the police cared little about solving the wrongdoings.

A firm in Madrid simply ceased to exist.  An explosion disintegrated the entire complex, killing every employee. All of the management staff was present for an annual meeting on the day the event happened. Theories were speculative at best, industrial espionage, possibly terrorists. However, in reality, certain high level officials were paid to overlook a number of important issues. Their blindness to the situation propelled the case along a one-way track to a dead end. No clues of consequence ever welled up. The case remained unsolved and now after almost six years, completely forgotten.

A smaller techno-firm in Malaysia closed shop when its owner greeted his workers in an unwonted grisly display.  His pendulant body hung suspended from a thick chain coiled around his neck. Bulging eyes stared out from a purplish face fixed on an unseen point. A sharp blade had disemboweled the man, spilling the contents of his abdominal cavity across the floor.  A pool of congealed blood formed a sticky, dark red puddle below the dangling corpse. His lifeless body hung above the entrance in silent testimony to the reach of his executioner. 

According to police reports, no traces of evidence were found. The offices were thoroughly scavenged, picked clean.  Every file had been taken, all computer entries erased, and backup drives destroyed. In essence, the business history of the company vanished without a trace. Within a month, the grieving widow received a check for purchase of the firm, which she gladly accepted. The business never reopened. No one asked why.

In Bellingham, Washington, David Kearns, owner of Micro-Tech, looked greedily at the contract before him. Terminated from a position with another larger Washington based computer firm, he struck out on his own, determined to make a name for his new business. Incoming work trickled in, sending his company into deepening debt. The banks were pinching, anxious for repayment of loans. The bleak financial situation Micro-Tech found itself in made it a logical choice.  A few calls, some meetings, and a handshake sealed the sweet deal. Micro-Tech's problems changed with the stroke of a pen. All debts were erased and its bottom line was in the black.

The company finished the small amount of work remaining on other projects, concentrating on the lucrative one at hand. Company employees worked diligently on the mainframe project unaware of the intended purpose. Their labors paid off.  By finishing ahead of time, each employee received a nice bonus for completion of the project.

Life could not have been better for David Kearns on the day the final components were delivered to their destination. He arrived at his office mid-morning, his head still pounding from the previous night's celebration. Kearns loosened his tie and fell into a thick leather chair. Sorting the stack of papers on his desk, a large manila envelope found its way into his hands. He tore it open unaware of what lay inside. The contents fell onto his lap as he struggled to keep a few of the sheets from falling to the floor. 

Photographs.

Typed in bold black font, the note read, 'It's over.'

An enticing smile from a brunette clothed only in a scarlet G-string greeted him. David Kearns face filled with a gray pallor as shock registered and left an indelible mark. He felt as if someone pumped the air from his chest, rendering him incapable of ever taking another breath. Perspiration formed, spilling from his temples. Life just went to the edge, teetering on the brink of a bottomless pit.

His world spun at a dizzying speed, spiraling out of control.

Free fall.

A variety of different poses of himself and the young woman acting out their desires reflected in his unbelieving eyes. Thoughts rushed through a narrowing gorge, compressing, moving faster.  Kearns grimaced in pain, his head pounding under the mounting pressure. He contemplated the reasons, sorting through them all until only one idea became apparent.

There was no other explanation. No jagged edged piece fit the puzzle.

Blackmail.

The chance to rebuild his world rapidly disintegrated in front of him, melting like ice on a summer's day under a blazing tropical sun. The fast track world he sought swept him up and over the edge. These photos, this evidence, neatly gathered the remains of his life and sent it on a headlong course, ultimately crashing on the rocks.

His wife would find the prints humorless. He laughed, quickly realizing it no longer mattered. In the end, good lawyers attending to his faithful wife's needs would assure his poverty, providing closure to the failed marriage. Kearns’ chance of beginning anew ended before it really started.

He stared sullenly at the face of the man looking silently back from the glossy color print. No smile crossed his face now.  Memories of pleasures shared with his libidinous paramour faded rapidly.  The weight of his actions struck him full force, collapsing in on him. Kearns felt his heart pounding in his chest, threatening to explode from the vice-like pressure. Caught in a deepening, downward spiral of disgrace, no other choice remained. Carefully replacing the contents, he set the envelope upon the polished surface of his desk. Around the room, pictures hung in tribute to the world of David Kearns. Images unable to speak, memories. In each his smiling face gazed back, mocking, chastising him. Silence pressed the room, broken only by the grating squeak of Kearns’ Italian leather loafers. Momentary impressions of his footprints on the carpet faded as he walked stoically to the door, turning the brass lock.

Without thinking, he walked to the windows blankly staring out on Bellingham Bay one last time. The new day's sunlight glistened across the rippling waters giving it the effect of millions of flashing strobes. 

Blinding brilliance.

A thunderous explosion resonated in a rapid crescendo and ebbed as quickly.  His heart stopped as the .45 caliber bullet tore into the upper chambers and aorta. The bullet's impact flung him backwards. It took a moment before his brain registered the deed, not yet totally deprived of oxygen. Reflexive reactions sent his left arm flailing across the desk. His mind ordered him to stand. One last command, his body could not fulfill. The pistol slipped from between now lifeless fingers. David Kearns fell from the chair rolling onto his back, eyes distantly unfocused. A crimson stain flooded the stiffly starched, white shirt forming a pool beneath the corpse. Another pawn in the game sacrificed for an ultimate end the world would come to know.

Scattered across the floor, the compromising photos were strewn in disarray offering a collage of images.  Lying next to him, a picture taken from a hidden lens above the bed showed his head thrown back in a moment of ecstasy and a distinctive birthmark on his right shoulder.  From underneath him, expressionless eyes of the well-paid woman who stole his life, stared back, unemotionally.

*     *     *

The time had come. From the remote location, the mainframe received the command it waited for so patiently. Only milliseconds elapsed before the machine sent out its signal passing it on to a hidden tracking antenna. Automatically, the antenna maneuvered into the proper position. In a staccato burst, the uplink passed the information through the upper atmosphere and on into space. On board, the signal recognition equipment decoded the transmission. Once complete, the signal rerouted itself through another processor checking the encoded message.

Confirmed.

It sent out the reply immediately, bringing to life the others like it. With the command received, the ultimate work of several unknowing companies, and many long dead individuals, came to fruition.

The final act could now take shape spreading the cataclysmic effects equally across the globe. Mindless machines displaying no regard for mankind would begin to function exactly as programmed. Until now, what citizens of the world beheld, palled in comparison of the coming events.

Chapter Forty-One

Wrangell Mountains, Alaska

A cold wind whipped around the members of the six-person research team. Bright orange thermal suits insulated their bodies against the below freezing conditions. Protected from the dangers of frostbite, their faces peered out from behind the canopies of heated facemasks.

Moving cautiously along a path through the mountainous terrain, the snowmobiles followed single file until a wide expanse of relatively flat land opened up before them. Satellite tracking of their position kept the NESSA team on a steady course back to their home base. Winter's fury, alive and in full force, buffeted the snow laden pass through the Wrangell Mountains.

If another two hours had passed, they might have missed it completely due to the incredible amount of falling snow.  A warning light flashed on the console of Hank Tompkins' snowmobile.  Ground scan radar indicated something of a metallic origin littering the ground a half mile from their current position. Tompkins radioed for the group to stop. Five amber colored beams from the snowmobiles jostled into a position around their leader's vehicle.

“What's going on?” Mark Stoddard, the second in command, asked.

“I'm not sure what the heck that is,” Tompkins responded.  “But it wasn't here the last time we passed through this area.” Each member listened to the instructions they were receiving over their headsets. “Mark, I'll take Rachel with me. The rest of you stay put.”

The two vehicles separated form the group with Rachel Barnes following closely behind the seasoned leader.  Recently assigned to this NESSA team, her past jobs did not include cold climates.  Barnes was a quick study, closely following the moves of Hank Tompkins to make it seem as if she were a veteran.

The whining engines growled as they pushed the vehicles over the frozen ground. Tompkins stuck to the course that the onboard computer chose, finally stopping in front of the unnatural shape rising several feet above their heads. They left the snowmobiles idle while together they explored the area around the strange object. Even with the aide of the two vehicle's lights, the object remained indistinguishable in the fierce snowfall.

“Any ideas, Hank?” Rachel asked, hurrying to keep pace with the group leader.

“I've been up here plenty of times. Never seen anything like this before,” Tompkins shot out between breaths.  The deepening snows made the walking difficult, their feet crunching through the icy layer underneath the freshly fallen snow.

Both people approached the irregular shape now almost totally concealed by the howling storm's effects.  Rachel brushed away a thick layer of snow, finding a metallic surface.  Together they scraped away another layer of ice and snow revealing more of the man-made material, finally uncovering enough to realize what they were seeing. Part of a wing section of a downed aircraft stood upright in the snow bank.

“Looks like we found a crash site,” Tompkins said, alerting the team. “Mark, I'm running a GPS now so we can get somebody in here to check this out when the weather's better.”  Hank Tompkins pressed the keys of the small hand held device marking the location for future reference.

“You want me to start a quick sweep of the area, Hank?” Barnes asked.

“You got it.  Inward sweep of the circle, routine grid matrix. Take the northeast grid. I'll start the rest of the group on their patterns when they get here. With six people searching it shouldn't take too long.”

“On my way, Hank.”  Barnes revved up the engine of the snowmobile, the machine speeding off in the direction of her assigned search area.

The NESSA team uncovered more of the plane's wreckage scattered about. Inexplicably, no identification markings or numbers were discovered on any sections of the plane. Upon finding the charred remnants, Tompkins held little doubt that anyone survived the inferno that scorched the interior of the cockpit. Only a few bone fragments existed in mute testimony of the ill-fated craft’s pilots.

Each member continued the assigned search patterns. Rachel Barnes maneuvered her vehicle across the snow packed landscape struggling to see. She began her search after riding a distance of a quarter of a mile from her previous position. The grid consisted of working her way inward toward the center of a circle all the team would eventually complete. Moving along an imaginary line, Barnes continued to close the grid with each sweep of her search section.

Well into her fourth pass, she found more of the aluminum framework. She pulled up to the crash site and unhooked the thermal suit from the snowmobile’s console. Barnes cut the engine, the sound of the howling wind intensifying. Carefully, she trekked around the crash site, unsure of what to expect. On closer inspection, she realized her discovery. The crumpled shell of the craft’s tail lay before her.

Barnes saw it out of the corner of her eye, nearly missing it in the waning afternoon light. Only a second glance clued her in to what it was. The grizzly remains of a frozen corpse lay partially buried in the snow. Her pulse quickened at the sight of the dark lifeless orbs staring at her, unseeing. Somehow this man probably survived the crash, only to die soon afterwards. Rachel asked a silent prayer for this stranger, realizing the man must have suffered an agonizing death. She hoped his end was not long in coming.

It took all her strength, but she managed to pull the lifeless form away from the twisted wreckage. It was then she noticed a metallic gold disc frozen to the palm of his hand. She carefully pried it from the icy flesh. A quick search of the body revealed another disc, this one broken. Rachel placed her cache in a zippered pocket and radioed the rest of the team.

The NESSA members stared at the body, each wrestling with the question of why this man’s life ended so violently. Rachel pulled Hank aside, advising him of her discovery. The man’s remains had been loaded and readied for transport by the time she finished.

Two and a half hours later, the six man team arrived back at the base camp. The thermal suits worked well, but after nine hours in sub-freezing temperatures, each person looked forward to a hot shower. Zipping up the fleece lined jumpsuit, the woman went in search of a warm meal, finally shaking off the cold's lingering effects.

“Hank, mind if I come in?” Rachel Barnes asked, standing in the doorway of Tompkins' room after dinner.

“Sure. Make yourself at home,” he offered.  Tompkins sat bent over the computer balanced on his lap, carefully studying the oddity before him.

Dim lighting in the room made Barnes move in for a closer inspection. “What you got?” she asked inquisitively.  A display of random numbers and geometrical shapes filled the computer's screen.

“That's what I'd like to know,” the team leader stated, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “Might as well be hieroglyphics. Someone went to a lot of trouble to come up with this. I can't make heads or tales of it. I repaired the other disc well enough to obtain some of the information.” Tompkins pulled the gold disc from his laptop and inserted the other one.

“Looks like some kind of list,” Rachel said, squinting at the small font.

“Unfortunately because of the damage, most of the information’s missing. From what I see, it doesn't provide any clues as to this person's identity,” Tompkins remarked. 

“Mind if I take a peek?” Barnes inquired.

Tompkins passed the laptop over to her and she scrolled through the different sections of the disc.  Much of the data had been wiped out. She found what appeared to be a roster although no names were on it. A small portion of a schematic diagram gave no hint as to its location or purpose. Barnes shook her head in exasperation, unable to find any clues.

“There's nothing more I can do with these,” Tompkins finally said, getting up from the chair.  A kettle of green tea simmered on a warming plate, steeping. He picked it up holding it out at her, “Care for any?”

“Sounds good, thanks.”

“I'm sending the discs along with the body on the chopper tomorrow morning. Maybe they'll have a better idea of what this is all about in Seattle,” he said, passing off a cup of the steaming liquid.

Barnes frowned. “It doesn't make any sense. The whole thing’s weird, Hank. There's a downed aircraft with no identification markings, no reports of a crash in this area by anyone, and I find a dead man with this disc in his hand. I don't get it,” Rachel said, blowing out a long sigh.

“Maybe we're not supposed to get it,” Tompkins remarked, looking up at the newest member of his NESSA team.  “What if this disc wasn't meant to be found?”

Rachel sipped her hot tea carefully, contemplating his words.  “Are you saying that plane crash was no accident?”

“Just a thought,” he muttered. “Anyway, the body's been bagged and tagged. Once they get that poor bastard onboard that chopper, it's someone else's problem.”

The helicopter kicked up a swirling white cloud of icy particles and snow from its rotor wash, almost obliterating the landing site. Below, the NESSA remote scientific station faded from view.  The flight to Juneau took about two hours. Upon arrival, the body was sent to the morgue, and the process of identifying the victim began.  The dead man's only possessions, two gold nano discs, were sent on an outgoing shuttle to Seattle.

Chapter Forty-Two

Washington, D.C.

Positive identification of the body had taken more than the usual amount of time. Routine searches turned up nothing. Not until military files were checked did the answer reveal itself. Discovery of the remains caused a stir in the inner circles of Washington D.C.  A man, long written off by the Pentagon as presumed dead, now surfaced a decade after his mysterious disappearance. A multitude of questions arose as to his whereabouts. What had Lawrence Alberts been doing for the past decade? That question gave a number of people in Arlington, Virginia something to worry about.

The best minds in military intelligence, the FBI, and the CIA were put to the task of resolving that question. Each agency developed their own agenda and means for investigating the possibilities, actively pursuing any open avenue.

Twenty-eight  hours after discovering the body of Dr. Lawrence Alberts, General Arnold Maddox lifted the receiver of the telephone asking for the President of the United States.

A full head of gray-flecked hair rested above the hands holding up the forehead of President Richard Simon. The former senator, now holder of the country's highest office, had no idea of the former joint military black project above the Arctic Circle.  Twelve minutes into the conversation with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff corrected that. Richard Simon's usually ebullient face gathered into a wrinkled frown of concern. He tugged aggressively at the knot of red silken material encircling his neck, interjecting questions as needed.

President Simon listened, amazed at the military's covert abilities. Pinching the bridge of his nose, and squinting at the pain forming above his brow, he spoke again.  “It's now one thirty.  General, I want you to gather up anyone with any information about this and make sure their butt is here by four p.m. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Maddox returned sharply.

Simon turned off the speaker, gazing in the direction of his national security advisor, Benjamin Wolcott.  The look tossed back at him did not go unnoticed. A full head of thick blonde hair wrapped itself around his face in a tousled manner.  On anyone else it would have looked unkempt. On Wolcott it only added to his good looks.  Forty-seven, and already fifteen years of his life had been spent in the political arena. A graduate of West Point, he resigned his commission after eight years. Two years later he won a seat in the house, elected decidedly over the incumbent representative. A doctoral degree in international relations along with a military career behind him fueled the possibility he might be in line for the presidency at some point in the future.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Simon rose from his desk, moving to the window.  He stared from behind bulletproof glass into the city streets. Once stiffly starched, the pale blue dress shirt clung to him like a wrinkled skin. Framed by the window's light the silhouette finally spoke. “Ben, call in all the appropriate people. Make sure everyone is here for this.”

“I'll get started on it right away, Mr. President.”  Wolcott pushed up out of the chair heading for the door of the office.

“Oh, one more thing, Ben. Is Sumner still in town?”

“No, sir.  I believe he left early this morning.”

Simon uttered a curse and turned back to face his advisor. “When's he due back in Seattle?”

“If he's not back yet, should be anytime.”

“Good. Get a message to him about the meeting. Since his people found this, I want him in from the beginning.”

Wolcott hurried from the room leaving the president alone with his thoughts. Simon wondered how a man missing for ten years and now officially dead would impact his life.  If Maddox's explanation of the black project was any indication, the possibilities offered some very grave consequences.

Chapter Forty-Three

NESSA - Seattle, Washington

Randall Sumner sat alone in his office above the Seattle streets. NESSA’s director had arrived only twenty minutes prior to the presidential message. He checked the time, impatient for the meeting to begin. A secure video link allowed the director to actively participate in the briefing called for by Richard Simon.

In a below ground command center of the executive mansion, at sixteen hundred Pennsylvania Avenue, the players gathered.  A wide variety of the capital's top figures filled the room, enlivening it with conjecture as to the meeting's intent. Members of several intelligence agencies, military personnel, key senators, top advisors, and the president himself prepared to listen to the facts regarding the ill-fated H.A.A.R.P. project.

General Maddox began the presentation. After a brief explanation of why they were all summoned, slides of the Alaskan terrain surrounding the project site came into view.  Maddox fine tuned the focus control and continued with images of the command center and the entire project site. Twenty-eight minutes later he concluded by saying that what they all just witnessed was what greeted the inspection team on their arrival. He and Admiral Sizemore were on that team ten years ago.

Except for the President, Wolcott, and the Joint Chiefs, most of the people in the room knew nothing of the project up until that moment. Looks of astonishment filled their faces. At first no one spoke and then the room erupted into a flurry of conversations between the participants.

Walter Mowry, walking ramrod straight, marched forward to the podium to field questions. The Marine general looked every bit the tough leatherneck. Recently appointed to the Joint Chiefs, the handsome face carried the reminder of war's wicked ways. A nasty scar ran the length of his left cheek from a piece of shrapnel, courtesy of an Iraqi missile. Blinking away the brightness from the projector's light, his blue eyes strafed the meeting's members. “Any question?”

The room bristled with tension, alive with heated debate. Sumner watched quietly the events passing on the screen, chewing on the information. He sat silent until called upon by the president, briefly describing the events leading up to the discovery of the professor's body.

Whispered rumors of the black project had arisen from time to time during his career, but no concrete evidence ever surfaced.  There were those living on the fringes that lectured and even wrote about its detrimental effects.  They came with labels attached: kooks, weirdoes, and crackpots. Their accusations never made it into mainstream America, dying a swift death when the media was instructed to leave it alone. Had the byline been picked up, the usual disclaimers from the government would have surfaced. Deniability and obfuscation were the keys.

They clamped the lid down tight on the H.A.A.R.P., Sumner thought. Explanations of the clever lie presented to Alberts' wife about her husband's death must have satisfied her.  Aside from the usual rhetoric of national security, the fabricated story sounded as if it were scripted in Hollywood. Lawrence Alberts, the only mind capable of perfecting the H.A.A.R.P., became its weakest link.  No other personnel at the project had family ties. The government took a chance with odds in its favor, but the house lost.  The group's decision was not to inform Alberts’ wife. She should be spared the pain. And the government would not have to answer questions it had no answers for.

Benjamin Wolcott finally informed the group the meeting would adjourn. The president's schedule precluded further discussion. Notification of the next meeting regarding the project would come at a later time. Sounds of rifling paper and conversations soon faded from the room.

President Simon pulled the glasses from his face tracing a path through the stubble of whiskers. “Well, Randall,” he groaned.  “Your team found him. Got any ideas?”

Sumner's face filled the video screen. “I'm afraid not, sir,” the director remarked, shaking his head. “Not at this point anyway.”

“Somehow, I knew that's what you'd say.  I don't need to tell you, potential is very high on this one. We need answers, Randy.  And we need them soon. If you come up with anything, get it to me fast.”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

Sumner's video connection to the subterranean chamber faded, replaced by a silent black screen. He picked up the pad and reviewed the notes he made from the meeting. Sumner came up blank each time he crossed another avenue searching for an explanation.

The director asked Marion Turner to come into his office.  She sat down and began typing the numerous requests Sumner spit out onto a small hand held computer.  When he finished, she peered over the frames of her glasses without speaking, waiting for him to continue.

“Marion, set a meeting for 0900 tomorrow morning with the assistant directors.” Sumner picked up a pen and made an entry on his calendar.  “Notify Jeff Carson about the meeting.  Tell him I want a presentation on the H.A.A.R.P. project.  Make sure he receives the material sent from Washington.  I need him to provide an overview of how the project was supposed to work.”

“Got it, sir.  Anything else?” the woman remarked, keyed in to Sumner's serious tone.

“As a matter of fact, ask Canton to be here too. Oh, one other thing, Marion. Do you know if McGann’s still here, or did he head back to Billings?”

Turner looked back over her shoulder.  “No, I saw him in Canton's office a short time ago,” her southern accent pouring out.

“Good. Make sure he gets the message. I want him here, too.”

“I'll call them right now.”

“Thanks, Marion.”

Quietly, she left his office, closing the door behind her.

Chapter Forty-Four

NESSA Headquarters

Dr. Carl Steitzer took a seat next to his long time friend, Noel Johnson. Steitzer long ago overlooked the wrinkled clothes, and scruffy appearance of his colleague, choosing instead to relish the intellect the man possessed. Johnson held a doctorate in fluvial geomorphology.  His knowledge of volcanic activity made him a much sought after speaker.  The man seated next to him was not unknown in scientific circles either.  His published material on marine bio-physiology was well respected among his peers. However, Steitzer and Johnson were opposites in appearance. Impeccably dressed, the blue pinpoint collared shirt and bird's eye patterned silk suit, highlighted with a red silk bowtie, gave Steitzer the appearance of having stepped out of the pages of a men's fashion magazine.

The two men fell into a relaxed conversation, arriving several minutes before the others. Scott Freeman walked in, nodding to the two men. A quiet man, his dual doctoral degrees in biophysics and climatology spoke volumes of his educational background. He took off the chocolate brown tweed jacket uncovering a blue chambray shirt. Horn-rimmed round spectacles sat atop his nose. His neatly trimmed gray beard added to his relaxed style. Freeman looked every bit the owner of a New England inn.

Canton and McGann followed closely on his heels, taking seats across the table from Johnson and Steitzer.  Dr. Kate Harper flew into the room, tossing her briefcase down in front of her.  Dressed conservatively in an expensive blue pinstripe suit and white blouse, the lady still cut an attractive figure. A renowned expert in geological sciences, the woman might just as easily have come from a business meeting in the middle of Manhattan. She pulled back her brown hair into a bun and prepared for the meeting.

Marion Turner entered with Jeff Carson, who seemed unsure of exactly where to sit. The slightly built man with deep squinting eyes had been given the task of researching the dead scientist's project. Although most people rarely gave him a second glance, Sumner recruited Carson for the job at NESSA, well aware of the man's intellect. Turner helped Carson with his indecision, pointing to the seat next to Bryson McGann. Carson tugged at his lab coat and hung it over the back of his chair before sitting down.

Sumner arrived a few minutes late apologizing for his tardiness. An unexpected phone call had diverted his attention. “There's a couple of minor things on the agenda this morning that need attention before tackling the main topic, ladies and gentlemen. Let's get started.”

Following brief discussions and clarifications of a number of issues, these few mundane items were dealt with and resolved quickly.  Kate Harper brought up the problems of the developing project in the southwestern Pacific. More than a handful of reasons existed for the project falling behind schedule. Suggestions were made and she indicated she would pass them down the line to the appropriate individuals.

The first half hour passed rapidly, with McGann declining a second cup of coffee that Carson offered to pour.  Canton shifted in his seat while Noel Johnson finished his report.

“Good,” Sumner stated. “Aside from routine reports there's a matter of greater urgency, the reason for this morning's meeting.  I'll get right to the point. A NESSA remote team in the Wrangell Mountains of Alaska happened unwittingly upon the crash site of a jet aircraft. A search of the wreckage indicated the plane had no markings. This in itself is an oddity.  What makes the story more intriguing is the discovery of the body of Dr. Lawrence Alberts.”

Sitting around the table, members of the group listened intently, taking notes when needed. McGann shrugged his shoulders in response to Canton's look of uncertainty.  Sumner nodded at Marion Turner and the lights dimmed. Two panels in the wall separated. A dead man materialized before them on the white screen. The smiling face of Lawrence Alberts stared mutely at the group.

“This is a picture taken in late 1997,” Sumner began. “It was the last one until this photograph from the crash site.” A gruesome image of the deceased appeared.

Alberts' broken body lay on its right side in the snow along remnants of the twisted airframe. McGann studied the picture. The dead man's clothing consisted of khaki pants and a short sleeve shirt. “Not exactly the proper attire for arctic weather,” he injected.

The director continued, “You may be wondering what this has to do with us. My answer is I'm not sure.”

Inquisitive faces were already forming questions. Freeman jotted down a brief note and Steitzer opened his mouth to speak but decided to hold the thought until Sumner finished.

“Alberts was involved with a top secret project in Alaska prior to his disappearance.”

Turner pressed a button and several more slides flashed in front of them. The final picture happened to be an aerial shot of the project site including an immense antenna array system. The screen went dark.

“At that time,” Sumner continued, “only a handful of people knew of the joint venture the Army and Navy were collaborating on.”

McGann blurted out the command, “Turn back to that last slide.”

Canton glanced at his friend, curious about the cause of McGann's interruption. As the image of the compound formed again on the screen, Canton's eyes widened.

“Unbelievable. I almost missed it.” McGann blew out a long sigh, sitting back in his chair.

“What is?” Kate Harper interjected.

“We were there,” McGann replied, focusing in on the slide's image.

“Who's we and what were you doing at a Black Project site in Alaska?” Johnson queried.

“TDY.  Supposedly a short term assignment involving special-ops training at Fort Wainwright.” McGann's eyes left the screen and stared at the confused faces around him.

“After we got there the story changed,” Canton remarked. “Bryson and I were told we'd be flying some high level brass out to a project site the next day.  They dumped a pile of information in our laps the morning of the flight. Map. Coordinates. Stuff like that.”

“Are you sure that's the same location?” Sumner asked.

“Positive,” McGann shot back. “We were given that same aerial photo. There's the helipad where we set down. Joe and I were ordered to remain with the chopper and see to the refueling. Problem was, no one was around Seemed strange at the time. But we ended up finishing the job about the time the brass returned.”

“They weren't too happy.  Never said a word the entire trip back,” Canton interjected.

“Once we returned to base, Joe and I were informed the trip never happened. More importantly, we were never there.  Interestingly, two of those men are current members of the Joint Chiefs, General Maddox and Admiral Sizemore.”

A perplexing silence hung in the air until Scott Freeman spoke up. “What exactly was the project's purpose?”

“High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program.  The acronym for the project was H.A.A.R.P.”  Sumner lowered his eyes from the screen, focusing on the group before proceeding. “Its original intent of blocking communications from Russia and China turned into something much more. They found out after the base was up and running, it could detect low-level missile flights over a large area.  It also made over the horizon radar a thing of the past. Speculation was it would replace ULF too.”

“Isn't that the low frequency communication system used by our nuclear subs?” Canton asked.

“Precisely,” Sumner responded.  “If you read the accounts, there were theories it could do almost anything but cook you a steak dinner.”  The comment brought out several smiles from the group members. “Tests were conducted to determine if it could detect underground weapons storage sites, oil and gas reserves, mineral deposits. One report even insinuates the possibility of mind control.”

McGann shifted in his seat, extremely attentive to Sumner's remarks. Bryson committed to memory several details while the director continued with a further explanation.

Carl Stietzer spoke up, “What's the current thinking with the unexplained return of the late Dr. Alberts?  Is there more to this than just the discovery of his body?”

“In answer to your question, Carl, yes. At least that's the theory.”

“Did they provide any information on its intended purpose?” Harper questioned.

“As a matter of fact, they did. The H.A.A.R.P. was the beginning of an elaborate weather control experiment. Actually, the project began a number of years prior to Alberts' arrival.  Most experiments didn't perform as anticipated and military command almost gave up entirely,” Sumner stated.

“So Lawrence Alberts arrives on the scene and things change?” Harper asked.

The director continued, “A little more than a year after taking over the project, he and his team claimed to have solved a major piece of the puzzle. According to the military report, it would have been the breakthrough they had hoped to achieve. A major experiment was scheduled to occur, but never happened.  Everyone mysteriously disappeared.”

“Sir, you're saying all the project's personnel vanished without a trace?” McGann questioned.

“When the inspection team found the complex deserted, military intelligence came in and swept the entire area. Nothing gave any indication as to the whereabouts of the missing personnel. All monitoring and defensive systems functioned normally.  Project personnel simply ceased to be, as if they never existed.” Sumner paused, nodding at his secretary before continuing.

Turner touched a control button.  The next picture revealed the faint outline of four letters on a wall underneath a table.

“This message was found in a supply room. These four letters are the only clue we have that something went terribly wrong that day. Somehow the people responsible for this action missed these letters, LEAR. Later analysis indicated the message was scrawled in human blood.”

Kate Harper drew her features into a puzzled look of concern. “Any determination as to its meaning?”

“No one's sure. It's another part of the mystery.”

“What about overhead satellite flights?” Canton asked.

“Naval Space Command photos revealed nothing except for a freighter fifty miles off the Alaskan coast.  Oddly, the next overhead pass failed to show any trace of the ship.”

“Certainly a bizarre set of circumstances,” Noel Johnson remarked. “Leaves much room for conjecture,” he said, pushing back into the chair.

“Randall, it sounds to me like you're indicating the sudden appearance of Lawrence Alberts may tie in with the global weather crisis,” Freeman broke in.

“There’s a strong possibility to indicate that. It raises a specter of concern at the highest levels in Washington,” the director answered, the gravity of his voice not going unnoticed by the meeting members.

Stroking his white beard, Freeman asked, “How exactly is or was this H.A.A.R.P. supposed to work?”

