Expedition Beyond Page 13

  Adeyo couldn’t have been more than seventeen years-old, but he was the first man of breeding age Des had seen since he’d arrived here. His blond hair was short and curly, his blue eyes attentive; he had no facial hair. He was thin and slightly shorter than Des.

  Des saw a grass shack across a small clearing. A young woman was partially hidden in its darkened doorway.

  While Anastasia talked with Adeyo, Des roamed. On their climb to the ledge, Des had noticed elongated, vertical clefts in the rock to his left—a natural formation through which no light had shone. Now inspecting them from above, Des could see why. Wooden cylinders of varying sizes rose waist-high above the fluted rock. The largest cylinder was five meters in diameter; the rest fanned out in a semi-circle. Across the top of each was stretched canvas.

  Adeyo held batons in his hand.

  “Nice,” Des complimented as he stepped back.

  Adeyo bowed, then struck the largest drum three times slowly.

  Wah-boom! Wah-boom! Wah-boom! The thunder over the ocean was no match. Even Des’ soundsticks could not have duplicated the low bass that reverberated out to sea. Adeyo held both hands flat on the canvas to stop the resonance.

  From far down the coast came three answering booms, equally spaced, metered just like Adeyo’s.

  So, there were more villages with more people—which meant more help. That’s why Des hadn’t recognized everyone in the inner circle at Say-ance: They must have been leaders from other villages. Maybe the whole upper echelon had been there. The queen could have been the one seated next to Itar. Everyone had bowed a little when she’d stood to make way for Des to walk across the fire. (Or had they been bowing to him, because he was about to perform an impossible feat?) Nonetheless, she could’ve been the queen.

  Adeyo beat out methodical, slow, unmusical notes for ten minutes, using all six skins. Then he repeated the three deep bass notes he’d started with, and the three notes returned from the distance. Des wondered what message had been sent.

  Thunder rolled closer and raindrops began as Adeyo bowed deeply to Anastasia.

  “I know drums,” Des told her.

  “Drums?” Anastasia asked, then smiled. She spoke with Adeyo.

  Adeyo held out the batons to Des, who accepted them graciously. He hit the large bass squarely in the center three times, the same beat as Adeyo. Were they still listening?

  The three answering beats returned.

  Des hesitated as jagged lightning flashed and thunder boomed, then he began a low roll on the bass that rose slowly to a crescendo. He’d played drums his entire life. He started interspersing low beats on the bass with the other skins, intertwining them into a subtle, long melody. He rolled around all of the drums and back to the resonating bass. Then he escalated to double time. He started hopping up and down to the beat and was all over those drums. If they had been talking before, now they sang. He had them all vibrating at once and ended with a swing at an invisible cymbal, imagining the clang and sizzle. He held the batons high up in the air.

  Anastasia and Adeyo erupted in gleeful laughter and applause.

  Des bowed deeply and hit the bass drum three times.

  A single note returned.

  Des bowed again. “Thank you, thank you very much.” He returned the batons to Adeyo. “I hope I passed the audition.”

  Lightning struck; this time, the thunder sounded simultaneously. The heavens opened and the rain poured.

  Anastasia and Des slid down the boulders; Adeyo rushed back to his shack.

  Anastasia led Des through the drenching rain to the museum. He wanted to enter, but the heavy door was bolted shut. Anastasia tugged his hand. They ran on.

  He stumbled at Anastasia’s doorway, and she helped him up. They were both soaked, and he could see her body under her clinging, wet clothes. He kissed her long and hard, then watched her semi-naked figure disappear up the hallway as she smiled at him over her shoulder. I think she loves me, I really do. He looked down at himself; he was showing through his wet clothes as well, erect and ready.

  Anastasia returned wearing only a cotton towel wrapped around her hair. She slipped her hand inside his wet shorts and wrapped her fingers around him.

  “Yes,” she purred.

  “Abba,” Des replied.

