The Atlantis Gene: A Thriller (42 page)

David sat up. “They’re building an army.”

“Who?”

“The Immari. It makes sense now. That’s their end game, I know it. They think humanity is facing an advanced enemy. Toba Protocol, reducing the total population, causing a genetic bottleneck and a second great leap forward — they’re doing it to create a race of super soldiers, advanced humans who can battle whoever built that thing in Gibraltar.”

“Maybe. There’s something else. In China, there was a device. I think it has something to do with this,” Kate said.

She told David about her experience in China, about the bell-shaped object that massacred the subjects in the room before melting and then exploding.

When she finished, David nodded and said, “I think I know what it is.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Maybe. Keep reading.”

CHAPTER 91

Jan 18th, 1917

When the butler bursts through the doors to my study, my first thought is Helena: her water’s broken… or she’s fallen, or—

“Mr. Pierce, your office is on the line. They say it’s important, urgent. Regarding the docks, inside the warehouse.”

I walk down to the butler’s office and pick up the phone. Mallory Craig begins speaking before I say a word. “Patrick. There’s been an accident. Rutger wouldn’t let them call you, but I thought you should know. He pressed too hard. Went too far too fast. Some of the Moroccan workers are trapped, they say—”

I’m up and out the door before he finishes. I drive myself to the warehouse and hop in the electric car alongside my former assistant. We drive as recklessly as Rutger did the first day he showed me the tunnel. The fool has done it — he pressed on and caused a cave-in. I dread seeing it, but urge my assistant to drive faster anyway.

As the tunnel opens on the massive stone room I’ve worked in for the last four months, I notice that the electric lights are off, but the room isn’t dark — a dozen beams of light crisscross the room, the headlamps of the miners’ helmets. A man, the foreman, grabs me by the arm. “Rutger is on the telly for you, Mr. Pierce.”

“On the phone,” I say as I traipse across the dark space. I stop. There’s water on my forehead. Was it sweat? No, there’s another one, a drop of water, from the ceiling — it’s sweating.

I grab the phone. “Rutger, they said there’s been an accident, where are you?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Don’t play games. Where’s the accident?”

“Oh, you’re in the right place.” Rutger’s tone is playful and confident. Satisfied.

I glance around the room. The miners are milling about, confused. Why aren’t the lights on? I set the phone down and walk over to the electric line. It’s connected to something, a new cable. I shine my light on it, following it around the room. It runs up the wall… to the ceiling and then over to the stairs, to… “Get out!” I yell. I struggle over the uneven ground to the back of the room and try to corral the workers, but they simply stumble over each other in the choppy sea of light and shadows.

Overhead, a blast rings out in the space and rock falls. Dust envelopes the room and it’s just like the tunnels at the Western Front. I can’t save them. I can’t even see them. I stagger back, into the tunnel— the corridor to the lab. The dust follows me and I hear rock close the entrance off. The screams fade away, just like that, like a door closing, and I’m in total darkness except for the soft glow of the white light and fog in the tubes.

I don’t know how much time has passed, but I’m hungry. Very hungry. My headlamp has long since burned out, and I sit in the still darkness, leaning against the wall, thinking. Helena has to be mad with worry. Will she finally find out my secret? Will she forgive me? It all presupposes I’ll get out of here.

On the other side of the rock, I hear footsteps. And voices. Both are muffled, but there’s just enough space between the rocks to hear them.

“HEEEYYYY!”

I have to choose my words carefully. “Get on the telly and ring Lord Barton. Tell him Patrick Pierce is trapped in the tunnels.”

I hear laughter. Rutger. “You’re a survivor, Pierce, I’ll give you that. And you’re a brilliant miner, but when it comes to people, you’re about as thick as the walls to the structure.”

“Barton will have your head for killing me.”

“Barton? Who do you think gave the order? You think I could just knock you off? If so, I would have gotten rid of you a long time ago. No. Barton and Father planned for Helena and I to marry before we were even born. But she wasn’t keen on the idea; may have been why she hopped the first train to Gibraltar when the war broke out. But we can’t escape fate. The dig brought me here too, and life was about to get back on track until your gimp ass came along and the methane leaks killed my crews. Barton made a deal, but he promised Papa it could be undone. The pregnancy was about the last straw, but don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. So many children die right after birth, from all sorts of mysterious diseases. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to comfort her. We’ve known each other for ages.”

“I’m going to get out of here, Rutger. And when I do, I’m going to kill you. You understand me?”

“Keep quiet Patty-boy; men are working here.” He moves away from the rock-covered entrance to the corridor. He shouts in German, and I hear footfalls all around the room.

For the next few hours, I don’t know how long, I ransack the mysterious lab. There’s nothing I can use. And all the doors are sealed. This will be my tomb. There has to be some way out. Finally, I sit and stare at the walls, waiting, watching them shimmer like glass, almost reflecting the light from the tubes, but not quite. It’s a dull recreation, the kind of reflection iron makes.

Above me, I occasionally hear drilling and pick axes striking rocks. They’re trying to finish the job. They must be close to the top of the stairs. Suddenly, the noise stops, and I hear yelling, “Wasser! Wasser!” Water — they must have hit— then loud booms. The unmistakable sound of falling rock.

I run to the entrance and listen. Screams, rushing water. And there’s something else. A drumbeat. Or a pulsing vibration. Getting louder every second. More screams and men running. The car cranks, and it roars away.

