Expedition Beyond Page 7

  They carefully escorted him back to bed.

  Des lay down and fought the swirling sensation in his brain. His eyesight was affected or the dim light was playing tricks on him because green, sparkly people don’t exist. In fact, maybe this was all a hallucination or dream.

  The first nurse handed him a wooden tray with a wooden bowl filled with a soupy mush. Des didn’t recognize the contents, but he tried it. It tasted a bit like squash. He ate ravenously.

  Left alone and sleepy after eating, Des tried to piece together his fragmented memory.

  North Pole. Climbing down. Falling.

  Monsters. Rainforest. Shattered wristwatch with the date and time.

  The pattern of events seemed surrealistic, yet he felt conscious. He was unaware of how much time had elapsed since he’d looked at his watch, but suspected it had been hours. His team would have broken camp by now, packed the sleds and headed across the Arctic Ocean. They may have already boarded the giant Russian icebreaker bound for Murmansk, their only way out.

  They would have had only one day to search for him. He must have fallen further than they had been capable of recovering him, and so they’d concluded he was dead.

  But where had he fallen to? Unless his past visions were just his imagination, he must be somewhere subterranean. The light he’d seen above could’ve been artificial. Maybe another culture with space-travel technology had left behind the ancestors of these odd-looking people.

  He drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  Sometime later, the nurse brought him the same mushy food and Des ate all of it, noticing that his head and wrist felt better. He decided there was something in the food that made him drowsy. He fell into an uncomfortable sleep crowded with strange faces, murmurings and chanting.

  The same nurse brought the same tray with the same bowl, but there was something new next to it, the first food Des had recognized in days. At least he wasn’t on some foreign planet. There it was, unpeeled and looking exactly like it should.

  Des poked at it with a finger and chuckled groggily, “A banana!”

  The nurse looked confused. She pointed at it and enunciated, “E-yah-ho.”

  Des burst into laughter, pleased to have made contact. “E-yah-ho, e-yah-ho, e-yah-ho!” he said, and hugged her.

  Chapter 10

  MURMANSK, RUSSIA

  LATITUDE 68° 59’ NORTH

  LONGITUDE 32° 59’ EAST

  Month 2, Day 8; 1230 UTC, 3:30 PM LTD

  Stephen Summers stood with his arm around his wife on the deck of the icebreaker as they watched the ice pack breaking.

  Kathy rested her head against his chest, then looked up at him, and said, “Please help Mitch.”

  “I will, honey.”

  He knew this challenge would be similar to a chess match or cards. He was good enough at Poker, so whenever he was evenly matched, he usually won. This time, however, he wouldn’t be playing for money, but for Mitch’s freedom.

  Though Jack had insisted that Des had fallen far beyond their ability to retrieve him, Mitch and Hans had tried their best. With Mitch at the controls of the remaining Buddy, Hans had descended over 12,000 meters into the abyss, aided by night-vision goggles instead of lights. He found that the granite walls continued ever downward, becoming slightly wider, but he saw no sign of Des—or the tentacled thing.

  Mitch had convinced Bearters that they would be returning to find Des, so against Inuit tradition, Bearters finally agreed that they could leave most of the equipment behind. The tents stayed where they were, the sleds parked next to them. The Buddy was left at the rim of the abyss. They took only the Gliders and the essentials needed for their trip home. Unburdened by the sleds, they had been able to triple their speed through the gray fog across the frozen Arctic Ocean.

  When the Russian nuclear icebreaker Sibir loomed before them, it had provided the only bright colors on the drab icescape. They saw civilians standing on the ice. The Russian government had needed to refurbish their fleet, and replacement of the spent nuclear fuel and modernization of the five ships had led to a financial crisis. As a result, the Sibir had been reallocated for tourist expeditions, carrying the wealthy to the geographic North Pole. It was this ship that Des had commissioned for their return voyage.

  Mitch had driven his Glider up to a crewmember standing among the tourists on the ice, nearly running over him.