“That's why Jeff Carson’s with us today.”  Sumner raised a hand inviting Carson to provide the answer to the question.

Carson stepped up to the podium rapidly scanning the video panel. He required only a few seconds to master the controls. He slipped in a disc and the screen filled with a computer-generated view of the earth. Highlighted in the skies above the globe, the ionosphere encircled the planet, wrapping it in a protective hazy, blue bubble.

“I won't bore you with insipid details,” he began, a stuffy nasal quality to his voice. “Suffice it to say, the ionosphere’s a highly charged band of ionized particles or plasma. This plasma is in a constant state of flux rising forty to six hundred miles above our planet.”

The group listened attentively to the explanation. Carson's dissertation provided a further description of the function of this protective layer, before discussing its relationship with the doomed project.

“According to the information provided by Washington, the goal of weather control was clearly in sight. Alberts was on the verge of proving he mastered the H.A.A.R.P.”

Freeman interrupted, “It's no secret the government toyed with this idea long before. As early as the 1950's the concept was thought to be a possibility.  If I recall, a White House advisor eluded to the government's involvement in weather engineering.”

“That's correct, sir,” Carson continued.  “At the beginning of the Viet Nam conflict, the government involved itself in experimentation with several of these radical ideas. Projects Skyfire and Stormfury were DOD attempts at manipulating and controlling weather.  For example, Stormfury dealt with hurricane formations but technology of the day did not allow them to obtain the desired results.”

Sumner lit the tobacco in his pipe sending a cloud of white smoke rising above the table. Kate Harper chewed the end of her pencil fascinated by the information Carson spoke about. The others mulled the ideas being discussed, evaluating potential possibilities while another image played in front of them.

“How exactly does this procedure produce weather changes?” McGann asked.

“First, the instillation of a high powered transmitter and antenna array must be accomplished, as seen in the pictures from the project site. The transmitter must be capable of operating in the high frequency range, which then sends a signal to the antenna array.  In addition, all the necessary monitoring equipment’s required.”

“Wouldn't the actual signal be miniscule in comparison to what the ionosphere is bombarded with on a daily basis by the sun?” Sumner asked.

“Absolutely, sir,” Carson responded.  “However, the concentrated effects could affect the plasma dynamics of the ionosphere enough over a prescribed area to induce changes. The arctic was chosen originally since polar areas are the most unstable.”

“So, Alberts' test, if it had proven successful, would have been the hit that provided the winning run in the ball game,” McGann implied.

“Quite possible. It's thought that Alberts discovered how to zap the upper atmosphere with an electromagnetic beam. This heating up of the ionosphere would cause ions to fall, forming ice crystals which precipitate rain clouds, and the reverse would also be true.” Carson paused to check his notes before moving on. “Modifications in the upper atmosphere could have beneficial effects.  The artificial creation of ozone is an example. Wind pattern changes could easily be manipulated by fabricating a vortex that would act as a focusing device. Virtually any weather event could be precipitated by the H.A.A.R.P.”

“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” Steitzer interrupted, shaking his head in disbelief. “By bending the ionosphere and injecting electromagnetic pulses, the resulting ionization would bring about these changes.”

“Jeff, what you're indicating is that these effects might be focused and directed, basically changed at will?” Canton questioned.

“In theory…yes.”

McGann watched Sumner toying with the lens he held over his pipe. “It's similar to the device the director’s using,” he stated, his tone even.

All focused on the mirrored lens the NESSA director used to rekindle the tobacco.

“The H.A.A.R.P. bends the ionosphere into a concave shape above a given area. That energy is focused onto a spot below, in effect creating the changes.”

Carson shook his head approvingly, affirming McGann's simplistic, although relatively accurate, model of the workings of the project. Jeff Carson finished up his presentation still leaving many questions unanswered as he left the conference room.

Noel Johnson questioned Sumner, “What's the official word from D.C.?”

“Lawrence Alberts' unexplained departure from the project site was a well rehearsed kidnapping. By whom, we don't know.”

“Could he have defected?” Steitzer asked.

“Not likely, given his wife and child were left behind.  From all reports they were a close knit family.”

“And the others?” Harper mumbled.

“Presumed dead.” Sumner revealed the contents of the padded case lying on the table in front of him. “It's thought Alberts was attempting to escape. These were found on his body.  The NESSA team who found him made the best repairs possible but the one disc was pretty well damaged. Most of the information is lost.”

After slipping the disc into the control panel, the screen filled with equipment lists, desalinization procedures, and an incomplete personnel roster.  Partial schematics of a structure of some kind were of little value. Also, poor quality images of the professor when he was still alive played briefly.

The second disc, while intact, became even more of a perplexing riddle to the onlookers. A random selection of numbers, letters, and a jumble of geometrical shapes took form. McGann's eyes wandered over the seemingly incoherent pattern.

Raising an eyebrow, Freeman asked, “What the hell is this?”

“Good question,” Sumner responded. “No one's figured it out yet.”

“A code,” McGann spit out.

They all looked at him for more, their curiosity aroused.

“Will you scan through the entire disc, sir?” The uncanny contents moved slowly across the screen. “Good. Stop. Now go back to the beginning.”

“What is it that we're supposed to see?” Harper asked.

“Spatial pattern changes. Basically looking for order in what seems to be illogical patterns.” McGann took the laser pointer, tracing over L shaped patterns. “The chain repeats itself every fourth line and the geometrical shapes are inverted. The numbers within the inverted L are the cube roots of the numbers within the upright L shapes.”

“He's right,” Noel Johnson announced, his mouth rounding in astonishment.

“That still doesn't tell us anything,” Harper shot back, her tone clipped. Annoyed with herself for not spotting the pattern, she tapped her pencil in a furious beat on the tabletop.

“Do you mind if I borrow this disc? I'd like a shot at it.”

Sumner weighed the idea carefully, pondering its merit.  “Alright, McGann. Let me know if you find anything more.”

“Is there anything else?” the NESSA director asked.  “As soon as I have more information, I'll let you know.”

Ragged threads of the unanswered mystery left too many loose ends. Unexplained questions would remain merely that, unless someone came up with answers. The implication that the destruction ongoing in the world was a direct result of a government project loomed in front of the NESSA members.  A heavy drape cloaked each person's mind with speculation and concern for the world's future.

Chapter Forty-Five

Seattle, Washington

Bryson McGann wheeled the black Hummer into the drive, cutting the engine. He spent the rest of the afternoon working on a solution for the baffling mystery left by the professor.  On the screen of his computer, L shaped patterns emerged in horizontal and vertical positions throughout the remainder of the coded text.

Hours passed before McGann took a break. He arched his shoulders hoping to relieve the ache in the stiffening muscles.  Rubbing bleary eyes, the question of the disc's purpose haunted him. McGann wanted to know what secrets it possessed. So far nothing different presented itself. Somewhere long past midnight, he crawled into bed exhausted from the hours spent attempting to decipher the code.

The hot spray of the shower awakened him fully.  Long strokes of the razor erased the previous day's stubble when the idea struck him. He threw on a pair of faded jeans and a worn Mote Marine laboratory sweatshirt, continuing the previous day's work. McGann stroked the keypads, now possibly closer to answering the perplexing riddle. His ideas were just that unless he could prove his theory.

He paid little attention to the phone's interruption until the seventh ring, finally answering. Canton's voice filled the speaker, “It's T.C. You there?”

“Yeah,” McGann replied, not turning on the video link.

“Sumner needs the disc. A lot of people have developed a sudden interest in it. He appreciates your efforts, but the FBI is pressing.”

“Where are you, T.C.?” Bryson asked, still focused on his task.

“On my way to the office.  I picked up a delivery from Billings. I'm about ten minutes away.”

“Okay,” McGann stated.  “See you when you get here.”

McGann wasted no time inserting a nano disc into his computer.  He set the command to download the information from the original. Bryson hoped he had enough time, but would not let that deter him. If Alberts went to the trouble to invent such an elaborate code, there was no telling what roadblocks the downloading process might pass along. Minutes ticked by, the slow process continued.  He did not want to involved T.C., not at this point.  If he was wrong, it made no difference. If he were right about his hunch, his lifelong friend would know soon enough.

An onscreen icon flashed a red line indicating the down loading process had been completed. A knock sounded on the door just as Bryson McGann removed the copied disc.

“Bry, it's me,” the voice spoke into the intercom.

“Come on in. Door's open.”

Canton worked his way into the familiar setting, ending up in the doorway of McGann's office.

“You got it, little brother?”

Fishing through his pockets for the leather case holding the gold disc, McGann stared up at the big man. Bryson pushed it into the protective padding and passed it off to his friend.  “It's all yours, or should I say the Bureau's. Did anyone else jump on Sumner for not sending this sooner?”

They walked past the living area out onto the balcony overlooking Lake Washington.  A light breeze greeted them, carrying the scent of the city.

“I guess they tried. He told them the disc had been accidentally misplaced.”

“And they bought it?” McGann winced.

“No. But they didn't have much choice.”

McGann smiled. “Maybe they'll find the key to unlock the good professor's labyrinth.” The two men's eyes locked, neither speaking, silence filling the void.

“Is there something you're not telling me?” Canton asked.

“Not at the moment. I promise you'll be the first to know.” A hint in McGann's voice alerted his friend. He turned and walked back inside with Canton close behind.

“I know that look, Bry,” a worried expression forming on the big man's face.

McGann stood quietly.  “I'm keeping the original disc.”

“Look, if you got something,” urgency filling his words.

Bryson cut him off before he took the conversation further.  “You're number one on the list, T.C.  Leave it for the moment.”

“That's what I was afraid of,” Canton replied, shutting the door.

Bryson McGann dropped onto the chair.  The countdown just began and his time was limited. If what he suspected was the case, only Alberts' disc could unlock the door.  A copy would be useless. Once discovery of the forgery occurred, it might cost him his job at NESSA, maybe more.

He learned over the years to trust his instincts. He listened to his gut. Satisfied he did the right thing, McGann flipped on the computer.  If his instincts were correct, Canton would know soon enough. No doubts lingered about his friend's loyalty, but the void they might be cast into could offer no return.

Chapter Forty-Six

Dalghren, Virginia

Kelly Wardin could not put the unexplained occurrence with VST's satellites to rest. The events from three weeks ago replayed over and over, a spooled video constantly repeating itself, always delivering the same eidetic image. Each bit of detail she chewed vigorously, spitting out the same conclusion. The rest of her day wormed its way along at a lethargic pace, while the clock's hands moved only grudgingly.  By the end of her duty shift, the sinews in her neck twisted into ever tightening coils, burning like a rampaging inferno. The over the counter pain killers she swallowed did little to stem the torment.

She flew from the office in a blur of speed at the end of her day, not taking time to speak with anyone. Frustrated by the caravan of vehicles leaving the base, she cursed under her breath. Today it seemed everyone waited for her departure, intentionally slowing her progress.

The door shut out the world behind her. She tossed her clothes in all directions, walking through the sparsely furnished apartment, intent in her action. Stinging spray from the hot shower pelted her lithe body, and finally, her knotted muscles relinquished their tenacious grip. Kelly threw on an oversized, chambray shirt and a pair of silk boxers. She found herself gazing in the dim light at the refrigerator's contents, wet hair dripping into small puddles on the floor.  A box of leftover pizza sat alone on the barren shelf. Not exactly a gourmet meal, but it beat anything else. Toweling her damp hair, she grabbed the food and greedily swallowed the first sips of a cold beer.

Her hunger satisfied, she flipped on the laptop sitting on the small table in front of the couch. She booted up and quickly logged onto the net, pulling up any information she could find regarding Vancouver Space Technologies.  A number of listings jumped back at her.  She spent close to three hours washing over highlights of each entry, closing them when they appeared to be a dead end. Nothing aroused her curiosity in the material so far.

She fell back against the couch frustrated. Kelly's mouth opened in a tired yawn, her arms fanning like the tail of a peacock. Ideas crept into her mind and were quickly discarded. Every step turned into a roadblock. Unsure of what to do next, the thought blind-sided her, amazed she hadn't thought of it before.

Kelly tipped back the remains of the second amber bottle, savoring the last drops. With her legs folded underneath her, she focused on the task ahead. The plan hinged on hacking into one of VST's orbital tracking stations. NAVSPAC relayed messages back and forth with the world's tracking sites everyday and her knowledge of entry codes just might make it a possibility. 

She slipped in easily, a screen of general information blossoming before her.  Working her way down the list, each attempt at delving deeper into VST yielded nothing for her diligent efforts.

When her finger stroked a keypad by mistake, an errant command miscued. Her eyes grew wide, shaking her head in amazement pondering the information filling up her laptop. She scrolled the arrow indicator rapidly down the list, stopping, clicking open desired topics. Screens teeming with data came to life, providing a wealth of material, none of which she could use. Kelly knew it was only a matter of time before the system alert identified someone sneaking in the back door. She attempted to put that thought from her mind while the search continued.

Each promising possibility proved useless regarding the missing satellites. Wardin scanned the list, opening and closing topics at a furious pace. From behind smudged lenses, zealous eyes poured over the material. Her futile attempts to gain access infuriated the young woman, spurring her to work faster.

She almost missed it completely, really just stumbled upon it.  The words sat at the bottom of the third page of a report, red, underlined letters spelling out SAT TRAC.  Excitedly, she clicked on the hypertext, instantly revealing data entries, flashing in front of her at amazing speed. Her cursor stopped the process on the inconspicuous small case words, satorbs.

When the section opened, a green outline of earth emerged, unveiling each geosynchronous orbit of VST's satellites.  “Alright, this is it,” Kelly yelled. She scrutinized the configurations of VST's orbiters carefully.  Something seemed wrong. Unsure at first, the realization came to her momentarily.  Kelly typed in orbital altitudes. The answers were incomprehensible. She attempted to down load the file and watched the outer edges of the screen tear itself into tiny pieces. Her awareness of what was taking place sent her fingers to the print command. Very quickly the pieces fell out of other sections of the screen. Holding her breath, she hoped her command to print would follow through. A brightly colored warning flared onto the screen.

Warning: Unauthorized Entry

STOP IMMEDIATELY

Active Trace in Progress

“Come on, come on,” she encouraged the printer without reward. It sat in silence on the table. Kelly hoped the machine would spit out the data so she would have something to show Diaz. Nothing happened and suddenly the computer she connected with terminated its signal automatically, disappointment creasing her face.

Impossible. Current geo-syncs were now over three hundred miles closer to earth. She turned off the laptop and sat in the semi-darkness, the room lit by a waning moon's light knifing through a gap in the drapes. Kelly Wardin paced the small confines of her living room, a caged animal. Perplexed, she marched her way through the options of her next steps. Without a hard copy of the information, who would believe her? Diaz might, but after today he probably wouldn't stick his neck out again. She chewed pensively on the ragged edge of a nail, clipping the end. Farrell? Strike that. No option at all, especially after two other reports during the day indicated everything to be in proper order.  Wardin began to question if what she had seen was real. Exhausted, Kelly threw herself down onto the creaking springs of the worn couch, deciding to process the information objectively.  Each time the same answer haunted her.

A game plan formulated in the back of her head and she decided to run with the ball. With the report typed, she reread the summary of her findings on VST.  It sounded good, but would anyone have an interest? An unsubstantiated report was just that. Her game of cat and mouse with the VST computer ended too quickly to let her retrieve any conclusive evidence other than what she witnessed herself. Perhaps intelligence could stumble upon the doorway she found unwittingly, but if VST played it close to the cuff, they would rectify the problem before another unauthorized entry attempt happened deep within their lair.

Kelly Wardin didn't want Diaz involved.  The military believed strongly in the chain of command. Her efforts to bypass people along the way might make them unhappy.  It might even put her naval career in jeopardy, but she felt the need to report it.  She resigned herself to the facts and was prepared to take the heat, if it came down to that.

Only one option remained.

Renewed by a surge of adrenaline from her decision, Kelly traveled down the only open avenue. Logging back on, she typed in the E-mail address for the National Military Command Center in Arlington, Virginia at the Pentagon.  She raked her lower lip across her front teeth, licking the dryness of anticipation away.  Her finger hesitated momentarily before committing. In a flash she stroked the key.

Done.

Message sent.

Kelly breathed, exhaling the pent up tension nesting inside her. Closing her eyes, she shut out the world. Shadows etched her face from the feeble light of the monitor in the still apartment. Kelly Wardin's life just changed.  A whirlwind of decisions sent her spinning off on another course, one she hoped was for the better.

Chapter Forty-Seven

NAVSPAC

A gray sedan motored across the bridge rising above the waters of the Potomac. From inside the vehicle, he surveyed the course of the river, following the path of a small coastal freighter sailing toward the ocean. Menacing clouds blackened the skies to the south, threatening to pour out their contents.

Captain John Case toyed with the gold bands on his jacket sleeve. Twenty-three years seemed a long time to dedicate to an ideal. Memories washed over him like morning waves on a quiet beach. He opened the satchel pulling out the two-page letter, still unsure of what he had embarked upon.

Somehow the papers had worked their way to his office at the National Military Command Center.  Ordinarily, he never would have seen the communiqué but for reasons he did not understand, it surfaced in a stack of documents needing his signature. He pulled the reading glasses from his pocket in order to review the letter.

Case had been working later than usual the previous night. He considered someone's sense of humor way off base when he first read the email. Crumpling the pages, he tossed them in the trash, quickly forgetting the incident. Captain John Case busied himself with the daily operation of his section and a presentation for a senior command staff meeting in the afternoon. Not until much later did the context of the document hit him full force.

Halfway through Georgetown, Case slammed the breaks and spun the wheel in a tight turn. The vehicle's tires squealed in protest. A glance at the speedometer indicated he was traveling far too fast over the Key Bridge on his way back to the Pentagon. Case hoped he would arrive in time.

Rushing from his car he checked in at the security entrance. The captain hurried down the corridors, stopping at a bank of elevators. His finger found the right button. Within a moment, Case stepped out on the third floor, breaking into a run along the empty corridor.  A perplexed expression grew on the face of an Army major as the Captain rushed passed.

The door to his office stood open, spilling a swath of light into the hallway.  His heart pounded. He burst through the door just as the cleaning woman prepared to empty his wastebasket into the portable shredder.  His ear-splitting command to stop frightened her, and she dropped the basket to the floor.

Quickly apologizing for his actions, Case informed her of a needed paper in the material she almost destroyed. He rifled through the papers until he found the letter, slumping behind his desk into the chair. The woman left muttering under her breath as he told her not to worry about his office.  Case had spoken to no one about it. For the first time in his career, he had been unsure just what his next steps would be.

The armed, white uniformed SP's stood as a menacing deterrent against anyone attempting to pass through the front gate. One approached the car and carefully scrutinized the identification card of the vehicle's passenger, before allowing the captain to pass.  Case returned a quick salute and the sedan pulled forward. He followed the main road past NAVSPAC headquarters before turning left into the designated parking area.

His unexpected visit surprised everyone in the section. Upon seeing the unfamiliar officer, a young seaman croaked out the call to attention. At first no one took notice and suddenly the room sprang to life with sailors jumping to attention.

“As you were,” the officer responded.  “I'm looking for OS2 Wardin. Could someone direct me?”

Several individuals pointed to an office across the room.

Wardin's face hovered above the open drawer, replacing files in alphabetical order.  When Kelly heard the door open she did not bother to turn around. “Roberts, just put that section report on my desk and I'll get back with you later.”  When she got no response, she began again, “Roberts.” Kelly Wardin turned and jumped up from her chair.

The stocky gray-haired officer let her stand at attention, sizing up the sailor in front of him before speaking, “At ease, Wardin.”

Kelly Wardin could not relax.  Tension drew her as tight as a bowstring. Obviously someone read her report and now she had a line officer with a chest full of ribbons, standing in front of her.

“Please, take a seat. I'm Captain John Case,” the calm voice requested, sitting in a chair across the desk from her.

She did not know what lay in store from the unexpected visitor.  Her heart thumped in anticipation. A thousand questions came to mind as she stared at the unfamiliar officer.  Kelly Wardin's mouth turned desert dry.  She licked her lips nervously.

Case smiled, aware of the discomfort the young woman felt. “Miss Wardin, please relax.  I didn't come here to bite your head off,” the soothing voice intoned. “I could've done that over the phone.”

Kelly sighed, an expression of relief forming on her face. The captain's demeanor did not appear hostile. She permitted herself the luxury of finding a more comfortable position and shifted into it.

Case smiled reassuringly before he continued. “I'll get right to the point. Somehow I wound up with a copy of this letter on my desk. Call it fate or whatever you like, it doesn't matter.  When I first read it, I tossed it in the trash. I'm sure the wrinkles and coffee stain obviate that fact,” he said, lifting the papers for her inspection.

OS2 Wardin pushed the frames of her glasses up, nodding in recognition and saying nothing.

“I was on my way home when I decided to rescue this from the shredder.  Your family?” Case mentioned, changing tact.  He picked up the picture sitting on the corner of her desk.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, the first words she spoke since meeting the naval officer.

“Nice looking bunch.” He already knew the answer to his next question but asked anyway, wanting this  young woman to feel more at ease. In fact there was not much about her he did not know before his arrival. “Where's home, Kelly?”

“Minnesota. French River, Minnesota, sir.”

The low-key conversation seemed to be helping. He intended to make her feel comfortable, as if she were with friends or family.  Case noticed her relaxing, subtle changes in posture and the crease between her brows fading. After several minutes of exploring her life and even evoking a laugh from her, he changed course again.

“Kelly.”

She arched her eyebrows at the recognition of her first name. Kelly Wardin knew well what the next step in the process would be.

“I'm disturbed by the implications of this letter.  I've developed a few ideas but I'd like to hear from you. It would give me a better understanding,” his tone cajoling. “Could you explain what happened?”

OS2 Wardin swallowed hard, a lump forming in the back of her throat. Dryness returned and her tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth. She pulled the cap from the bottled water on her desk and took a long draw before beginning the tale.

She weaved her way through the events of her life that day, leaving nothing unaccounted for.  Case pondered over every detail of her incredible story.  He rubbed a finger across his upper lip, touching the space occupied by the recently shaved mustache. He threw questions at her, at times deliberately misleading her.  She never faltered at the switchbacks. His pointed inquiries helped unravel the mystery of the letter that somehow landed in his lap.

Kelly Wardin held nothing back, responding thoroughly to the captain's rigorous interrogation. Her commitment to the belief her facts were sound spurred her onward. Her letter resulted in the consequence of this visit and she resigned herself to her convictions. She only hoped Case would understand and believe as she did.

Nearly two hours passed when the officer abruptly stood. “Wardin, I’m giving you a direct order.  You'll speak to no one about this without further instruction from me. Is that clear?”

“Aye, sir,” came the practiced response from orders.  Hesitantly, Wardin asked, “Do you believe what I told you, sir?”

A faint smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “If I didn't, I wouldn't be here today.  I'm still not sure what this all means. But I can assure you, we're going to get to the bottom of this one way or the other.”

“Do you think that this…”

He cut her off before she could continue. “I won't speculate at this point. However, there are explanations needed.”

Wardin threw up her hand with a snappy salute the officer readily returned before leaving.

Diaz looked up to see a captain walking out the door of his section. He did not recognize the officer but the ribbons on his uniform told him all he needed to know.  The man had been around the Navy.  The SWAPO saluted in recognition of the officer.  The captain returned it without speaking and walked toward his vehicle. Diaz eyed the car until it left the parking lot. He entered the building mumbling, “It's got to be trouble.”

Inside, the section buzzed with talk of the naval officer, how he walked in unannounced, asking for Wardin's office.  Deep grooves formed on OS1 Diaz's forehead before he marched into her office.  If something was going down, he wanted his life jacket on when the waters washed over the decks.

“Hi, chief,” Kelly bubbled out at him.

Her relaxed attitude caught him off guard. “That's it, Wardin? Hi, chief?” Diaz shook his head in disbelief.

“How did your meeting go?” she followed up.

“No, no. I'm not biting. What's going on around this place? I come back to find some captain I've never heard of crawling around my section, talking with you for over two hours, and you ask me about the meeting.”

“His name’s Captain John Case from the NMCC,” Kelly smiled impishly.

Diaz threw his hands up over his head, his jaw dropped. “Cut the crap, Kelly, what gives?  Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No, chief.”

“You know,” the level of Diaz' voice raising, “it's not every day a captain from the Pentagon comes calling. Since this is just a little bit out of the normal routine, I thought you might fill me in.”

Wardin remained silent.  Kelly had ruffled the SWAPO's feathers and she let herself enjoy the moment.

“Are you going to answer me?”

“Nope.”

“Why?” the OS1 demanded.

“I can't.”

“Can't or won't?” Diaz flared.

“Both. I received a direct order from the captain to talk about this with no one.”

Diaz spit out a line of Spanish she did not understand but caught the meaning of very quickly.  Wardin smiled disarmingly at him and asked if there might be anything she could help him with since her paper work needed attention.

The OS1 tossed out another string of unrecognizable syllables before leaving very disgruntled. Kelly Wardin sat back wondering about the change of course her life just took.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Madman’s Lair

The planet trembled with the drama of the worsening weather. Thousands perished around the globe, caught in the gripping saga. Those not starving or dying were losing a battle of their own. The world's financial markets were spiraling downward with the untoward events taking place. Between the weather and financial ruin a long shadow cast a dismal shroud over the planet's inhabitants.

Springtime in the northern hemisphere and all across Europe and Russia unrelenting snows mounted. Over four feet of snow fell in the past seventy-two hours alone. A white coverlet obscured the landscape. The continent lay paralyzed under the intense cold. Food supplies dwindled. Villages in outlying areas already decimated were cut off from supply shipments.  Starvation claimed its share, not discriminating among those it swept up in its deadly clutches. Evidence of the horror lay strewn over the countryside. The dead frozen into grotesque forms rested silently under an albescent blanket with no end in sight.

Thunderous clouds continued to spill their contents over South America and the western Pacific region. Swollen rivers spread out in ever widening flood plains, covering fields and towns in a muddy brown layer of water.  Entire mountainsides gave way from the unrelenting rains, sweeping away people's lives without concern. Those unlucky enough to remain alive faced starvation and disease. Bloated black bodies littered what were once fields and towns, a grim reminder of the evidence of the cataclysmic event unveiling itself.

In those regions where water had become a more valuable commodity than gold or diamonds, too often the sight of bleached bones bore their own testimonial. Human skeletons huddled in what shade they could find, merely existing until the moment death's capture spared them any further atrocity.  For these poor souls, no hope existed. Ozone depletion in the upper atmosphere over these regions only served to enhance the blistering heat of the sun, its golden glow long since evolved into a raging fireball.

Across the Pacific, frequent typhoons skipped along an erratic pathway leaving a destructive wake behind. Violent winds and tidal surges washed over islands annihilating all that stood before them. Once serene settings vanished, replaced by strips of barren sand and uprooted palms.

The oppression inflicted on the world's masses bore its weight on the shoulders of its leaders. They were at a loss to explain the source of the perpetrator for the heinous acts committed on the populace. Governments in a number of third world countries were drenched in chaos. A half a dozen leaders already succumbed to the demands from the screaming hoards. Either shot or tortured to death, the outcome remained the same.

Looting and killing escalated in the quest for survival. Those with the means satisfied their hunger by marching across the countryside leaving behind a trail of death. Anarchy ruled the streets while militant legions bent on their goal of destruction carried on the rampage.

Relief from affluent nations dwindled rapidly.  Reserve supplies were now allocated for their own people. If the course of current events did not alter its path soon, even these countries would be faced with eventual rationing of supplies.

North America suffered least from the wrath of nature's destruction. The eastern seaboard received more than its normal share of rainfall, yet crop failure and raging floods did not seem imminent. Tornadoes of various magnitudes still plagued the Midwest states. Although nothing the size of the Wichita disaster recurred, these storms roared across the flatlands with increasing frequency.  Casting a wary eye skyward, families steeled themselves against the possible fate.

Mild temperatures and only occasional rainfall fell on the northern Pacific coastline. Blue skies prevailed, reversing the normally cloudy Pacific weather.  People there were thankful for not sharing in the problems faced by the rest of the world.

The nightmarish image of the revolving head filled televisions everywhere. No longer on a regimented schedule, the grizzly mask brought fear to millions worldwide. From the deepest depths, Hell's fury unleashed its execration on mankind. Its voice sounded as if it had arisen out of the bowels of blackness. Only a brief message issued from the blood-drenched lips as the face broke into a venous smile, “Weather is an interesting phenomenon.”

No one knew its origin. Many contemplated its meaning. The media still fed the masses their ration of fear daily.  Through it all the watchful eyes delighted in the scenes of destruction and panic. The enormity of the act was not lost on the host of terror.  Its sweet nectar of destruction left a honeyed taste upon the palate of the one responsible. The stage set, the players assembled, the final act awaited the rising curtain. The fate of the world's leaders rested in the grip of wicked talons. Failure to comply with the demands would be their death sentence, only hastening his plans of domination.

Exactly as planned, the world was running amok.

Chapter Forty-Nine

The Pentagon

Captain John Case sat behind closed doors carefully evaluating his previous conversation with Kelly Wardin.  Another review of her 201 File indicated a spotless career.  She had risen quickly to her current rank thanks to a degree in computer sciences. The file included a letter of commendation from a previous commander citing performance well above her peers. The usual background material about her civilian life needed no review.  His conversation with her confirmed the details. Nothing gave any indication she was a crackpot or deranged individual. All medical exams turned up completely normal.

Compelling as it was, her story had more than a few holes. The actual idea of twenty-four satellites disappearing and then suddenly reappearing seemed a tale of science fiction. Yet after speaking with her, he could not shake the idea.  Something in her voice coiled itself around him, not letting go, troubling him.

Case embarked on his own investigation. He phoned several friends eventually posing the hypothetical question of OS2 Wardin's idea.  Of the individuals he spoke with, five perceived it to be impossible. The sixth, a fellow academy graduate, now teaching at MIT, indicated the plausibility of the situation. Case thought Ralph Flynn would have laughed the hardest. Actually intrigued, he willingly offered Case any needed assistance.

He hung up the phone, stymied. The error may have gone completely unnoticed had someone else worked that shift. If he bet the odds this happened due to a computer glitch, his chances of winning were high. The question of whether Kelly Wardin actually found something no one ever thought likely remained.

Restless, Case got up and walked to the window gazing out onto a parking lot at the Pentagon. Rain splattered glass distorted his reflection. Perhaps he should get out like his wife asked him to do. The pension would be good. They could make a new life in the shadows of the western mountains. He could think of worse things.

