Expedition Beyond Read online

  The Washington Post

  John Phillip Sousa

  Circus March

  He turned on the player and rotated the volume knob to high. Holding a soundstick in each hand, he blew across the microphone; the soundsticks hummed.

  “Kathy, Kathy Summers,” his voice boomed, “please come to a black paging telephone or the main expeditionary tent.”

  He started the CD, holding the soundsticks above his head, like a cheerleader finishing a cheer, and the legendary Marine Corps march began.

  After the cymbals clashed, Mitch stumbled out of his tent wearing only his long underwear—no shoes, no hat. He had his hands pressed tightly to the sides of his face.

  “What the fuck…!”

  Cymbals clashed again as flutes took the bridge.

  “Please, Des, PLEASE.”

  Des turned off the player. “What’s the matter, not up to Reveille? My, you look like you could use some more sleep. Well, no time for that. Breakfast in fifteen minutes.”

  Mitch couldn’t stay to argue; his feet were turning white around the edges. He hurried back into his tent, still holding his head.

  Kathy rushed past Des to the main tent, gripping her coat closed with one gloved hand.

  “Coffee?” she offered hoarsely when Des entered the main tent.

  “Please.”

  He sat at the kitchen table while Kathy cooked bacon and mixed pancake batter. The others trickled in. Hans tried to pick a piece of bacon out of the pan but Kathy swatted his fingers with her spatula.

  “Coffee or juice?” she asked him.

  “Juice, please.”

  Hans had a large book tucked under his arm. He sat on the couch and opened it; the book had one long, serious-looking Norwegian word at the top and a boat at the bottom.

  Stephen poured his own juice and sat on the sofa opposite Hans’ couch. The men had already staked out territories.

  “So what’s your book about?” Stephen asked.

  “It takes place a long time ago, when the Norwegians were excellent whalers. Whaling is a tough job, very tough job.”

  “So the book is about the whalers?”

  “Ja, the men, the boats, their equipment, the whole schmeer.”

  Bearters arrived looking none-the-worse for the beating. Des guessed it must be an Inuit tradition to hide wounds and not let their enemies know the damage they had sustained.

  Halfway through breakfast, Mitch scuffled stiffly into the tent. Kathy thrust a cup of coffee into his outstretched hand, then served him breakfast.

  Des was ready for action. “Nice to see everyone up and alert.” Bearters sat next to Mitch and whispered, “We must get rid of that stereo.” Mitch nodded.

  Des scowled, then unrolled a large geographic map onto the table.

  “Now, we know the crevasse is west of here. We’ll use the sextants to divide this area,” he pointed to the map, “into twenty-five separate pie-shaped pieces. Jack will feed the information into the onboard computers on Gliders One, Two, and Three. But, before we search the first area, we’ll take the Gliders out on a general sweep, just because I’m feeling lucky today!”

  It was a golden opportunity for Mitch to make a quip, but he just ate his bacon.

  Des continued, “Also, I have tent locks.”

  Each tent had an attached floor, so it would be difficult to enter one without unzipping the front door flap. A tent lock wasn’t foolproof, but would keep out the merely curious.

  Mitch said to Bearters, “I bet he’s already got one on his tent.”

  Des said, “My tent lock is already in place.”

  Jack and Bearters each took one. Mitch looked at the key in Bearters’ hand, and then at Bearters, who half-grinned and winked at him. Nobody else seemed to think locks would be necessary.

  That evening, they gathered again in the main tent. Bearters and Mitch stretched out on the floor, their heads propped up by pillows. Jack typed, Kathy busied herself with after-dinner chores, and Hans read.

  Des concentrated on his charts and maps spread across the kitchen table, reflecting on what hadn’t been accomplished. The day’s activities had netted them only new dissatisfactions. Stephen’s Glider had failed and had to be left on the ice. Bearters had complained that they were defacing a national treasure. Mitch had told Des that it seemed he was leading a joyride instead of initiating a search. Jack withdrew from the group even more than he had been. Through it all, Des managed to maintain a positive attitude, sure his outlook had built team morale.