  Chapter 17

  COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

  LATITUDE 38° 50’ NORTH

  LONGITUDE 104° 49’ WEST

  Month 2, Day 25; 1900 UTC, 1:00 PM LTD

  Mitch tried to fish the key out of his pocket while balancing two paper bags full of groceries. The telephone inside his condo began to ring. He quickly pulled out his key ring, pinned the grocery bags tightly against the door and unlocked it; it flew inward from his weight. As he juggled the bags, three oranges escaped to roll across the floor. He left the door wide open as he dashed to put the bags in the kitchen. The counter was littered with dirty dishes. The small table was covered with a computer, stacks of paper and books.

  “Fuck!”

  He dropped the bags on the floor; items spilled and rolled. Mitch grabbed the phone’s receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh! I was about to give up. Colonel Wingert here. That you, Mitch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you sooner. I’ve been working on this project overtime—and there’s still some confusion downtown—but I’m moving you out. Tomorrow at 0700, you leave for Canada. I’ll send a staff car to collect you at 0630. Be ready; there won’t be any spare time to dawdle.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be ready.”

  Canada meant Ellesmere Island. Mitch’s excitement at finally doing something made him tingle.

  Wingert added, “Don’t forget a warm coat, but bring only one backpack.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mitch hung up. Though Wingert had sounded tired, Mitch had sensed encouragement and even contentment in his tone.

  “Des, old buddy, I’m coming for you!”

  Mitch looked at his spilled groceries. What a waste of a week’s worth of supplies; he had only two meals left before he shipped out. After clearing room on the counter for the three oranges, a large sub sandwich and a quart of milk, he bagged the rest and took them next door.

  When Mitch knocked, his elderly neighbor, her hair dyed silver-blue, cracked open her door and peeked out.

  “Mrs. Waverly, it’s me, Mitch.”

  “I’m not dressed.”

  Mitch could tell she was wearing a robe. “It’s just me.”

  “Pasha. Give me a minute.” She closed the door.

  Mitch waited nearly ten minutes before she opened the door.

  “Come in, Mitch. So nice to see you.”

  Mrs. Waverly was now dressed in a pink chiffon blouse and loose white silk pants; on her feet were pink slippers. Her hair had been brushed back from her pale face; she wore fresh pink lipstick.

  Her apartment was small but tidy. She lived alone on a fixed income—not poor, but close enough. She still wore a diamond ring given to her by a man who had died fifteen years ago.

  She asked, “Have you called your mother recently?” as she usually did. She eyed the grocery bags he held.

  “Of course. She said to tell you hello.”

  She led him into the kitchen, where she sat down.

  “I wish my son would—”

  “I have a gift for you,” Mitch interrupted to distract her. Her adult son Harvey called only when he wanted something from her—usually money.

  “Sit down, Mitch. Screw the gifts—talk to me.”

  They talked often in the last eight days since he’d been back. Mitch had always enjoyed Martha Waverly’s company and grandmotherly insight. He placed the bags of groceries on her clean kitchen table.

  “It looks like I’ll be leaving in the morning—a top sec
ret mission, you know.” He smiled.

  “Clean house before you go.” She patted his hand with her bony fingers. “I’ve seen your pigsty. We don’t want to attract vermin.”

  “Men in uniform will come to pick me up. Men who will salute me.”

  “Where do you come up with these tall stories? First you tell me about some trip to the North Pole where you lost your best friend in a chasm. Then it’s about some rock that wiggles and glows. And now this?”

  “Yup. Top secret, so I can’t tell you much. I’ll just say that it’s an international race, and I’m in charge of the American team.”

  “Pasha. Nobody in this neighborhood is in any race. Most of us are just sitting around watching television, waiting to die.” Her eighty-something-year-old-eyes were still as clear as a child’s.

  “Mrs. Waverly, please, you know I hate it when you talk like that.”

  “Well, it’s true.”

  Mitch knew if he didn’t change the subject she would ramble on about death.

  “Anyway, the Army is going to feed me, so I won’t need these groceries I just bought, after all. They’re yours.”