Case pulled the drawstring shut on the future, letting his daydreams fall to the bottom, saving them for another time. Right now he had a problem, one that ate at him unrelentingly.  Tugging at the foil, he pulled out two antacid tablets hoping to quell the building fire in his stomach.

Decision time.

Case waited impatiently in the admiral's outer office.  A buzz from the secretary's intercom finally signaled that the officer could see him.

“John, come in.” Sizemore waved him in while he finished the phone conversation.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, sir,” Case replied.

Elliot Sizemore had been two classes ahead of Case at the Naval Academy.  The captain did not travel in the same circles as the admiral, and spoke to him infrequently.  He did not relish the upcoming conversation. The topic made the prospect of the meeting even more difficult.

The admiral followed the rules of etiquette, asking about Mrs. Case and giving an open invitation to them for dinner aboard his boat. The ruddy face smiled politely, finally ending the pleasantries, opening the door for Case to begin.

The captain recanted the tale to his superior officer, flinching at the sound of his own story.  “Sir, I feel Wardin's story may have some merit.”

“And you're basing this on the fact of those satellites brief disappearance, substantiated only by a report that failed to show any other discrepancies afterward?” Sizemore drummed his fingers on the desk, the smile no longer there.

“Not just that, sir,” the captain added quickly.  “When Wardin hacked into the VST system, I think she found something important.”

Sizemore leaned forward in his chair, loosening his dark blue tie. “John, I don't see how a company as respectable as VST would attempt to pull off a feat of this nature.  Furthermore, why? Doesn't that strike you rather odd?”

“Exactly what bothers me about this entire event, sir.  There're too many peculiarities.”

The admiral riveted his gaze on the naval officer seated on the other side of his desk. Hashing over current events, Sizemore carefully weighed the outcome of sharing the information with Case. Moments later the admiral made his decision. “Captain Case, what I am about to tell you doesn't leave this room. You have no reason to know this name, but a scientist by the name of Lawrence Alberts was found dead in the Wrangell Mountains.”

A note of uncertainty formed a mask of puzzlement on his face. Case decided to remain quiet, allowing the man a chance to finish his conversation.

Sizemore walked to a bookshelf, eyes roaming over the selection of titles, fingers stroking the bindings, deliberately choosing his words. “The strange thing about his death is that he vanished ten years ago. He directed a team of scientists in a military black project located in a remote region of Alaska.  On the day the site was to become operational, an inspection team arrived at 0700 hours to find the facility completely abandoned. No clues to their whereabouts ever surfaced.” Sizemore turned toward the captain, “I was a member of that inspection team, John.”

“I'm not sure I'm following you, sir.”

The admiral lifted a hand stopping any further questions. “Project H.A.A.R.P.  Its intended purpose was weather control. Alberts worked secretively.  It was a condition of his. Had his attempt been successful that morning, he stood ready to provide the essential elements of how it all worked. After his disappearance, the military conducted an exhaustive search that cost millions. Because no one else had the qualifications to continue the experiment, years passed and eventually Alberts and the H.A.A.R.P. were forgotten.”

“Sir, are you saying his body turning up has something to do with this?” Case asked. “Possibly even with the global weather changes?”

The admiral chewed on his lower lip before responding. “There's a strong probability it may, John,” Sizemore uttered, concerned at hearing the words he just spoke.

Chapter Fifty

New York

Rugg placed the cigarette to his lips, causing the end to burn a fiery red. He found satisfaction in the tobacco's flavor and the sensation of it filling his lungs. He downed the remaining icy vodka, letting it fill his stomach with a warm glow.  A cloud of smoke followed, released into the air.  The phone came to life spoiling the moment, interrupting his solitude with its annoying ring.

“Hello.”

“Willie, darling,” the familiar voice of Niya Adi filled his ear.

“Liebshen, I was just thinking of you.” Rugg flipped on the video screen filling it with her image.

“Wicked thoughts?”

A smile creased his face.  “You know me too well.”

“I'm bored,” Niya pouted. “I miss you.”

“How could that be?” Rugg scoffed.  “Surrounded by all those powerful men.”

“Washington’s a lonely place without you.”

Rugg flattened the remainder of his cigarette. “Niya, my sweet, I miss you, too. Think of the cause. You’ll have top billing at the summit. Finally people will listen to you.”

“Yes.  I've warned the world. People have paid little attention until now,” her voice trailed off.

Rugg followed through in his thickly accented tone, providing encouragement. “The world’s depending on you, Niya. I know you won't disappoint them.” He could read her thoughts, knew just what to say to assuage her concerns.

Niya Adi's gaze poured itself over Rugg, “Willie.  You seem preoccupied. Anything wrong?”

“No. A long day, that's all.  Nothing to worry about. I need some sleep, that's all.”

“Then I won't keep you. Good night, my love.”

Setting aside his need to sleep, Rugg placed another call.

A familiar voice finally answered, “Yes.”

“She's in Washington.  Most of the major players are in place or will be by tomorrow.  The state dinner’s still scheduled for tomorrow and the summit begins the next day.”

A long pause ensued before the metallic voice spoke again.  “Very good. You have done well, my friend.”

It ended that quickly.  Rugg pulled the remaining cigarette from the pack, crumpling the foil package into a wad. He inhaled the smoke sharply, knowing of no drawbacks to the ingenious plan.  Of course his employer did not provide him with the entire story, only a few chapters. Anyway, he was not paid to worry about other details, only do as ordered. Wilhelm Rugg knew well the ambitions of the individual filling the coffers of his bank account.  He doubted the plan could fail.

He would miss Niya Adi.  What began as purely an assignment had developed into much more. Rugg grew fond of the Secretary General, on several occasions even toying with the idea of marriage. He rapidly dismissed the thought, knowing the impossibility of the situation. Her death would see to that.

Rugg packed the briefcase and locked the door behind him. Within a relatively short time, access into an elite world awaited. It would help to ease the memory of her loss. He knew plenty of willing young women would be looking for a free ride in the aftermath of the world crisis. The idea of wealth and young flesh appealed to him, bringing a smile to his lips. He even called out to the security guard to have a pleasant evening. Laughter erupted inside his car as he pulled away from the building.

Chapter Fifty-One

Seattle, Washington

Bryson McGann spent the next several hours in an attempt to decipher the code left behind by Lawrence Alberts.  Compelled by the intrigue, he poured over each detail searching out the L shaped patterns.  He knew somewhere in the mix of symbols an answer existed.

McGann wondered about the man. Extremely intelligent, the military command had kept its eye on him since his college days. His published works were not well known outside the scientific realm. His concepts on manmade ionospheric changes were too radical for most of his peers. Still, the man did have a few staunch followers. Unfortunately, they disappeared along with everyone else from the project site.

Once the tedious task of uncovering all the L shaped symbols had been completed, making sense of them became the next step in the process. He sorted and isolated these from the rest of the text. A jumble of shapes, as if a handful of L's were thrown onto his computer, emerged.

Afternoon passed into evening and still no breakthrough. He sat back thinking of another way to approach the problem and then it struck him. Commanding the computer, it shifted the onscreen positions of the symbols. Pale blue light bathed his features as a growl of hunger arose which he chose to ignore, fascinated at what now emanated on the screen. Keys clicked at a furious pace while his fingers dictated further commands.

“I let myself in,” the voice sounded.

“I heard you,” McGann remarked, not looking up.

“You need a break, Bry.  You look like hell.” Canton held up two large paper bags.  “Chinese?”

“Yeah, why not,” McGann said wearily.

“I figured you'd still be at it. Got anything?” Joseph Canton asked, between bites of the spicy beef.

“Don't know, T.C.  There's a piece to this puzzle that's missing.”

Canton returned from the kitchen with two bottles of amber Pacific Crest beer, handing one off to McGann.  Explaining each twist and turn, McGann shared his ideas. The latest chase brought him closer but still nothing revealed itself.

“Alice and the looking glass,” Canton said idly.

Bryson McGann looked up from his plate, “What?”

“You know she steps through the mirror into another world completely turned around,” Canton chuckled, finishing the food.

McGann's eyes focused on the unseen. He slugged down a long swallow before speaking. “That could be it.”

“What does a kid's story have to do with this?”

“Maybe nothing. Possibly everything. Thanks for the dinner, T.C.,” McGann said, swallowing the last bite. “I'll call you later.”

He searched an on-line library for a quick review of the story by Lewis Carroll. Finding a synopsis, he scanned the print until satisfied. Another piece of the puzzle unraveled before his eyes. Lawrence Alberts' life changed over a decade ago, thrown into an unfamiliar world that eventually brought about his death. In essence he stepped through a mirror where everything was reversed. He poured back over Alberts’ hidden message searching for the answer.

A check of his watch indicated over twelve hours had passed since he first sat down at the terminal. Fatigue enveloped him as he pressed on. Suddenly, he saw it.  A-shaped patterns emerged, presenting themselves. He wondered how he missed them. Yawning, he pulled out all the A shaped symbols and moved them onto the page with the L's.

Morning found him slumped over his desk with the screen unchanged. He stood and stretched, heading for the bathroom. Cold water brought him back to life as he splashed his face. McGann's ragged expression suddenly took on a look of comprehension.

Several more minutes in front of his computer released the information he sought. Thanks to T.C.'s remark, he found the key to unlock the mysterious riddle. McGann stroked the keyboard issuing a string of commands. Immediately a mirror image of the letters took shape. Then they moved into a square on the screen. The letters and numbers began to take on a shape all their own.

The small print formed into a readable document. It gave a brief description of Lawrence Alberts’ capture and life for the past decade. Most of it dealt with the man's work. McGann pushed back from the desk, shocked by the words. Staring wide-eyed at the accomplishments of Alberts' labor, McGann thought any attempt to take over the facility by force would be futile. No explanations were provided but if the H.A.A.R.P. could perform as indicated, it would prove very deadly.

McGann's first reaction was to call Sumner and have him inform Washington.  However, that posed its own set of problems.  Too many questions. Alberts' statement also gave notice that this disc alone was the key in destroying the facility.  Any copies would erase all material on the disc when activated in the destruct sequence. The builder of the H.A.A.R.P. was not making this easy.  If the disc became damaged in any way, it would not function. 

One final thing remained on the very bottom of the last page. A small group of numbers ran together.  McGann realized in a moment what they represented. He pulled up a world map and plugged in the coordinates. Seventy-five, point six degrees, north and ninety-six, point one degrees west. The coordinates of the latitude and longitude pointed to an island in the Arctic Ocean, the place Lawrence Alberts escaped.

McGann weighed the options. If the disc went to Washington, they might take too long to formulate a viable plan for the H.A.A.R.P.'s destruction. A ground assault would be futile.  The men would be slaughtered. Nothing but a nuclear blast could destroy the harbinger of the world's troubles.

He made a decision and it meant involving T.C.  If he didn't act, a grim outcome awaited the world. There was no turning back now. Time was running out.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Washington, D.C.

The massive stationary weather front grew unexpectedly over the Mid-Atlantic region. Vast sheets of rain fell, overflowing already swollen rivers. A low-pressure system concentrated its full force around the nation's capital. Blackened skies reverberated with a thunderous attack while flashes of lightning coursed erratically through the heavens.

Washington made preparations for the summit meeting.  The British prime minister and Egyptian president were the last leaders to arrive shortly before the airport closed due to weather conditions. Their less than comfortable descent through the clouds left them shaken but thankful to be walking through the VIP security point at Andrews Air Force base. All outgoing flights were canceled and all other incoming ones rerouted. Every airport within a one hundred and fifty mile radius shut down.

Major land routes were clogged due to accidents along flooded roadways. Daily life in and around the D.C. area had ground slowly to a standstill. The National Weather Service painted a dismal picture for the next several days due to the stalled system. Residents were warned to seek shelter if they lived in low-lying areas.

The airways were filled with the faces of familiar reporters belaboring the details of the upcoming meeting. Given the topic of the summit, the irony of the current conditions did not go unnoticed. Members of the press and television journalists swarmed through the town seeking interviews with the heads of state.

Across the Potomac, Admiral Sizemore and Captain John Case recanted the details of their conversation to chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Arnold Maddox.  Lines of concern burrowed their way over the general's face. A head of white hair lent an air of authority to his figure and also made him seem older than his sixty-three years.

“Gentlemen, what you're telling me is unsubstantiated, correct?” Maddox's Carolinian accent drawled.

“Yes, sir,” Case replied.

Maddox digested the details, eyeing his two aides for their reaction. General Davis nodded slightly, raising an eyebrow.  Colonel Timms gave no indication, his silence Maddox knew to be his answer.  He ground the pencil point into the desk blotter before he spoke. “Any other time I'd dismiss this without a second thought. In light of current circumstances, if there’s even a shred of truth, it needs investigation. The security potential on this one is extremely high.”

“What's next, Arnold?” Sizemore asked.

“This will entail some delicate questioning. The Canadian government may not take favorably to our implications of one of their industries orchestrating a worldwide debacle.”

Timms walked immediately to the ringing phone.  His usual clipped responses and stringent tone gave no clue as to the nature of the call. He hung up and a fax machine spit out a report that he read to the group. The message was brief. A transmission source for the computer-generated image of the revolving head had been found.  The colonel read the fax detailing how the image had been relayed through numerous ground sites and satellite uplinks. Davis paused, reading the words before delivering them to the rest of the group. “I’ve no doubt you will find me. It does not matter.  Any attempts to stop me will prove deadly.  You cannot change what is about to happen.  My demands will be met.”

“This is now a high priority national security matter,” Maddox ordered. “Elliot, you and I will speak with the president,” his voice flaring. “Nothing leaves this office.”

Case turned at the sound of the general's voice.

“When and if this is all over, Case, we may all owe a debt of gratitude to Kelly Wardin,” the general remarked grimly.

*     *     *

Benjamin Wolcott burst through the door of the president's office followed closely by two members of the Joint Chiefs. General Arnold Maddox and Admiral Elliot Sizemore's demeanor carried an air of distress. Simon thought how they both stood like toy soldiers before him, ramrod straight.

“Gentlemen. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Simon asked in a tired voice. The world's events had left him with far too little sleep.

“We've got it,” Wolcott announced.

“And what’s that, Ben?”

Beaming proudly, he replied, “A transmission source for the image of the head.”

“Sit down, please,” the president commanded, suddenly alert.

Sizemore began a detailed account of the conversation he had a short time ago with Captain John Case. President Simon listened carefully to the facts presented by the admiral. His account seemed to have crept from the pages of a novel. Beyond the fact it was nearly impossible to fathom the tale's reality, the location of the transmission source made it an even more delicate situation.

Simon evaluated the words of the intelligence report carefully before speaking, “So you're telling me that you think whoever’s responsible for the abduction of Lawrence Alberts is also responsible for the current weather.”

“That's our best guess, sir,” Sizemore replied.

“You have nothing more to go on than a guess.  What about that other disc? Has intelligence pulled anything off of that?”

“Still working on it, sir,” the general replied.

Simon rolled his chair from the desk and ran a quick hand across his scalp. His eyes bore into the three men sitting across from him. “This is pretty damn thin ice, gentlemen.”

“There certainly are correlations between his disappearance and the climatic changes of the last ten years,” Wolcott broke in.

“Sir, if I may.  When the H.A.A.R.P. project began, predictions were that it could be used only over a relatively small area. With the advancements in technology and Alberts' knowledge, the possibilities increase dramatically,” Sizemore remarked.

The four men gathered around a map spread across the president's desk. After a moment, Maddox's finger came to rest on the spot of the transmission source. He pulled a number of reconnaissance photos from his briefcase. “These are the latest images of the transmission source site.”

“What are we looking at?” Wolcott inquired.

“An island in the Arctic Ocean.  Actually, it's a mining site, belongs to Artech Industries.”

“Do any of you see anything in these photos that looks like they have the ability to transmit broadcasts, gentlemen? Even in these enhanced shots, I see no evidence. Are you certain about this?” Simon asked.

“A positive ID has been confirmed,” General Maddox responded, his tone less authoritative.

Worldwide terrorism originating from a mining site on Canadian soil, the idea made the president shudder.  Simon whispered a prayer before continuing. “Alright. This doesn't play too well,” he said chewing at the corner of his lip. “You're the military experts.  Off the top of your head, give me the best options for disposal.”

“Assuming we have the Canadian government's approval, we could launch cruise missiles. Trouble is, there's no guarantees.  The island's terrain is extremely mountainous. It could be that nothing short of a nuclear detonation would rectify the situation,” Maddox said. The words struck the men with a force equal to the thunderous cacophony in the sky above the White House.

“There's a major stumbling block to that option,” the admiral cut in. “Meteorological services at the Pentagon indicate a strike in that region would scatter fallout across the entire northern hemisphere due to wind currents,” Sizemore added.

“That's not a great option at this point,” Wolcott fired back.

“Ground assault?” the president questioned. “Couldn't we put a team in there without them knowing about it?”

“Probably.  If they failed it'll raise the stakes. We'd need to be ready for that contingency and be prepared to strike swiftly and effectively at that point,” Maddox stated, not liking the sound of his own words. The gravity of the situation engulfed them.

“Gentlemen, this is what we do. I want a detailed report on each scenario. Best case, worst case. When tonight's dinner is finished, I want everyone here. If we're going to move on this, it better be soon,” Simon ordered.

“General Maddox, please see to it you bring everyone you need.”

“Yes, sir.”  The two officers exited the room leaving Wolcott alone with the chief executive.

“Ben, notify all the players. When you've done that, get McDermott on the line. I'm sure the Canadian prime minister will have something to say about this.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Seattle, Washington

Angry horns sounded amidst the snarl of afternoon traffic clogging Seattle's streets. McGann fought to maintain a sense of calm as his vehicle inched its way along. An accident hampered his progress along the roadway.  Belching steam from its broken radiator, the new Cadillac's mangled bumper hung tenuously from one side of the vehicle. A headlight swung back and forth, dangling on a thin wire.  The delivery truck it smashed into received only minor damage to its already bent bumper and rust flaked paint. McGann grew impatient knowing each minute that ticked by was another that slipped away from the clock of destruction.

Wailing in the distance, a siren made a rapid approach to assist the injured driver of the expensive sedan. McGann caught a break when a policeman waved him through the tangled intersection, moments before the ambulance arrived. Thankful that traffic resumed its normal pace, he weaved expertly between vehicles pushing the limits of safety.  He shot through the downtown streets and hooked a quick left off Pike, covering the remaining three blocks without stopping. Inside a nearly full parking lot, he found a spot.

McGann stepped into the alcove of the tastefully restored older building and scanned a directory.  Finding the information he required, the elevator carried him up to the fifth floor where Arctic Expeditions occupied a suite. The doors parted and his footsteps padded soundlessly in the hallway as he took a right turn. Moments later, McGann found himself standing in front of a set of double glass doors.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?” the attractive receptionist asked the man stepping into the office.

“I'd like to see Steve Barker,” McGann replied, taking in the new digs. Posters of exotic locations depicted incredible skiing adventures available to those willing to take the risk. A collection of photographs lined the walls from previous journeys to the Arctic.  Numerous, well-recognized celebrities had braved the challenge, and Barker captured those moments on film for future potential customers.

“If you'll have a seat, I'll tell him you're here, Mr…?”

“Bryson McGann.”

McGann sifted through a number of brochures, each presenting different ways to explore the arctic from dog sled runs to extreme downhill skiing. If customers were willing to pay the money, Arctic Expeditions was there to see it happen. Treks to this region were unlike any other in the world. Radically harsh conditions often presented themselves and willing adventures had to be up for the challenge. Down the hallway a couple emerged from behind closed doors.  They sifted through a stack of papers, brushing by McGann, eagerly talking about their upcoming vacation.

“Mac. How you doing? It's been a long time,” the man beamed.

Barker's wiry appearance and the husky voice never matched the person, McGann thought, but the firm grip of his friend's calloused hand brought a flood of memories.

“Too long, Steve,” McGann returned.

“Come on back,” Barker said.

McGann followed the adventurer into his office and closed the door. He quickly surveyed a number of pictures of Barker catapulting down some incredibly steep runs. Stark terrain covered in a thick layer of white provided a vivid contrast to the indigo skies above. Plumes of white powder hung motionless behind the expert skier in the framed shots.

“Ready for another trip, Mac? Anytime you and Joe are up to it, I can make some extra room.”

“I had something like that in mind.”

Barker squinted, wincing at the possibility of what came next. “I've seen that look before, Mac. I'm not sure I like it. Usually spells trouble.”

McGann had known this man for over ten years. They had worked together on several special-ops assignments and became good friends. A raid on a Columbian drug cartel factory hidden deep in the jungle had proved a disaster, the result of faulty intelligence.  Half of the team members never came back. Barker found himself injured and pinned under a pile of debris from an explosion as a raging fire ate its way through the building.

Realizing Barker did not make it out with the rest of the group, McGann rushed back into the inferno under a withering hail of bullets. One tugged at his sleeve and another creased the flesh of his right shoulder.  Fortunately, he found Barker alive and pulled him to safety just before the building collapsed around them. Joe Canton's accurate fire took care of the rebel drug dealer searching for another kill.

Barker decided to leave the service after the incident, but still needed a challenge. He built the business from nothing and now ran a highly successful operation. No doubts lingered in McGann's mind regarding the trust of his long time friend.

“I need your help, Steve,” McGann's voice only partially masking the serious nature of his request.

“Anything. I owe you one.”

“You may not like what I have to say.”

“You've always shot from the hip, Mac.  Let's have it.”

Bryson McGann proceeded to inform his friend of the strange occurrences of the recent past, beginning with the discovery of Lawrence Alberts.  Some things he only touched upon, not wanting to divulge too much and have his friend carry the burden of the knowledge.

Barker listened attentively, a disquieting frown growing on his face caused by the words McGann spit out. The story seemed almost beyond belief, yet in the time he had known his friend, he could not remember ever not hearing the truth. The unfolding saga frightened Barker.  If the world's problems were only the beginning of the play, he surely did not want to see “act two.” Before McGann finished, Barker already decided on his course of action. He harbored no reservations about offering any assistance needed to his friend.  Besides, there was not much choice.

McGann concluded with the revelation of deciphering the disc the dead man left behind. The coordinates of the island were close enough to Barker's route of travel to offer a plausible explanation for anyone wanting to question McGann's presence.

“That's a lot of fat to chew, Mac.”

Bryson filled his lungs with a deep breath awaiting his friend's answer.  If Barker could not help him, he understood. Somehow, he would manage to get to the location where Lawrence Alberts had been imprisoned, but the element of time was becoming a deadly enemy.

Barker set his sight on the man's face sitting across the desk from him. “What do you need and how soon?”

“A flight to Baffin Island,” McGann said.

“You must be living right,” Barker laughed, shaking his head. “Actually, I'm taking a charter out tonight.”

“So I heard.”

“Your timing's impeccable, Mac.  Matter of fact, I was just about ready to head out when you showed up.”

McGann ran down a list of items he and Canton would need, a wave of relief spilling over him.

“That's shorter than I thought it'd be.”

“One more thing, Steve.  I need a plane. You still flying those DeHavilland Twin Otters?” McGann questioned.

“Sure thing, nothing better for that part of the world.”

“We'll need one tomorrow and a cover story.  Just in case anyone starts sniffing around…”

Barker waved him off.  “I'll take care of it. Count on it. You two just get your butts out to that plane on time.”

McGann stood, reaching across the desk. The two men's hands locked once more, each knowing the fate of the world rested in one of them.

*     *     *

Dark green lenses shielded his eyes from the glaring sunlight as McGann left the building in search of a pay phone. He purposely decided not to use his own phone for what he was about to do. A block and a half from the building he just left, Bryson found what he needed.

After stepping into the booth, the creaking door shut behind him on rusty hinges. McGann lifted the receiver from the cradle and inserted a wafer thin, plastic card into the phone slot automatically charging the cost to a nonexistent number.  His fingers punched the keys and he waited for the familiar voice to answer.

“APD, Canton.”

“T.C. Got any plans for the weekend?”

A long silence whispered back.  “None that I know of,” the big man returned hesitantly.

“Good. Wrap it up for the day and I'll explain later.  Get some warm gear together.”

“Where're we going?”

“Skiing.”

“Sumner's been riding a hot trail looking for you.”

“You haven't heard from me,” McGann commanded, cutting the connection.

Bryson McGann pulled the compact black device from his pocket. Two wires hung in a long tail as he opened the cover and switched it on. The small box, left over from his military days, had the capability of finding a number anywhere in the world. It did not matter if the line was secure or not. The device's small screen offered a digital readout of the phone number he requested. He shot a quick glance up and down the street and opened the pay phone's side panel, inserting the wires. The few pedestrians walking past seemed unaware of his activities. A quick touch of the controls and the phone's satellite uplink came to life in a series of beeps and high-pitched tones. Once again, he inserted the plastic card. Even if anyone wanted a trace on the call, the card's fictitious owner would be impossible to locate.

Within a moment a female voice answered the call, “Good afternoon. Mr. Durnulqc's office, Veronica Wu speaking.”

“Miss Wu, Bryson McGann.  We spoke briefly at Mr. Durnulqc's party.”

“Yes, I remember,” the feminine voice acknowledged warily.

“I need to speak with Mr. Durnulqc.”

“I'm afraid he's unavailable.”

McGann cut in before she could continue. “An important meeting?”

“Actually, I'm not at liberty to say,” Veronica Wu answered.  She activated an immediate search for the location of the incoming call.

“It’s very important, Miss Wu.”

“I can leave a message,” the secretary replied, her voice edged to a flinty sharpness. “Exactly how were you able to get this private line, Mr. McGann?”

Without answering the question, he went on, “Is Ashlyn Sanders available?”

“No, I'm afraid she's on assignment. I’d be happy to connect you with her voice mail. Are you in town, Mr. McGann?” she inquired coyly, stalling.

Bryson McGann knew full well the intent of Veronica Wu's carefully worded question. It mattered little, the scrambled relays and nonexistent number would see to that. He now possessed the needed information. The persistent secretary attempted another round of questions designed to reveal his location. McGann thanked the woman and hung up.

McGann flung back the glass doors of the booth. Rusted hinges groaned in protest, the sound fading rapidly as he made his way along the sidewalk. Only a couple of hours remained before their scheduled departure. It was time to pick up T.C.

Not long after that, a chartered airplane would carry the two men to their meeting with fate above the Arctic Circle.  In the vast expanse of that frozen land near the top of the world, destiny awaited.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Atlantic Ocean

The lazy waters of the Gulf Stream slipped past the Florida Straits and made its way up the Atlantic seaboard.  Virtually a river of warm water, it turned on an easterly course off the Carolina coast, eventually mixing with the North Atlantic drift.  Placid currents meandered across the ocean providing a warm climate for the British Isles and Western Europe.

Extending out a distance of over four hundred miles, temperatures in the waters off the Cape Hatteras coast had increased at a dramatic rate over the past two weeks. Within a brief period of time, temperatures rivaled that of late summer.  Three hundred miles from the barrier islands of North Carolina, a low-pressure system emerged.  Peaceful skies were replaced with a thick bank of gray clouds. Squall lines pelted ocean-going ships with sheets of rain, most unaware of the brewing maelstrom.

The unseasonably warm waters provided the perfect breeding ground for the man made event. A vortex of super heated air spiraled upwards above the ocean. While the air rose, rains fell, fueling the counter clockwise circulation, further increasing its intensity.  Wind speeds quickly gathered strength and barometric pressures dropped at an alarming rate.

Most agencies compiling data regarding the mysterious changes failed to recognize the serious potential of the problem. In the light of the global dilemma and world summit, not much attention was paid to this phenomenon. The vast majority seemed unconcerned. For many along the coast, braving storms became an accepted way of life. To the locals this seemed no different. Just another spring storm with gusty winds of forty miles per hour, not really much of a concern. Even local news programs dropped the issue when more relevant matters reared up and overshadowed the event.

*     *     *

High above the earth, four satellites bombarded the ionosphere, concentrating their efforts over this particular geographical region.  Each orbiting vehicle shot out a stream of electromagnetic pulses into the upper atmosphere, disrupting the band of energy encircling the planet. Every hour that passed brought further strengthening. In turn, the effects of their atmospheric tampering unleashed the beginnings of a terror the magnitude of which the world had never known.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Novus Island - Arctic Ocean

Two weeks had passed since arriving at her new job. Conditions at the Novus island mining site were profoundly different from those she experienced at the Billings project. Fierce winds and blinding snowstorms were a stark contrast to the waters off the Olympic peninsula. Death almost captured her in its talons once since setting foot in the frozen environment.

Ashlyn Sanders had ventured out on her second work assignment. His duty to watch over her, Tony Perez informed Sanders of the possible dangers in the area they would be working. Engrossed in her work, the red haired scientist almost met her demise when she nearly slipped into an icy crevasse. Only a quick response by Perez saved her from plummeting several hundred feet to her death. The man watched in horror as the rope uncoiled rapidly, coming to its end.  Durnulqc would not be pleased if the woman died. Concerned not only for her life, his own fears spurred him to action.

The Latino planted his crampons deep into the frozen surface and wrapped the line around his shoulders, gripping the rope and bracing for the shock of ending her fall. Her abrupt halt almost launched him headlong into the snow.  His arms strained in protest before managing to stop himself from being pulled to his own death along with the woman. Breathless, Perez struggled with the rope, finally pulling her to safety over the lip of the crevasse. Fortunately, the harness she wore protected her from serious injury, but remnants of the aching soreness still persisted.

Sanders was grateful. Perez thought he found a way into her hard as steel exterior.  The way he figured, a few months in the Arctic might change her attitude about him. His vision of a little recreation with Sanders was something he meant to work on.

True to his word, Durnulqc paid her extremely well.  It was Fletcher Durnulqc's contention that the encompassing area in and around Novus Island, remain in pristine condition. Compulsively, he issued orders on a routine basis, that she would ensure the survival of the ecosystem in the surrounding waters.

Ashlyn took on the role diligently, insuring the wishes of her employer.  Frequent inspections and a myriad of daily testing ranging from evaluating extracted minerals to salinity checks of thermal seawater studies occupied her day.  Artech's state of the art laboratory provided her with the necessary equipment for conducting these tasks. Anything she requested was placed at her disposal.

The phone call she made just prior to leaving Vancouver informed the concerned individuals of her imminent departure. Durnulqc's caginess offered no clues she could provide them as to her destination.  He waved off many of the specifics when questioned.  She dared not push too hard. Durnulqc asked her with a wan smile, since she had no family, did it really matter where her assignment was.

