Expedition Beyond

  Expedition

  Beyond

  Roger

  Bagg

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Studio Digital CT, LLC

  P.O. Box 4331

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2011 by Roger Bagg

  Jacket design by Barbara Aronica Buck

  Cover art © by Paul Youll

  Story Plant paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-092-2

  Fiction Studio Books e-book ISBN: 978-1-943486-47-2

  Visit our website at www.TheStoryPlant.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law.

  For information, address Studio Digital CT.

  Fiction Studio Hardcover Printing: December 2011

  First Fiction Studio Paperback Printing: April 2012

  Printed in The United States of America

  As I write these words fireside at my Rocky Mountain log cabin retreat surrounded by dogs, and after practicing veterinary medicine for more than twenty years, it would be factitious of me to not include them. Therefore, within these pages, ye shall find dogs.

  Acknowledgment

  I thank God for making all things possible.

  Prologue

  MACDONNELL RANGES

  WEST OF ALICE SPRINGS, AUSTRALIA

  LATITUDE: 23° 42’ SOUTH

  LONGITUDE: 133° 51’ EAST

  Day 10

  3:30 PM LTD

  Flies landed on his face and crawled. His muscles twitched. They had walked across the Gibson Desert for thirteen days from Lake Mackay. Now, they were finally approaching Alice Springs. George Barrington squatted next to the path, resting his backpack against a rock. He removed his wide-brimmed hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with his bandanna. The sound of flying insects filled the air.

  Sed, his guide, observed, “You look tired, Boss. Maybe we stop and rest. Maybe we have a snack.”

  George contemplated the aches of his body while Sed peeled an orange. He peered down at the blisters on his fingers and knew the soles of his feet would look even worse.

  “Here, Boss.” Sed tossed him half of the orange.

  The lanky black man who accompanied him appeared astonishingly refreshed as he hummed under his breath, not drenched in sweat like George was.

  George separated a section of orange and sucked it into his parched mouth.

  It hadn’t been the small, dingy office of Aboriginal Expeditions in Perth that had almost dissuaded George from continuing his Australian adventure, his first on the continent, but rather the discovery of the peculiar one-man operation he had engaged. In spite of the company’s name, the man in charge turned out to be not an Aborigine, but rather from George’s hometown. The tattoo on the light chocolate skin below Sed’s rolled-up t-shirt sleeve read “New York Native.”

  That first day, Sed had quickly leapt into action, rolling down his sleeves and grinning at his new client. His short-cropped hair lay in tight curls against his head; he wore khaki shorts and sandals. He was younger than George’s forty-two years, but only barely.

  “You must be George Barrington! I be Sed. I be your guide. I show you many wonderful things, George. I be happy to meet you!” He clasped George’s hand and shook it fervently.

  There had been something odd in the way he’d said George’s name then, like it had been some kind of private joke. Sed had long since settled on calling him “Boss” to avoid his inevitable little snicker at the end of “George.” George thought that Sed might be named George too—he could easily picture him growing up in the New York projects. If so, he’d probably chosen the name Sed. Sed later confessed that he was an American from New York City, though he usually pretended to be an Aborigine—in fact, Sed himself seemed to believe it most of the time.

  They had bonded. George enjoyed Sed’s dry humor. Not everyone could completely shed their past and their heritage, but Sed had. George gave him credit for that.

  “You want more orange, Boss?” Sed was peeling a second one, apparently warming up to tell another of his tall tales about Australia. “Boss, when we get to Alice Springs, we just gonna dive in with all our clothes on. That springs water so clear, so cool, no white man ever seen it before. Cute little waterfalls, Boss. Little fish to tickle your toes.”

  “Sed, Alice Springs is a town.”

  Sed’s eyes widened as if he were being told Santa Claus didn’t exist. “Boss, you got to be kiddin’ me. You make a joke, right? I never been this far in the Outback before, but springs is springs. Right, Boss?”

  George burst out laughing. “Sed, can you answer just one question truthfully?”

  “Sure, Boss.”

  Referring to the claim in Sed’s brochure that had brought him to Australia, George asked, “Can you tell me what I’ve seen that no other man has seen before?”

  Sed thought for a minute. Insects buzzed.

  “Boss, no man has ever seen these flies. These flies only three, maybe four days old. These great flies, British flies. Australian flies too easy to swat. Not these flies—they too fast. Run fast, too. Best flies in the world, Boss, U.K. flies. We bring ‘em here so you get that total Outback experience. Nothing but the best for you.”

  George felt the earth tremble slightly and his grin faded.

  “You feel that, Sed?”

  “What, Boss? You mean remorse for telling fly lies? No Boss, no remorse.”

  The earth shook again—this time more violently.

  “Okay, Boss, I felt it, too. But we don’t get earthquakes in Australia. No, sir, so that’s the camels. It’s mating season for the camels. A lot of stompin’ the ground, that sort of thing. Probably a whole flock of them just up ahead, stompin’, you know, Boss.”

  “You mean there really are wild camels here?” George was half-tempted to get his camera out of his backpack, just in case camels actually did turn up around the next bend.

  The earth shook again.