  “Thank you, Mitch. I know you’re doing this out of charity for an old woman. I certainly don’t believe that other crap you’ve been spoon-feeding me.”

  Mitch let it pass. “So, I mean, if I can, I’ll come back; but if I don’t make it, if I don’t see you again, thanks for the times we did have together.” He kissed her.

  “You’re a very nice young man and welcome in my home anytime.”

  Mitch sat in his rumpled suit on the end of his bed, his pack on the floor. Four-thirty. Why was time passing so slowly? He peeled and ate his last orange. His apartment hadn’t been this clean since he’d arrived; now it looked as though he hadn’t been there at all.

  At precisely six-thirty, he was awakened by a knock on the door.

  Two uniformed men stood outside.

  “Come in while I get my things,” Mitch told them. “I have one request.”

  “Yes, sir?” one escort said politely.

  “When we leave, you’ll see an elderly lady peeking through her slightly open door in the next unit. When you’re sure she can see you, will you please salute me?”

  “Sure, captain.”

  When Mrs. Waverly’s door-chain rattled, both escorts snapped to attention and saluted Mitch.

  Three vehicles were waiting with their engines running: Revolving red and blue lights shone above two police cars flanking a green Army sedan. A few bystanders were watching the early morning spectacle.

  Mitch felt very important. Then his spirits plunged. What if the watchers thought he was being arrested? He waved cheerily to the onlookers and saw Mrs. Waverly waving to him from her window. Mitch saluted her.

  A hand firmly guided him into the back seat of the sedan; his two escorts piled in after him. There was a bustle of activity as doors slammed and engines gunned.

  Fuck, Mitch thought as they drove off with flashing lights, but no sirens. Well, they’d have to do.

  They passed the Air Force Academy as daylight broke, then the sedan slogged off onto gravel, traveling north. The paved road turned to dried mud, where Mitch could see imprints of large rectangles; he tried to imagine what vehicle had made them and decided they had to be tank tracks.

  He saw Army helicopters in the distance grouped together on the ground—four large Chinooks and one huge sky crane. The sky crane was a helicopter designed to carry a box-like container and had a small cabin in front of its payload.

  They roared to a stop near a Chinook; immediately, its large, top rotor began to whine and turn.

  A man in an olive uniform with lieutenant stripes hurried over when Mitch got out of the car. He was as large as Mitch and about the same age. He had long scraggly, sandy hair, a silver earring, a full beard and protruding belly. Distinctly unmilitary, the lieutenant looked like he’d be more comfortable on the back of a chopped Harley—or watching football and drinking beer—than commanding troops.

  “Mr. Jones, so glad to meet you! I’m Lieutenant Mallory. I guess we’re on the same flight.” He shook Mitch’s hand enthusiastically. Apparently sensing disapproval, he added, “Appearances can be deceiving. We’re Special Forces—we go where others fear to tread.”

  “Yes, sir. Are we going directly to the North Pole?”

  “The colonel didn’t tell you? We haven’t gotten clearance to go the whole way yet, so we’re flying to Edmonton. The Canadians want in on this, and we’ve acquiesced. We’ll bivouac in Edmonton until we receive orders to move on.”

  Mitch tried to suppress his disappointment. “Okay.”

  “It shouldn’t be long. We just need to recon with the Canucks and work through details. There’s a bit of rough weather along the way. Do you have any problems with flying—airsickness?”

  Mitch felt his stomach turn and the queasiness spread to his legs. He pulled out a vial of Dr. Stephen’s pills and popped two of them.

  “Not if I sleep,” he replied.

  Mallory said, “We have an Air Force escort, so if you hear thunder while we’re airborne, it’s nothing to worry about.”

  Mitch strapped himself into a seat and fell into a light sleep to the whine of engines and the slapping of blades. The droning sounds were peaceful.

  When he awakened and looked around, he saw nobody onboard. He unfastened his harness and stood. The helicopter was on the ground.

  “Back with the living, I see,” Lieutenant Mallory said as he came from the cockpit.