They had told her she would be on her own. Any and all decisions would be hers. Fortunately, Ashlyn's perplexing situation unleashed an impulse. Just prior to her scheduled flight she dropped the geo-positioning transmitter into the trash.

Shortly after arriving on the island, all her possessions were sorted and searched thoroughly under the guise of protecting the mining operation from industrial espionage. She took an instant dislike to the man named Rickert. His assertion that the 'goings on' was simply routine did not dispel her distrust of the security chief. Black eyes leered at her from a pot-marked face and he relished the discomfort he caused the newest member of Novus Island. He liked it that way.

Surveillance cameras took in the entire proceedings. A female guard politely requested she strip her clothes and step into the scanner. Rickert viewed the entire process, smirking at the glimpse of her naked form as she entered the machine. Her clothing was quickly gathered and scrutinized. A few personal items of necessity were returned and the remainder packaged and sent to a storage area. Upon completion of the scan, the female guard handed several uniforms bearing the Artech logo to Sanders. Rickert ignobly reminded her, she need only ask for anything she required.

Armed guards roamed the complex. The presence of these men and women fueled her desire to find the reasons behind their actions. Every movement since her arrival was carefully monitored. Anytime she ventured out of her assigned work area, Perez was glued to her side.

Ashlyn had made the right decision. Any attempt to bring the geo-positioning transmitter with her would not have been well received. Their questions may not have elicited the responses they would have been looking for.  At the least, they would have sent her back. Anything else she refused to think about. Never left alone and always under the camera's eye, the problem of how to contact them perplexed her.  Sanders continued the search hoping for any open avenue to inform them of her whereabouts.

Ashlyn's only haven was inside her quarters. As far as she could tell, no surveillance equipment monitored her movements there. One week after her arrival, her computer search opened the way into the main data terminal. In the early morning hours, blue light from the computer screen bathed her face in a pale glow.  She entered project operations and several minutes later a detailed schematic of the complex appeared. A three dimensional tour took her through the mountain's interior.  Scanning her way around the project site, she came to an area that she had no authorization to enter.  Further attempts to probe the secret site yielded a warning that flashed on screen.

Access denied. No entry.

She stopped and downloaded what information she could before closing the relay to the main terminal.

Chapter Fifty-Six

White House

Top-level officials seated on each side of the gleaming mahogany table waited expectantly for President Richard Simon's arrival. The gathering of men and women included numerous key figures in the military and government, each wearing a mask of well-placed concern.

Two marine guards clad in crisply starched BDU’s came to attention, heels snapping together, when the elevator opened.  Stepping into the hallway, the president and his national security advisor, Benjamin Wolcott, both still in formal attire, brushed past the security checkpoint. Soundproof doors quelled any conversations coming from within the room as the guards closed the portal.

All in attendance stood when Simon entered and a quick wave of his hand instructed them to take their seats. Richard Simon moved to the head of the table. The blue and gold presidential seal hung on the wall above the nation's leader, bearing silent witness to the hundreds of clandestine meetings that had taken place in this room over the years.

“We all know why we’re here,” Simon spoke, preparing to take his seat. Heads nodded in affirmation.  “I've asked the chairman of the Joint Chiefs to prepare several scenarios for the situation at hand.”

General Maddox rapidly reviewed the latest information from military intelligence, and what was known about the island occupied by Artech Industries. A detailed holographic image provided an overview of the landmass sitting above the Arctic Circle.  “Mr. President, I'll make this brief. Given the demands we were presented, it’s the Pentagon's belief there's little choice for options at this point. It’s the unanimous view of the Joint Chiefs that we attack.”

Questions flew around the room before he could continue. Opinions circulated for the proper course of action. Tempers flared and voices rose in volume amid the heated debate. Chairman of the National Security Committee, Senator Charles Wexman, raised strong opposition to an attack of any kind. He preferred negotiation, sparing the world any further retaliation from a possible failed military assault.

FBI director, Avery Whitestone, and Director of the CIA, William Barrett, sided with the general's approach to the problem. A swift strike to eliminate the threat was undoubtedly called for.  “We can not give in to global terrorism regardless of the source of the perpetrator,” Barrett called out defiantly.

This unleashed another wave of hostile voices, igniting tempers into raging fires from the group of decision makers. Simon remained cool, neutral, weighing each person's valued opinion.

John Lewis spoke up, catching the president's attention. Thick spectacles balanced precariously on a bulbous nose, sat below a balding head. “Mr. President, if I may,” the director said, a nasal quality weaving through his words.

Simon turned and acknowledged the NSA director's plea, noting the urgency in the man's voice.

Lewis drew in a long breath before beginning, “We've had several operatives following Fletcher Durnulqc for some time. Each one has turned up dead. Crime scenes were all similar, yet no evidence of any kind exists linking Durnulqc with their deaths. Unfortunately, his long reach has been suspect in many situations, and likely the perpetrator of the crash of the airliner carrying French president, Monteure.”

Concerned faces listened intently.  Each member in attendance wondered what other information Lewis withheld.

“We were able to slip another agent in.  We got lucky,” Lewis went on, pushing up the heavy frames of his glasses. “She was working on a project that got her an in with Durnulqc. The last message we received informed us he hired her to work for him and her assignment was at a mining site of an unknown location. We've had no contact for two weeks from our current operative assigned to the case. From what we've been able to ascertain, it's our belief she’s currently located at the source of the transmission site.” Lewis paused, peering through the thick lenses at the people seated around him. His fingers played at the corners of a stack of papers in front of him. “Unfortunately, we have no way of contacting her at this point.”

“There's an NSA agent on site?” Mowry asked, disbelievingly.

Lewis arched an eyebrow in recognition of the Marine's question.

“Why weren't we aware of this?” the general fired back, unleashing a barrage at the NSA director.

“Frankly, it wasn’t a military concern at the time,” Lewis responded, haughtily letting the words spill from his lips.

Irate voices swelled under the strain of impending decisions and burgeoning egos.  A collective agreement seemed far from happening. “Enough. The ultimate decision rests in my hands.” Simon called for an end to the bickering. The room stilled under the weight of a preponderant silence. “Whoever this agent is doesn't matter.  She's just become expendable.”

“I'm afraid another problem's reared its head, sir,” the gray haired FBI director remarked.

Benjamin Wolcott shook his head, disdain filling his voice, “It just keeps getting better.  How much deeper are we going to sink into this shit pile?”

Ignoring the national security advisor's words, Whitestone's monotone continued, “The disc we received from NESSA is a copy of the original found on Lawrence Alberts' body.  We finally broke through the code and when we did, the disc destroyed itself. All the information’s irretrievable.”

“You've contacted Sumner,” the president spoke, not really asking a question.

“Yes, sir.  He maintains he was unaware a copy had been made. A NESSA employee attempted to decipher the code and now that person’s missing,” Whitestone added.

“And you buy that crap, Whitestone?” Wexman flared.

“Look, Senator, I've about had enough of…”

“Alright. Can it,” the president ordered angrily.  “At the moment, there's nothing we can do about that situation. We'll deal with it later. Let's move on. As long as all the cards are on the table,” Simon began, stopping to pour a glass of water.  “I spoke with McDermott earlier.  It took some doing, but I finally convinced him where the source of this transmission’s coming from. I tentatively proposed the possibility of an attack. Needless to say, the idea was not very appealing.  He countered with a joint strike of combined forces. I informed him that the attack has to remain unencumbered by any constraints. Also, I didn’t want to risk a possible leak. Reluctantly, he agreed to the terms.”

Senator Liz Fulton interrupted Simon. “Your decision then is an assault as opposed to negotiating?”

“I don't believe any room exists for anything else, given what we know.  Let's put away our differences, ladies and gentlemen, and listen to what the Pentagon has come up with,” Simon cajoled.

Resigned to the president's order, weary faces pondered the possible outcomes of a failed mission. Everyone listened intently, focusing in on the plan of operation. Escalation of the crisis loomed like the executioner's axe poised to swing if the military failed in the first round.

Maddox pointed to the holographic map, carefully detailing the workings of the strike. “Our original plan called for a SEAL team to land in Greenland, using it as a base of operations. A new location on Canadian soil has already been chosen and the team’s being assembled as we speak. They’ll land on Somerset Island, precisely here.”

Admiral Sizemore added, “The Connecticut is the closest vessel to the embarkation point. I’ve already given the order. SSN-22  will rendezvous with the team at fourteen hundred hours tomorrow. Running at flank speed, the Seawolf class sub will reach Novus Island approximately 2000 hours, Saturday evening. The plan calls for the team to be deployed approximately five miles from the coast and proceed underwater to their assigned target.”

Maddox cleared his throat before speaking again. “One clarification needs to be made at this point. These men will be going in pretty much blind. Surveillance photos of the island give some indication of the set up, but other than that we have little at our disposal to guide them.”

“Why not just drop them in? Better yet why not fly them in with a team of helicopters to back them up?” Wexman injected, not bothering to hide his dislike of the military operation.

The tight-jawed marine cut him short. Steel gray eyes burrowed into the senator before he spoke. “For security reasons, this site must remain intact if at all possible. The knowledge to be gained by preserving it could be a great benefit to the world.”

“You mean the military.  Don't you, general?” the senator volleyed.

“Senator, secrecy’s imperative.” Clenched teeth held back his abhorrence of the arrogant man. “Our best option for a ground assault is moving in undetected with surgical precision.  The probability’s high for success if, and only if, those men are given our best support. I mean to keep it that way.”  The scar running the length of his face undulated, moving with the quivering of his jaw muscles. Mowry did not offer a retreat from his stance. Wexman withered under the verbal tirade. Quickly attempting to backpedal, Wexman informed the group he would support any decision. The marine general reviled at the political game the senator played.

“Alright, people, keep it in check. There's more at stake here than personal preferences,” the president ordered. “An initiation of the backup plan will occur should the strike team be compromised. Novus Island will come under direct fire from the Connecticut. A full scale launch of Tomahawk cruise missiles will take place if failure to obtain the target occurs.”

“All coordinates for intended targets have been marked and slated for destruction. I doubt it’ll happen. But if it comes to that, the missiles have more than enough firepower to do the job,” Sizemore added.

Before anyone else could speak, the president rose from his chair. The room full of faces anchored their gaze on the nation's leader.  All sound vanished before he spoke. “A grave situation faces the entire planet. Should both of these plans fail, the world is left with two choices. Capitulate to the demands of a tyrant, or retaliate to the fullest extent possible. Frankly, I don't see the possibility of Durnulqc calling the shots as a viable option.”

Each member knew the extent of his words. For over sixty years the world had been spared from aggressive use of the appalling destruction. A tremendous cloak of liability fell over them, resting weightily on the members of the group.

“If other options fail and we’re left without further choice, I’ll order a nuclear strike on the target, regardless of McDermott's wishes. As I see it, survival of civilization may rest upon that decision. I will not stand idly by and allow a madman to take charge.  And I'll accept full responsibility for the decision,” the grim faced leader imparted.

A hollow silence palpated in the security room.  Words like these had been spoken before by past presidents. Situations had been handled, defused before they escalated into the unthinkable. Unfortunately, this time the words might become reality.

“Exactly how are you prepared to let the rest of the world know of your decision, Mr. President?” Senator Fulton interjected.

“I'm scheduled to address the delegation at five thirty tomorrow afternoon. As instructed, I’ll inform them of Durnulqc's demands for all the world's leaders to relinquish their authority.  I'm sure the shock of this news will fuel some heated controversy.  When all is said and done, hopefully it will give way to reason.”

Maddox set his jaw.  “I’ll order the SEAL team to initiate the strike, sir.”

The President of the United States nodded his head in approval. “Let's wish them well, and God speed.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Atlantic Ocean

The morning awakened to the mournful howling from shrieking winds. Black walls of water rose and fell, pushed by the steadily intensifying tempest. Around the center of the low-pressure system, walls of gray clouds swirled out in all directions with the distinct threat of worsening weather.  Clouds stretching like tentacles laden with rain and lightning thundered over the sea. Angry whitecaps tossed by the wind raced in maddening frenzy without direction while rains lashed out, falling in massive downpours.

The storm grew considerably over the past twelve hours encompassing an expanding area. Spiraling bands of squall lines pushed outward, traveling on the fringes of long flowing tendrils. Barometric pressure inside the center of the storm dipped, as super heated air rose upward over fifty thousand feet, fueling the needs of the voracious winds.

Wobbling erratically, the hurricane's center seemed undecided in its direction. National Weather Service predictions indicated the path to be on an easterly course that would pose no further threat to U.S. landmasses. Parts of the eastern seaboard experienced high surf advisories and beach erosion, but thankfully spared far worse devastation. Alerts were sent to ships to steer clear of the potentially serious conditions. Airlines also redirected flights to avoid turbulent air patterns.

From their geo-synchronous orbits in the far reaches of the upper strata, the satellites focused their energies, bombarding the entire area over the storm cell. Ionized particles of plasma became superheated, essentially boiling in the upper atmosphere. The events unfolding in the Atlantic waters below were a direct result of the satellites’ potent capabilities.

In a relatively brief span of time the once benign fury of nature developed wind speeds in excess of one hundred and twenty-five miles per hour.  Barometric pressure continued to plummet alarmingly as the storm gained strength. Wind gusts were now estimated at over one hundred and fifty-five miles per hour.

No longer were aircraft crewmembers required to risk their lives by flying into the eye of monstrous tempests. Weather satellites did the work for them, relaying a wealth of data and computer enhanced images. This unseasonable storm did not react in the predicted manner. No hurricane on record ever formed in the early spring, and its rate of growth left many meteorologists puzzled about the cause of the quickly developing phenomenon.

Brief sound bites filled hourly news reports, indicating no threat to the mainland. Continuously replayed video images from Nags Head Beach showed surfers braving gray swells, enjoying the rough waters washing upon the Carolina coast. As the live shot faded, it was replaced with the image of a perfectly formed circular system spinning between the coast and Bermuda. The farthest fringes now encompassed an area covering over two hundred miles from the storm's center.

There was no stopping the maelstrom with the ocean's water temperatures in the high eighties. It possessed all the fuel necessary to continue to grow.  By mid-morning the hurricane turned, aiming itself toward the U.S. coastline. The weather cell plaguing the nation's capital diminished in intensity, bringing relief from the pounding rains and wind, all a part of the albino's plan.

Far out in the Atlantic, the unnamed hurricane began to move. Incredibly, its forward speed gained momentum, moving at twenty-three miles per hour. Destruction awaited anything in its path.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Baffin Island

The stop in Ontario for fuel and a break from the boredom of the flight took too long for McGann and Canton's likes. Once the plane became airborne again and the other passengers settled in, Bryson McGann revealed the information he obtained. Several hours passed while the life long friends bantered the facts available to them. Their limited knowledge of Durnulqc's stronghold left them uneasy with a number of unknowns. Relying on instincts and years of training would be the key to their success.

The small group of daring skiers slept the night and would awaken soon. Canton had drifted off in the early hours of morning, dozing restlessly in the cramped seat. McGann catnapped but tension kept him awake most of the time. He sat alone, ruminating over the unscripted blueprint, searching for any other ideas that might offer a better solution.

Bryson had confidence in the strategy he and T.C. revised earlier. He knew quite well many uncertainties lay ahead.  It would not be the first time a situation presented that required they fit the pieces of the puzzle together blindly.  McGann hoped their small advantage in the game would be enough.

A glint of orange light winked over the eastern horizon spreading its fiery display throughout the passenger compartment. McGann stretched, attempting to erase the cobwebs that lingered as he made his way back to his seat. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted from the galley, bringing to life the other members of the Arctic adventure.

Canton opened one eye, focusing on his friend and glancing at his watch. The chartered jet began its initial approach on a gentle descent to Arctic Bay, on Baffin Island.  McGann held a cup of the hot black liquid in front of Canton that he eagerly accepted.

The pilot aligned the craft on the proper vector for final approach fifteen miles from the runway.  Below, stark terrain inhabited by only a few Inuit communities awaited those brave enough to meet the challenges posed by this area of Canadian wilderness. Few would be willing accomplices in taking up the gauntlet of such a challenge. However, McGann would have preferred to wrestle with those, instead of the unknown they would face in the next several hours.

Skimming the cold surface of the runway, the plane touched down five minutes before eight in the morning. The afterburners roared to life when the pilot reversed engine thrust, slowing the chartered jet. Taxiing back to the hangar, McGann spotted several DeHavilland Twin Otters waiting patiently for their occupants to board. The plane halted and the passengers stepped out into the chilly climate. Leaving their comfortable surroundings behind, frozen-faced clients rushed into the hangar ready to satisfy their hunger with a hearty meal.

Barker made his way back to where the two men sat after the group deplaned. “Mac, it's taken care of. You and Joe will fly one of the Otter's. This is your checkout flight for employment. It's weak, granted, but I don't think anyone in this group will question it. Besides, in a few hours they'll be more concerned about their own butts,” Barker added. “When we reach Ellesmere, you'll refuel and then you're on your own.”

“Sounds like that should pretty much take care of it,” Canton said.

“Anyone asking anything they don't need to know?” McGann questioned.

“Nope. This one’s nice and neat,” Barker replied.

“Good. Now, what kind of breakfast you serving?”  McGann asked, flashing a quick smile.

*     *     *

The flight to the northernmost territory in Canada took under three hours in near perfect conditions. Orange and blue lights lined the length of the snow-covered runway at Eureka. Once a simple arctic weather station, it was now the jump off point for some of the world's most pristine and dangerous skiing available. McGann brought the aircraft in with practiced skill. The skids unleashed a cloud of icy particles rising up in the wake of the plane's engines. Two frozen trails marked the path of the Otter's passing as it taxied to a halt.

Eager to depart, McGann finished last minute preparations. He entered Barker's office finding Joe Canton rechecking calculations to determine the exact amount of fuel needed for their flight. His figures left little room for error.  Only the deadly cold ocean's water waited if they were unable to land on Fletcher Durnulqc's island. Each detail required careful orchestration in order for their ruse to seem credible. One slip could cost them their lives.

“I'm ready if you are, Bry,” Canton remarked, lifting his eyes above the stack of papers he held.

McGann zipped up the red Arctic Expedition flight suit, slipping into the hooded parka. Canton tucked a pen into his coat pocket and stood, stuffing maps and calculations into a flight bag.

Barker extended a hand toward the two men. “Mac, Joe, if you pull this off the next trip’s on me,” a wan smile appeared, abruptly erasing itself.

Both men turned and walked without speaking, brushing by the company logo painted on the red fuselage of the Otter.  Canton closed and locked the outer door in place, then seated himself next to his friend in the cockpit. First, the starboard engine and then the port roared to life. One final check of the instruments and Canton pushed the throttle ahead as Bryson steered the craft over the icy surface. The plane jostled along, gathering momentum. McGann sneaked a quick check of the air speed indicator and pulled back on the controls, letting the plane rise into the frigid afternoon sky.

Banking off to the left, the airplane turned on the appropriate heading, carrying it in the direction of the Artech mining site.  Canton had charted an erratic course to make it appear as if they were lost, knowing they were probably under radar observation from the island. They leveled off at ten thousand feet before either spoke.

“Bry, that storm front’s moving in pretty fast.  We've got a rough ride ahead.”

“Yeah, it'll also provide us a better cover when we come knocking on their door uninvited.”

“Somehow, I don't take much assurance in that fact, little brother.” Canton shifted in his seat, extending his gaze toward the pilot.

“All we got to do is land this crate and our story will check out. The rewiring job you did on the electrical system should see to that. Besides we won't have much choice. We'll be running on fumes at that point.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Destiny

The threatening sky's once blue color gave way to oppressive gray clouds as the front's first strong winds buffeted the aircraft.  Prized for its construction, the Otter could handle this and more. The men focused their energies on flying the plane into the teeth of the storm, riding the roller coaster bounces of frequent air pockets. Both sets of eyes shifted constantly from the windscreen to the instrument panel since they no longer had visual references. Enveloped in the gray blanket, they relied on the navigational guidance system to carry them along the plotted course.

Two hours of rough flying passed behind them since leaving Eureka. Icy crystals pelted the glass in front of them. Worsening conditions forced them to a lower altitude as ice began forming on the wing surfaces. Adding to the dilemma, a warning indicator buzzed, catching their attention, reminding them of the small amount of remaining fuel. McGann and Canton knew surviving a crash in the freezing waters below could not be considered a blessing. Captured by the deadly hypothermic effects, they would drown unpleasantly, in less than a minute.

“I put us twenty-seven miles off Novus,” Canton's voice, distorted by the microphone, informed McGann.

“Go ahead and put out a Mayday, T.C.  Let 'em know we're here. Those headwinds were stronger than we anticipated. Our tanks will be bone dry when we hit the deck, if we make it that far.”

Canton's serious look did not go unnoticed by McGann even though he concentrated his efforts on piloting the aircraft.  Both engines continued their steady deep-throated humming while Canton issued the universal distress call.

“Mayday, Mayday. This is Alpha, Echo, Two, Niner, Seven, Four. Arctic Expeditions flight is declaring an emergency.”

A long silence followed before a static filled voice acknowledged their plea for help. “This is Novus Island, Alpha, Echo, Two, Niner, Seven, Four.  What’s the nature of your emergency?  Over.”

“We need a place to land this bird.  We're low on fuel.  We've been thrown off course and we've got some kind of electrical problem. Instruments are going crazy,” Canton said with just enough theatrical overtones to make it believable.

“Negative. This is a no fly zone. You do not have permission to land,” the voice sounded in both men's headsets.

“Not an option, Novus. There's smoke in the cockpit. Besides, it's a little too cold for a swim today,” McGann intimated.  “We're coming in.”

Rickert snatched the phone from its cradle on the second ring, “Yeah, what's up?”

“Sir, we've got an inbound flight we've been tracking since it left Ellesmere. They say they've got electrical problems and are low on fuel,” the flight operations engineer stated.

“Who are they?” Rickert asked brusquely.

“Arctic Expeditions. They're always flying through the corridor. This one's off track, but if they have electrical problems, that might explain it,” the flight controller answered.

Silence spilled from the phone while Rickert chewed on a decision.

“You want me to bump it upstairs, chief?”

“Forget it.  Let 'em land. We'll show 'em just how hospitable we can be,” the security chief shot back. “You got a lock on them?”

“Coming in over the ice field.”

“Good. Give 'em the go ahead. I'll handle things from here.”

McGann banked right, aligning the plane on a heading to land on the ice pack. An alarm rang within the cockpit. Both men knew its meaning. A computerized voice warned them of the impending danger.  A half a mile from landing, the port engine sputtered, eventually shutting down. The blades of the black propeller sat unmoving, useless on the left wing, making it difficult to maneuver the craft with only the one engine intact.

McGann prepared himself for the sudden shift of power to the starboard engine. Canton pushed the controls forward, providing a burst of throttle to the other engine. He knew it was a temporary fix but hoped it would enable them to reach the island. Straining to see through the stormy conditions, McGann spotted the glacial ice field. Inside the cockpit, the two men searched frantically for a place to land. The remaining engine quit, feathering suddenly from lack of fuel above the freezing sea. An eerie quiescence formed inside the cabin with the loss of both engines, broken only by the ominous shriek of the storm's ferocity.  McGann wrestled with the controls, attempting to maintain a glide path.

Below, the waters gave way to ragged, snow-laden cliffs on the eastern edge of the island. Somehow, they managed to clear the rim as the aircraft continued to drop alarmingly.  Canton eyed the terrain while McGann piloted the lifeless plane.

“What do we got, T.C.?” Bryson pushed out the words, not letting his gaze stray from the uncontrollable course.

The big man leaned forward peering out the windscreen. “No other options. The ice field’s dead ahead.”

“Poor choice of words, T.C.,” Bryson spit out between clenched teeth.

“It'll be real close, Bry.” Canton whistled as the Twin Otter glided between a narrow opening in the rocky walls.

Canton reached for the controls to help his friend with the dead stick landing. The Otter was excellent for Arctic work.  It could take a beating and keep flying. However, even this might prove too much for the rugged craft. Gnawing tension racked the confines of the cockpit. McGann ignored the bead of sweat that worked its way into the corner of his eye, blinking away the salty sting. The edge of the icy landing zone loomed closer.  Neither man spoke, each focusing on their mission.

Canton stole a quick glance at the altimeter and braced himself. Strong winds rocked the plane making it more difficult to control in the leaden skies. McGann's resolve kept him going. A vast featureless ice field lay before them, waiting, rising up to claim them as its prize.

“Hang on, T.C.,” Bryson McGann yelled.

The Otter hit the ice with a bone jarring impact, sending the men lurching in their seats, straining against the shoulder harnesses. Each rivet labored to hold the plane together as it sped across the frozen surface. McGann gripped the controls with vicious tenacity.  A twin rooster trail of snow and ice flew out from behind the plane's skis. An ice-encrusted boulder caught the edge of the left skid, threatening to flip the plane. It rose up on one ski, the wind underneath the wind lifting it precariously for a moment. The Otter slammed into the unforgiving harshness of the ice, rattling its occupants. The force of impact became too much and the skid crumpled. Mangled metal ripped at the ice, causing a braking action that slowed the plane, finally halting its progress.

The two men exhaled a sigh of relief. McGann removed his headset and climbed out of the harness. Outside, a blizzard swarmed in a coat of white indifference across the island.  Near whiteout conditions prevailed.

“Could've been worse, little brother.”

“You're right about that.  There's one thing I didn't get around to mentioning.”

A bewildered expression trailed a course over Canton's features. The big man pushed back into his seat undoing the restraint. “Well?”

McGann rubbed a hand across the growing stubble on his chin. “Ashlyn's here.”

Canton's mouth dropped in astonishment without a sound. He cocked his head, profoundly amazed at the words he just heard. “Your timing’s unbelievable.”

“There was no right time to tell you. I'm not so sure if now is either. But I figured you might find out soon enough.”

“What a guy. You sure know how to hit below the belt,” Canton's words inflecting a sarcastic tone. The big man put to rest the unpleasant news, knowing he could not let it dominate his thoughts. Success was paramount to survival.

They made their way out onto the ice, setting a course for the mining site and leaving the crippled plane behind. Raging winds and heavy snows made the task more difficult, especially with the possibility of an unseen crevasse waiting to devour them.

McGann picked up on the faint growl rising above the level of the howling winds. From a distance, the snow cat bore down on the pair, bathing them in a set of twin pale yellow beams. A door opened after the vehicle halted, and a pot-marked face wrapped in fur-lined hood shouted to them, “Name's Rickert, security chief. Get in.” The man dressed in cold weather gear threw a thumb over his shoulder, pointing in the direction of the tracked vehicle.

“Thanks,” Canton shouted above the wind, intent on playing the role.

Both men moved toward the idling snow cat, its engine's diesel fumes riding the wind. Rickert let them pass. Not completely assured these men were whom they claimed, he surveyed the area once more, leaving nothing to chance.

“Pleasant fellow,” McGann chided, once safely aboard.  Canton let the remark go, but not unnoticed.

The security chief pulled himself into the driver's seat, turning suspiciously and eyeing the two men. “You fellas with Arctic Expeditions, huh?”

They nodded in response to his questioning.

“You sure picked a shitty time to turn up,” the hard-edged voice remarked.

“What about the plane?” McGann asked, defiantly interrupting the security chief.

“I'll send a team out and have it towed in. The maintenance crew should be able to fix it in a few days,” the chief turned, smirking. His insincerity left them with an ominous foreboding, doing little to bolster their welcome to Novus Island.

McGann did not have the luxury of a few days. Time was not an ally.  The countdown had begun and only hours remained. Somehow he and Canton had to find a way to stop the H.A.A.R.P. from playing.

Chapter Sixty

World Summit Meeting

Security in Washington tightened its rein over the city.  Government agencies assigned with the nation's safety closely monitored the unfolding events for the protection of the world leaders. Strings of police units crisscrossed the flooding city streets, searching for any unpredicted trouble. Helicopters could no longer patrol the skies above the nation's capital. Teams of snipers lined rooftops, keeping their own stalwart vigil in the face of the worsening weather conditions. No stone was left unturned and the site of the meeting still bore a strong resemblance to an armed fortress.

Niya Adi stood tall, peering out above the podium at the crowd of many familiar faces gathered for the meeting. She paused long enough for their applause to fade away.  Confident in her beliefs, the Secretary General stood before them, speaking with impassioned words. Wilhelm Rugg had been right.  Niya Adi allowed herself the pleasure of the moment. Finally her message had meaning. Her hopes rose up from a bed of cold ashes, finally enlightening the world's leaders. Niya Adi's struggle to be taken seriously now carried behind it the full weight of her office.  Her fervent desire to be heard did not come without a price. The element of time turned against the Secretary General's efforts.

“So in conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, we no longer can take a passive role in the state of the earth's turmoil. Simply put, we as the leaders of this planet are not afforded the luxury of inaction.  It is long past time to be decisive. Yet, I believe there’s still time to find answers. Time for hope. We must pool our resources.  Utilize the best minds available to find a solution. Let all the world's people stand together, united in cause, acting as one.  The destiny of mankind is at stake.”

The throng of dignitaries stood, rising quickly to their feet in recognition of the United Nations leader's speech. Shouts of support echoed in the vast room. Niya Adi stood before them, radiant, her face filling the television set of millions worldwide.

Chancellor Klause, of Germany, ambled with a slight waddle toward Niya Adi.  Burly arms extended outstretched hands as he captured her small hand with his own, and pumped her arm several times before she departed. He offered his thanks for her words, and then introduced the next speaker, gesturing for him to take a turn at the podium.

The names and faces would change. The message would not. For a multitude of the world's people, suffering's cavernous jaws devoured them with greedy desire. Unknown to them, the course of their fate lay in the hands of a few, the outcome of which loomed beyond their control.

Benjamin Wolcott turned as General Maddox passed off a note for the president. “Sir, General Maddox just handed me this message.”

Simon regarded the communiqué. Disengaging his eyes from the weight of its words, his tone left no doubt to the president's mandate. “Now that they're aboard the sub, give the final go ahead to commence the operation. The skipper of the Connecticut knows his orders?”

“Yes, sir,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs responded.

“Once the team’s in place, it's up to them.” The hollow ring of a possible death sentence for the men storming Novus Island echoed in his ears. His responsibility for the planet's well-being pressed in on him, demanding accountability, and offering nothing.