  Stephen kept reshuffling a deck of cards and the rhythmic sound drew Des’ attention. Stephen was slapping the deck against the table and back-shuffling with a catchy beat. It reminded Des of when he’d played drums for the Colorado Symphony Orchestra; he’d always enjoyed percussion.

  Looking only at the backs of the cards, Stephen winged four aces out of the pack face up. He collected the cards and resumed the shuffling cadence, then four kings appeared.

  “Poker?” he asked Des.

  “I doubt I’d be able to compete with you.” Des grinned.

  Stephen continued, “Did you know that in Poker, four deuces wins over a full house—aces high? It’s just as good as four kings.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Des said.

  “It does.” Stephen reshuffled, then cut the cards. “I’ll wager you twenty bucks the next card is an ace.”

  Des smiled. “No bet. I believe you.”

  Stephen turned over the card—it was the three of diamonds. “You should’ve taken the bet.”

  Bearters opened a bottle of Russian vodka, swigged and passed it over to Mitch. Mitch drank, then handed back the bottle.

  He said, “So, Bearters, tell me something. Your name is unusual—how did your folks come up with it?”

  Bearters drank again, then passed the bottle back to Mitch. “They were caught up in the Canadian debate on French and English. My real name is Bear Trois—Bear in English, Trois in French. Three Bears.”

  Des delivered a preemptive glare at Mitch, anticipating that he would say something to incite Bearters, like “Oh, I had your sister, Goldilocks. She was hot.”

  But what Mitch actually said was: “Three Bears, now that’s a nice name. I like that name. I wish my mom had been so thoughtful.”

  Des was relieved. Perhaps their fight had resulted in peace between the two men.

  Des saw Bearters hold out something shiny to Mitch. It was a tent key with filed-down sides; only the tip was whole. Des could see that the key had been filed. When the two men laughed, he knew Mitch would abscond with his soundsticks if he had the chance. Des would need to hide his sound-system elsewhere.

  The cavernous rent in the snow was ten miles to the east of their base camp. The ovoid lip of the fissure was elevated; mounded above the surrounding landscape was a circular, cylinder of densely packed ice two meters high. Its smooth surface glistened in the fog. Inside the chasm, past the surface snow, the vertical walls were coated with ice two meters thick. The ice grew gradually thicker further down; at three thousand meters from the surface, the walls were four meters thick. It was there that the ice stopped abruptly; steep, sheer walls of granite continued into a black abyss. Steam belched from somewhere below and as it ascended the tube, it crystallized on the walls, forming more ice. The steam came in waves, rhythmically, as if caused by the breathing of some gigantic creature. From deep within, slithering sounds also emanated upward.

  Since they were searching west of base camp, the team would not find the vent for twenty-four more days.

  On the third morning of their expedition, at precisely 6:30 am, Des pushed the CD into the player and thrust the soundsticks high over his head. When the music boomed out, Kathy hurried past Des and Mitch muttered obscenities loudly from inside his tent. A new day had begun.

  “Today we are going to begin
our search in earnest,” Des announced when the team had assembled for breakfast in the main tent.

  “Who the hell is Ernest?” Mitch said to Bearters.

  Des ignored him. “We’ve finished dividing the search area. I’ve written a number from one to twenty-five on each of these folded pieces of paper. Let’s draw to see which area to search first.”

  He placed the papers into a baseball cap and held it up.

  Bearters finished eating and slapped Mitch on the shoulder, motioning for him to follow. They dropped off their plates in the sink and left before a number was drawn.

  Des didn’t seem to notice. “Kathy, give it a try. Pick a good one.”

  Kathy pulled out a slip and handed it to him.

  “Twenty-seven,” he announced, then laughed. “Of course, it’s not twenty-seven. There are only twenty-five. Seven, I meant seven.”

  There was a sudden bang from nearby outside; it sounded like a gunshot.