  “Boss, we best be going, in case that flock of camels comes charging down this path. Come on, Boss, let’s go now!” Sed tossed his orange into his pack and stood up quickly.

  The earth shook violently, then it heaved—and, with a whoosh, subsided.

  When the movement stopped, the spot where two New Yorkers had been peacefully munching orange in the Outback had become a cavernous, black crater.

  A hare wallaby darted to the edge of the abyss, then scrambled to change direction in the shifting sand, but too late; it, too, disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter 1

  “THE BUS STOP”

  BOULDER, COLORADO

  LATITUDE: 40° 1’ NORTH

  LONGITUDE: 105° 16’ WEST

  The stripper removed her G-string and continued to dance naked, her body undulated to the earthy, rock beat.

  Des noticed movement next to him and turned his head. Mitch had a ten-dollar bill folded lengthwise clenched between his teeth; he was flipping it up and down.

  The dancer squatted on the runway, knees wide, smiled and took the cash with her lips.

  “Did you see that?” Mitch said with a shit-faced grin.

  “Her name is April,” Des said.

  “How the fuck would you know?”

  Mitc
h drained his schooner, then refilled his glass from the beer pitcher.

  “Trust me, I know.”

  “So it’s her fucking stage name,” Mitch conceded.

  Des smiled. “Nope. April Adams—she has an apartment on Pearl Street.”

  The music stopped and bright lights glared simultaneously. April vanished behind a curtain.

  “Fifteen minutes till closing,” the topless waitress said, making her rounds.

  April Adams reappeared in a blue chiffon robe. She marched directly to Des with two men—the night manager and a bouncer—close on her heels.

  Des pushed back his chair and stood.

  “I knew it was you,” April said, then she slapped Des’ face hard. “Don’t you ever come in here again!”

  Des said, “I’m sorry how it all turned out. I didn’t bolt; I had questions.”

  “Question this!”

  The manager wrestled April’s hand from delivering another slap while the bouncer began herding Des toward the door.

  The manager said, “You can’t treat the customers—“

  “He’s no customer. He’s a fucking louse!” April interrupted.

  Outside, Des dodged a speeding motorcycle in the parking lot.

  “What did you do to her?” Mitch asked.

  “Left her standing alone at a Vegas wedding chapel altar.” Des shrugged and grinned.

  “You want to take those fuckers on?” Mitch offered.

  Des laughed. “She’s not worth it. April’s a sexual jackrabbit—no finesse or style.”

  “Whatever you say, Captain.”

  Mitch’s cellphone rang and he answered it while Des unlocked the doors of his BMW. Mitch ended his call quickly, then jumped into the passenger seat.

  He told Des cheerily, “It’s a go. All clear!”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “It’s already tomorrow,” Des said, starting his engine.

  ELLESMERE ISLAND, CANADA

  LATITUDE: 82° 10’ NORTH

  LONGITUDE: 73° 42’ WEST

  Day 28

  6:00 AM Local Time of Day

  Near the end of Boster Denton Expedition “Ice-Pick”

  Des Cox felt totally, utterly, inexorably tired and ill, decades older than his thirty-two years. He opened his eyes, then focused on the Timex alarm clock six inches from his face. He had not slept well. He stretched his aching legs in his sleeping bag and waited. The clock’s alarm would ring at 6:15; he would simply watch it until then.

  He knew he had failed, and that was what bothered him most. After climbing the corporate ladder for the past eight years to become the Vice-President of Metallurgy, he had also become what he despised. He remembered the expressions of abject despair on the faces of employees upon whose termination notices he’d written simply “nonperformance.” He was haunted by the images.

  Now the expedition he led had found nothing for twenty-seven days; they had only three days left before the long trip back home. His stomach began to churn. While Des had always known it was a long shot, he hadn’t told his superiors at Boster Denton. Using satellite photographs and maps in the boardroom, he had convinced them the rift would be easy to find.

  A deep crevice had opened in the ice at the edge of the Arctic Ocean near the magnetic North Pole; the shadow appeared on recent photographs, but had not been there three years earlier. Des had explained to the board that this was an exceptional opportunity not to be missed. He’d emphasized the possibility of finding rare minerals and his wit and charm had swayed their judgment. Why else would the board spend three hundred grand to fund an exploratory adventure?

  Des wished he hadn’t brazenly insisted on leading the team; upon reflection, their acceptance of his proposal seemed too easy. Des had never before been on assignment outside his office, yet they expected him to succeed just like he had in-house. Now that he had failed, he would certainly lose the job he loved.

  The alarm clock rang. Des closed his eyes.

  His tent flap zipped open and in bounded what might have been a bear. Great, let him eat me, Des thought briefly. Serve me right.

  However, he knew it was not a bear.

  The other expeditionary geologist, dressed in fur, kicked Des softly in the butt. Mitch was allergic to Tevlar, the best personal insulation available. He had insisted on a genuine Alaskan brown-bear fur coat, rather than the orange plastic ones everyone else wore. The hood was pulled tightly over his head; locks of curly blond hair silhouetted his face.

  Des feigned to be asleep, but Mitch kicked him again.

