The 6th Extinction (27 page)

But that was never an option.

Stella made it clear that Professor Harrington would allow only Gray and his two men to be ferried across Queen Maud Land to his secret base. It seemed the man’s paranoia had only grown worse upon hearing about the attack. Stella had been en route by air when she picked up their radio chatter after Gray escaped from the destroyed base. She promptly turned around and sought out the CAAT, which was already out on the ice for a different mission. She made an emergency landing and rerouted the treaded tank for her rescue mission.

In a small concession, she had left two British soldiers with Karen and the others—along with rocket launchers and heavy weapons—in case the enemy managed to hunt down that roving module. It was the best that could be made of the situation.

Gray joined Jason at the helm. “How much longer until we reach our destination?”

Stella glanced over to the map on the dynamic positioning system above the pilot’s head. She studied it for too long, plainly trying to weigh how much to say.

Jason interceded, applying a boyish lightness to his words. “It’s not like we can tell anyone.”

She kept staring at the map, but Gray noticed the ghost of a smile edge her lips. “I suppose that’s true.” She pointed to the DPS screen. “See that small peninsula shaped like a half-moon? About twenty miles away. That’s Hellscape.”

“Hellscape?” Jason asked, bunching his brows at the ominous-sounding name.

Her smile broadened. “You misunderstand. Not hellscape. It’s Hell’s
Cape
. As in Cape of Hell.”

“Like that’s much better,” Kowalski commented dourly from across the pilothouse. “You’re not gonna sell a lot of time-shares with that name.”

“We didn’t name it.”

“Then who did?” Gray asked.

Stella hesitated—then finally broke down and spoke freely. “It was Charles Darwin. Back in 1832.”

After a stunned moment of silence, he asked the obvious question. “Why did he name it Hell’s Cape?”

Stella stared at the map, then shook her head. She repeated her noncommittal response from a moment ago. Only now her voice was frosted with dread.

“You’ll see.”

10:55
A
.
M
.

It doesn’t look that bad for Hell
.

Jason watched the CAAT grind its way over the last mile toward the icy cape that jutted into the Southern Ocean. By now his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, seeing well by starlight and the glowing tides of the aurora australis in the dark sky.

Ahead, the curve of the shoreline—a mix of blue ice and black rocky cliffs—sheltered a small bay. At the bottom of the cliffs, waves crashed against a beach filled with boulders. This was one of the rare areas of the coastline free of ice.

“So where’s this base?” Kowalski asked.

It was a good question.

Stella stood behind the pilot, leaning down and whispering into his ear. The man slowed the CAAT to a crawl as the vehicle approached the coast. He guided the giant belted treads up to the edge of a cliff—

—and then over it.

“Hold on to something,” Stella warned.

Jason grabbed for the rail along one wall while Gray and Kowalski clutched the edges of a chart table.

The CAAT crept farther out until half its length jutted beyond the cliff. Then it began to fall, its front end tipping forward. Jason tightened his grip, expecting to plunge nose-first down to the rocky beach. Instead, the front treads hit a slope hidden below the precipice. The CAAT teetered, the back end lifting. Then they were trundling along a steep grade made of loose scree, heading to the boulder-strewn beach far below.

He let go of his hold and shifted forward to join Stella.

The slope looked man-made, likely bulldozed into place, made of the same loose stone as the beach. But to the casual passing eye, the construction would be easy to miss, especially sheltered by the curve of the cape.

At the bottom of the incline, the CAAT hit the beach and followed alongside the base of those towering sea cliffs, its treads churning across the sand. Ahead, a cavern opening appeared, cut like an axe blow into that ice-rimed rock face. The CAAT slowed and made a sharp turn toward that dark mouth. Its twin head lamps speared into the blackness. The tunnel ended after only thirty yards, blocked by a wall of cold blue steel. It rose five stories high and stretched a hundred yards wide. Along the edges, the barrier looked cemented into place with concrete.

As the CAAT entered, a massive set of double doors opened in that wall, pulling to either side on tracks. Bright light—blinding after the hours of darkness—flowed out, bathing over them.

“Welcome to Hell’s Cape,” Stella said.

Beyond the wall, a cavernous space opened, floored in steel but with natural stone walls. It looked like a cross between the deck of an aircraft carrier and the world’s largest industrial hangar. Another full-sized CAAT sat parked alongside six smaller ones, each half the size of their big brother. There were also two prop planes fitted with floats being serviced on the other side. Elsewhere, a trio of forklifts moved crates, while overhead a track-and-pulley system drew a shipping container along the roof.

The pilot drove their vehicle into that chaos and drew abreast of its twin, as the giant doors sealed behind them. The CAAT came to a halt with a heavy sigh of its diesel engines.

As soon as they stopped, Stella waved them to the stairs leading below. “Let’s disembark. My father has been anxious to meet you all.”

She led the American team down to the lower level and out a ramp that dropped from the stern. The air was unusually warm, smelling of oil and chemical cleaners. Jason gaped at the sheer size of this installation.

Stella spoke to a thin British officer who had run up to them, breathless, his eyes worried. Once finished, she faced them and pointed across the cavern. “He’s up on the observation deck.”

On the far side of this massive hangar, a giant steel structure filled the entire back end of the cavern. It climbed eight stories, with interconnecting stairs and bridges. The very top level held a row of tall glass windows.

There was something vaguely familiar about the layout.

Gray noted it, too. “Is that the superstructure from a naval ship?”

Stella nodded. “From a decommissioned British destroyer. It was brought here piecemeal and reassembled.”

Similar to the outer doors, the repurposed superstructure had been sealed along all its edges by concrete, like caulking a window into a frame.