  Mitch felt woozy and noticed that Mallory was peering closely at him.

  “I’m fine,” Mitch told him. “Flying makes me dreadfully ill, and I’m a little hung-over from the sleeping pills I took.”

  “Well, now, you’re going to have to get over that if you’re going to drive a dog.”

  “We’re not joining the Iditarod, are we?”

  “Not hardly—you’ll see. Well, we made it to Edmonton in spite of your snoring shaking the fusilage. How does the missus put up with it?”

  “There is no missus.”

  Mallory smiled. “And now I know why.”

  Mitch decided he liked Mallory’s amiability and confidence.

  “So what do we do now, sir?”

  “The bigwigs with the Canadian RAF are calling the shots. But from what I can tell, this mission is on standby—stalled, you might say—so we’ll be here until they unravel the threads, which could take awhile.” Mallory wrinkled his brow. “It’s kind of strange. We left with complete orders in place, but now they’re on hold. Somebody’s balked. I hope we’re not here just for show, with nothing really to do.”

  “Maybe I can come up with an idea that would be helpful,” Mitch said.

  Mallory smiled. “You do that.”

  “Do you know how to play Poker?”

  Chapter 18

  LATITUDE 82° 10’ NORTH

  LONGITUDE 73° 42’ WEST

  LAPTITUDE 68%

  Month 2, Day 26: 1500 UTC, 9:00 AM LTD

  Lecherous beasts with piercing eyes had filled Des’ sleep. Though now awake, his uneasiness hadn’t subsided as he surveyed the hundred women in front of him as their commander. He’d assembled them in the coliseum at E-shandra to begin training. But milling about, war clubs in hand, in their white tunics, they appeared more ready for a picnic than for combat.

  Anastasia called to him from the closest portal. Next to her was the redhead who’d sat next to Itar at Say-ance.

  When they approached, Anastasia said, “Des, Alée. She follows you. The others follow her.”

  So, Alée was the only one present who had officer status. The other inner circle warriors were now among the rank and file.

  “Ladies, please remove your sandals,” Des said loudly. His own feet were bare and the cool sand felt g
ood between his toes.

  The women ignored him. Des realized belatedly that communication and organization would be extremely difficult without Anastasia translating.

  He said to Anastasia, “Please tell Alée my plan.”

  He wanted to assess the warriors’ defensive capability, their strength and agility, testing them to find the best. He needed to build an army quickly.

  But he also needed to be able to communicate with them.

  Anastasia spoke to Alée.

  Des said, “Alée, have the warriors remove their sandals.”

  Anastasia translated, Alée issued the order, and the women kicked off their footwear.

  “Alée, Anastasia, have them line up in rows facing me, feet on X.”

  He drew an X with his big toe in the sand, and then more in a line—ten to a row, equally spaced. “Feet on X.” As he began a second row, he wished he had a stick; he was making his toe raw.

  “Abba, Des,” Alée replied. She rattled off instructions to the others.

  Each warrior took a place and stuck the point of her club in the sand.

  Des inspected his troops. They all stood more or less at attention, and were silent. The last line had only nine warriors. Unless Des had misunderstood, he’d been told there would be precisely one hundred.

  “Alée, who’s missing?”

  When Anastasia had translated, Alée appeared perturbed. She went up and down the ranks, scanning faces.

  “B´ahta!” Alée’s voice echoed around the stadium seats. “B´ahta! Yea ah tow, B´ahta?”

  “Abba, yi, yi, yi, yi, yi,” came a shrill answer.

  The shortest adult Des had seen in this land—if she were actually an adult—came through one of the portals, dragging the ball of her war club behind her. The woman, rubbing her plump belly with her free hand and babbling excitedly, was less than one-and-a-half meters tall. Her round face was framed by shoulder-length black hair with bangs to her dark eyes.

  Alée was shaking her head. Des motioned a question at her. Alée made a quick, short squat in reply—bathroom call, he guessed. Well, he couldn’t hold that against B´ahta—or that she was so short.