Wolcott interrupted the president's moment of grim solitude.  “Sir, you're due to speak after the break. Are you…”

“Fine. I’m fine,” Simon fired back, squaring his shoulders and blinking away his thoughts. “Once all the delegates are present, I want the building sealed. Absolutely no one in or out unless without approval. If you have to, use force. But, I want this place locked down. Is that clear, gentlemen?” the timbre of his voice ringing with authority.

Wolcott's thick hair shook with his nod of compliance.

“Keep me up to speed on things, General.”

“I will, sir.”

The president pulled a copy of the notes from his brief. Delegates from around the world expected words of encouragement and commitment. Instead, they would come to realize the evil agenda of a madman. Simon intended to use every means at his disposal, bringing the deranged terror to finality.

Chapter Sixty-One

Canadian Arctic

Six hundred feet below the cold, black waters of the Arctic Ocean, the massive sleek, steel hull of the  Connecticut cruised soundlessly.  A nuclear powered engine provided the means for the immense screw of the nine thousand ton submarine to propel the vessel at a maximum speed of sixty-seven knots. One of the Navy's newest and highly classified fleet submarines, it came equipped with the latest technology for evading detection and laser communication. Its impressive array of armament included the standard Mark 48 torpedoes. In addition to this, the Seawolf class submarine also maintained a compliment of Harpoon missiles, and the latest series of Tomahawk cruise missiles. It also had the ability to fire nuclear warheads if the unthinkable should occur. 

The vessel's assignment was twofold. Carry the SEAL team to their destination and move quickly out of the area. If the team did not signal the Connecticut at the prescribed time, Rand's orders were to launch an attack with a compliment of cruise missiles. The horrific destructive potential of these weapons would lay waste to the Artech mining site.

Lieutenant Commander Mitch Wright crushed the butt of his cigarette into the metal ashtray.  A veteran of several covert operations, the stern-faced commander asked, “Any final questions?” Several concerns cropped up among the three other officers.  Voices rose and fell, ideas traded into agreeable solutions for their problematic concerns. Decisively, the members hammered out the final edges of their plan, charting the appropriate course of action. The meeting disbanded and within a few hours the metal of these men would be tested, answering the call of world freedom.

Every member of this team volunteered and all had seen combat situations before. The men knew the severity of their mission and intended to rise above the danger without fear.  Four sixteen man teams planned to invade the island under a cloak of stealthy surprise. It looked easy from the surveillance photos they were given. Still, Wright knew nothing came easy in this game. The unexpected could kill you even if you were prepared. The plan of battle was rehearsed, dissected, and each minute detail picked apart until every man knew exactly the responsibilities of the other team members.

Squad leaders knew the risks of going in without full knowledge of the target.  This is why they trained relentlessly, many times dealing with unknown scenarios. It forced them to think on their feet and resolve situations quickly by whatever means necessary.  This was their job and they were the best.

“Okay, gentlemen, if there're no other questions, check your squads. I want everyone prepped and ready.  No foul ups,” Wright barked.  A strange feeling wormed through his gut. He didn't like it. Wright wasn't superstitious, yet something about this mission did not feel right. A yellow flame erupted from the battered Zippo. Wright drew in a breath of hot smoke, hoping he was wrong.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Novus Island

Plowing its way through the turbulent conditions, the snow cat carved a path toward its destination. The stark glare of its halogen lamps cut through wind driven snows, illuminating a complex of buildings lying just ahead of them. McGann and Canton eyed a number of structures that could pass as a possible operations center and crew's quarters. Outside buildings, a few vehicles sat unattended, enveloped in a snowy blanket. Another snow cat headed off at a rapid pace in the opposite direction from the one carrying the newcomers to Novus Island.

Rickert steered the snow cat deliberately at the base of the rock face. The vehicle's lights etched a path through the darkness revealing an opening in the wall of rock before them. Sliding back, the portal granted them access to the interior of the mountain. Within its base, a massive hangar spread out over an area of several hundred yards. The security chief parked the vehicle and cut the engine, ushering the two pilots to follow. 

McGann and Canton stared transfixed by what lay before them. They both knew something of this place from the information the professor left behind. But they were not prepared for the magnitude of Fletcher Durnulqc's operation. The vast floor space held an array of excavation equipment, in addition to other types of machinery.  Dozens of workers moved about, intent upon their tasks. The smell of oil and machinery cast a hint of its presence on the warm recycled air. Mechanical sounds reverberated inside the massive chamber.  Along the far wall, a tram ferried a group of workers through the opening of a tunnel, carrying them deep into the mountain.

In all, eight aircraft of various types were aligned in a neat row. Four helicopters, the largest, a Merlin EH101 sat with its main rotors disassembled. Two small passenger jets, and two DeHavilland Twin Otters made up the remaining craft. The Otter closest to the hangar entrance was in the process of having its tanks refueled. Workers scurried around the airplanes, busying themselves with repairs and maintenance work.

McGann and Canton missed nothing, making a mental notation of the interior of Durnulqc's sanctum. Security cameras covered the entire bay with wide angled lenses and armed guards roved the catwalks above the hangar floor. 

Both men followed Rickert to an area where they were told to strip off their gear.  The same routine that greeted Ashlyn Sanders awaited them. Clothing and personal belongings were searched. Canton's worried face grew as a result of the possible discovery of Lawrence Alberts' nano disc. He did not think to ask his companion where he hid it. McGann began undressing, tugging at the uniform zipper.  Suspended from a gold chain, the disc swung freely as McGann undid the laces of his boots.  Canton allowed himself to relax when he saw the chain dangling from Bryson's neck.

The island's security chief eyed the medallion enviously.  He decided against taking the golden necklace away from the Arctic Expedition’s pilot. There would be time for that soon enough, once the two men were dead. It could wait a little longer.

A security worker entered the room interrupting Rickert, and handed a set of Artech uniforms and locator bracelets to both men.  They were informed that any and all belongings were to be stored until the time of their departure. Rickert's only explanation lay in a thin veil of industrial security. 

The two Arctic Expedition pilots offered no protest.  The disc hanging around Bryson McGann's neck thankfully passed muster without question. He slipped into a uniform carefully covering the key to the world's survival.

“What do you think, fellas? Quite a place we got here.” The man's casual laughter did little to hide his vile nature. “I'll take you down to the mess and see if we can't get something for you to eat.”

“That'd be great,” Canton returned, playing the role.

“Not big on words, are you?” Rickert threw out to McGann.

A lop-sided grin spread rapidly.  “Just the quiet and shy type,” he answered, vainly hiding his newfound dislike for the security chief.

The trio entered an elevator and descended to one of the lower levels within the complex. The ride took up little time, and the door opened out onto an area where workers’ voices filled the room with conversation, and the smell of food permeated the air.  None of the Artech employees paid any mind to the strangers. Rickert inhaled the food from his plate while McGann and Canton stabbed undecidedly at the meal. Neither had much of an appetite. Between mouthfuls, the pockmarked man spit out a number of instructions while bits of food clung to the corners of his mouth and fingers. He told them they had access to levels two and three directly above their current location and he would find them in a couple of hours. Rickert also gave them a stern warning not to attempt to go anywhere else in the complex unescorted.

“Not real big on dining etiquette,” McGann mused, watching the man leave their table.

“You notice the security cameras in this place, Bry?”

“Yeah.  I'm sure they don't miss much. Time to go exploring, T.C.”

McGann and Canton stood in line behind several men and women, placing their trays on a conveyor that whisked them into the kitchen. They tagged along, following the group into the elevator, seemingly unnoticed by the Artech workers who were lost in their own conversations. They exited on another level leaving the two men alone. The doors parted again and McGann and Canton found themselves on the third level. Off duty workers were exercising in a state of the art gymnasium. The sound of squeaking soles escaped from the line of racquetball courts. Two teams of players practiced their round ball skills at the far end of the room.

“Looks like Durnulqc put the excavated areas to good use,” Canton remarked. “A bit too cozy, Bry.  Do you get the feeling there's more than meets the eye?”

“Alberts didn't mention any of the amenities on his disc. I think it's time to find a couple of spare ID badges and check out the new digs before our watchdog comes back sniffing around.”

Both McGann and Canton walked into the locker room. Misty steam from hot showers poured out, wrapping them in a humid veil. Bryson turned left and made his way past a group of men preparing to leave. They moved by, one nodding at him.  After a rapid check of the surroundings, McGann quickly searched a row of lockers until he found what he was looking for.  The badge showed someone with dark hair like his own. It would do. He gathered the person's clothes and stuffed them into a laundry shoot, hoping the uniform's owner would think someone was playing a prank. McGann pulled the stolen cap over his forehead and moved off to find his friend. 

Canton's identification badge did not offer much resemblance to its new owner.  He hoped the need for careful scrutinizing did not occur. The big man rounded a corner, indicating to McGann his success, as they quickly left the steamy locker room behind.

Elevator doors opened before the two men and they slipped quietly inside.

“Which way, Bry?”

“Alberts didn't discuss lower levels. They either don't exist, which doesn't seem to be the case, or we go up.” McGann slipped his ID into the slot on the control panel and the elevator began to move.

*     *     *

Ashlyn Sanders sat before a bank of monitors scanning the results of the latest series of tests. Artech, true to its word, insisted on minimizing pollution on the island and in the surrounding seawaters. Confirmation of the findings filled several pages of her latest report and should make her employer happy. 

She overheard a group of workers conversing about the plane that crashed and its two survivors. Curious, she tapped a few keys and entered the main computer menu, pulling up a live view from the security camera. A crippled, red twin-engine plane was being towed inside the massive hangar while snow blew into the open bay.  No sign of the plane's crew presented itself, so she checked the infirmary for any injured personnel. Only mining operation members were slated on the roster.

Drawing a blank, she decided to make a quick check of the spooled video. Ashlyn bit down on the end of a pencil eraser while the computer began a replay over the past two hours. Workers scurried about, moving rapidly, as the scenes passed, flashing by at high speed.  The video continued with its mundane scenes of daily activity when suddenly her finger flew out, punching a control. The almost comical gestures of the fast paced workers slowed to real time.

At the far end of the hangar a snow cat entered and three men exited. Ashlyn worked the controls, focusing on that area and magnifying the image. The men appeared and she again enlarged the picture and her jaw dropped in disbelief. The once grainy figures turned into recognizable faces. Startled, her eyes jumped, searching the room to see if anyone noticed her reaction. Several people stopped their work, looking in her direction.

“Hey, Doc.  You all right?” one man asked, unnervingly.

“Ah, fine. Yeah, I'm alright,” Sanders mumbled, hoping the response sounded genuine. The last two people in the world she expected to see now turned up on her doorstep. Questions clouded her thoughts that were interrupted by the vibration on her hip. She snatched the pager out of its holder, reading the message.  The invitation to dinner along with the unexpected arrival of McGann and Canton had a bad feel. Their presence spelled trouble and now made the completion of her assignment more difficult. Sanders saved the report on her computer, sending a copy to Durnulqc's office.  She shut down the terminal, her mind wandering over the unforeseen events. Troubled by the fact of Durnulqc's extended stay at the facility, a hollow anticipation rested uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. McGann and Canton's unexpected arrival could only spell further problems for her. Why they suddenly appeared was a mystery that offered no clues at this point. Ashlyn headed for her quarters in desperate need of a plan, unsure of her course of action.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Summit Meeting

Benjamin Wolcott wandered through the sea of familiar faces searching for Richard Simon. He urgently needed the president's attention prior to him addressing the members of the delegation. He spoke briefly with the Egyptian president before excusing himself after spotting Simon locked in conversation with Niya Adi.

“Your speech brought to light the very serious nature of the world's crisis,” the president acknowledged.

Niya Adi's cheeks flushed, filled with a hint of red and a disarming smile.

“Mr. President, have I finally caught the world's attention?” her question diminutive, yet carrying an edge of the sharpest caliber.

Simon understood the hidden meaning behind her words. Many of the world's leaders rejected her earlier requests to find solutions to the continuing weather crisis. Admittedly, he had been one.  “Ms. Adi, you have my assurances we’ll allocate every resource possible to correct this situation.”

Her face tightened into a somber mask. “I only hope we're not too late.”

Eager to end the uncomfortable conversation, the president offered his apology, and added sincerely, “I'm sure Mr. Mitzuki would be well pleased with your diligence.”

Heads of state wandered back into the conference room preparing to hear the words of the free world's leader.  Conversations swarmed in the hallways, buzzing in continuous clamor.  The president finished his conversation with the secretary general as Wolcott approached. Instinctively, Simon knew Wolcott needed a moment alone.  Quietly, they moved away from the assembly area followed closely by two Secret Service agents. They stepped into a secured soundproof room and closed the door of the private office.

“Make it quick, Ben,” the president's voice clipped. “I'm supposed to be speaking right now.”

The national security advisor's hand rested upon his friend's arm before delivering the message. “I'm afraid it's the Vice President.  He's taken a turn for the worse. They don't expect him to survive the night.”

Richard Simon's shoulders slumped from the weight of the untimely news. “For Christ's sake,” he cursed. “Keep a wrap on this for the time being.” A long silence ensued before he spoke again.  “Maybe it's a blessing, considering the circumstances.”

“I'm afraid there's more, sir.”

The expression cemented on Simon's face spoke louder than words. What he did not need at the moment was another headache. Wolcott was prepared to offer him one.

“There's a major storm brewing in the Atlantic,” Wolcott said, urgency filling his voice.

“I'm not sure what you're getting at, Ben,” a quizzical look washing over him.

“Sir, there’s a major hurricane that's formed in the Atlantic.  The storm’s now moving on a direct heading toward Washington.”

President Simon's anger welled up, the strain of current events taking its toll. “Goddamn it, Ben,” Simon's attitude hardening. “How come nothing's been said until now? Who the fuck dropped the ball on this one?” his eyes blackening into oily pools, jaw tightening.

Benjamin Wolcott swallowed back the raspy dryness forming in his throat before he continued. “Apparently, NESSA had been monitoring water temperatures over the past several weeks. They took all the appropriate steps. Notified all the right people. With the current problems going on globally, somehow, it was overlooked.  A slip-up.” Wolcott attempted to disregard the aching stiffness growing between his shoulders.

“You call this a slip up?”  Simon's lethal stare passed through his friend and advisor.  The president weighed possible options even before Wolcott began to speak. His mind replayed the revelation of upcoming destruction poised to strike the D.C. area. Already deluged by the onslaught of a vicious weather front, the city was ill prepared for a direct hit from a hurricane. Damages had the potential to soar into the billions. The staggering loss of life would be immeasurable.

“The National Weather Services' original prediction determined the storm wasn’t a threat to the mainland. It was moving out to sea. It turned in our direction over an hour ago.”

“When's it going to hit?” he asked, calming himself.

“ETA is a little over three hours,” Wolcott said flatly. 

“How can that be?” Simon stammered.

“Current forward speed is over fifty miles per hour.  Top winds are now at one hundred and ninety-five miles per hour. NWS predicts continued strengthening. It'll shoot this thing right off the Saffir-Simpson scale,” his advisor added.

“The destruction that south Florida suffered from Andrew will look like a squall line.”

“Yes, sir.  This hurricane will be bigger than anything ever witnessed by mankind. By the time the full effect of the monster hits, sustained winds will be well in excess of two hundred and eighty miles per hour. God only knows how intense the wind gusts will be. The destruction by this storm will be of apocalyptic proportions,” Wolcott answered, his head dropping in despair.

Resigned to already knowing the answer, Simon questioned, “Durnulqc?”

“In all likelihood, yes.”

“That son of a bitch.” Simon lifted his eyes to the clock. “That puts it here roughly the time the strike team hits Novus. We better pray they’re successful.” The president's face stretched taut from the strain, aging before his friend's eyes.

“How are emergency evacuation procedures proceeding?” 

“Major highways are impassible. There's so much flooding along the seaboard already, that getting to people is nearly impossible.  Even military airports are buttoned up. Everyone's doing what they can, but...”

“See to it that everything possible is done,” Simon demanded, steel lining the edges of his words.

President Simon went far beyond the lines of his scheduled speech. Actually, he had no intentions of delivering the material prepared for the audience. The shock of his words registered on everyone listening. A pasty silence hung wetly over the delegates, soon followed by an uproar of voices. The vengeance unleashed by the raging storm would be felt soon enough. Simon allowed them to continue the banter, and then called for order.  Unnoticed by the delegates, security teams sealed the exits. No one could pass in or out without permission.

After several minutes, silence quelled by shock of the coming destruction fell upon them, leaving behind its dusty coat of fear.  The gravity of the situation settled in, the full weight of it oppressive. Apprehensive world leaders looked to Simon for reassurance. For over an hour, he answered their questions.

Niya Adi now knew the full meaning of Simon's words spoken to her a short time ago. If it came to a decision, the allocation of all resources left only one final solution, a nuclear attack. She swallowed back the bitter tasting reality rising in her throat.

Richard Simon sipped at the glass of cool water, wetting the dryness caressing his palate. “If I may continue. I know how startling this must be. However, there’re a number of things I must address.  First, in lieu of the steadily worsening weather conditions, the safest place for everyone right now is here in this building. If anyone needs to leave this room, they’ll be escorted by armed guard. All communication devices will be confiscated by the Secret Service.” Disapproval rang loudly at the sound of Simon's last words. The president raised his arms eventually eliciting quiet. “I’ve discussed the situation thoroughly with Prime Minister McDermott and we’ve come to a mutual agreement on how to stop this madman.”

The world's dignitaries clung to the message hoping to assuage the pain of the living nightmare surrounding them. Minds raced in anticipation of the solution about to be presented. Their lives hung in the balance, suspended by a madman who cared little if they perished in the forthcoming destruction.

“In a little over an hour, a SEAL team will land on Canadian soil and raid the headquarters of Fletcher Durnulqc, the man responsible for the global weather problems. Secrecy must prevail if this mission’s to be successful. I'm sure everyone of you will cooperate.” Simon left no doubt of using any means possible to ensure each delegate would follow his instructions to the fullest.

Chapter Sixty-Four

Fletcher Durnulqc’s Office

“I understand we have guests. Is that correct, Mr. Rickert?”  Durnulqc raked the security chief with his impetuous grilling.

“Yes, sir,” hesitation clipping the corners of his response.

“Who are they?” the devilish voice demanded.

Rickert cleared his throat before speaking. “Couple of pilots. They belong to Arctic Expeditions.  Their operations fly through the corridor up to Ellesmere frequently, sir.”

“You allowed them to land?” Durnulqc interrupted before Rickert could continue.

“They claimed they were lost. The problems with their plane checked out,” the security chief added meekly.

The persona on the video screen seemed to swell. Lying just under the surface a cauldron boiled, filled with hate, waiting to dole out its share of virulent wrath. Then just as quickly, the bilious vision of Fletcher Durnulqc settled, the volcanic emotions quieted. Rickert barely breathed, afraid even the slightest movement would rekindle the flaring beast. Slowly, a thin smile spread across the shroud of evil that was this man. The face softened, relaxed. Yet, those watery pink eyes bore into the security chief sending a chilling wave of dread inching along his spine.

“Let's have a peak at the faces of the newcomers, shall we, Mr. Rickert?” contempt straining his words.

Rickert entered a series of commands and pulled up a display of digitalized images of the island's guests. A split picture on Durnulqc's screen showing the faces of the two pilots, worked up a roar of wicked laughter sounding as if it had been shot straight through hell's gates.

Regaining his composure, Durnulqc pressed the silk handkerchief at the corners of his mouth, dabbing at the spittle. “Please have my two friends afforded all the comforts we can offer.  Oh, and by the way, make sure they are invited to dinner.”

Durnulqc's last statement had not been a request. It was an order. Rickert, perplexed by his employer's reaction asked, “You know them, sir?”

“Indeed, Mr. Rickert.  I know them all too well.”

The screen in front of Rickert turned dark, the conversation ended. He was unsure of the situation, but he knew what needed to be done. He set off with a security detail to gather the two pilots.  He would see to it that they joined Durnulqc for dinner as requested.

*     *     *

McGann and Canton moved unnoticed through the sea of faces walking along the corridors, keeping the brims of their caps pulled low as they passed security cameras. McGann's hunch had been right. Taking the elevator up brought them to an area alive with technicians working diligently at their stations. Both men guessed the purpose of the machinery the people operated behind soundproof glass panels. Durnulqc's mountain fortress was in effect a mining site, and the workers conducted ongoing studies of current samples. Farther along the hallway, another windowed area revealed a laboratory teaming with workers.

“This is some kind of place, little brother,” Canton remarked.

“It's impressive, T.C. But we still don't have a clue as to where Alberts was working.”

The two men moved forward unsure of their next steps. They turned right around a corner and were confronted by the presence of thick titanium security doors.

“Pay dirt?” Canton questioned.

McGann contemplated a means of entry before speaking, “Possibly.”

“You think any of these people knew what they were getting into coming to work here?” Canton asked.

“They must have some idea by now.  If it were me, I'd think twice about working for Durnulqc. To each their fate,” McGann shot back dryly.  Without hesitation he inserted the ID badge into the access slot to the side of the twin doors. Several lights blinked in rapid succession of the panel cover and a screen flashed the words.

ENTRY DENIED - IMPROPER CODE

“Looks like we might have found what we came for.  Question is how do we get in?” Canton muttered.

“Try your badge.”

Canton repeated the process with the same result. This time a computerized voice instructed them to remain where they were. An escort would arrive momentarily.

“Time to go, T.C.”

The two men spun on their heels and walked briskly around the corner in the direction they came from. Both men watched the corridor ahead for any possible sign of their detection. No audible alarms sounded and the workers behind the glass panels seemed oblivious to the would-be intruders.

Precious seconds ticked by.

Rickert and his armed detail prowled the corridors in search of the missing pilots. The squad moved deliberately, following the signal from the locator devises implanted in each ID badge. The squad's boot heels pounded the floor of the hallway at a hurried pace. The team searching for them turned the corner knowing the two men were close by.  McGann and Canton halted immediately, facing the foreboding presence of the armed detail.

“Seems you fellas don't listen so well,” Rickert said with no attempt to hide his anger.  “Ordinarily it wouldn't matter, you'd both be long dead. Well, gentlemen, it's your lucky day.  The boss wants to see you. As a matter of fact, you're his guests for dinner,” Rickert sneered.

“Formal attire no doubt,” McGann infused caustically.

“I'm sure you'll find that won't matter,” the security chief responded, wryly.

Chapter Sixty-Five

Uninvited Guests

Ashlyn Sanders pulled the satchel up over her shoulder and stepped into the long hallway outside the lab. Her mind wandered over a list of options when she caught the sound of familiar voices. Ashlyn crept to the corner and cast a quick glance toward the group of men standing there. Bryson McGann and Joe Canton were being herded down the hall in her direction She ducked into an unoccupied office allowing the group to pass. She desperately needed to talk with them, but she knew now was not the time.

Sanders hurried off to her quarters.  Closing the door behind her, Ashlyn expeditiously threw off her clothes, scattering them about the room. She tugged at the hangar holding the clingy black dress and quickly eased into it. Her fingers fumbled with the straps of heeled shoes, finally slipping them on. Durnulqc insisted on punctuality when guests were requested to dine with him. Walking quickly as possible toward his private quarters, she breathed deeply attempting to calm herself before the inevitable encounter with Bryson McGann and Joe Canton.

Ashlyn made a quick apology for her tardiness, hastily blaming unforeseen work in the lab. Fletcher Durnulqc rose to greet her, pressing the cold flesh of his lips against the back of her hand. Monique Sinclair eyes the red-haired woman ravenously.  The evening's host escorted Sanders past the two high-backed chairs, concealing the faces of their occupants.

Sanders felt Durnulqc's eyes bore into her as they moved alongside the chairs, waiting for her reaction at the sight of the two guests. He did not have to wait long. Catching a glimpse of Canton's face, Ashlyn's hand shot out, slapping it with a resounding tone. Her lips curled back in anger, “That's for the last time I saw you, you bastard.”

Ian Vickers' senses pricked to the action.  He would be delighted to intervene if Canton so much as breathed wrong. His reptilian eyes darted back and forth between the two men, missing nothing.

Monique Sinclair sipped her wine. She enjoyed the spectacle playing out in front of her.  The scene titillated her, generating a chuckle of amusement.

Tension mounted with Canton resigned to sit impassively.  The imprint of Sanders' hand emblazoned itself upon his face in a crimson patch. The pain he felt inside tore at him more deeply than the ebbing pain of his face. Still, he refused to let his emotions take hold. Stoically, the big man remained quiet, unmoving.

McGann took in the event which seemed to slow from real time into a surrealistic drama. His eyes captured each expression, every movement of all the players. Most of all, his concentration fixed itself on Ashlyn Sanders. The feel was wrong. Something tugged at him, raising doubts.

Durnulqc's tenor peeled apart the drama of the one act play.  “I assume no introductions are necessary,” the cold voice said, whimsically.  “How rude of me, gentlemen. Mr. Vickers, pour our guests some wine so they might enjoy it with their last meal.”

Canton turned slightly toward McGann, eyeing him for a reaction. Nothing surfaced. Bryson McGann sat stone-faced.

Fletcher Durnulqc pursed his lips letting air pass through them before speaking. “It seems you two have arrived at a most inopportune time. Since you troubled yourselves to come this far, I will allow you to see some of my capabilities before you are, disposed of,” his last words oily, sliding from his tongue.

“Playing the H.A.A.R.P. for us tonight?” McGann asked, a sutble hint of ire hidden in the lilt of his words.

The blackness of his eyes fell upon Bryson McGann. “I knew the possibility existed that someone would find out about Professor Alberts' disappearance. The real question is do you know the entire story, gentlemen?” Durnulqc asserted, slicing the rare meat on his plate. “Actually, Mr. Vickers and my lovely fiancée put into action the plan I masterminded. Operation Arctic Wolf, the successful abduction of Lawrence Alberts from your government's secret project site,” the white skinned man said, shoving the bloody flesh into his mouth, and added, “All with my approval, of course. They were cunningly brilliant and their cleverness has allowed all this to transpire.”

“Actually, after the briefing at NESSA headquarters regarding the discovery of Alberts and the project, I suspected.”  McGann looked past the green-eyed Sinclair and on toward Ian Vickers, resting his gaze on the nearly invisible scar running the length of his left ear.  “After I met your charming henchman, and saw the results of his surgery, he was the first of many clues along the trail of death and destruction you parlayed over the last ten years.”

Vickers ignored the comment, popping a bite of food from the silver fork into his mouth.

“How so?” Durnulqc questioned.

“It seems that a First Sergeant James left behind a message before he died. Four letters scrawled in blood. LEAR. At first, I didn't understand. It all came together when I realized that the “L” stood for left.”

Monique Sinclair reached for the wine bottle and refilled her glass with the deep burgundy liquid.  “You continue to amaze me, Mr. McGann,” she offered.  “It's such a shame that you and your friend won't be around the enjoy the benefits of Fletcher's new world.” Sinclair's eyes narrowed. “I told you, you would regret crossing me,” Monique's words evolving into a callous threat.

“You seem to have figured out a number of things, Mr. McGann. You may even know of my plans to destroy Washington, D.C.  If the world leaders do not take my offer seriously and capitulate to my demands, well…”

“And your title? Emperor, king, maybe tyrant of the world?” Canton spewed, his words brandishing a flinty touch.

Durnulqc dabbled at the corner of his mouth, wiping away a remnant of food with the linen napkin. He lifted his glass. “A toast, my friends.” His plae skin seemed to almost possess a life of its own, an evilness slithering, rolling beneath the surface. Eyes filled with the blackness of Satan himself stared vacantly at the two men, their neuroscience offering a window into the soul of a demon.  “Mihi cura futuri. My care is for the future, ladies and gentlemen.”

Sanders joined the other three, raising glasses in response reluctantly.  The ample wine slid easily down her throat. She watched closely for any reaction from McGann or Canton. While she held the glass to her lips, her eyes struggled for McGann's attention. A quick glance gave indication to her silent plea.

“Lupus pilum mutat, non mentem,” McGann spit back.

“Oh, Mr. McGann.  Your comprehension of Latin is quite good,” Durnulqc answered before gulping the contents of his glass. “A wolf changes his coat, but not his disposition. You will see exactly how true that is this evening, my friend.”

Rickert charged into the room, seeking the attention of Durnulqc. Relaying a message in hushed tones, a rident sound escaped from deep within the albino, obviously taking delight in the words his security officer told him.

Durnulqc pushed back his seat, standing in front of the group. “It seems we have a bit of a distraction before this evening's performance. Mr. McGann, Mr. Canton, if you would be so good as to join us, I'm sure you'll be enthralled by what is about to take place. Besides, you will be able to enjoy your lives a bit longer.”

The men and women followed their host to the security operations center.  Rickert trailed closely behind with an armed escort prepared to protect Fletcher Durnulqc above all else.

Chapter Sixty-Six

SSN-22 Connecticut

Silently the gray-hulled submarine slowed to a stop, the boat hovering beneath the depths of the frigid waters. The boat's captain followed strict protocol, issuing all the appropriate commands to maintain the secrecy of the operation. Within the control room of the SSN-22, sailors worked with practiced ease, years of training dictating their actions. The boat's instruments reached out, searching, intently looking for any sign their arrival had been noticed. The occasional ping of sonar rang loudly in the stillness. For over twenty minutes the crew ran carefully through a checklist of procedures, leaving nothing to chance. The SEAL team's survival depended on it.

Captain Vic Rand walked purposefully along the tight corridor, skirting numerous bulkheads on his way aft. His crepe soled shoes padded along, the whispery sounds of his footsteps unheard. A sub commander for more than fifteen years, the forty-eight year old captain carried the scars of his command. Deep wrinkles etched his forehead, a reflection of the strain of his position. Graying temples grew in place of the once brown hair.  His lean appearance was due to his rigorous workout he committed himself to. Each day he ran five miles within the missile bay of the vessel's interior. 

An air of concern tethered itself across his narrowing brow.  Worry for the team's safety and the world's settled around with a thickening solemnity.  A seasoned veteran, Rand felt the stress of command before. Nothing had prepared him for the impact carried by this assignment.

A call to attention alerted the elite team that the sub's skipper had entered the pressurized compartment. Clad in black thermal underwater gear, the men were in the throes of final preparations for leaving the safety of the Connecticut. Rand put them at ease searching for the team's commander, Mitch Wright. 

Wright attended to lowering of the sea sleds into the pressurized bay, which would provide transport to the island.  The two men spoke briefly, Rand nodding his approval at what was conveyed.  The SEAL team commander grasped the extended hand offered by Rand with wishes of good luck. A moment passed between the warriors, their faces telling all, nothing else needing to be said.

