The space he stepped into was utterly black, but some sixth sense told him it was large—very large. He felt along the wall, found a bank of at least two dozen light switches, and snapped a few on at random.
With a low boom, rows of fluorescents began flickering into life here and there ahead of him, creating small pools of yellow in a sea of darkness. He switched on additional lights and, finally, the entire archive came into view: row after row after row of ten-foot-tall olive-green cabinets arranged in regular columns, marching back almost out of sight. He stood in the doorway, blinking, gradually accustoming himself to the scale. The space before him was wider than a football field and at least as long. His eye traveled over the banks of files. The amount of potentially fascinating information stored in here—official secrets, scientific pa tents, confiscated cultural and national patrimony, sets of sworn testimony whose contradictions would prove most enlightening—could keep him happily occupied for years.
A restless movement beside him reminded Logan he was working on borrowed time. With a smile and a nod, he took a fresh grip on his briefcase and strode forward. The file that interested him in particular concerned an event that took place in Italy in 1944. While fighting the Germans for control of Cassino, units of the American Fifth Army commandeered an ancient fortress—the Castello Diavilous. The long-deserted castle had once been home to an infamous alchemist who performed extremely unsettling experiments. Following the occupation, the castle was burned to the ground, its secret basement laboratory ransacked. Logan had been tracking the alchemist’s accomplishments and the fate of his bizarre experiments. His best hope to learn more, he now knew, was here, among the moldering files of the Omega Archive.
He proceeded briskly down the tall metal ranks, peering at the labels on the cabinets at random. He quickly determined they were chronological, further subdivided by armed services branch. It was the work of ten minutes to locate 1944; five more to bracket the files related to the Fifth Army; another sixty seconds to pinpoint dossiers related to the Italian theater of operations. He pulled the appropriate drawer to its maximum. There were perhaps three feet worth of manila-and khaki-colored files related to operations at Cassino. They were dusty and badly faded, but otherwise appeared to be barely touched. A quick flip through the titles located a thick file labeled “Fort Diavilous—Tactical and Strategic.”
He glanced over at Hunt, who was standing nearby, looking on like a disapproving chaperone. “Is there a reading table nearby I can use for my examination?”
Hunt blinked, sniffed. “The commissary is down the hall past the electrical substation,” he said. “I’ll take you there.”
Logan pulled out the file, prepared to close the drawer. Then he stopped. Removing the file had exposed another behind it, almost equally faded. Its title tab had been stamped with a single word: “Fear.”
Instinctively, Logan reached for it, pulled it forward. It was very thin. Behind it lay another file, identical, stamped with the same word.
Both copies of a classified file, stored in the same location? Something was very wrong here.
He shot a hooded glance toward Hunt. The man was walking down the aisle of hulking cabinets, his back to Logan. Looking back at the drawer, Logan cracked open the first of the two identical files, scanned the cover sheet.
TOP SECRET
United States Army
Report to:
Internal Board of Inquiry
Subject:
(1) Anomaly D-1, further analysis of
(2) Circumstances surrounding death of science team
(3) Recommendations (urgent)
By:
H. N. Rose
Officer in Charge, Fear Base
Date:
May 7, 1958
REFERENCE
B2837(a)
Logan’s instincts as a researcher into the abnormal were finely tuned, and now they were going off full blast. This was an opportunity, and he didn’t hesitate. As stealthily as possible, he snapped open his briefcase; slipped one of the two thin folders beneath other paperwork; closed the case again; placed the Castello Diavilous folder atop the black leather. And then, closing the file drawer and arranging his face into an expressionless mask, he turned and followed Hunt, the view facilitator, out of the echoing vault and down the concrete hallway.
7
Within five days, Fear Base was transformed utterly. The three-acre apron of concrete between the base entrance and the perimeter fence had become a frantic anthill of activity. Helicopters and small transport planes arrived day and night, dropping off workers, supplies, food, fuel, and all manner of exotic equipment. The quiet, dimly lit hallways of the base’s central wing now seemed like city boulevards: full of chatter, the clacking of keyboards, and the whir of machinery. Power cables snaked everywhere, waiting treacherously to trip the unwary. The base’s powerhouse, until now operating at near-minimum capacity, had been ramped up to 50 percent, filling the arctic silence with its growl. Sergeant Gonzalez and his three army engineers had seemed first astounded, then annoyed by this sudden invasion that turned their once-somnolent base into a hive of demanding, high-maintenance urbanites. The small team was at work night and day, splicing broken wires, fixing leaks, opening heating ducts, and in general making several dozen rooms—largely unused for fifty years—habitable once again.