  “I need to use your fucking ship’s radio!” Mitch demanded.

  The shaken crewmember said in broken English, “Talk to Captain.”

  That proved difficult after they’d boarded, so Mitch bullied other Russians about the radio.

  “You’ve got to treat these people with more respect,” Stephen said to him.

  “Fuck them,” Mitch had said.

  In the dining galley, Mitch had knocked over a busboy with a full tray. The resulting crash brought Mitch to the attention of everyone present, including Petrovich Soyuz, Sibir’s Chief of Security.

  “I understand that you have a request.” Two burly Russians, both larger than Mitch, flanked Soyuz. His tone was threatening.

  Even with Stephen trying to restrain him, Mitch had replied, “If you don’t let me use your fucking radio now, I’m going to kick the shit out of you.”

  The skirmish had ended quickly with Mitch on the receiving end of a high-voltage jolt from a stun gun. The Russians had carried him out and jailed him in the ship’s brig. That had been seven days ago.

  Stephen and Kathy watched as the ice thinned, then disappeared altogether. Through the fog, Stephen could vaguely see the port city of Murmansk.

  He heard the whine of a small engine, then a Zodiac boat zipped out of the fog toward the icebreaker. Onboard were three Russian military men. The Zodiac pulled up alongside the icebreaker and tied on. Fifteen minutes later, it left towards shore with an additional passenger: Mitch, handcuffed.

  Stephen was directed to Customs through a series of rope barriers and armed guards. Officials confiscated the identification cards and passports of the expeditionary members before a guard escorted each of them away; Kathy smiled bravely at him as she was led off. Stephen knew they would be questioned separately to find holes in their stories.

  The guard who took Stephen led him to a small, concrete block room with peeling white paint on the walls and two uncomfortable wooden chairs. There were no windows; a single bright light bulb hung dangling by a wire from the ceiling.

  “Sit,” the guard ordered in English.

  Stephen did as he was told. He knew this game had started without him, but he would finish it. He hoped the others would remember the lines he had written for them, but not verbatim; he had told them to ad lib. He wanted whoever was in charge of this investigation to get similar stories from each of them, but not so much that they’d seem contrived.

  The guard returned after ninety minutes.

  “You—with me come,” the Russian said.

  They went up a flight of steps to a larger room with another guard. Seated behind a small wooden table was a uniformed Russian lieutenant rocking in a Windsor chair that squeaked. He was young with a handlebar mustache that gave him an arrogant appearance.

  “Sit down.”

  The officer shuffled papers in front of him without looking up at Stephen.

  Stephen saw Mitch sitting in one chair with a wide grin on his face; he sat in the other chair.

  The lieutenant continued to creak his chair and rustle papers, then he sighed, “Ohto vse svidetel’skie pokazaniia?” still without looking up.

  Stephen was pretty sure he wasn’t talking to him, but couldn’t have replied, even if he had been.

  One of the guards standing at the closed door replied, “Tak tochno.”

  The lieutenant stopped rocking and stared at the wall next to Mitch. He removed his horn-rimmed glasses. His gaze settled on Stephen, whe
re it burned like two red-hot pieces of coal.

  “Zdes’ tol’ko 6. No vmeste s evo pokazaniiami budet 7?”

  The same guard answered, “Tak tochno.”

  Stephen saw that Mitch was still wearing his fur coat, open in front; his clothes underneath looked as though he’d been camping in them for a month. Stephen had no doubt that he looked just as disreputable. The uniformed guards and the lieutenant were dressed impeccably.

  Stephen hardened his face because the lieutenant was still staring at him. If this had been Poker, Stephen would have already lost; the officer had guessed he would bluff. They could travel nowhere without their passports and identity cards, and this man held them all. He began to feel real fear.

  “You are Mister Summers,” the officer said. His English diction was perfect; if he’d claimed that he hailed from Kansas or Wyoming, Stephen would have had no reason to doubt him.

  “Doctor Summers,” Stephen corrected.