Wright turned and ordered the team to move out.  Each squad had a submersible that would transport them two hundred feet below the surface. The world's hope moved along a course carrying them to Novus Island. No trace of their presence rose up through the water to mark the team's passing. Upon arrival, they counted on the cover of darkness to provide concealment from possible danger.  Years of training came down to these final moments.

The team approached the shore under strict radio silence. Lieutenant Commander Wright checked his watch and the vessel's depth gauge. Closing on the shoreline and with one hundred and twenty feet of water above their heads, the submersibles settled in on the rocky bottom. Wright's voice erupted into each man's headset, “Exit.”

Everyone knew the assignment. Each man ran a final check of his gear and the luminescent dial of his compass. The eighty yard swim to the shore provided no challenge to their abilities.

A lone pair of eyes broke the water's surface.  Through the NVD's, the man warily scanned the coastline for any sign of a possible threat. He hovered in that position a full five minutes before signaling four other members of the advance party.  They moved with the thinking of one, crawling onto the shore and finding concealment. Certain they had not been detected, the men alerted the main group and the others deployed rapidly onto the frozen beach. A glacial shelf of ice greeted them, offering resistant access to Durnulqc's stronghold.

Within moments the sixty-four men stowed their gear and removed the black wet suits, donning white camouflage uniforms. Mitch Wright waited until the four squads were prepared, signaling the group to proceed. “Everyone knows what to do. Make it quick and quiet.”

Expertly, several members of the strike team ascended the sheer face of frozen ice and rock. Carried away by the wind, the sound of their picks hammering into the glazed surface did nothing to reveal their presence. Thrust forcefully into the ice, stainless steel pitons bit and took hold. Lines of rope were passed through the eye of the metal devices and lowered to the others below.  Quickly, the small team of men scaled the icy precipice, making their way over the top. Peering into the darkness, their mechanical devices revealed no hint of a force waiting in ambush. Satisfied their intrusion went undetected, the word was given and the remaining members of the SEAL team moved rapidly up the escarpment.

Fletcher Durnulqc's party made their way into the center of operations for the H.A.A.R.P.  Technicians gathered around banks of machinery.  From inside this labyrinth, workers monitored the island's defensive network and controlled the activation of Lawrence Alberts' endeavors.

“You may be wondering why I've allowed you to glimpse the inner sanctum, gentlemen,” Durnulqc said, opening his palms toward the center of the room.

“Your idea of entertainment, no doubt,” Canton replied, sharply.

Vickers’ hand rifled out with a blow that belied his stature, its force sending Canton staggering backwards. Blood erupted from the corner of his mouth. Already a purplish hint was forming on the left side of his face where the powerful fist struck. A warm sticky taste filled his mouth as he spit the blood-tinged saliva to the floor.  Instincts told him to remain calm, his expression giving a good indication of the wrath held in check.

Monique Sinclair brightened at the sight, piquing her curiosity.  The blood aroused her.  She delighted in violence, deriving great satisfaction from its infliction. The raven-haired beauty licked at the corner of her lips, a shark poised to strike.

Ashlyn held her breath. She dare not flinch or display any sign of emotion that would arouse suspicion. Fraudulently, the corners of her mouth pushed upwards, sending a deceitful message for anyone noticing her reactions.

Bryson McGann stood his ground, determined not to play into the hands of Fletcher Durnulqc. Attempting to retaliate at this point would serve no purpose. It was not yet time to end the reign of this madman. When that time came, he assured himself justice would be met.

The albino broke the silence. “Mr. Rickert was kind enough to inform me of a nuclear submarine sitting several miles off the coast.  It seems your foolish president has ordered a team of commandos to invade my island, as I expected he might. We’ve been tracking them without their knowledge since they arrived. If you’ll look towards the screen,” his voice rising, demanding attention. “You’ll be privileged to view the effects that the H.A.A.R.P. has on our fellow man. Alberts’ original plan called for a high frequency system, but with time, he perfected a machine capable of much more.”

Infrared images of ghostly forms came to life, the minutest details enhanced by the powerful computer.  The team operated in perfect accordance with their training; first advancing, then concealing themselves, and suddenly moving again.

Durnulqc interrupted the quiescence, feigning a sullen narrative, “As you can see, they’re just now surrounding the buildings, or should I say, props, you both passed on your way into the complex, gentlemen.” Turning to Rickert, he added, “You know what to do.”

The security chief moved with quick strides across the room, issuing orders to several workers positioned at control panels. The metallic clicking of keystrokes signaled the forthcoming event. Knowing faces grasped the revelation of what was about to transpire. McGann sensed the peril facing the SEAL team both he and Canton were powerless to stop.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Crescendo

Timed perfectly, the squads burst from the cover of darkness into the buildings ready to destroy any trace of resistance in their path. One by one the calls came in, alerting Wright nothing had been found.

No presence of life.

Excitedly, a forward sentry alerted the team's commander that a massive hangar sat inside the base of the mountain. Mitch Wright's instincts screamed at him. A trap awaited as winds picked up and snow encircled him. Still, he was determined to get in and complete the assigned mission. A quick decision needed to be made. Cautiously, he sent the scout team forward.

Blazing white light erupted from inside the mountain. The mechanical devices intensified the luminary display of artificial daylight escaping the entrance to the hangar.   Wright yelled into his headset, “NVD's off and take cover.”  Men fell everywhere, temporarily blinded by the light. Others threw up hands across their eyes hoping to ease the pain while they staggered through the snow awaiting return of their night vision. Moments later, fearful faces scoured the landscape in all directions searching for nonexistent targets.  Cold steel gun barrels swept back and forth in the night, remaining silent.

It was happening too fast. The plan was unraveling, but no other possibilities existed. The strike force had to keep going. With little more than a hundred yards ahead of them to the entrance, electric nerves waited apprehensively for the first sound of gunfire.

None came.

Without warning, a growing rumble signaled the closing of the hangar doors. It took a moment, and then the realization struck Lieutenant Commander Mitch Wright full force.  The snare had been set and now Durnulqc's trap was sprung. Awkwardly, the advance squad ran headlong through the deepening snow, burdened by equipment. Eight men tumbled through the opening. A ninth man fell, his equipment snagging in the track of the closing entrance. He worked frantically to free himself. Pinned on his left side, his knife lay useless underneath him. Unable to cut away the harness, he could only watch the frightening reality that waited. His scream pierced the night air as the crushing weight of the door closed over him.

The other members of the advance unit spread out in the vast hangar, vainly seeking cover.  Several were cut down by Durnulqc's guards before they reached safety.  Four of the island's defenders died immediately from the attackers accurate return fire. A number of others met the same fate within moments. Outnumbered, the small force quickly succumbed to the island's protectors. Gunfire withered and stopped, just as the entrance closed. Nine members of the SEAL team were dead.

Wright ordered the rest of the men to hold their positions.  Each man dropped to the ground, bowstring nerves tightened with raw emotion. Anger flared amongst the warriors, wanting only the chance to release their pent up vengeance. Wright barked commands to his squad leaders, attempting to restore order to the rattled soldiers. An unfamiliar sound rang in the headset. At first, Wright thought it was damaged in the melee, until it grew louder. 

Inside the control room the giant screen brought to life the hideous spectacle occurring outside the mountain, in all too vivid detail. Fletcher Durnulqc continued the commentary for his guests. “You see the agony,” relishing in the words.  “Soon it will be insufferable.  The frequency emitted by the H.A.A.R.P. will emulsify their internal organs.” 

At first, it bothered just a handful of men. Rivulets of blood trickled from their nostrils. Slight disorientation soon followed, hindering movement. Waves of nausea washed over the men before the symptoms worsened. Spreading its effects quickly, the H.A.A.R.P. pummeled the strike force with its incredible power.  Men writhed on the ground, contorted into unnatural positions, searing pain spreading through their bodies. Some rocked back and forth on weakening knees, hands pressing into heads, attempting to stop the torture. Screams of terror arose from the men, blood pouring from open mouths. Mitch Wright could do nothing.  The pain was unbearable. The failure to complete his assignment no longer mattered. A crimson flow of liquefied internal tissue spewed forth in violent spasms of vomition. The SEAL team commander pitched face forward into the snow, what life he once possessed seeped into the cold ground of Novus Island.

Durnulqc turned to McGann and Canton. “The destructive force of the H.A.A.R.P. has no equal.  It covers an incredible range of offensive as well as defensive capabilities, gentlemen. Alberts designed a massive grid that was cleverly fabricated into the side of this mountain. The one fault of the good professor's labor is its limited range. As you can tell we are quite safe in here, insulated from any harm.”

“So then you devised a networks of satellites to pander your insane ideas to the world for your own satisfaction,” McGann said determinedly, not hiding the welling hatred.

Durnulqc's long fingers formed into a V under his chin, rubbing the taut white skin, his gaze centering on his adversary.  “Make no mistake. Neither you, nor anyone else's interference will stop me.”

His features softened, a chameleon changing its colors. His voice captured a soothing quality.  “Mr. Vickers, it’s time to bid adieu to our guests.  See to it.”

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Washington, D.C.

Impetuous winds shrieked with anguish in the howling blackness of the raging tempest, long ago losing the distinction between sea and sky. The very waters it rode upon fueled ferocious currents of air that bore down upon the nation's capital bent on devastation. Waves rose to towering heights, crashing and frothing under impenetrable clouds that dumped walls of rain across the eastern seaboard. Its fervent desire to destroy all in its path rivaled only the villainous nature of the storm's creator.

Haplessly, the coastline suffered under the brunt of the man made abomination. What shelters were available were packed with refugees praying their haven would remain intact long enough to weather the storm. The Potomac, long swollen from prolonged rains, overflowed its banks with the storm surge pushing up the Chesapeake Bay.  Under the shroud of night, the full force of Durnulqc's making fell upon the city.

Buildings toppled as debris flew on a wild rampage in the rain-choked streets. Glass shattered into lethal projectiles, fallen power lines whipped about in serpent like fashion, uprooted trees toppled, crushing homes and the lives within. Lost in the turmoil, screams and prayers for help went unheard in the pandemonium. The eye of the hurricane continued spinning off the eastern coast.  The storm stalled over the city, completely at Durnulqc's command.

Little hope remained for the citizens of Washington, D.C.  Fate held them in its grip, the strings being pulled by a demon. If the storm failed to move, eventually total destruction of the city seemed imminent. Already, countless lives had been lost while the death toll added victims at an alarming rate. Life held its breath in the nation's capital, swept up in the terror of the killer storm.

Inside the bastion holding the conference of world leaders, nervous men and women waited anxiously for any sign of weakening of the storm. So far the building remained intact. Many questioned how long it could withstand the compelling force of two hundred and fifty mile per hour winds. Small rivers of rainwater poured into cracks, dousing the floors below.  In some areas, the force of the winds pushed water through the concrete structure forming into pools on the building's floor.  The continuous groaning of the malevolent hurricane plagued nervous conference members, relentlessly seeking to extinguish their resolve.

Admiral Elliot Sizemore ground his fist into the palm of his other hand after reading the note handed him by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. General Mowry hung his head, distressed by the words he read. His iron jaw clenched, the marine stiffened his shoulders and passed the paper to the country's national security advisor.  The news was not good.

The president stepped to the microphone addressing the delegates, “Ladies and gentlemen.” He waited until the voices quieted, gathering the crowd's attention. “I've just been informed by the National Security Advisor that the captain of the submarine lying off Novus Island has not received word from the strike force. I can only surmise that the team we put in place has met with failure.” Richard Simon lowered his eyes from the crowd, pausing, angered at the loss of the sixty-four men. Clearing his throat, he continued, “Therefore, the submarine will commence with the launching of Tomahawk missiles against Durnulqc's fortress.”

On the wall behind President Richard Simon, an empty screen unexpectedly filled with the stark white face of Fletcher Durnulqc. His enlarged image magnified the vile features.  Wet lips parted, unveiling a skeletal grin before he spoke. “Good evening. I can only hope you are enjoying the weather.”  Wicked laughter boiled up and diffused itself over the crowd. “Such a pity about your men, Mr. President.” His tone emphasized each syllable, drawing it out, contempt lying just under the skin of each word. “And by all means, continue with your foolish games if you must.” Durnulqc's brow knit itself together, nostrils flaring, his voice filled with loathing bordering on unabated rage.  “Rest assured, President Simon, the actions you and this pathetic group of world leaders take marks the destiny of mankind. Nothing you can do will bring an end to my plan.” Suddenly a ready calm dissolved his calcific features, “Please ladies and gentlemen,” the crazed man implored. “This is your last chance.” The face of Fletcher Durnulqc faded from view.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Hydrothermal Lab

Ashlyn Sanders had excused herself from the control room. She now stood just inside the door to her quarters, still shaken from the grizzly scene of death moments before. She forced herself to concentrate on her task. The lives of Bryson McGann and Joe Canton depended on it. Working quickly, she patched into the security system and found where Vickers had taken the two men.  Her worst fears came to life. There was little time to act, each second that passed brought both men closer to death. Sanders hurried from her room, moving as quickly as she dare without bringing attention to herself.

A door closed behind McGann and Canton as one of the guards shoved them roughly towards the large empty tank.  Vickers stood contentedly while the two men were bound together facing one another, arms outstretched. Another guard inserted a metal snap ring between the bindings encircling their wrists. From above, an electric motor hummed, lowering a heavy chain. Roughly, the guards pulled the two men's arms above their heads connecting the ring to the metal links. Ian Vickers walked slowly around the two men, ensuring everything was in order.  “I never fancied either one of you. And your nasty habit of wise remarks, McGann, has been more than a bit bothersome.”

Without warning three quick, powerful punches landed in the small of McGann's back expelling the air from his lungs. Burning pain rocketed through his body, a heaving groan escaping from his lips. Struggling to breathe from Vickers’ pummeling, McGann drew in a ragged breath appeasing his lungs' demand.

Canton lashed out with a kick that the Englishman narrowly sidestepped. The big man's reward were two painful jabs up under the rib cage, pushing the air from his lungs in a repeat performance of McGann's experience. Vickers knew exactly where to strike to achieve the results he wanted. His mastery of torture had come at the expense of many over the years. “It's only the beginning, mates,” Vickers taunted, a lurid sneer forming. Another set of powerful strikes followed, wracking each man. Durnulqc's bodyguard paused at the sound of the muted tone, retrieving the communications device from his pocket. “Yes,” he answered.  “I'll be right there. Seems our fun has come to an end. Into the tank,” the English accent remarked casually to one of the guards.

Securely shackled, both men were hoisted into the Plexiglas coffin. The mechanical sound of an opening valve heralded the torrent of water unleashing itself into the tank. Seawater swirled and foamed across the floor, rising rapidly around their ankles.  The Englishman took one last look making sure everything was functioning appropriately.  Ian Vickers and the two guards left, leaving McGann and Canton in the hands of fate.

The numbness forming in both their arms was soon forgotten in the face of the freezing water.  The malignant cold seeped into their bones. Several times the flow abated, prolonging the torture that would begin again, signaled by the outpouring of icy liquid spewing from the intake pipes.

They shivered in the unrelenting cold of now waist high waters. Each moment spent in the tank sapped their strength and prolonged the agony.  Neither was willing to give up, both fighting the urge to succumb. Futilely, they attempted to free the bonds gouging their wrists. Breathing came with great difficulty as the water climbed to chest level. McGann and Canton quit struggling to avoid expending needless energy, focusing instead on survival. 

One last breath. Each man filled his lungs, teeth clenched and jaws locked as the frightfully cold water covered their heads. Only their survival training and grim determination kept them alive for the moment. Buoyant from the air trapped in their lungs, they floated awkwardly, tethered to the heavy chain. Time moved with agonizing slowness while death waited its chance.

Ashlyn Sanders pressed her back to the door exhaling heavily.  The woman's nerves were ground to a fine point. She did not know what lie on the other side, but somehow she would play the cards as they fell. Ashlyn hoped she was not too late.

Sanders moved warily, as far as she could tell no one was around. She worked her way cautiously into the control room. As she stepped to the edge of the tank, horror gripped her, sending her close to panic. Several feet below the water's surface, two men floated, suspended from shackles. Ashlyn turned toward the control panel, frantically pounding every button she could find until her ears were rewarded by the sound of the outlet valves opening. The tank's contents drained at a tormenting pace. All she could do now was wait.

McGann and Canton felt the waters receding and fought the urge to breathe until it had swept past their chins. Needfully, the men gulped in large breaths satisfying the fire inside both of their chests.  Sanders brought the electric motor to life, the chain tightened and with agonizing slowness the men were lifted from the tank.

Caught in the grip of hypothermia, precious seconds ticked by.  If McGann and Canton could not find a way to increase their body temperatures, they might easily die from the effects of the chilling exposure. They slumped to the floor while Ashlyn worked at the bindings holding them. Desperate, she scoured the room for anything to cut the plastic restraints. Her diligence rewarded her as the metallic clip of wire cutters bit through the bindings.

McGann shivered violently, teeth chattering, his thought processes blunted by the cold. “What are you…” he forced out the words.

“I'll explain later,” she shot back.  “You have to get up and help me with Joe. Now,” she ordered.

With Ashlyn's help, Bryson McGann struggled to his feet.  Hindered by Canton's nearly limp body, McGann and Sanders heaved the big man upright. They stumbled along, prodding Canton across the tiled floor and leaving a wet trail behind them. Thankfully, the hydrothermal lab used for conducting ecological experiments was deserted. Ashlyn hoped the tank holding the warm water was still full from the day's experiment.

Taxing her strength, Ashlyn shoved the two men into the shallow tank, its waters quickly enveloping them. Sanders worked the switches of the control panel finally sending jets of warmer water streaming into the tank. The numbing coldness slowly ebbed while they floated in the life saving comfort of one hundred and ten degree water.

Chapter Seventy

Unexpected Discovery

Tony Perez, Ashlyn Sanders' shadow since arriving at the complex, had more on his mind than assigned duties when he knocked on the door to her quarters. The man's swarthy features grew into a dark scowl at the hollow sound of his third try.  A glance in each direction revealed the two people in the hallway did not see him insert a master key card into the slot. The sound of the lock disengaging pounded in his ears, his breathing quickened. Unsure of what he might find, Perez's mind ran wild with unfulfilled desires. He hoped at least one would come true. The man had hinted his intentions for the red haired scientist on more than one occasion. She had thrown off the advances playfully, but he convinced himself there was more to the game.  Long arctic nights were cold and lonely and he was quite willing to help warm the good doctor's sheets. An image of her supple body writhing with the pleasures he could provide heightened, as he pushed open the door.

Light from the hallway spilled into her darkened quarters.

No sounds, nothing.

Only emptiness.

Tony Perez's fantasies disintegrated into a jumble of fragmented pieces. Lurid visions of the couple's love making washed away upon the discovery of Sanders' computer.  The screen offered up a display of the hydrothermal lab and three locator beacons flashing from that point. He needed to find the fickle doctor so he could do his assigned job, the other would now have to wait. His mood blackened with the missed opportunity as he issued a string of curses directed towards the female scientist.

Perez pushed open the doors to the lab, surprised to find no lights on. Stillness pervaded the air, mildly alerting him.  He almost called out and then thought better of it. If Doctor Sanders was here, he would find her, maybe frighten her.  The thought of scaring the woman brightened his mood. Perhaps a little payback was in order.

He noticed puddles of water splashed on the floor below his feet. A wet trail marked the recent passage of something or someone. The guard walked noiselessly, listening for the slightest hint of anyone's presence. He eventually found himself at the other end of the lab, keenly aware of the humming sound coming from the thermal tank's motor.  Perez strode past the doors unaware of anything unusual until he spotted the two forms floating in the water.  In the dim lighting, the faces did not take on a familiar appearance. Something about this had a bad feel. It cut against the grain. He decided to inform Rickert.

Ashlyn Sanders' voice sliced into the moment. Startled, Perez spun quickly, eyeing the woman carrying an armload of clothing and towels. He opened his mouth, prepared to demand an explanation for her presence in the lab with the two strangers.

Sanders tossed the articles directly into Perez's face, temporarily blocking his vision. His arms flailed wildly in a feeble attempt to throw them aside. Caught completely off guard, Perez had no opportunity to defend himself. He did not see the kick, but the pain it caused lanced his body.  Ashlyn moved decidedly, snapping a kick and planting the ball of her foot into his groin. A cry bellowed from the man as Tony Perez doubled over, his world suddenly condensed to the pain erupting from his injured loins and the nausea sweeping over him. She followed by bringing a knee up under the man's chin, snapping his jaws together.  In one final move, her fists hammered down onto the base of his neck, sending him into a thankful unconsciousness.

Ashlyn Sanders peeled the black dress off and stepped into an Artech uniform, waiting impatiently.  Nothing further on her part could speed the process of her friend's recovery from the cold waters. Time became an element, and it was something she had little of. Pacing the floor, she watched as the men stirred and finally pulled themselves from the thermal tank. Sanders handed them several towels and a set of dry uniforms from the locker room.

Canton glared at her, thankful to be alive, yet perplexed by her actions. “What the hell’s going on?”

McGann zipped the dry uniform up and finished toweling his wet hair.  He had two questions but decided to let Sanders fill in some of the blanks.

“Look. We don't have much time,” she replied.  “I imagine somebody's going to come down here to fish you two out of that tank. And when they do, we'd better be gone.”

Neither man spoke, nor moved, content to let her continue.

“I'll give you the short side of the story.  We've been involved with the surveillance of Fletcher Durnulqc for a number of years now.  A lot of good people have turned up dead during that time. The agency has been unable to prove anything. People either won't talk or they're already dead by the time we find them.” Ashlyn waited for their questions but none came. She finally continued, “We've held a tight lid on this. It's as if he knows every move we make and beats us to the punch. I'm the closest anyone has come to him, most likely because of recent events at the Billings project.”

Joe Canton fumed, “Who is we?”

His searing question stoked her ire. She gave them no ground, staring defiantly. “NSA.”

“Shit, Ashlyn.  Everything was just a game, wasn't it?”

“Joe. Shut up. There's not enough time to explain it all. And by the way, the answer to your question is, no.”

McGann broke the silence forming between them. “I don't know how much you know, Ashlyn, but Washington, D.C.’s being attacked by Fletcher Durnulqc at this moment. I should say, by an event of his doing.”

Her face coiled in puzzlement. “How?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“An immense hurricane’s sitting on top of the city right now. Durnulqc created the monster storm. God only knows what will be left of D.C. if we can't stop him.”

“That's why those men were killed outside. Special Ops, SEALS, some type of commando unit. They were sent here to capture Durnulqc's stronghold,” Canton interjected, anger simmering.

“We need to get out of here,” Sanders said.

“Not yet,” McGann replied, lacing up his shoes. “Lawrence Alberts left a final gift for Durnulqc and I mean to see he gets it.” His fingers plucked at the gold chain hanging from his neck. The nano disc winked with the reflection of the dim light. “We need to find a place to deliver this first. If not, Durnulqc wins and that's unacceptable.”

Chapter Seventy-One

SSN-22 Connecticut

As soon as the team left the submarine, the skipper ordered the Connecticut away from the island at flank speed. Within moments of the command, the nuclear powered vessel raced away from the black waters surrounding Novus Island.

Now, over seventy miles from the island's coast, the SSN-22 lay motionless one hundred feet below the surface. Captain Rand waited in his cabin, occupying himself with required paperwork that beckoned his attention. Frustratingly, he watched the minutes melt away in agonizing slowness. Rand shoved the paperwork into a desk drawer unable to concentrate. His mind rambled over the fate of the men sent to protect the world. He knew the allotted time had slipped past and still no word from Wright.  His duty was clear.  The nuclear powered sub's commander had no choice. Only one option availed itself to him and it was time to fulfill his orders.

The onboard missile guidance systems had long been programmed with the coordinates of the intended targets.  Once launched, only a short time would pass before the instruments of death and destruction unveiled their work. Countdown for the obliteration of the Artech mining site was at hand. Video links inside several of the guided rockets would relay the flight path and final moment of their existence as detonation occurred.

Rand clicked the end of the ballpoint repeatedly.  He realized he gave the team every opportunity by allowing more time. If they died at the hands of a madman, then he meant to see to it they did not die in vain. The skipper rose out of his chair and made his way to the control room.

“Attention on deck, skipper has the con,” a petty officer called out.

Rand positioned himself comfortably in the commander's chair as Lieutenant Ron Prentiss updated him with current details. All hands knew the fate of the strike team since their silent response meant they would not be returning. More than ready to offer retribution for the stolen lives, the crew only waited for the captain's word to commence the operation.

“View screen up,” Rand commanded. “Are target coordinates entered and ready, Mr. Prentiss?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Okay, we're locked and loaded.  Time for some payback.  Let's give Mr. Durnulqc a demonstration of just what we can do.  Commence firing sequence.” Rand checked his watch noting the time and nodded at Prentiss to begin.

“Set firing sequence,” the lieutenant ordered. “On my mark.”

“Fire.”

The first of the twelve missiles were launched. Outside the submarine a hatch cover flew open and the nose of the missile pushed upwards. Pulling itself from its cocoon, the weapon gathered speed as volumes of water frothed in a bubbling wake. Breaking the water's surface, it flew upwards and on toward the intended target.  The Connecticut rocked gently from the force of the exiting Tomahawks. 

The sailor's eyes focused on the view screens as missiles one, four, eight and twelve relayed images racing past. The computer deciphered and enhanced the infrared data, digitalizing and producing a picture of what appeared to be daylight conditions. Collectively the crewmen held their breath anticipating the coming explosions.

A view of Novus Island's coastline grew before them on the screen. “Missiles inbound and on track, skipper,” the radar control man monitoring the flight remarked.

Rand sat expressionless, knowing fully the potential of the cruise missiles. Amends could be made for Wright and his crew but it would not bring them back from the dead. He whispered a curse invoking damnation on Durnulqc and whoever else his accomplices might be.

The captain knew there was a problem even before the words chopped into the indulging quiet. Disbelievingly, he and the crew watched in horror as something went terribly wrong. The visuals returned by the missiles suddenly turned grainy.  Snowy images of interference whipped across the screen in front of the sub's personnel. In a moment all contact was lost.

Technicians scrambled to find the cause as frenzied voices gave commands and called out information. Pandemonium gripped the crewmembers of the SSN-22. All backup systems proved useless in an effort to regain control of the weapons.  Talk of rocket engine failure, disrupted inertial guidance, and other technical jargon buzzed throughout the con. For Rand, it did not matter.  He was powerless to provide a solution to the problem. The Connecticut sat helplessly, while millions of taxpayer's dollars sank into the depths off Novus Island, brought down by the power of the H.A.A.R.P.

*     *     *

Transmitted by the submarine and relayed by satellite, the laser signal was unaffected by the cataclysmic windstorm now enveloping Washington, D.C.  The dismal news brought an expected reaction from the nation's leader.  The advisors surrounding him knew immediately, the second chance to bring Durnulqc's reign of terror to an end failed miserably. 

“Sir, the mission was unsuccessful,” Maddox said, visibly shaken. “Apparently, the word from Rand is the missiles inexplicably malfunctioned. All twelve dropped into the sea before reaching the intended target.  Novus Island’s still intact.”

NSA director, Lewis, and CIA's head, Barrett, shot each other a worrisome look. Solemn masks of defeat adhered themselves to each member of the Joint Chiefs. Failure was not an option they anticipated a second time.

The pressures of leadership chipped away at the president's thinning veneer.  Bit by bit, the frayed corners exposed themselves, unraveling into fine threads. Simon, unable to hold his temper in check any longer, pounded the table with his fist.  The stinging pain went unnoticed as he shouted, “Will somebody tell me how the fuck this can be. A hell bent lunatic’s controlling the world and we didn't see it coming.”

Exhausted faces peered back, answerless. Ravaged by the dilemma, they were all too quickly losing the battle shaping the final direction that left no room for a change of course. The planet's problems had now escalated to a point where Simon and the others hoped it would never reach.

The president waited, answered only by the incessant crying of saw-toothed winds tearing at their haven. So far the building held, but time became an enemy.  Even this monumental edifice could withstand only so much before it tumbled to the ground.

“Mr. President,” Benjamin Wolcott said, awaiting a reply.  None came. “Richard,” his tone soothing, a balm for the deepening chasm engulfing the men and women gathered in the room.

Simon looked up, roused from his thoughts.

“You need to tell them something.  It's time for a decision.”

The president pulled himself together, straightening the blue silk hanging loosely from his neck. He threw an arm into a sleeve of his jacket and moved towards the door.  “Time to face the music,” he whispered.

Simon's appearance brought the crowd's grumbling rapidly to a crescendo, igniting fires of flaring indignation. Near panic hovered on the fringes, eventually dying from their inability to rectify the situation. With raised hands gesturing for silence, perspiration grew, clinging damply above the lips of Richard Simon before he spoke.

Chapter Seventy-Two

H.A.A.R.P. Complex

Tony Perez lay unconscious on the tiled floor.  McGann and Canton struggled with the limp form, pulling him into the locker room. They bound Perez as best they could, hoping they could buy enough time.

The trio found the computer station behind locked doors. A swift kick from Canton's foot snapped the flimsy lock granting them access to the needed information. McGann seated himself in front of a terminal and brought the computer to life while the other two hovered over his shoulder.  

“Alberts' disc can put an end to the H.A.A.R.P., but he never left a clue as to where the nano disc terminals are located,” McGann said.

“I know there's one in the main control room and I think Durnulqc has one in his office,” Sanders interjected.

“Might as well kiss those good-bye,” Canton remarked.

Bryson's fingers worked the keyboard tapping in several commands, finally connecting with a locator map diagram. “I believe I've got that covered. Ash, you were right about the two. Actually, there are six locations in all. One in Rickert's office which I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate us using, two others in obscure corners of the complex.”

“Scratch those,” Canton snapped.

“But the remaining terminal's in the hangar.  That settles it. We'll just stop, slip in the disc, and be on our way.”

“That's your plan,” Ashlyn winced.

“Best one I've got at the moment. We'll ad lib as we go along.” McGann's confidence gave no hint of failure.

“And Durnulqc's just going to let us walk out of here?”

“Fly, actually.”

“Things could get pretty sticky, Ash,” Canton broke in.

Ashlyn's retort came back crisp and certain, “Don't worry, I can take care of myself.”

McGann quickly memorized a map of the complex, enough to get them to the hangar in the most expedient route possible, once they stopped by the armory.  “Time to go.”