Evan Marshall walked down the mountain valley, a cooler full of specimens on one shoulder. Halfway to the base, he stopped briefly to rest and survey the small city below, bathed in early-afternoon sunlight. Although the documentary team was naturally bunking in the warmth of the base—various quarters on B Level for the grips, gaffers, publicists, and production assistants, and fancier officers’ compartments on C Level for the producer, director of photography, and channel rep—there were still plenty of outbuildings cluttering the grounds. He could make out a variety of prefab huts, storage shacks, and other temporary structures. At one side, a hulking Sno-Cat—an all-terrain vehicle with massive, tanklike treads—guarded a gasoline depot that would do an army division proud. And beyond everything else, standing alone just within the fence, was a metal-walled cube: a mysterious vault about which the scientists had been able to learn nothing.
With that morning’s arrival of Emilio Conti, the executive producer and creative force behind the project, the breakneck pace had accelerated still further. Conti had hit the ground running. At his order, large machines now effectively blocked the top of the glacial valley, complicating the scientists’ access to their work site. From what Marshall had heard, the producer spent his first hours on-site walking around the base and the surrounding permafrost with his photographic team; studying the way the light fell on the snow, the lava, the glacier; scrutinizing everything through a dozen different positions with a wide-angle lens that hung around his neck. Kari Ekberg had been with him the entire time, filling him in on what she’d accomplished, getting him up to speed, jotting down his work orders for the days to come.
Those days promised to be interesting, indeed.
Marshall picked up the cooler again, hefted it onto the other shoulder, and continued down the mountain. He felt bone-weary: as usual, he’d had trouble falling asleep the night before, and the noisy additions to Fear Base hadn’t helped in the least.
It was hard to believe that only a week had passed since the discovery. Privately, he almost wished the thing had never been found. He was unhappy with the frantic activity, so unlike the careful, cautious approach favored by scientists. He was unhappy with how the documentary team was being coy, almost secretive, about the specifics of their project. And he was especially unhappy with how distracting it all was, how his work was hampered by so many people underfoot. Their own window of opportunity here on the ice was closing fast. The only good thing about the rush, he reflected, was that the faster the film crew worked, the faster they’d clear the hell out.
He bypassed the Sno-Cat and walked into camp. A member of the film crew went by, carrying a long metal b
oom, and Marshall had to duck out of the way to avoid getting brained. The entrance to the base was obscured by a knot of Terra Prime employees, their backs to him, and as he placed the cooler on the ground and opened the lid to check the samples, he could hear querulous voices raised in complaint.
“This is the worst set I’ve ever had to work, bar none,” said a voice. “And I’ve worked on some shit.”
“I’m freezing my ass off,” said a second. “Literally. I think it’s frostbitten.”
“What’s Conti thinking? Coming up here to the middle of nowhere, just because of some dead pelt.”
“And all these dweebs wandering around, messing with our site and getting in the way.”
Our site, Marshall thought with a mirthless smile.
“Speaking of wandering around, have you heard the talk of polar bears? If we don’t freeze to death we’re likely to get eaten.”
“We should be getting hazard pay.”
“The place stinks. The water pressure is terrible. And the craft service sucks. I’m used to fresh stuff—pineapple slices, canapés, finger sandwiches, sushi. Here we get prison rations: beans, hot dogs, frozen spinach.”
A sudden cheer erupted on the far side of the outbuildings. A moment later, there came another. Sealing the cooler again, Marshall trotted over to investigate.
About a dozen people had just gathered outside the little steel-walled vault. They were congratulating each other, shaking hands and hugging. A short distance away stood Conti. He was short and dark-haired, with a closely trimmed goatee. He watched the celebratory group, arms folded. Beside him stood the “network liaison,” or channel rep: a man named Wolff. And beside Wolff were two photographers, one with a large camera on his shoulder, the other with a portable handheld. Still another man—the one who had almost knocked Marshall over a few minutes earlier—stood nearby, holding a microphone fixed to a boom. Wires from the cameras led to a device attached to his belt.
