Stephanie stared at Edwin Davis. "On the one hand they were playing around with electricity in infant stages while, on the other hand, they were creating compounds and mechanisms we've never heard of. We have to find out where these books came from."
"Going to be difficult since, apparently, every record from High-jump that could tell us is gone." Davis shook his head. "What damn fools. Everything top secret. A few narrow minds made monumental decisions that affected us all. Here is a repository of knowledge that could well change the world. It could also be garbage, of course. But we'll never know. You realize in the decades since these books were found, foot after foot of new snow has accumulated down there. The landscape is totally different from what it was then."
She knew Antarctica was a mapmaker's nightmare. Its coastline constantly changed as ice shelves appeared and disappeared, shifting at will. Davis was right. Finding Byrd's locations could prove impossible.
"We've only looked at a handful of pages in a few scattered volumes," she said. "There's no telling what's in all these."
Another page caught her eye, filled with text and a sketch of two plants, roots and all.
She scanned that folio into the computer and translated.
Gyra grows in dim damp recesses and should be freed from the ground prior to the summer sun leaving. Its leaves, crushed and burned, abate fever. But take care that the Gyra stays free of moisture. Wet leaves are ineffective and can cause illness. Yellowed leaves the same. Bright red or orange is preferable. They also bring sleep and can be used to quell dreams. Too much can cause harm, so administer with care.
She imagined what an explorer must have felt when standing on a virgin shore, staring at a new land.
"This warehouse is going to be sealed," Davis declared.
"That's not a good idea. It'll alert Ramsey."
Davis seemed to see the wisdom of her observation. "We'll work it through Gross. If anybody moves on this cache, he'll let us know and we can stop it."
That was a better idea.
She thought about Malone. He should be nearing Antarctica. Was he on the right trail?
But there was still unfinished business here.
Finding the killer.
She heard a door across the cavernous interior open, then close. Colonel Gross had maintained a vigil in the anteroom to afford them privacy, so she assumed it must be him. But then she heard two sets of footsteps echoing through the dark. They sat at a table just outside the refrigerated compartment with only two lamps burning. She glanced up and saw Gross materialize from the dimness followed by another man-tall, bushy-haired, wearing a navy-blue windbreaker and casual pants, the emblem of the president of the United States over his left breast.
Danny Daniels.
EIGHTY-TWO
RAMSEY LEFT THE DARK HIGHWAY AND DROVE INTO THE WOODS, toward the Maryland farmhouse where he'd met Charlie Smith a few days ago.
Bailey Mill, Smith had called it.
He hadn't liked Smith's tone. Smart-ass, cocky, irritating-that was Charlie Smith. Angry, demanding, belligerent? No way.
Something was wrong.
Ramsey seemed to have acquired a new ally in Diane McCoy, one that had cost him twenty million dollars. Luckily, he'd stashed much more than that in various accounts across the globe. Money that had fallen his way from operations that either ended prematurely or were aborted. Thankfully, once a CLASSIFIED stamp was placed on a file, little in the way of a public accounting ever occurred. Policy required that whatever resources had been invested be returned, but that wasn't always the case. He needed funds to pay Smith-capital to finance covert investigations-but his need was becoming more finite. Yet as that need tightened, so did the risks.
Like here.
His headlights revealed the farmhouse, a barn, and another car. Not a light on anywhere. He parked and reached into the center console, removed his Walther automatic, then stepped out into the cold.
"Charlie," he called out. "I don't have time for your crap. Get your ass out here."
His eyes, attuned to the darkness, registered movement to his left. He aimed and ticked off two shots. The bullets thudded into the old wood. More movement, but he saw that it wasn't Smith.
Dogs.
Fleeing the porch and the house, racing off toward the woods. Like last time.
He exhaled.
Smith loved to play games, so he decided to accommodate him. "Tell you what, Charlie. I'm going to flatten all four of your tires and you can freeze your ass off here tonight. Call me tomorrow when you're ready to talk."
"You're not a bit of fun, Admiral," a voice said. "Not a bit at all."
Smith emerged from the shadows.
"You're lucky I don't kill you," he said.
Smith stepped from the porch. "Why would you do that? I've been a good boy. Did everything you wanted. All four dead, nice and clean. Then I hear on the radio that you're going to be promoted to the Joint Chiefs. Just movin' on up, to the east side. To that deluxe apartment in the sky. You and George Jefferson."
"That's unimportant," he made clear. "Not your concern."
"I know. I'm just hired help. What's important is that I get paid."
"You did. Two hours ago. In full."
"That's good. I was thinking of a little vacation. Someplace warm."
"Not until you deal with your new task."
"You aim high, Admiral. Your latest goes straight into the White House."
"Aiming high is the only way to achieve anything."
"I need double the usual price for this one, half down, balance on completion."
Didn't matter to him how much it cost. "Done."
"And there's one more thing," Smith said.
Something poked into his ribs, through his coat, from behind.
"Nice and easy, Langford," a woman's voice said. "Or I'll shoot you before you move."
Diane McCoy.
MALONE CHECKED THE PLANE'S CHRONOMETER-7:40 AM-AND gazed out the flight deck at the panorama below. Antarctica reminded him of an upturned bowl with a chipped rim. A vast ice plateau almost two miles thick was bordered for at least two-thirds of its circumference by black jagged mountains lined with crevasse-ridden glaciers that flowed toward the sea-the northeast coast below no exception.
The pilot announced that they were making a final approach to Halvorsen Base. Time to prepare for landing.
"This is rare," the pilot said to Malone. "Superb weather. You're lucky. Winds are good, too." He adjusted the controls and gripped the yoke. "You want to take us down?"
Malone waved him off. "No thanks. Way beyond me." Though he'd landed fighter jets on tossing carriers, dropping a one-hundred-thousand-pound aircraft onto perilous ice was a thrill he could do without.
The brawl between Dorothea and Christl still concerned him. They'd behaved themselves the past few hours, but their bitter conflict could prove vexing.
The plane began a steep decline.
Though the attack had raised warning flags, something else he'd witnessed caused him even more concern.
Ulrich Henn had been caught off guard.
Malone had spotted the momentary confusion that swept Henn's face before the mask rehardened. He clearly hadn't expected what Dorothea had done.
The plane leveled and the engine's turbines slackened.
The Hercules was equipped with landing skis and he heard the copilot confirm that they were locked. They continued to drop, the white ground growing in size and detail.
A bump. Then another.
And he heard the scrape of skis on crusty ice as they glided. No way to brake. Only friction would slow them. Luckily there was plenty of room to slide.
Finally the Hercules stopped.
"Welcome to the bottom of the world," the pilot told everyone.