“Wait,” Sanders pleaded.  She made quick work of the instructions she sent into the computer.  Breaching the security system, she punched in a final command. “This'll bring an end to the camera's peering eye and the locator devices implanted in our ID cards, at least temporarily.”

From the other end of the hydrothermal lab, a shout arose. Tony Perez had been discovered. A familiar English voice called for the other guards to search the lab.

The three of them hurried from the lab moving quickly into a deserted corridor.  Their detection by Vickers left little opportunity for secrecy.  What they needed was a lot of luck and a way to defend themselves. McGann and Canton's martial skills would provide an inadequate shield in the face of armed men.

McGann called for a halt, stopping in front of the entrance. He swiped his card through the slot, entering the correct numbers. The door opened into the maze of tunnels holding the internal network of pipes and cables that kept the mountain fortress running. The inconspicuous route gave them a fair chance of getting to the armory undetected. Not giving it a second thought, they bolted through the portal as the door closed behind them.

Vickers and the other men arrived to find Bryson McGann and Joe Canton missing from the tank. Alarmed by their unaccountable disappearance, they began a search to hunt for the missing men. Ian Vickers discovered Tony Perez lying in a corner of the locker room.  Freeing him from his restraints, he demanded an explanation. Perez's words fueled the malice Vickers felt for the men, especially McGann.  Killing him would be a pleasure. A vision of McGann's lifeless body placated the feral-faced man only momentarily.  Seething with anger, Vickers ordered a careful search of the rest of the hydrothermal lab. Their actions resulted in the discovery of a pile of wet clothes and a broken door.  Vickers pulled the communications device from his pocket and informed Durnulqc.

A rictal smile entrenched itself across the face of Fletcher Durnulqc. Stygian eyes clouded with the awareness of the men's escape and Sanders' duplicity.  Her involvement resulted in an outpouring of interminable laughter.

“It seems we've underestimated our two friends. And our dear Ashlyn, my such a disappointment. No matter, Mr. Vickers.”  The albino's demeanor changed instantly, a flagitious chill filling it. “Find them. Do not fail me, Mr. Vickers.  I shall join the quest.”

Monique Sinclair relished the words. The opportunity to kill again sharpened her features. Her pink tongue darted out, licking her lips at the thought of spilled blood, although Sinclair mused over lost possibilities with the scientist. Such a pity.  Yet the feel of honed steel sliding into Sanders’ flesh would provide a satisfaction overshadowing any sexual gratification. Monique turned, leaving Durnulqc alone in the room.

He let his gaze follow her out. She had always been a lone predator, determined, intent on the kill.  There was no stopping her.  Only the scent of death could fulfill her needs. Fletcher Durnulqc had no doubts regarding Monique Sinclair's capabilities.

Somehow they managed to avoid detection but each second that passed brought them closer to conflict. Canton pressed his ear to the door straining for any sound on the other side. Ashlyn nodded at both men before slipping out into the hallway.  Her footsteps faded as she made her way to the armory around the corner.  Moments later, the two men left the safety of the tunnel and followed soundlessly behind, alert for any sign of trouble.

Cutting through the imposing quiet, an alarm rang alerting the complex to danger.  Ashlyn willed herself to remain calm as she approached the two men inside the caged opening of the armory.

“Say, either of you two seen Tony Perez?”  Sanders’ eyes took in the features of the heavyset man and his balding younger partner.  “He told me to meet him here.”

“Who are you?” the bull dog faced man inquired with an eye of caution.

“Dr. Sanders.  What's the noise all about? Do you mind if I come in and wait?” Ashlyn asked coyly.

“Probably another damn security test. No one tells us anything down here. Let her in, Jake,” the younger man chided. “Been a long time since I've seen such a pretty face.”

“Alright, Doc. Come on in,” he growled.

As the security door slid back, McGann and Canton rushed in surprising the two Artech employees.  The younger man shouted a warning to Jake, who had turned away as Ashlyn entered.  They were his last words as Joe Canton's arms rocketed out, crossing and clamping around the smaller man's neck. Reacting out of instinct, his hands groped at Canton's massive arms. Quickly, Canton applied pressure to one side of the man's neck while his other hand wrenched the head in one smooth motion. The crackling snap of breaking vertebrae sounded and the body slumped to the floor expelling its last breath.

Bryson McGann moved with cat like agility closing the distance to his adversary but not before the burly man yanked his sidearm from its holster.  Bringing the weapon up and aiming at the intruder, his finger tightened on the trigger.  McGann's left arm flew up, catching the wrist of the armed foe. The open palm of his right hand whipped into the armorer's sternum. Reflexively, he pulled the trigger sending a bullet past McGann's head into the ceiling, wheezing out a gasping breath from his pain-wracked chest. Years of practice made the follow through easy.  McGann turned and locked his opponent's wrist bringing his free arm up forcefully under the man's elbow, breaking it instantly.  The heavily jowled man howled with pain that McGann squelched by launching his own elbow into the man's windpipe. Mercifully, McGann ended the dying man's life, quelling the gurgling sounds emitted from the injured throat.

“That shot'll arouse someone's curiosity.  Grab some weapons and spare magazines, as many as you can carry.  Make it quick,” McGann ordered. “We need to move.”  Stuffing the pockets of their jumpsuits, they left the armory, weapons at the ready.

Chapter Seventy-Three

Durnulqc’s Headquarters

Inside the complex, armed patrols began the task of locating the three intruders. The orders issued from Durnulqc were clear.  Shoot on site without question. The intruders were not to leave Novus Island alive.

Fletcher Durnulqc paced the concrete floor of the hangar.  His guards gathered in ambush waiting for the trio's appearance should they outwit Ian Vickers and Monique Sinclair.  Once they emerged from the elevators and the doors shut behind them, the slaughter would begin. A sense of deep satisfaction swept over him at the thought. Many years passed since he actually took the life of another.  He paid others well for accomplishing the task. The memory of the explosion aboard his father's yacht, scorching the sky in a blazing inferno, warmed him. He remembered the pleasure of the heinous act committed by his own hands. Fletcher Durnulqc stood poised to take the first shot.

Banks of terminals in the security center's control room sat with darkened screens in front of Rickert. Unknown to him, Ashlyn's act of sabotage prevented them from coming on line. The job of finding the unwanted visitors just became more difficult.  Rickert's face impassioned with anger glowed a bright red. Unleashing a string of oaths, his fist pounded the top of the nearest console. Workers scrambled at a fevered pitch to correct the mishap and override the system. Without the cameras, his security forces were operating blindly.

Ian Vickers ordered the armed squad to continue the search without him. The Englishman rechecked his weapon, knowing the trio's destination. Fully aware that the only way off the island for McGann and his friends was by airplane, Vickers vowed to not let that happen.  Bent on reprisal, he sprinted down the hallway moving in the direction of the hangar. 

Sanders ran closely behind Bryson McGann and Joe Canton, their crepe soled shoes whispering softly along the tiled floor, providing little evidence of their passing. The sound of voices filled the corridor ahead of McGann and Canton. Each man knew what was required. Rounding the corner, the two men parted, moving to opposite sides of the hallway.  Ashlyn dove for the floor bringing her weapon up in front of her.  Shock registered on the startled faces of an eight man team loitering aimlessly in the passageway.  An unlit cigarette clung precariously to the lower lip of the guard closest to the trio. His opened mouth remained silent, fear's gripping revelation capturing him.

Almost simultaneously, McGann and Canton's weapons spewed forth a hail of bullets finding the intended victims. Ashlyn followed suit with a burst from her own submachine gun. Only a few errant shots were returned before astonished faces gave way to empty masks of death. In a moment it was over.  Eight Artech employees lay in grotesque positions on the blood stained floor.  The big man pulled Ashlyn along not wanting her to view the carnage while McGann hurried past indifferently, without a second look.

Automatic gunfire a short distance away raised her hackles. Cautiously, Monique Sinclair threw a quick glance around the corner and saw Canton heading around the next one. Her long hair danced in the trail of wind behind her. Lean powerful legs pushed her forward in hopes of catching them before they could enter the elevators.

Senses on full alert, McGann stopped before the bank of elevators doors. Canton stood protectively next to Ashlyn Sanders.  Anxiety rode a rising wave of tension as Ashlyn attempted to maintain her composure. She had never taken a life and the memory of the grizzly scene sickened her.  The woman bit back the bile rising in her throat. All too quickly, the world around her slowed into stop action time.  The sight of Monique Sinclair rushing around the corner widened her eyes. Sinclair triggered a staccato burst of gunfire in their direction. Puffs of smoke arose in magnified clarity from the barrel of the lethal weapon. Sinclair's scream of rage echoed in the empty corridor.

Monique Sinclair wasted no time, frenzied with the need to kill. In her headlong rush she misjudged the corner, sliding and slamming into the opposite wall. Her slender finger tightened on the trigger in the process. Fortunately, her haste saved Canton's life.  The impact threw off her aim and a line of bullets scarred the wall just above Canton's head. Sinclair dove to the floor, tucking into a shoulder roll in an attempt to line up another shot after her move. At the same time, the elevator doors slid apart and McGann roughly shoved Sanders inside. Bryson McGann fired in response, depleting the final rounds in his magazine, giving Canton time to jump into the elevator.  Bryson's aim was accurate, but his fire found only emptiness where Monique Sinclair had been a moment before. With no time to reload, McGann joined the other two waiting for him.

Sinclair pushed herself off the floor, ignoring the burning pain in her right arm from the bullet's ricochet. She made a futile attempt to stop the elevator from closing, but now the only option was to wait for the next one's arrival. A warm, red patch grew slowly on her sleeve.  She eyed the slight wound hypnotically and dipped a painted red nail into the blood. Intrigued by the sight, she brought the coppery tasting nectar to her pink tongue.

The elevator came to a halt one level above the hangar.  They each took up defensive positions in the corners and waited for the doors to open. Nervous anticipation faded as the elevator opened into emptiness. McGann stole a glance into the hallway, breathing a sigh of relief when he spotted the detail of guards that only seconds before sprinted past their position. With no others in sight, they turned left, heading for a stairwell that would lead them down to the backside of the hangar.

Tony Perez hobbled well behind the other guards, unable to catch up. The swelling in his groin ached miserably and made any movement difficult.  His head pounded with each step and his swollen lips throbbed, courtesy of Ashlyn Sanders.  Dried blood still clung to the corners of his mouth. Tony Perez was in a foul mood and if he got the chance he would be happy to show the good doctor. The sound of a closing door interrupted his thoughts and he limped off to investigate. 

The Latino hobbled into the stairwell, following the faint sound of footsteps below him. Perez knew this rarely used entrance into the hangar below would have afforded him the opportunity to find a resting place. Instead, his curiosity rose, causing him to wonder anyone else might be using the staircase. He leaned over the rail letting it fully support his weight. In the dimly lit passage, Perez thought he recognized the person passing through the closing door.  Was it possible? The chance to even the score tempted him. Ignoring the painful ache, he put aside the discomfort and limped onward in pursuit of the fleeing Ashlyn Sanders.

Chapter Seventy-Four

Washington, D.C.

The impact of the words spoken by President Richard Simon settled in upon the stunned faces of the world's delegates, revealing their disillusionment at hearing of another failure. Hopes of bringing an end to Fletcher Durnulqc's created misery ebbed with the increasing comprehension that now a lone alternative existed. Protests were few and short lived. Not only were they concerned for their fellow countrymen, their own safety came into question as long as the massive hurricane continued to ravage the city. Uncertainties hovered, and the thoughts of radioactive fallout spreading over a vast portion of the northern hemisphere remained a haunting specter.

It had been decided that to ensure total annihilation of Durnulqc's stronghold, a one hundred megaton hydrogen bomb was needed. An intercontinental ballistic missile could not be used. It would meet the same fate as those missiles launched by the Connecticut due to the H.A.A.R.P.'s already proven ability. 

Military intelligence retraced the flight paths of each rocket and discovered they all failed to operate at a distance of five miles from the target.  The Pentagon determined that the island's protective halo did not extend beyond that limit. Keeping that in mind, a B-1 bomber could easily fly at a much higher altitude, delivering its payload and effectively neutralizing the target.  The plan was weak, leaving room for error, but it was all they had.

Simon and the other leaders were facing a worst-case scenario. They were unwilling to capitulate to the demands of a maniacal terrorist. However, the blood that would be on their conscience as a result of their decision weighed heavily on each of them.

Niya Adi buried her head in the palm of her hands, elbows resting on the desk in front of her.  The game she sought to win was ending with a play she prayed would not happen. The strain of her current situation erased her normally radiant features, replacing them with deep furrows between her brows. Tears welled, prepared to spill over the dark circles that had formed under her eyes. She forced them back, refusing to expose her deepest emotions before the others. In that moment of solitude, she decided her future. Niya Adi would give up her position as Secretary General of the United Nations. They might balk at her resignation, but she decided it was time to end her political life. Once she did that, Mykonos, her home in the Greek islands, awaited. She longed for her homeland in the Mediterranean and a life of obscurity.  In a few years, few would remember her name and that suited her just fine. Perhaps she and Wilhelm might make a life together.  Simon's voice cut into her daydream. The woman, angry with herself for placing her needs in front of others, let the daydream slip away.

“I believe we're well aware of the dangers of nuclear retaliation,” Simon called out over the microphone, raising his voice to be heard over the tempest's winds. “What effect it has upon the millions of people and the environment is something that makes this decision so difficult. There is no other choice.”

Prime Minister McDermott ended his protests, fully accepting the consequences of the agreement. The politician hoped history proved the decision to be the correct one. The loss of life and destruction of pristine territory in the Canadian Arctic left its acidic taste in the back of his throat.

Simon eyed the time and continued, “I've given the order for an air strike from Thule Air Base on Greenland's west coast.  The aircraft left fifteen minutes ago for the intended target.  Our hope is that once Novus Island is destroyed, the storm will dissipate. According to intelligence sources...”

Without warning, a deafening rumble spread through the entire building. It caught the members of the summit completely unprepared for what came next. Dread lined the faces of the men and women confined to the meeting room. Secret Service agents reacted quickly, exactly as trained, protecting the president and hurrying him to relative safety in the interior chamber of the building's center.

Ornate marble columns decorating the exterior and supporting the overhanging roof at the building's entrance, collapsed into the main lobby.  The contractor hired to build the edifice decided to cut corners and pocket the change. Instead of the solid marble columns called for in the blueprints, he decided to use sectional pieces held together with reinforcing rods drilled into the stone. Unfortunately, his inept decision cost numerous people their lives. Workers had not bothered to install the rods to their proper depth in several places on the columns. A number of others had only half the required rods called for in the plans. Under normal circumstances, no one would ever have known, nor would it probably have mattered. However, what was taking place outside the building was far from normal.

Sealed prior to the hurricane's arrival, the main entrance and windows were barricaded to protect them from the storm's onslaught. Miraculously they remained intact until now.  Rainwater from the torrential downpour collecting on the roof and the powerful winds caused a number of the columns to shift until finally several collapsed. The heavy marble sections punched easily through the building's entrance. Now that the killer storm breached the interior of the building, its ferocious winds tore along the passageways hungrily destroying anything in its path.

Eight Secret Service agents and a handful of U. S. marines lost their lives immediately, killed by the falling rubble from above.  Two other agents were crushed to death when a section of marble rolled over them. For those who survived the initial destruction, death was short in coming. Powerful winds hurled their bodies through the air, smashing them against walls, leaving them lifeless.

The rent in the building's facade offered the blackness of the storm a chance to continue the desolation. The wind's unimaginable howling intensified to an incredible level in the vacant corridors. Although its power diminished somewhat racing through the hallways, the mindless penchant for destruction went unabated. Caught by the full force of the winds, the doors to the main conference room were effortlessly ripped from their hinges.

Benjamin Wolcott jumped to the microphone while the president's bodyguards were moving him to safety.  Barely heard above the pandemonium, he shouted for people to remain calm. “Everyone exit through the automatic doors in the front of the room. You'll be safe...” his words were lost in the mayhem. An entourage of military personnel and key figures moved hastily behind the president. A smaller conference room, capable of seating one hundred people, sat in the middle of the building. It was their last bastion of hope.

Panic clawed insidiously at the men and women rushing for the safety of the inner sanctum. They grappled and shoved one another in their attempts to move to the head of the line, not caring who stood in front of them. Several people met their death, trampled by the terror stricken crowd.

Niya Adi hurried forward, eyes widened in abject fear.  Jostled from each side, the woman lost her footing, falling to the floor just when the doors blew open. One of the massive doors careened across the room ripping up seats where only moments before the now fleeing men and women sat. The second door was savagely torn from its casing and lifted into the air, becoming a lethal projectile.  Two envoys of the Bulgarian delegation, and an Israeli dignitary, who pushed Niya to the floor, in an order to save himself, were cut in half.  The scythe flew across the floor of the room indiscriminately taking lives. Screams were lost in the frenzy. 

The secretary general inched her way over dead bodies and debris fighting to survive. Shards of glass and pieces of broken objects swirled around the room, some cutting into her exposed flesh. She paid no attention to the pain, instead, focusing her energies on remaining alive. Niya Adi looked up to see the automatic door beginning to close. In one last effort, she sprang to her feet and slid between the opening at the last possible moment.

A video monitor in the conference room depicted in all too vivid reality the grisly scene of the few who still survived on the other side of the steel doors. Soon death curled its fingers over them providing an end to their suffering.  Niya could not look and turned her head away. 

Of the three hundred and thirty-seven leaders and dignitaries, one hundred and eighty-two lay dead. The appalling scene reflected in the distant stares of survivors crowded into the small conference room. Some prayed while others wept. Many, who a short time ago refused to speak to one another, now worked side by side tending to the needs of the injured with makeshift bandages and limited first aid equipment.  The ceaseless cacophony of murderous winds mocked them, howling in defiance of their pleas for help.

Richard Simon walked among the injured offering words of encouragement. He moved across the room to where his advisor stood behind a video console, signaling for his attention.

“Sir, the communications equipment’s out.  It must've went down when the roof collapsed,” Wolcott said to the president.

“Why does that not surprise me,” the president's words brimming with a sarcastic tone. “Ben, there's nothing left to do but wait and hope we survive. It's out of our hands at this point.” The cold reality of the President's words burrowed under Wolcott's skin, leaving him with an uncomfortable feel about his own future.

“I found this spooled message from Sumner,” the national security advisor spit out. “It probably came in a short time before we lost our video relay.  The image is pretty broken up, but I think you need to take a look at it.”

Wolcott tapped the replay button and the face of the NESSA director appeared on a small screen. The grainy transmission flickered and then returned. Garbled by the foul weather, not all of Sumner's words were clear. 

“Mr. President, I've discov... the location of the missing na...disc that Lawrence Alb... had in his posses… when a NES... remote team discovered his body.  It seems it's in the hands of two of my emp..yees, Bryson McGann and Joseph Canton. However, I don't have access to the disc.” The NESSA director paused,  “It's currently on Novus Island.”

A crease tightened on the president's forehead, perplexed by the words he had just heard. A brief disruption of the transmission ensued and then Sumner's voice faded. The director's image reappeared.

He spoke carefully, choosing the words, deliberately structuring his sentences.

“I received a delayed entry message via my e-mail, written Friday afternoon by Bryson McGann. McGann said he broke Albert's code and knew how to stop Fletcher Durnulqc.” Sumner bit down hard on the black stem of the ever present pipe before continuing, blowing a thick cloud into the air above his head. “Basically, McGann intimated that if the proper channels were followed it would be too late.” Sumner pulled the pipe from between his teeth and his face separated, divided by thick diagonal black lines. The sound of his voice became distorted and the transmission ceased.

“That's all there is, sir,” Benjamin Wolcott said, watching his friend's reaction.

Richard Simon stroked his forehead attempting to dull the growing ache. “Looks like Fletcher Durnulqc will add two more casualties to his growing list. There's nothing that can be done to change what has already been put in place. Hopefully soon, nothing recognizable will remain of Novus Island.”

Chapter Seventy-Five

Flight Hangar - Novus Island

Bryson McGann eased aside the metal door allowing himself a quick scan of the hangar from his vantage point. The interior of the mountain was filled with a tangible stillness, unlike when he and Canton first arrived. Only a few workers went about their assignments, giving the appearance everything was in order.  On the catwalks overhead, McGann could see just four guards. The three men and one woman concentrated their gaze on the bank of elevators at the far end of the hangar.  McGann searched until he spotted Durnulqc and his men waiting in ambush, hidden behind stacks of material and a few pieces of heavy equipment. He allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction at outwitting Durnulqc, which quickly formed back into a determined line across his face.

To his left the sound of an electric motor caught his attention.  A mechanic attached one of Artech's helicopters to a tow.  The small vehicle's engine grunted in protest, then slowly began moving the aircraft to another location. To his right, McGann saw the steps that led to the flight control office, housing the terminal for the nano disc. 

Canton and Sanders stood with their backs to McGann, alert for any possible danger from above. Both waited, hair-trigger senses strained by the silence echoing in the vertical concrete shaft. Canton was no stranger to the stress of battle, knowing fully the difficulty facing Ashlyn Sanders. The woman licked her lips in nervous anticipation of the unknown. Eyes fixed on the shadowed stairwell, together they stood poised to put a stop to anyone attempting to prevent their escape.

McGann let the door close quietly on its hinges. Turning back toward his friends, he vividly described the scenario just outside the entryway into the mountain's interior.  He traced an imaginary line on the concrete floor with his finger, detailing the positions of the planes, Durnulqc's men, and the nano terminal location. “Air traffic control is about twenty yards to my right, up a short flight of steps. The planes are to our left about forty yards from here. You've got some cover in between. T.C.  You and Ash make your way to the Otter nearest the hangar's entrance.”

“Isn't there anything faster?” Sanders cut in.

“Yeah, there is.  But they were refueling that one when Rickert brought us in. The situation's tight enough without checking to see which plane's tanks are full,” Canton returned. “Gotta go with a sure bet.”

“There's a worker moving a chopper now.  That should provide enough cover for me to get up the steps and put the disc in place. Once I'm in, I'll find a way to open the hangar and then create some type of diversion.” McGann's eyes grew dark. “T.C., you get the Otter cranked up. If I'm not on board by the time you're ready to go, don't wait for me.”

Ashlyn opened her mouth to protest the possible death sentence Bryson McGann imposed upon himself. Both men knew the risks long before they arrived on the island. If stopping Fletcher Durnulqc meant their own sacrifice, each was willing to accept that. The lives of millions depended upon them. The world awaited the outcome. Iron cold stares from the two men stilled Ashlyn's objections before she could speak.

“Any questions?” McGann asked.

With a quick nod, they acknowledged the plan.

“T.C.”

“Yeah?”

“Don't forget, you owe me a dinner at Martin's and I intend to collect on that,” McGann quipped, trying to lighten the moment. “Let's go.”

From the dimly lit stairwell, McGann, then Canton, and finally Ashlyn Sanders let the door close behind them, its sound ringing on the landing above. The malicious gaze of Tony Perez bore down on them as they made their exit. The trio shot out the door using the helicopter being towed past them as temporary cover.  McGann split right while Canton and Sanders wheeled around to their left.

Bryson McGann sprinted for the metal staircase leading up to the air traffic control office. His neck prickled, his hair stood on end while he waited for the sound of gunfire and the impact of a bullet between his shoulders. He forced himself to ignore it and concentrate on his task. Failure to complete this mission was not an option he wished to consider. 

McGann hit the steps, taking them two a time. Nearing the top, he planted his left foot on a rung when all hell broke loose. McGann eyed a guard exiting the office he needed to enter.  The woman moved to her right, drawing her weapon up to fire. McGann did not give the time to complete the job. His own MP-5 erupted with a short burst that toppled his opponent. The time for stealth had ended. It now came down to luck and all the skills learned over the years. He leaped over the dead body and slammed a foot into the office door.  Two unarmed Artech employees stood with mouths agape, arms raised above their heads.

“On the floor,” McGann barked.  “Now.”  He moved his weapon menacingly in front of them. Tugging at the chain around his neck, he pulled the gold disc from the holder.  Keeping one eye on the two men, he inserted the disc into the open tray of the computer.  Automatically, it swallowed the gleaming disc, sealing the fate of Novus Island.

Canton and Sanders moved cautiously from behind a stack of wooden pallets to a new position beside several large metal drums.  From that spot, they had a clear view of the mountain's interior.  The big man rapidly assessed the situation, deciding their next move. Unexpectedly, Canton thought he heard the door open they had left only moments before. He took Ashlyn's hand and they sprinted to another hiding place beside a broken down vehicle. The snow cat sat uselessly, waiting for a replacement of one of its missing tracks, offering them better concealment.

The bruised face of Tony Perez peered around the door.  He almost missed the big man and the auburn-haired scientist running for their lives. The sound of gunfire coming from behind him startled the Latino and sent his targets to the ground.  He cursed at the missed opportunity and moved to another spot in order to line up a better shot.

Monique Sinclair wet her lips, bursting through the entrance not long after the first shots rang out. The woman searched for a target, her finger caressing the submachine gun's trigger loosely.  From the far end of the hangar, the stunned faces of Durnulqc and Vickers stared back at her.  Caught off guard, they stood momentarily paralyzed by what had happened. Realizing his mistake, the albino commanded the Englishman and the others to follow.

Sinclair caught the movement to her left and ran off to investigate. The sight fanned the flames of fiery hatred glowing in those emerald eyes. Twenty yards in front of her, Joe Canton and Ashlyn Sanders jumped from cover, sprinting for the row of parked planes. 

Sinclair drew her weapon up to shoot. The two targets did not even offer a challenge at the close distance.  An unobstructed view of the pair presented itself as Monique lined them up in her sights. Her finger curled, unleashing a hail of deadly bullets.

Tony Perez had spotted the man and woman but was unable to get off a clear shot.  Perez sprang to his feet, his injured groin protesting the movement. He saw his opportunity and moved around the stack of pallets ready to fire. Perez felt the impact of the first three rounds but not the next eight. Sinclair fired just as the guard jumped in front of her line of sight. The Latino died before his bullet-ridden body hit the floor, sparing Canton and Sanders from certain death.  Ignoring the dead man, Sinclair chased after the two, determined to put an end to their lives.

McGann looked out the office window seeing the group of attackers rushing in his direction from the opposite end of the cavern. He had a good idea of what to expect, once the string of commands Alberts embedded onto the disc took place. McGann knew that once set in motion, there was no turning back. Lawrence Alberts made that very clear in his instructions. Bryson McGann did not have long to wait. Pouring from the overhead speakers, a klaxon sounded with an ear splitting call. Rising above the irksome signal, a computerized voice bellowed, ushering a sober warning. “Attention. Five minutes remain until programmed destruction of complex begins.”

Suddenly, a low rumble spread through the cavern.  The massive wall of rock shielding the complex from the outside began to slide back in front of the parked aircraft. McGann felt the vibrations from the moving rock wall while cold arctic wind whipped furiously through the expanding portal. Without further time to contemplate the dead scientist's next step, he ran from the office eyeing the tall figure of Monique Sinclair trailing after his two friends.  Canton would have to deal with the woman. He had his own problems to take care of at the moment.

Ian Vickers took the lead, trailed closely by Durnulqc and the group of armed guards. The pounding of footsteps on the catwalk above meant trouble and he dropped and rolled onto his back. A guard fired his pistol in haste, the bullets going wide, gouging two small craters into the floor.  McGann returned the favor, depleting the magazine of his automatic weapon, the man falling to the concrete below.  He quickly shoved in another one and turned his attention back to the oncoming attackers.

Several guards pressed the triggers of their MP-5's, but still too far away to be accurate.  A stray projectile found the unsuspecting driver of the machine towing the helicopter.  The bullet's impact threw his lifeless body forward and he slumped across the wheel. The dead man's foot held the accelerator in position and the machine continued on its course toward Durnulqc and his men.

McGann returned fire as the high-pitched whine of his attacker's bullets sailed harmlessly overhead. At a distance of seventy-five yards, he only hoped to scatter the group and buy himself some more time. Instead, two guards fell to the floor, one wounded in the leg and the other unlucky enough to be the recipient of a deadly copper jacketed slug. Smoke poured from the hot barrel of his weapon, followed by the metallic snap of a bolt locking back, indicating an empty magazine. Replacing it, McGann fingered the release, ready to fire again.

Chapter Seventy-Six

Futile Retribution

Canton and Sanders felt the frigid teeth of icy wind as they rushed up to the first plane on the taxiway.  Canton was torn between helping his friend and readying the aircraft for takeoff.  With little time left for escape, the big man shoved aside his feelings. He knew if Durnulqc's team pinned them down before bringing the Twin Otter's motors to life, no chance of getting out alive existed. Canton reached out and took the woman's hand in his. They sprinted down the line of aircraft hoping to reach the one that would carry them to safety. 

The angry sound of bullets buzzed around them. Canton looked back to see Monique Sinclair's face turned up in a crooked smile of satisfaction. At that moment, a bullet tore into his thigh. Shock prevented him from feeling the pain, only the leaden heaviness. Canton stumbled, almost falling before regaining his footing. Ashlyn's tight grip on his hand slackened and slipped from his grasp. She tumbled to the floor, blood matting her hair.  Canton's loathing fulminated in a defiant battle cry directed at the ruthless Sinclair.  Reflexively, he fired back, rewarded by a scream of anguish. Canton scooped up Ashlyn Sanders' limp form over his shoulder and hurried for the Twin Otter.

One of Canton's bullets found Monique Sinclair, scoring a path along her left flank. She gritted her teeth in pain, pressing a hand to her side and sank to the floor.  She fought to control her breathing as blood trickled inside her Artech uniform.  Although painful, the wound would not kill her.  However, if she did not find a way off Novus Island in the next three minutes, there would be no need to worry about the injury.

Fletcher Durnulqc stopped in mid-stride, watching the helicopter move past several fuel drums, heading in his direction. Before his eyes, the barrels disintegrated into a fireball when Bryson McGann's bullets tore through the thin containers. The blast blew out shards of hot metal in all directions. Piercing the thin aluminum skin covering the helicopter's fuel tank, the flammable liquid ignited causing an explosion of thunderous fury. 

Flying shrapnel from the aircraft's framework sailed through the air, razor sharp pieces that took the life of several more of the Artech security team. Durnulqc felt the blast of hot air and concussive effect rush past him, nearly knocking him to the floor.  Amazingly, Fletcher Durnulqc went unharmed while others fell around him. Vickers, who dove for the floor with the first explosion, stared disbelievingly at his employer standing over him. The Englishman was amazed and thought Durnulqc must be protected by the devil himself.