I strain, but I can’t hear anything else. In the absence of sound, I realize I’m standing in two feet of water. It’s seeping in through the loosely stacked rock, and quickly.

I slosh back into the corridor. There must be a door to the lab. I bang around on the walls, but nothing works. The water is in the lab now; it will overtake me in minutes.

The tube — it’s open, one of the four. What choice do I have? I wade through the water and collapse into it. The fog surrounds me, and the door closes.

CHAPTER 92

Snow Camp Alpha
Drill Site #6
East Antarctica

Robert Hunt sat in his housing pod, warming his hands around a fresh cup of burned coffee. After the near-disaster at drill site five, he was glad they had reached 7,000 feet without so much as a hiccup. No pockets of air, water, or sediment. Maybe it would be like the first four sites — nothing but ice. He sipped the coffee and considered what might account for the drilling difference at the last site.

Beyond the pod’s door, a high-pitched sound erupted — the unmistakable whirl of a drill under low-to-no tension.

He ran out of the pod, made eye contact with the operator, and jerked his hand across his neck. The man lunged and hit the kill switch. The man was learning, thank God.

Robert jogged to the platform. The technician turned to him and said, “Should we reverse out?”

“No.” Robert checked the depth. 7,309 feet. “Lower the drill. Let’s see how deep the pocket is.”

The man lowered the drill, and Robert watched the depth reading climb: 7,400, 7,450, 7,500, 7,550, 7,600. It stopped at 7,624.

Robert’s mind raced with possibilities. A cavern a mile and a half below the ice. It could be something on the surface of the ground. But what? The cavern or pocket, whatever it was, was 300 feet deep. Its ceiling was almost a football field above its floor. The laws of gravity just didn’t work that way. What had the strength to hold up one and a half miles of ice?

The technician turned to Robert and asked, “Start drilling again?”

Robert, still deep in thought, waved a hand over the controls and mumbled, “No. Uh, no, don’t do anything. I need to call this in.”

Back at his pod, he activated the radio, “Bounty, this is Snow King. I have a status update.”

A few seconds passed before the radio crackled and the reply came, “Go ahead, Snow King.”

“We hit a pocket at depth seven-three-zero-nine, repeat seven-three-zero-nine feet. Pocket ends at seven-six-two-four, repeat, seven-six-two-four feet. Request instruction. Over.”

“Stand by, Snow King.”

Robert began preparing another pot of coffee. His team would probably need some.

“Snow King, what is the status of the drill, over?”

“Bounty, drill is still in the hole at max depth, over.”

“Understood, Snow King. Instructions are as follows: extract drill, lock down site, and proceed to location seven. Stand by for GPS coordinates.”

As before, he wrote down the coordinates and endured the redundant warning about local contact. He folded the paper with the GPS coordinates and placed it in his pocket, then stood, grabbed the two cups of fresh coffee and headed out of the pod.

They reversed the drill out and prepared the site with ease. The three men worked efficiently, almost mechanically, and silently. From the air, they might have looked like three Eskimo versions of tin soldiers racing around on a track, performing some sort of ballet in the snow as they danced around each other, lifting and stacking crates, opening large white umbrellas to cover small items, and anchoring white metal poles for the massive canopy that covered the drill site. When they finished, the two techs mounted their snowmobiles and waited for Robert to lead them.

He rested his arm on the plastic chest that contained the cameras and looked up at the site. Two million dollars was a lot of money.

The two men glanced back at him. They had started their snowmobiles, but one tech turned his off.

Robert brushed some snow off the chest and opened one latch. The sound of the radio startled him. “Snow King, Bounty. SITREP.”

Robert clicked the button on the radio and hesitated for a second. “Bounty, this is Snow King.” He glanced at the men. “We’re evacuating the site now.”

He snapped the latch shut and stood for a moment. The whole thing felt wrong. The radio silence, all the secrecy. But what did he know? He was paid to drill. Maybe they weren’t doing anything wrong, maybe they just didn’t want the press broadcasting their business to the world. Nothing wrong with that. Getting fired for being curious would be a hell of thing, and he wasn’t quite that stupid. He imagined himself telling his son, “I’m sorry, college will have to wait. I just can’t afford it right now; yes, I could have, but I couldn’t stand the mystery.”

Then again… if there was something going on, and he was part of it… “Son, you can’t go to college because your dad is an international criminal, and ps: he was too dumb to even know it.” Robert wasn’t that stupid either.

The other man stopped the engine on his snowmobile. They both stared at him.

Robert walked over to the excess cover supplies. He picked up a closed 8’ white umbrella and tied it to his snowmobile. He cranked the machine and drove toward the next location. The two men followed close behind.

Thirty minutes into their trek, Robert spotted a large rock overhang rising out of the snow. It wasn’t deep enough to be a cave, but the indentation cut 20 or 30 feet into the mountain and cast a long shadow. He adjusted their vector to pass close by the overhang, and at the last second, he veered off into the darkness of the shadow. Despite riding close behind him, the two men matched his course quickly and parked their snowmobiles beside his. Robert was still seated. Neither man dismounted.

“I forgot something at the site. I’ll be back. Shouldn’t take long. Wait here and don’t, uh, don’t leave the ravine.” Neither man said anything. Robert could feel his nervousness growing. He was a terrible liar. He continued, hoping to legitimize his orders, “They’ve asked us to minimize our visibility from the air.” He opened the white umbrella and planted it beside him, anchoring it against the snowmobile, as if he were a medieval knight locking a lance next to him and readying his horse for a charge.