  “Who’s outside?” Des asked with dread.

  “Mitch and Bearters left a few minutes ago,” Kathy said shakily.

  They heard two more gunshots in rapid succession. All the remaining men bolted for the tent door and piled out.

  Mitch’s voice drifted out of the fog: “You son-of-a-bitch! You couldn’t hit the side of a fucking barn door!”

  Again, a shot rang out and everyone started running towards the sound. There was one more shot as they approached, followed by the tinkling of glass.

  “That’s how you fuckin’ shoot,” Mitch said. He was holding a pistol pointed toward an empty, broken vodka bottle twenty meters away.

  “Mitch!” Des yelled. It was illegal for foreigners to fire weapons in Nunavut territory without a permit, and Mitch didn’t have one.

  Mitch quickly shoved the gun into Bearters’ hand and smirked. “Oh, hi, guys. Just settling a bet. Hope we didn’t disturb anyone.”

  Chapter 6

  NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

  LATITUDE 40° 43’ NORTH

  LONGITUDE 74° 1’ WEST

  Day 15; 1245 UTC, 8:45 AM LTD

  John Severin carefully arranged the confidential sets of building plans on the elongated table, peering beyond the glass wall into the hallway where architects gathered. He pushed back his red hair as he rechecked each set to ensure all were complete. When finished, he looked from the forty-seventh floor window of the Empire State Building at the traffic gridlocked below. It was going to be a long day. Barrington Industries couldn’t begin the memorial tower construction phase until the architects agreed—and, so far, they had not. He’d been mandated to break the impasse.

  A telephone rang; a red light glowed on the phone in the corner—fifteen minutes too early.

  “John? Is that you, John?” Henry Barrington’s voice sounded disturbed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “John, my son…is missing.”

  John knew that Henry meant abducted, but Henry’s son was forty-two years old and single; he could afford to be anywhere. “Are you sure? Have you received a note or any demands?”

  “No, but John, he’s alive. I sense he is alive.” The voice gained strength. “I want you to find him. Take Amy with you; she’ll know what to do. Keep the local law enforcement out of it. I want this whole operation kept secret; I don’t want it to be traced back to me. Go undercover, take ransom money…pay them.”

  “I won’t need Amy,” John interrupted.

  He’d work with Amy, but not travel with her. He wouldn’t tolerate her at such close quarters again. Amy was attractive and John had thought about her often—until Barrington Industries’ gala summer party.

  He had walked fourteen blocks from the Waldorf-Astoria to Central Park enjoying a smoke. In the fading sunlight, he’d wandered through luxurious gardens into an area of dense foliage. He hadn’t recognized Amy’s diminutive and shapely figure until he was close enough to see her hand-in-hand with another woman.

  Then while John had watched, Amy kissed the other woman passionately.

  He’d been appalled. He had never witnessed lesbians kissing.

  As they’d finished, Amy’s dark eyes had locked onto his. Instead of being embarrassed, she’d held the other woman’s waist tightly and said to John, “Envious? Or don’t you enjoy candy kisses?”

  He could still hear their laughter as he hurried away.

  That had just been the first time. Amy was openly gay, and John’s dislike for her had grown due to her perverted promiscuity. Over the next year, he had seen her kiss several different women; he felt Amy was goading him, seeking him out to show off each new conquest. He’d eventually called her on it and she had slugged him. By then, he loathed the sight of her.

  “Dammit, John. Are you listening to me?” Henry said through the phone.

  “I’m here. I’ll find George. I won’t need Amy,” he repeated with defiance.

  “Look, if there’s any violence, I know I can trust you to get my son through it; that’s why I chose you to be in charge of company security.” Henry’s gravelly voice was insistent. “But Amy is organized and competent. Forget about her sexual preferences! She’s the best for coordinating a search if necessary. Get the job done together for me—and, John, top priority—do it now. Bring my son back.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand. Please fax me the particulars.” This wasn’t something to risk to company e-mail.

  “Sending now.”