The force of the helicopter's explosion lifted McGann from his feet and tossed him effortlessly through the air.  He attempted to break his fall but was unsuccessful. Landing hard on the concrete surface, the impact knocked the air from his lungs and sent a searing pain coursing through his right hip and shoulder.  Stunned by the blast, McGann's ears rang and his body ached. He forced himself to stand when he heard the sound of the DeHavilland's engines starting. Ignoring the pain, McGann ran for his life.

The klaxon continued to sound, adding to the din. An explosive charge set off by Artech employees blew apart the tunnel door ordered sealed by Durnulqc. Shouts and cries of frightened workers added to the frenzy as they scurried from within the lower portion of the mountain. Elevators delivered small groups hoping to escape, while others hurried down stairs adding to the growing crowd inside the hangar. The computerized voice warned that only two minutes remained before Alberts’ cataclysmic prophesy came to life.

Fletcher Durnulqc aligned his sights on Bryson McGann when a sea of faces suddenly swarmed around the albino, and his foe melted into the crowd. Durnulqc cursed. Reaching down, he yanked Vickers to his feet, screaming, “Kill that son of a bitch. I want him dead. He will not escape.” Durnulqc fumed, grinding the cold steel barrel of his pistol into Vickers' forehead.

Throwing back his shoulders, Ian Vickers straightened himself, and stared with feral eyes into the face of his employer.  He had witnessed Durnulqc's wrath on many occasions, yet was unafraid. “Fuck McGann. We won't make it out of here alive if you don't get that pistol out of my face,” the Englishman snarled. “If you want to live, I'm your only hope,” he added coolly. 

Durnulqc relinquished his grip on his bodyguard, roughly shoving him aside. His watery eyes followed in the direction McGann had taken. Durnulqc's adversary became indistinguishable from the others attempting to flee the doomed island. “Mr. Vickers, I suggest you prepare the jet to leave.”

The two men moved determinedly through the crowd, pushing their way towards the aircraft. Durnulqc shot two employees unfortunate enough to careen into him, blocking his path in the melee. Wary faces backed away from the crazed man, giving him a wide berth.

Vickers reached the jet aircraft first and pulled open the door, allowing him access into the plane. Sensing a presence behind him, he spun quickly.  An Artech employee bound up the steps hoping to make an escape. Vickers' foot lashed out in a powerful kick, sending the person sprawling onto the concrete. Durnulqc strode past the man, casually putting a bullet into the worker, stopping anyone else thinking of following.

Canton ran through a quick mental preflight checklist. The wound inflicted by Monique Sinclair began to throb as he worked the rudder controls with his feet. The engines turned over quickly and soon the propellers spun at a dizzying speed. Outside, people pounded on the fuselage, shouting to be let in. Easing the brake, Canton let the aircraft roll forward. One of the Artech security guards clung tentatively to the strut as he attempted to send a burst of gunfire into the cockpit of the plane. Canton reacted automatically.  His right hand shot out, pushing the throttle forward, while his left held the control wheel and his left foot pressed the rudder pedal to the floor.  His actions sent the Twin Otter fishtailing in a tight circle, flinging the man off the strut and the others scurrying out of harm's way.  Assured of no more unwanted passengers, Canton made a beeline for the runway.

Almost simultaneously, the remaining two airplanes came to life. Overloaded with passengers, both aircraft inched forward as others tried to climb aboard amidst the craziness. Artech workers rushed headlong past the slowly moving craft into the darkness, wanting to escape the forthcoming destruction. A bearded man, in stained coveralls, ran blindly into the blades of one of the spinning propellers. Instantly, the top half of his body vaporized into a shower of blood and tissue while the lower portion collapsed to the floor.  Oblivious to the horrific spectacle they had just witnessed, men and women ran past the inanimate torso, uncertain of what to do. Bodies tumbled into one another.  The injured were either passed by without regard or trampled by others. Many fought to regain their footing. Cries of help from men and women wanting to save themselves went unanswered.

Fletcher Durnulqc stood on the steps leading into the aircraft, searching intently for Bryson McGann. Not since his father died by an act of his own hand had he felt such a contemptuous abhorrence for another human. Hatred rippled through every sinuous fiber of his being. His gaze darted in all directions hoping to find the victim of his scorn.

Inside the cabin of the jet, Ian Vickers worked at a furious pace. Each second that ticked past brought him one moment closer to death. He intended to see that did not happen. Deftly, his hands flew across the instruments in front of him and on the overhead panel. The distinctive snap of toggle switches and clicking dials filled the compartment, along with his raspy breathing. The Englishman powered up the jet engines, rewarded by the sound of the turbofans coming to life. Under normal circumstances, he would have allowed sufficient time for the engines to warm up properly.  However, these were not normal circumstances. Time was a commodity he did not own.  The metal blades of the engines turned rapidly increasing the pitch of their unmistakable whine. Vickers grasped the controls in both hands, releasing the brake.

“In the plane, damn it,” Vickers shouted to the albino.

Ignoring the man's order, Durnulqc stood hovering on the steps, his one last attempt to search out his prey.

“Help me,” a voice called from the bottom rung of the steps, distracting him from his self imposed assignment. Running along side the plane, the woman struggled to maintain her hold on the thin handrail.

“Certainly,” Durnulqc smiled.  Relief washed over the woman with the thought of salvation until the moment flame spit from the end of the steel barrel. The pistol bucked in his hand, delivering its death sentence. Her body pitched backward, falling with a sickening thud on the concrete. The jet gathered momentum on its way out of the hangar. Resigning himself uneasily that his quarry escaped, he vowed to hunt McGann down at all cost. The maniacal creator of Novus Island was about to secure the craft's outer door when he spied a familiar face.

Monique Sinclair called out in one last attempt to capture Durnulqc's attention. Turning at the sound of her voice, a smile formed, knowing she had found a way off the imperiled island. Clutching her wounded side, Sinclair struggled after the plane. Time was running out and her life depended upon what happened in these final moments. The woman swept aside the pain and with fierce determination, pushed herself to the brink of exhaustion. She had closed the distance, when the aircraft carrying Durnulqc and Vickers suddenly gathered speed, moving towards the hangar's entrance. Emerald green eyes flared, fully comprehending Durnulqc's actions. From the doorway of the plane, the albino's face remained inert, expressionless eyes boring back into her.

The woman unleashed a scream of rage, “Fletcher.  Fletcher, you bastard,” her voice rising with panic.

Slowly, the man let the corners of his mouth form into a limp curl, his pale skin deathly white. Thin red lips parted, exposing perfectly aligned teeth. His eyebrows arched, and his head shook back and forth slightly.  The fingertips of his hand gently touched his lips and then extended in her direction, offering the woman a final goodbye.  The words escaped from him, inaudible under the barking tone of the klaxon. “Adieu, my sweet.”

Fletcher Durnulqc turned abruptly, preparing to close the cabin door when Monique's finger pulled the trigger back, emptying her weapon's magazine. Several bullets whisked closely overhead, while the rest sailed harmlessly through the hangar's entrance into the night. The albino reacted without compunction. His arm snapped upward, firing two shots in rapid succession. The slide of his pistol locked back with a metallic ring. Durnulqc's finger fell away from the trigger. Satisfaction flowed through his veins. Her life had always been his to take and he reveled in the act, inhaling death's lust.

The first bullet struck Sinclair in the right shoulder, spinning her body and exposing her left flank. His second shot found its target, striking just below the woman's left eye. Her life functions ceased immediately.  Monique Sinclair felt nothing of the bullet's lethal wound which spilled the once beautiful woman lifelessly onto the hangar floor. 

“Bitch,” Durnulqc whispered, satisfied with his aim. He pulled the door shut, locking it in place. He moved forward, joining Ian Vickers and took a seat next to the pilot. Assured of escape, Fletcher Durnulqc smiled with gratification.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Security Command Center

Rickert paced apprehensively, shouting commands to the technicians working frantically within the main computer room. Survival now depended on deleting the commands entered into the main computer by the disc Bryson McGann placed in the nano terminal. Sweat trickled along the hairs at the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his uniform. Time melted away as the seconds continued to tick off the digital timer on the wall before him.

“Got it,” a technician shouted. “We're back up.  Whoever programmed the destruct sequence must not have known how to disengage the system override.”

Rickert rushed to the spot where the worker sat, shoving aside the curious who gathered around him. Suddenly, computer screens came back to life.

“Okay.  We're in,” the security chief bellowed.  “See to it that whatever the hell's going on is shut down,” he commanded.

A synthesized monotone voice originating from the computer filled the room. “Warning. Air space intrusion. Range to target, fifty-two miles.”

“Get a lock on that,” Rickert screamed.

The air grew stale, heavy with tension. “Military.  She's moving fast. Altitude, twenty-eight thousand.”

“Configuration?” Rickert demanded.

“B-1B bomber,” came the reply.

Just as the words were spoken the synthesized voice returned. “Unable to activate current override commands. System failure will result. Warning.  Destruction of complex imminent.” The computerized voice faded, blinking lights ceased to function and the computer screens darkened. Lawrence Alberts had seen to every detail, ensuring that not even the island's super computer could put a stop to his final epitaph.

Rickert sank into the nearest chair.  His features clouded at the thought of the dismal prospects. The klaxon continued to wail alarmingly, its grating signal blaring defiantly.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Life Flight

Bryson McGann ignored the fire burning in his side, pumping his arms and legs furiously in an effort to catch up with the aircraft moving out toward the airstrip. He left behind stunned Artech workers, struck with the realization there was nowhere to run for safety.  They clustered in small groups while others stood alone in shock, resigned to their fate. To those people of dubious character who accepted Durnulqc's offer of high paying jobs, their sinful greed had caught up with them. Death waited to sweep them under its dark cloak.

Canton wasted no time at the end of the runway lining up the plane for takeoff.  Revving up the Otter's engines, he caught sight of a lone figure making a beeline for the plane. Canton eased the brake and sent the aircraft lumbering down the runway.

Below freezing temperatures seared painfully into McGann's lungs with each breath. Struggling through the snow, he pushed the limits of his endurance. His legs ached miserably.  He would not quit. His life depended on it. Running towards the plane, McGann threw an arm over his head attempting to signal his friend. The aircraft began to roll, gathering speed.

Vickers pushed the throttle forward, leaving the hangar behind.  The Englishman ran over several Artech personnel in a race for the runway. Without a second thought for their welfare, he focused his mind on the task of getting off the island alive.

Behind the jet carrying Durnulqc and Vickers, two other aircraft made an attempt to escape the mountain's interior.  The first plane, another jet aircraft already loaded to capacity, ambled forward leaving several people struggling to climb aboard. The remaining Twin Otter found itself confronted by a wall of people determined to get off the island. The pilot brought the aircraft to a halt only a few feet away from the terror stricken faces standing before him. Spinning propellers revolved menacingly in front of them. Unable to move, the pilot ordered the cabin door opened. Frenzied men and women jostled their way around the plane. Once clear of the crowd, he seized the moment and pushed the throttles ahead, leaving behind those already committed to fate.

At first, McGann could not be sure of what he was hearing. Slowly it grew, the sound evolving into a low-pitched hum filling the air.  He called on the last of his reserves, pushing himself harder, closing the distance to the airplane carrying his two friends. The realization of Alberts’ full plan pressed in on him and he did not care to be around for the final encore.

Canton's eyes roamed the instrument panel a final time. The image of the silhouette flashed back at him as he took a quick glance out the starboard window.  A closer look confirmed his suspicions.  The big man cut the throttle, slowing the engines. The plane came to a halt and Canton limped from the cockpit. Unlatching the cabin door, he reached out and in one swift move pulled the nearly breathless McGann into the airplane. McGann let Canton close the door as he moved forward into the captain's seat. He slammed the throttles to full as they strapped themselves into their seats and the Otter moved down the frozen runway.  McGann looked over at the big man noticing the tiny rivulet of blood seeping from his friend's left nostril. He pulled back the controls at the right moment sending the plane skyward into the night.

Ian Vickers wiped the blood from his nose, making a final turn onto the runway.  All systems checked out and the plane accelerated. The force of the engines pushed him back into his seat. A slight disorientation swept over him that he shrugged off until it came back again. Durnulqc followed the disjointed movements of his bodyguard, fully aware of what was occurring. Blood inched down his own face, collecting underneath his chin, falling in thick droplets onto his seat.

“Mr. Vickers,” Durnulqc gasped.  “Time’s running out.  Get us out of here,” his employer demanded.

Vickers ignored the albino, attempting to shake off the growing effects of the H.A.A.R.P. The growing disorientation and waves of nausea made the task of piloting the jet increasingly difficult.  He licked his lips to wipe away the thick dryness forming on them. Vickers’ breathing came in labored strokes.  The jet rose up from the island, streaking into the air, its powerful engines thundering over the landscape below.

On the ground Artech personnel began a writhing dance of death. Incomprehensible pain contorted men and women into unnatural positions. Screams faded and blood poured heavily from their body orifices. Experiencing the retribution Alberts unleashed, many began the final acts of their lives. Waves of spasms washed over them while they wretched violently in the final moments of life. Those still suffering longed for death to alleviate the terror.  It would not be long in coming.

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Imminent Danger

Rickert sat alone in the computer control room, abandoned by those hoping to escape their destiny.  The thought amused him, bringing a smile to his pockmarked features. A lesson in futility, he thought to himself. With the hangar door locked open, the fate of those on the ground level was already sealed. Death from puking up your insides was not something that appealed to the security chief. The way Rickert felt, if he was marked for death, then let it be here, inside the complex. He reached into his uniform pocket and tapped out a cigarette from the red and white cardboard box. The wheel of his lighter spun bringing to life a yellow flame that danced on the end of the rolled white paper. Rickert sucked in the smoke from the cigarette clamped tightly between his lips. A red ember grew as he inhaled the smoke deeply into his lungs.

*     *     *

 “Colonel.”

“Yeah,” Paul Riley answered into the headset.  His hands gripped the wheel of the multimillion-dollar bomber's controls. Major John Howe occupied the copilot's seat next to him, intently focused on the orange and green-lit array of instruments on the panels in front of him.

“Bombay doors are open,” Major Ed Chambers, the offensive weapons systems officer announced.  “Target acquisition accomplished.” Captain Tom Howard, in charge of defensive weapons systems, nodded confirmation of Chambers’ calculations.

Tearing through a break in the cloud cover offered Riley a view of the lights flooding a portion of the target in the nearing distance.  From his vantage point, the Air Force pilot had no comprehension of the mayhem occurring on the island below.

Chambers’ voice returned, “Computer glide path for the bomb indicates release in twelve seconds.”

“It's all yours, Ed,” the pilot drawled, aware of the destruction about to happen. Eighteen years of flawless military service and this was his reward, a legacy he did not relish. He put the thought from his mind. Orders were orders. He intended to follow them.

Chambers' finger rested on top of the bomb control release and hesitated. Four more seconds in the countdown.

“Jumpin' Jesus on a stick. What the hell...” Riley's acidic cry shot into the headset of each of the three other men.  “Chambers, hold that bomb. Do not release,” the colonel ordered.

Ed Chambers knew the purpose of their mission and the type of warhead carried by the munitions hanging in the bomber's belly.  He had to release now or the bomb would miss the island completely.  He pressed the button and then eased his finger from the control before the activation signal lit the firing panel. For just a moment he almost disobeyed an order.  He had flown with Riley for some time and if the colonel aborted the mission, then he must have a good reason.

Mushrooming up from below them, a fireball exploded in a pyrotechnic flash of white light that roiled into a frothing black cloud. The images of the fiery destruction reflected in the colonel's brown eyes, etching an indelible memory.

“Ed,” the officer said calmly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Close the bomb bay doors.”

“What happened?” Howard asked.

“I don't know for sure,” he said quietly.  “But whatever happened down there, they won't be needing our services.”

The sound of electric motors signaled the closing of the bomb bay doors, sealing the aircraft's payload safely inside. Riley banked the plane left and pushed the nose up quickly adding numbers to the altimeter.  Passing into a cloudbank, the island became lost from sight.

Chapter Eighty

The Fury

The DeHavilland Twin Otter continued to climb, leaving behind the pending destruction. Both men had felt the disorientation and nausea, but now, three miles from the island, the effects were subsiding. McGann reacted automatically to each detail of the flight, years of training allowing him the edge. Glancing over at Canton, the big man grimaced from the painful wound inflicted by Monique Sinclair.  Joe Canton shook his head trying to shake off the remaining vestiges of discomfort. 

McGann turned, stealing a glance at the still form of Ashlyn Sanders. The woman lay motionless, her eyes closed. Sorrow was not something he had time for. Behind them somewhere, the jet carrying Durnulqc and Vickers was making its own escape.  Hopefully, the aircraft carried no armament or they would be sitting ducks in the slow moving Twin Otter. 

The Breitling's second hand swept rapidly towards the twelve on the face of Bryson McGann's watch. He gripped the control wheel tightly and closed his eyes, prepared for what was coming next. The initial explosion lit the night sky.  Within moments the concussive shock wave buffeted the craft, pitching it wildly.  McGann fought to maintain control.

*     *     *

Ian Vickers, his vision blurred and head reeling from the dizzying power of the H.A.A.R.P., was succumbing to its effects.  Blood ran profusely from his nose. The Englishman registered the sound of a painful cry coming from the man seated next to him. The pale face, tarnished with its own viscid blood, wore an apoplectic grimace. Fervid pain ate away cancerously at Durnulqc.

Twenty-five hundred feet above the island, Ian Vickers lost control of his muscular reflexes. Pummeled by the intense pulsating frequency, his eyes closed tightly and he issued a frightening scream within the confines of the small cockpit. Vickers' hawkish features wrinkled into an obscene mask. His right leg locked into a contraction that shot it forward, pushing the rudder control to the floor.  Liquefied tissue spewed from his mouth across the windscreen and instruments. Vickers’ head rolled across his right shoulder.  The eyes, now opened widely, stared vacantly at Fletcher Durnulqc.

The jet reacted quickly to the loss of its pilot. With the throttles pushed forward to the limit, and Vickers’ foot holding the rudder in place, the aircraft banked sharply to the right. It seemed to hang suspended by an unseen hand and then gravity took its toll. The doomed craft fell wing over wing, spinning wildly out of control, hurtling to the earth in a downward spiral. The engines mournful cry rose above the howling winds as it fell from the sky.

What life remained in Fletcher Durnulqc was withering quickly. Strapped tightly to his seat, his world spun at a dizzying rate.  Swirling tendrils of light from the instrument panel whirled before him. Alarms blared in anticipation of the coming crash. Durnulqc strained to see past the windscreen, greeted only by the night's blackness. Searing pain wracked his body.  The albino struggled to breathe, pink spittle bubbling past his lips with each labored respiration. Iron-clawed, white knuckles tore into the leather fabric of his seat's armrests. Adrenaline and fear surged through his body.  Durnulqc's heart pumped furiously, threatening to explode inside his chest.

Suddenly a brilliant light illuminated the Arctic darkness providing the maniacal demon a visage of what lay in store. The rocky face of an ice covered granite slope loomed in front of his eyes. The final act of Fletcher Durnulqc's life, a hollow scream of terror, went unheard.

*     *     *

As quickly as it had come, the powerful effects of the blast passed them by.  Fortunately, the sturdy craft held together in the wake of the massive explosion. There were no indications of any problems that presented themselves under McGann's careful scrutiny.  The big man reached out, gripping his lifelong friend's arm reassuringly.  Bryson McGann entered a set of numbers into the global positioning system, setting a course that would carry them to safety.  He checked the gauge once more, satisfied enough fuel remained to carry them back to Baffin Island. Frozen night air rushed past the wings of the airplane carrying the two men and the woman, while the moon watched from between parted clouds. Thrumming engines droned on steadily as Bryson McGann gazed past the window one last time, letting Novus Island disappear from sight.

Epilogue

June 2008

Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the open windows of her family's villa in the Greek Islands, spilling across the red tiled floor.  She walked to the window and stared down from the hillside overlooking the harbor below.  The sight of five, white stucco windmills, their blades turning idly in the light breeze, greeted her.  Fishing boats and pleasure craft tethered at their berths, bobbing lazily in the harbor, filled her with pleasant memories of past days.

Tentatively, she nibbled at a fingernail while reliving that moment she opened Rugg's note before leaving New York.  It had been brief, a few lines, nothing more, and left no doubt about any plans for their future together. 

The former secretary general had decided to do some investigating on her own. Reports of Rugg's travels were confirmed countless times over the past months. The Austrian was constantly seen in the company of a young blonde model. They traveled the Mediterranean from Monte Carlo to the Greek Isles, living in opulent style.

Niya Adi had spent countless hours since returning home replaying the chain of events. Everything pointed back to Rugg, bringing to the forefront his complicity in the worldwide scheme of destruction. He had played her for a fool, using her as an unknowing pawn in Durnulqc's game. With her charm and the return of a needed favor, Niya's suspicions were confirmed by the help of an old friend in Zurich. She was shocked when told of the staggering sum stashed away in her former lover's Swiss account.

Niya returned to her desk, focusing her attention on the news article from the Neue Zurcher, a Zurich newspaper.  The Internet article's byline included a picture of the victim of a drive by shooting, a rare event in the lovely Swiss city.  Lying face first on the concrete sidewalk in front of the Maerki Bauman bank, on Dreikonigstrasse, the blood stained, gray pinstriped suit draped itself over the dead man. Lying next to the body, a leather attache lay where it had fallen.  Several bullets had ripped into the leather, tearing apart the locks.  The opened satchel held a vast sum of American currency and numerous bills were scattered around the corpse.

Niya Adi lingered only momentarily before moving past this particular story.  Rugg's death came as no surprise and no tears fell from her eyes. Wilhelm Rugg's millions would do him no good now.  Her life would continue without him. It was better this way.

*     *     *

A fleet of brown pelicans rode the air currents on outstretched wings, flying in an offset V formation.  Silently, their shadows passed over the beach in the pale yellow light of early morning. Remnants of the night's coolness still lingered, clinging desperately to the net of blue sky above, before the summer sun erased its presence. Gentle waves lapped continually onto the shoreline, rising, cresting, and splashing into a foamy white froth on the grayish-white sand. Within a few hours voices and laughter would fill the air along with the gleeful squeal of children. The sun worshipers would come, spreading their blankets, hoping to burnish their bodies with a coppery-bronze tan.

Kelly Wardin inhaled the freshness of the still morning, the sea breeze alive with its distinctive character.  She dug her feet into the cool wetness of the sand, feeling it ooze between her toes before it was washed away by the Atlantic waters off Virginia Beach. 

The young woman contemplated the decision she made after reading again the letter she had received three weeks ago. It had been sent from the National Military Command Center, the office of Captain John Case. The Navy had thanked her for her part in obtaining information regarding the network of satellites controlled by Durnulqc Enterprises. Besides ordering her silence on the matter, they offered her a commission. She liked the sound as the words rolled off her tongue, Lieutenant J. G. Wardin. 

She had two weeks of leave accrued. She was going home to French River, Minnesota and after that, would begin her new assignment as a section chief at the Naval Space Command Center. When CPO Diaz heard the news, he gladly offered to pin on her bars at the official ceremony on Monday morning.  She happily accepted. Kelly Wardin let the thought pass.  Her life was changing and she liked the direction it was headed.

*     *     *

Abraham Lincoln sat rigidly silent, staring across the mall. Chiseled Georgian marble features revealed no hint of the destruction leveled upon the nation's capital in recent months. Small bands of tourists walked by, ogling the impressive statue of the sixteenth president. Behind them, the towering stone obelisk on the far side of the mall undulated as its image wavered in the rippling waters of the reflecting pond. Many came to see the memorials as much as to see the rebuilding of the city itself.

Scaffolding hung like metal vines, encasing the facades of well-known edifices that suffered the effects of the monstrous storm.  Much of the debris had been removed, but piles of rubble and brick still dotted the sidewalks, providing testimony to the destructive power of Fletcher Durnulqc.

President Richard Simon called upon the American people and they responded. Their claim to the nation's heritage was a flame they meant to see rekindled. The media did its part, bombarding the airwaves with daily coverage of the renewal campaign. The White House was pleased. Simon wanted the world to know that Washington still remained the powerful force in the face of changing world events.

The president threw on the blue coat, adjusted his tie and walked from the Oval Office through the mansion's hallways.  A limousine sat idling, ready to take Simon to a memorial service for the vice president and the countless others who perished from the hurricane's onslaught. Benjamin Wolcott waited outside the building, surveying the grounds, entering the vehicle behind the president. The motorcade sped off down the drive on its way to Arlington, on the other side of the Potomac.

Washington and surrounding areas suffered extensive damage from the man made maelstrom. The tragedy invoked by the hands of the hideous Fletcher Durnulqc in those fateful hours would forever inscribe itself into the heart of the nation. The American people knew most of the story, at least the parts they were meant to know.  A few of the players and a number of details were intentionally omitted from the official press releases.  Spin doctors saw to that, all under the guise of national security.

*     *     *

Randall Sumner stood at the window eyeing the misty rain and the winding trails the droplets left as they slid down the glass. Mount Rainier lay hidden today, shrouded in a blanket of thick clouds giving no indication of its magnificent beauty.  On the crowded avenues below, traffic snarled through the streets traveling to unknown destinations.

The NESSA director toyed with the knurled glass piece launching a column of smoke from the dying embers of his pipe. Sumner's moment was interrupted by the familiar voice of Marion Turner.  His secretary's words ended the mesmerizing distraction he viewed from his office.

Sumner made his way back to his desk and asked the woman to show McGann in. The former general remembered their first meeting, taking an instant liking to the younger man. His admiration had grown even more in light of recent world events. Extending his hand, Sumner's grip tightened around the hand of the man standing in front of him.

“Please have a seat.” Bryson McGann settled into the chair opposite the NESSA director.  Randall Sumner shuffled through a stack of files finally pulling out a multi-page report from a manila folder. “Thought you might like to see a copy of this,” he said, offering it for McGann's inspection.

“The official version, no doubt?” McGann remarked.

Sumner nodded in affirmation.  “You might be interested in knowing that the president called to offer his and the nation's thanks.  He felt you were entitled to review the report before it was destroyed.” Sumner's voice deepened, “You and Joe were never there.  The information released to the public stands as is.”

“Another in the long line of unsung heroes,” McGann quipped.

Sumner smiled. “I've already spoken with Joe and a representative of the FBI has Mr. Barker's assurance of silence on the matter. Washington was more than happy to reimburse your compatriot for all expenses as a part of the bargain.”

McGann quickly scanned the material, mentally noting numerous details.

Sumner filled him in on a couple of items while he read the document. “The Canadian government’s in the process of dismantling Durnulqc's empire. An army of lawyers are controlling his holdings until the tangled web can be sorted out.” McGann looked up before continuing, nodding in recognition of the director's remarks. “One final note of interest,” Sumner added. “On page twenty-two,” the director paused long enough for McGann to turn to that part of the report. “You’ll find an explanation regarding the island's destruction.”

McGann eyed with particular curiosity the effects of Alberts' handiwork. He had managed to divert a major portion of the H.A.A.R.P.'s power into the small nuclear reactor supplying the island's energy needs. The subsequent explosion collapsed the mountain in on top of itself, sealing in most of the radioactive material. Fortunately, the harmful byproducts of the blast were limited to the island and the shallow waters encircling it. Environmental damage had been kept to a minimum but the island would remain under restricted access for many years to come.

“Seems accurate enough. Just one question, Sir.  What happened to the network of satellites still in orbit?” he asked, lifting his eyes to meet those of the NESSA director.

“Classified. The president informed me that information is on a need to know basis only.  Seems we're out of the loop.”

His mouth curled into a lop-sided grin. “Hmm.” McGann rose from his chair, dropping the report on Sumner's desk and left the office.

*     *     *

Joe Canton peeked over the menu as the waiter poured the deep red merlot into the glasses sitting atop the crisp white linen. Bryson McGann raised his glass, holding it to the light for inspection, swirling the contents. He inhaled the fragrance before letting the inviting taste roll across his tongue.

“Excellent wine, T.C.  And the price is right, too,” McGann laughed.

Canton glanced at his friend, still undecided about which entree to choose on Martins' menu.

“Sorry, I'm late.”

Both men looked up, rising from their seats.

Canton beamed.

“I would've been here sooner, but I had to tie up some loose ends at the office,” Ashlyn Sanders smiled.  She moved in close to the big man seated next to her.  Only a faint trace of the bullet's scar that almost took her life remained, which her hair easily concealed.

“Don't worry, we haven't ordered yet,” Canton remarked, filling the empty glass sitting on the linen tablecloth.

McGann stared out the window across the Sound, its waters flourishing with activity.  The rain had stopped over an hour ago and the setting sun cast a plethora of hues onto the palate of the western sky. Parted clouds captured the fading light, changing from vibrant shades of oranges, pinks, and blues into a canopy of muted pastels, that only grudgingly disappeared in the waning twilight. Bryson McGann drank in the beauty, silently enjoying the moment.

William Beck is author of the spellbinding adventure series featuring Bryson McGann and the National Earth Seas Science Agency. Additional books in the series include RED 7 and his highly acclaimed third novel, CARIBBEAN AGENDA. Sculpting Beck’s writing has been an array of life experiences. The author is a former member of the U. S. Army, a PADI certified scuba diver and underwater photographer. Beck holds the coveted rank of Sho Dan in the martial art form of Go Ju. When he has an opportunity to relax, he enjoys expanding his culinary talents and traveling. The author can often be sighted around New England or Florida when he is not at home in Tennessee. William Beck is currently working on the next McGann thriller.

You can find out more about William Beck at www.booksbybeck.com.

Keep alert for the fourth action-packed novel in the Bryson McGann series…

CROSSCURRENTS

Feda Haq seized the opportunity. After switching on the laser, his finger caressed the trigger. The Afghani barely registered the recoil, and the soft spit of the hypersonic bullet streaking toward its intended victim.

McGann eyed the waiter as their order arrived. A small red dot danced in a jagged line across the man’s starched white shirt. Bryson McGann understood instantly. “Get down,” he yelled. Jake Vonner had no idea what was occurring. But McGann had no time to shout out another warning. Vonner lurched backward in surprise, upending the tray in the waiter’s arms.

Tori Haroldson screamed as McGann landed on top of her. The painful jolt of slamming into the deck sent rippling waves of pain along her spine. For her, time slowed into a distorted sequence of terrifying snapshots. In that brief moment, something instinctual welled up in the man trying to protect her. She recognized the flare in McGann’s eyes. She had seen it before; flinty, and cold as glacial ice.