“Follow me,” Stella said, turning on a heel. “Stick close.”

As Jason obeyed, he was distracted by her backside.

Kowalski caught him looking and nudged him with an elbow. “Just keep walking, kid. Nothing but trouble there.”

Feeling his cheeks heat up, Jason stared anywhere but at Stella. The group passed through staggered rows of sandbags, stacked waist high, with three machine gun mounts holding American-made Browning M2s, all pointed toward the outer doors.

Overhead, he watched the shipping container pass along the trolley tracks above and vanish into the superstructure. For the first time, he noted that the container had thick
windows
, like an armored ski gondola. And that a bubble on the underside looked distinctly like a gun turret.

Jason hurried to keep up with the others.

What the hell is this place?

11:14
A
.
M
.

Gray followed Stella through a door into the bottommost level of the steel superstructure. She herded them to a nearby freight elevator and hit the button for the top floor.

As it rose, Gray asked, “How long ago was this place established?”

From his perspective as he crossed the outer hangar, the construction of the British station had a certain slapdash quality to it, like somebody had built it in a hurry.

“Construction started six years ago,” Stella answered. “It’s slow work. We’re still refining and adding to it when budgets and circumstances allow. But the search for this place goes back centuries.”

“What do you mean by—?”

The elevator doors chimed open, cutting off his query.

She waved them out. “My father will explain . . . if there’s enough time.”

They stepped into what was once the bridge of the former destroyer, with a line of tall windows that overlooked the busy hangar space below. Most of the bridge had been converted and expanded into a group of offices centered around a warm library space. Persian rugs softened the steel floor, while wooden shelves rose on all sides, packed tightly with books. Elsewhere desks and tables held more stacked volumes, along with magazines and scattered papers. He also noted plinths holding various artifacts: chunks of fossils, odd crystalline rocks, older books that stood open, exposing hand-drawn biological diagrams or sketches of animals and birds. The largest tome was a massive volume of fanciful illuminated maps that appeared to be centuries old, the metallic inks glowing from the pages.

The renovation looked more like a museum, like something out of the natural history wing of the Royal British Society.

On the far side of the room, a thin distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair stepped from a draped alcove between two bookcases. Though he looked to be in his late sixties, he strode briskly toward them. He wore gray pants held up with suspenders, polished shoes, and a starched white shirt. He paused only long enough to pull on a jacket that hung from a chair behind a broad desk that held a steaming tea service on top. He donned the coat quickly and stepped to greet them.

“Commander Pierce, thank you for coming.”

Gray recognized Professor Alex Harrington from the mission dossier. He shook the man’s hand, finding it bony but still with plenty of strength. He suspected this professor spent more time out in the field than in a classroom.

“Stella told me about your troubles over at Halley,” Harrington said. “I imagine our problems are one in the same. Namely Major Dylan Wright, a former X Squadron leader.”

Gray remembered the burly man who had commanded the assault team on DARPA, with his steely eyes and cropped white-blond hair. Back at Sigma command, Kat had identified the leader as Dylan Wright.

“How do you know him?” Gray asked.

“Wright and his handpicked team were assigned as security detail for the base in the early days. Then somebody got to him, or maybe he was a plant all along. I’m guessing the latter because he was always a major arse, came from some aristocratic family that had fallen on hard times, even carried around an antique English hunting pistol. Either way, we started to run into issues here, evidence of sabotage, along with missing files, even stolen samples. About a year and a half ago, he was caught on-camera but eventually escaped with his team, killing three other soldiers in the process, all good and loyal men.”

Gray pictured Director Raffee, executed in his own office.

“If he destroyed Halley,” Harrington continued, “I can’t imagine he’s not gunning for us here, especially picking such an opportune time when communications are down across the continent. And most worrisome, the man knows every detail about Hell’s Cape.”

“Why do you think he would be returning? What’s he after?”

“Maybe simply revenge. The man had always been vindictive. But I think he means to do far worse. Our work here—besides being sensitive and confidential—is very dangerous. He could wreak great havoc.”

“And what’s the nature of your research here?”

“
Nature
itself, actually.” Harrington sighed, his eyes tired and scared. “It’s best we start at the beginning.”

He stepped to his desk, waving them to crowd around him. He then pressed his palm upon the corner of a glass insert built into the desktop. A 40-inch LCD screen glowed to light, bringing the very modern into this Royal Society museum.

Harrington swiped and tapped its touchscreen surface. With a flick of his fingers, he scattered various photographs across the screen, as easily as if he were dealing physical cards on a game table.

Gray noted the file name that glowed near the top of the screen.

D.A.R.W.I.N.

He had seen it before, remembering the acronym stood for Develop and Revolutionize Without Injuring Nature. It was the core conservation philosophy shared by Harrington and Hess. But he stayed silent, letting the professor control the story.

“It all goes back to the voyage of the HMS
Beagle
and the journey of Charles Darwin through this region. And a fateful encounter with the Fuegian tribesmen of Tierra del Fuego. Here’s an old pencil sketch of that first meeting, near the Straits of Magellan.”

He tapped and enlarged a photo showing the old British sloop and a group of natives in boats.

“The Fuegians were skilled sailors and fishermen, hunting the seas around the tip of South America and beyond. According to a secret journal written by Darwin and kept under guard at the British Museum, the captain of the
Beagle
obtained an old map that showed a section of Antarctic coastline, along with a hint of a possible region that was free of ice. Seeking to claim it for the Crown, the
Beagle
sought this location—but what they discovered so scared them that it was forever stricken from the record of that voyage.”