  “I’ll get back to you in fifteen minutes,” John said.

  He looked through the interior glass at the growing crowd of arrivals while the fax machine purred. Henry was usually right when he sensed something—no, Henry was always correct. That’s why he’d been so successful. What if the senator’s son had actually been kidnapped? If he were in the wrong hands, those holding him could demand plenty—or worse, not ask at all.

  John saw Amy arrive from her office. She was a smartly dressed woman with short-cropped auburn hair, holding a clipboard in one arm while directing with the other. The thought of going anywhere with her was revolting, but John would do as Henry had asked. He called her in.

  “We have a problem,” he said, closing the door behind her.

  “What is it?”

  “George Barrington is missing. The old man thinks he’s been snatched. We need to get on this right away.”

  Amy pivoted back through the door, then John heard her announce, “This meeting has been canceled. You will be paid for your time. As soon as I have a new schedule, I’ll let you know.”

  She reentered and shut the door tightly.

  “Where and when was George last seen?” she asked John.

  “Henry didn’t say, but it’ll be in the fax. He wants this kept under wraps. If it’s an abduction, he’s willing to pay.” John read the fax. “His last verifiable location was at Lake Mackay. He was dropped off there with an outfitter for an Outback excursion. Their destination was Alice Springs, but they’re five days overdue.”

  “Where is Lake Mackay?” Amy asked.

  John sighed, underwhelmed by the prospect of going there with Amy. “Australia.”

  ALICE SPRINGS, AUSTRALIA

  LATITUDE 23° 42’ SOUTH

  LONGITUDE 133° 53’ EAST

  Day 17; 0915 UTC, 6:45 PM LTD

  After a sixteen-hour flight and their subsequent procurement of three Land Rovers, Amy pulled the lead Rover to a stop in front of The Territory Inn.

  She and John entered the hotel, followed by Amy’s search team.

  “Luggage,” Amy said curtly to a bellboy, handing him the Rover’s keys.

  She didn’t wait for the man working at the front desk’s computer monitor to acknowledge her, but rang the small bell twice.

  “Do you have a reservation for George Barrington?” John asked when the clerk looked up.

  “Let me see,” the clerk said,
returning his gaze to his monitor. “Nothing for today…here it is. You’re late; I’m afraid that the Barrington reservation has been canceled.”

  “Who canceled it?” Amy asked.

  “The hotel. We have a very generous forty-eight-hour grace period; after that, you’re considered a no-show and lose your deposit and reservation,” the clerk explained.

  John handed over his American passport. “I am not George Barrington. I believe we do have a current reservation. I’m John Smith and this is my sister, Amy.”

  At that moment, sister Amy was looking at a young brunette seated in the foyer; the woman blushed, but stared back. Next to her, a teenage girl was chatting on her cellphone. The teenager brushed back her long, blond hair, then closed her phone.

  “Brother John,” Amy nudged him playfully until his eyes followed hers. “I think I’ve found us a double-date.”

  “Oh, gawd,” he said.

  Just before dawn, two men climbed out through a window of the hotel’s top floor and onto the roof, where they attached a thin, silvery antenna.

  John tuned on the shortwave radio in his room while Amy sat rigidly on the bed. He checked his watch; it was on the hour.

  “This is Base calling Ranger One. Ranger One, do you copy?”

  There was a short pause, then: “This is Ranger One to Base. I copy loud and clear. Over.”

  “What’s your situation?”

  “The helicopter dropped us off near Lake Mackay four hours ago. We have three guides, Aborigines; they located a camp where two men stayed overnight maybe three weeks ago. They picked up the track, and we’re on it. From what they say, we’re nine days away from you—maybe eight, if we push it. Over.”

  “Then push it. Out.”

  “We need to keep the contents of this briefcase safe. Can we count on you?” Amy said to the bank manager, Aaron Cummings.

  John placed the case on the fat man’s desk, opened the locks, then turned it around to reveal the stacks of gold Kruggerands and the photographs which lay on top of them.