  “Is that so?” The lieutenant’s eyes didn’t waver. “Well, Doctor Summers, tell me: Where would I find a saddle thrombus?”

  Mitch was still grinning, and Stephen wondered what in hell he found so amusing.

  He told the Russian, “You would find it in the terminal aorta and in the femoral arteries. It’s a blood clot.”

  “You don’t sound certain.”

  “Would you like to consult another physician?”

  “I’ll ask the questions!”

  Stephen returned the lieutenant’s fixed stare and pushed aside his fear.

  “And what is the purpose of your sojourn?” the lieutenant asked.

  “The purpose of the expedition—” Stephen stopped. He was reciting his lines verbatim—exactly what he had cautioned the others against.

  “You hesitate.”

  Stephen knew that if he had a chance in this game, he needed to start playing better. “Our mission is none of your business.”

  The lieutenant stopped rocking and blinked.

  Stephen felt the cards turn.

  “I spoke with the ship’s captain, and your group booked passage for seven,” the lieutenant said. “Where is the seventh person?”

  “If you look at the manifest, we booked passage for six snow Gliders and six sleds, along with seven passengers. Desmond stayed behind with the sleds because our mission isn’t yet finished.”

  The lieutenant began rocking and squeaking his chair again. “And how do I know if this is true?”

  Stephen said coldly, “Ask Bearters. It’s Inuit territory, so nothing can be left behind. I think you know that.”

  “Who are you, really? And what is the true purpose behind your mission? What have you found or left behind? Why did this man immediately demand to use the captain’s radio?”

  “He wanted to call his mother. He always wants to call his mother.”

  Mitch grinned.

  The lieutenant rocked.

  “I think I will hold all of you for a while,” he announced, carefully watching Stephen’s face for a reaction.

  Stephen knew it was time to play his trump card. He pulled Mitch’s cellphone from his pocket, stood and placed it in front of the seated officer.

  “This satellite phone is a direct link to my superior,” Stephen said. “If I don’t talk with him within two hours, he will take action in Moscow. We have diplomatic immunity—we are on the same side as you. If you delay our mission, or interfere with our directive, then you’ll have to explain why—and then you will answer questions.”

  Stunned, the lieutenant said, “Hóy.”

  “Da,” Stephen said, with a slow nod.

  The officer’s chair legs hit the floor with a thud.

  “I can check this story of yours to see if it is true,” the lieutenant warned.

  “Go ahead, check,” Stephen said confidently. “Two hours.”

  The lieutenant handed Stephen the cellphone, then resumed rocking. “Please, sit down.”

  Stephen sauntered back to his chair and waited.

  The lieutenant stopped rocking. “I propose a solution: Since you have not passed Customs, you are not officially on Russian soil. Therefore, you are not my responsibility. You could be escorted to the airport to leave as soon as possible.” He glanced at Mitch. “All of you.”

  “Solution accepted,” Stephen said, easily concealing his sense of relief.

  The lieutenant pushed back his chair and stood, then strode across the room and left. He had folded his cards.

  Stephen patted Mitch’s back and felt something twitch. It was the tentacle finger of the creature Mitch had named a mantible. Bearters had carefully sewn it into a secret pocket of Mitch’s fur coat with stitches only an Inuit could hide.

  When it moved, Mitch stopped grinning.

  The expedition members were waiting together in a small room at the airport, guarded by uniformed Russians. They sat without speaking in a no-man’s land between countries.

  A young woman entered the room and called out Jack’s name. He’d told them he had business in France, so he’d booked an Aeroflot flight to Paris. He stood, his computer in one hand and coat and tickets in the other.

  As he left, he said, “See you guys around.”

  But none of them would ever see Jack again.

  Hans and Bearters were called for their flight an hour later. There was a flurry of hugs and farewells before the door closed behind them.

  Stephen sat next to Mitch and gave his leg a reassuring pat.

  “When we land at JFK,” Stephen whispered to Mitch, “we can get the ball rolling. We’ll be back in no time. Don’t give up hope—we’ll recover him.”

