‘Are you sure?’ Middleton asked rhetorically.
Jarvis gestured to an image pinned to the wall of the laboratory, that of a clearly human face with a thick beard and long, lank black hair. The eyes seemed too large for the face and the brow ridge was pronounced, almost like that of an ape, while the nasal bridge was wide and flat with large nostrils.
‘The island of Flores, 2003,’ he said. ‘A team working in the deep jungles researching the migration of ancient Homo sapiens around the world unexpectedly discovered an entirely new species of human, Homo floresiensis, the remains of which were found in a place called Liang Bua Cave. Evidence of extensive tool production, use of fire, cooking and eating confirmed the species as effectively a modern human, but there was one major difference.’
‘What? Lopez asked.
‘They were tiny,’ Professor Middleton said. ‘A fully grown adult male might only reach three feet tall. It’s the result of a process called dwarfism, when a species finds itself on a small island or in an environment with limited resources. Evolution through natural selection favors smaller species with smaller demands on the limited environment. Sophisticated stone implements of a size considered appropriate to the three-foot-tall humans were widely present in the cave. The implements were at horizons from ninety-five to thirteen thousand years ago and were found in the same stratigraphic layer as an elephant of the extinct genus Stegodon, also a dwarf species, which was widespread throughout Asia during the period and presumably the prey. They also shared the island with giant rats and Komodo dragons.’
‘So?’ Ethan asked.
‘They didn’t die out until just thirteen thousand years ago,’ Jarvis explained. ‘Local geology suggests that a volcanic eruption on Flores approximately twelve thousand years ago was responsible for the demise of Homo floresiensis, along with other local fauna, including the elephant Stegodon. But the Nage people of Flores still speak of the Ebu Gogo people: small, hairy, language-poor cave dwellers on the scale of this species.’
‘They’re still alive?’ Lopez asked in amazement.
‘It’s entirely possible,’ Middleton said, ‘that pockets of this species could have survived until this day. Imagine, an entirely different species of human walking our planet. The dwarfism that has caused their diminutive size seems to have had little impact on their technological achievements when compared to our own ancestors of equivalent vintage.’
‘What have they got to do with a sasquatch though?’ Lopez asked. ‘They’re supposed to be huge.’
Middleton simply gestured again to the footprint.
‘The opposite of dwarfism is giganticism,’ he explained. ‘Put simply, if a species is placed into either a resource-rich environment, or one where there are predators big enough to force an evolutionary advantage in being large, then almost any species can grow to enormous proportions.’
‘Kind of like the dinosaurs,’ Ethan suggested.
‘Exactly like the dinosaurs,’ Middleton agreed. ‘Even before they ruled the earth, the atmosphere of our planet was far richer in oxygen than today, resulting in species that still exist but were far larger in the past. There were centipedes a hundred times larger than today and dragonflies with wingspans two yards across.’
Ethan had a mental image of a dragonfly with the wingspan of an eagle, then quickly exterminated it from his thoughts with a shiver.
Jarvis’s cellphone trilled in his pocket. He answered it, asked a couple of brief questions and then shut the line off and looked at Ethan. ‘There’s been a development.’
‘What?’
‘They’ve found the remains of park ranger Gavin Coltz,’ Jarvis said sternly. ‘Whatever killed him, it sure as hell wasn’t a man.’
9
Lieutenant General Abraham Mitchell was a tall and powerfully built African-American who had served the United States of America his entire adult life. An aura surrounded him like a force field, staff veering out of his way as he strode down the seventh-floor corridor to his office.
The Chair of the Military Intelligence Board and a deeply respected figure at the Pentagon, Abraham Mitchell had the ear of the President and could, provided with sufficient evidence, order an air-strike on any location on earth whether on enemy or allied soil. Yet today, for all of his ribbons and all of the respect, Mitchell knew that trouble was brewing within the intelligence community and that he was close to the epicenter.
He walked into his office and closed the door as the two men awaiting him rose from their seats. One was a former Green Beret by the name of Foster, who in his career as a field man had served in more theaters of war than even Mitchell. As a soldier, he was a man with whom Mitchell could identify. The other man was General William Steel, Director of the CIA. A visit from DCIA only happened when there was something wrong. Very wrong.
‘Gentlemen,’ Mitchell greeted them without preamble. ‘What can I do for you?’
Foster and Steel sat down opposite Mitchell as he eased his 220-pound frame into his chair. Foster spoke with a gravelly voice, the result of two decades of screaming at recruits down Fort Benning way.
‘We’ve been sent up here regarding a possible breach of security protocol by one of your team.’
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. ‘Whom?’
‘A Douglas Jarvis,’ Foster replied. ‘Former United States Marine officer, works under your watch on a new program of some kind. Homeland sent us here in person because they have no access to files pertaining to this program he’s running. We were wondering whether you could fill us in?’
Mitchell remained motionless for a moment. Foster was maintaining a formal bearing but he was clearly trying to project a reasonable persona at the same time. Mitchell could see it in his expression and body language that was saying: hey, we’re both on the same side here. General Steel, on the other hand, simply watched Mitchell with an unblinking gaze. Reptilian, Mitchell thought.
‘Jarvis is responsible for the overseeing of a classified research program for the agency,’ Mitchell replied. ‘It’s an autonomous outfit, so neither Homeland nor the Pentagon would have direct access to it.’
‘Why is that?’ Steel asked, speaking for the first time. His voice was both soft and threatening, a forged-in-granite confidence born of thirty years in the CIA.
‘Intelligence security,’ Mitchell replied, unfazed. ‘The program has assets on the ground, and exposure of their activities could render them at risk from potential hostiles.’
Foster’s controlled expression slipped slightly. Steel remained silent. Mitchell became aware of people walking past his office door as the silence stretched out for several seconds until Foster finally spoke.
‘Sir, we have managed to identify two individuals who have been connected to this program within the DIA.’ He slid a pair of glossy images across the desk to Mitchell. ‘Do you recognize them?’
Mitchell looked down and saw a black-and-white mug shot of Ethan Warner staring up at him. It was typical of the CIA that they would source a shot of Warner taken in Cook County Jail, and not one from the much easier to acquire service record at the US Marine’s primary training base at Quantico, Virginia. Beside Warner’s haggard features was a shot of Nicola Lopez, again taken via a surveillance team and not a more formal shot of her proudly wearing the blues of the Washington Police Department.