  “You son-of-a-bitch! Get your ass out of bed! Are you going to sleep ‘til fucking noon or what? You’ve got the rest of us out freezing our fucking asses off for nothing! You ought to be shot at fucking daybreak—if there ever is a fucking daybreak around this hellhole.”

  Mitch seemed murderously gleeful, even for Mitch, especially considering the early hour. Maybe he’s drunk, Des thought. Hell, maybe he’s always drunk; nobody could tell with Mitch.

  Mitch kicked Des a little harder. “Get up, you lazy asshole. Those fetching baby blue eyes of yours might attract girls, but they’re useless for anything else. Twenty-seven days and you find shit, you fucking asshole.”

  Des opened one eye.

  “What the hell are you trying to tell me, Mitch?”

  Mitch wandered about the tent, then looked back at Des and grinned.

  “We found it! You couldn’t, but we fucking found it.” Mitch held his gloved hands against the sides of his hood. “Des, it’s beautiful! It’s everything we could have imagined—but it’s east ten miles, not west. It’s even bigger than we thought: fifty meters by fucking fifty meters. Deeper, too—we’ve spent all night trying to find the fucking bottom. Hell, maybe there isn’t a bottom. But we have only three fucking days left, so there’s no time to sleep. Get your ass out of bed!”

  When Mitch kicked at him again, Des grabbed his friend’s foot and twisted him to the Gore-Tex floor. They rolled around, wrestling and laughing like kids.

  Chapter 2

  14,000’ OVER NORTHERN CANADA

  LATITUDE: 73° 10’ NORTH

  LONGITUDE: 99° 30’ WEST

  Day 1

  1600 Coordinated Universal Time, 10:00 AM LTD

  The beginning of Boster Denton Expedition “Ice-Pick”

  The loudspeaker in the bay of the ancient C140 cargo plane crackled as the pilot announced that they were two hours to target.

  Des was confident that this 85-year-old airplane was the best one for the job. It had been meticulously maintained and, for all practical purposes, was just like new. The bonus was the cargo-hold door, which opened downward, because it was from there that they would jump. He checked his watch: sixteen hundred hours, Coordinated Universal Time. The jump was scheduled for eighteen hundred hours UTC—twelve PM, local time.

  Des’ watch was a Timex or he would not be wearing it. He had three Timexes with him: his wristwatch, the pocket watch in his pack and a replica of an antique, wind-up clock (hands instead of glowing numerals) with a clacker-bell alarm.

  Television commercials had sold Des on Timex. The first Timex commercial he had ever seen had shown several people with naked wrists failing at sports and work. Then an obviously wealthy man, finishing an Eggs Benedict brunch at the Ritz, looked lovingly at his Timex and said, “Check, please.” The slogan appeared: Timex is there, only if you care.

  Des cared. He bought his first Timex—a pocket watch—when he was fifteen.

  Five years had passed before another commercial rekindled his love for Timex: A Timex wristwatch had been pitted against the atomic clock in Boulder, Colorado—one of only three worldwide entrusted with tracking global time—for ten years. Each time the Boulder Fountain Clock had been started—so named because of the way it spewed cesium atoms upwa
rd—the Timex watch matched the time. Des had assumed the watch had been secretly connected to an external battery—how else could it keep time accurately for so long? It had been his first exposure to solid-state power supply. SSPS now ran virtually everything, but back then, those tiny plastic self-renewing polymers ran only a Timex. The ad slogan had barely mentioned the secret energy source: Our Celestial Series timepieces, empowered by the stars, will run for a lifetime without interruption. Unlike other timepieces, this series is not based on atomic time. Our pledge to you: They will display the correct astronomical time. Timex…cares.

  It had been a cheap shot. Competitors quickly pointed out the actual difference between atomic and astronomical time was one second in thirty million years. It was simply easier to use cesium atoms to tell time than heavenly bodies.

  Still, Des had been impressed. He’d bought another Timex.

  He purchased his clock after another Timex commercial: When’s the best time to buy a Timex? Now. Introducing our one-hundredth anniversary, limited edition, collector clocks—with hands, with wind-up, with a bell.

  Des looked across the cargo bay at Mitch, who was dry-heaving into the bag between his legs for the umpteenth time. The hood of his fur coat didn’t hide the pale green of his face. Des tried to reassure Mitch with a thumbs-up but received only a blank stare in response. Mitch sat next to the bay door; to his left sat the portly Dr. Stephen Summers, who occasionally patted Mitch on the leg or said some words of encouragement. Mitch kept getting paler. Des was afraid his old friend was about to die.

  Des had known Mitch Jones for fourteen years; they had roomed together as freshmen at Colorado School of Mines. Mitch said “fuck” all the time; he couldn’t help it. You either accepted his foul language or you avoided Mitch.

  They had been seated together at graduation when the name “Alicia Mitchell Jones” had been called to receive a diploma.

  To Des’ surprise, Mitch had stood up, whispering to him, “You shut the fuck up.”

  Des was aware that Mitch had never known his father and assumed that his mother had given him a girl’s name deliberately. If she’d done it to strengthen his resolve and his ability to stand alone against adversity, she had certainly succeeded.