  Mitch didn’t answer. His face was pale and Stephen knew he was thinking about flying. He picked up his pack and fished around in it, then he held out a cupped hand to Mitch.

  “I have a present for you. Sleep like a baby.”

  Mitch took the two pills from him and popped them into his mouth.

  Chapter 11

  LATITUDE 82° 10’ NORTH

  LONGITUDE 73° 42’ WEST

  LAPTITUDE 68%

  Month 2, Day 3; 2215 UTC, 4:15 PM LTD

  Des was convinced that his nurse’s skin was verdant. She’d responded to his questions with obvious reticence. He no longer felt light-headed; the effects of whatever drug they’d been feeding him had faded with his pain.

  He’d pondered a lot about his present location. If he were under Earth’s surface, he certainly couldn’t be very deep. He’d studied plate tectonics in college, so he knew that the planet’s crust wasn’t more than one hundred kilometers thick, and lay over semi-solid rock, the mantle. Pressure and heat began to build within the mantle. Some 3000 kilometers from the surface, a spinning, liquid outer core created the Earth’s magnetic field; the solid core was at 5000 kilometers. He also remembered that the continents had separated from a single landmass, pulled by the gliding plates, and ground against each other, resulting in earthquakes and oceanic trenches. He concluded that one plate could have slipped beneath another, leaving a subterranean bubble that had been discovered long ago by someone. This cavern was large enough so the light seemed distant. Maybe it was the source of artificial light that had altered the inhabitants’ skin color? He’d carefully examined the few objects in his room, but nothing explained where he was.

  Des wanted to explore the hallway again, though the orderlies would just usher him back. He listened carefully for sounds, then unhooked the latch on the window’s bamboo curtains and pushed them outward. The large philodendron leaves still obscured his view, but when he stretched to part them, he saw only more leaves with sunlight filtering through.

  He took the spoon off his bedside tray; it was pointed on one edge like a tine of a fork—Des thought of it as a “spive.” He used the spive’s point to poke through the leaves until he was stretched as far as h
e could reach.

  He thought he saw a wall through the leaves, then he realized it was a mountainside. Igneous rock.

  He heard voices in the corridor. He quickly closed and latched the curtains and dove into bed, tossing the spive into the porridge bowl. He pretended to be asleep.

  He peeked through one half-closed eye when he heard someone enter. It was the tallest woman he had ever seen—she stood at least three meters and was muscular. She held upright a staff that had been sharpened at the bottom and had a ball-like stone attached with reeds on the top. The tall woman stuck the point of her staff on the stone floor and held it vertical at the foot of his bed.

  Des opened his eyes wide, guessing this was the type of weapon that had struck him, and raised his forearms protectively over his head. But if someone had swung that rock at the back of his head, it certainly would have killed him; perhaps he’d been hit with only the shaft. He concluded that these people were too gentle to kill and began to relax.

  He heard sticks tapping against stone in the corridor outside, interspersed with human gasps. As the clatter approached, the wheezing also grew louder. When those noises stopped, Des heard murmuring voices.

  The woman in front of him didn’t react. Des assumed she was a warrior because of her stoic demeanor, and the weapon she held. What was she planning?

  There was a wheeze at the door and sticks clattering against stone.

  Moving so slowly as to be almost imperceptible, an ancient-looking man entered the room. He was the first male Des had seen since he’d arrived. The old man was dressed in white linen and held a cane in each hand. Stooped over, he put out one cane and took a step, then gasped for another breath. If he had been standing upright, he would have been almost Des’ height of 6’ 2”, but next to the three-meter-tall woman warrior, he appeared extremely short. The old man turned his back toward a bamboo chair and ever so slowly began to sit. When gravity took over, he released his canes to plop down. He struggled for breath as he stared at the floor.

  Another three-meter-tall woman entered with a war club. She glanced warily at Des, then took the old man’s canes and stood at attention by his side. The man rested his arms on his lap as he continued to struggle for breath, flanked by the two Amazons.