Marshall glanced curiously at Conti. The man’s reputation preceded him: his documentary From Fatal Seas, about research submarines exploring the very deepest depths of the ocean, had won half a dozen awards and was still routinely shown in museums and IMAX theaters. He had done a number of other documentaries, mostly dealing with the natural world and environmental crises, and they had all been critical and popular successes. With his goatee and fussy demeanor, the wide-angle lens hanging from his neck like some huge black jewel, he looked the very picture of the brilliant and eccentric director. The only things missing, Marshall reflected, were a megaphone and white ascot. He reminded himself that looks were deceiving: this man was not only well respected but influential, as well.
“Again,” said Conti, in a clipped, mild Italian accent. “More excitement this time. Remember: you’ve done it. Mission accomplished. Let me see it in your faces, hear it in your voices.”
“Rolling,” said the man with the handheld camera.
“And—action,” said Conti.
Once again, shouts of jubilation burst from the assembled group. They jumped in the air, whooped and yelled, slapped one another on the back. Marshall glanced around in puzzlement, painfully aware of his total ignorance of the project.
Ekberg stood nearby, watching the goings-on. She had been very busy the last several days but had always smiled politely when she saw him—unlike most of the crew, who clearly found the scientists annoyances to be merely tolerated.
He stepped closer to her. “What’s happened?”
“It’s all over,” she said. “A major success.”
“It’s over?”
“Well, that’s what we’re filming, anyway.”
“But—” he began. Then, suddenly, he understood. Conti was filming the crew’s reaction to a successful conclusion…whatever and whenever that conclusion might ultimately be. It seemed the producer was filming everything he could, as quickly as he could, whether it was real or simply staged. Clearly the concept of linear time didn’t exist here—and Marshall realized he had a lot to learn about documentaries.
Conti was nodding, apparently pleased by this latest effort. He turned toward the photographer with the smaller camera. “Get the B rolls?”
The man gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. Conti glanced from him to Ekberg, caught site of Marshall. “You’re Marshall, right? The ecologist?”
“Paleoecologist, yes.”
Conti glanced down at his clipboard, checked something off with a pencil held in one heavily gloved hand. “Good. That’s next on the list.” He looked up at Marshall again, more carefully this time, his gaze running up and down as if examining a side of beef. “Could you assemble the rest of your team in the staging area, dressed for outdoors? Fifteen minutes, if you please. Having all of you on hand will increase the realism of the shot.”
“What shot is that?”
“We’re going up the mountain.”
Marshall hesitated. “I’d be happy to assemble the others. But first I think it’s time you explained just what it is you’re documenting here. You’ve said nothing specific. I don’t mean to be difficult, but we’ve all been kept in the dark long enough.”
Conti sniffed the chill air. “We’re getting all the footage we can before Ashleigh arrives.”
“That’s something else I don’t understand. Why does a host need to fly all the way up here? Why can’t she add her narration back in New York, when the film is cut and edited?”
“Because we’re not just talking about narration,” Conti replied. “We’re talking about a docudrama. A huge docudrama.”
Marshall frowned. “What does that have to do with our work here? Or with the cat we discovered?”
At this, Conti gave a faint smile. “It has everything to do with the cat, Professor Marshall. You see, we’re going up the mountain to cut it out of the ice.”
Marshall felt a chill of disbelief settle over him. “Cut it out, you said?”
“In a single block. For transport back to our specially prepared vault. The vault will be sealed, the block of ice melted under controlled conditions.” Conti paused for effect. “And when the vault is unsealed again, it’s going to be done live, right here—before an audience of ten million viewers.”
8
For a moment, Marshall felt almost too dazed to speak. And then, as quickly as it had come, the feeling of disbelief vanished, flushed away by an anger he wasn’t even aware he’d been keeping in check.
“I’m sorry,” he said, surprised by the calmness of his own voice, “but that isn’t going to happen.”
The smile didn’t leave Conti’s face. “No?”
“No, it’s not.”
“And why is that?”
As the producer asked this question, Marshall saw Sully approaching from the direction of the base. No doubt he’d heard the commotion of Conti’s last shot and come to investigate. The climatologist had been fawning over Conti every chance he had, eager to curry favor and perhaps land a supporting role in the production.
“Mr. Conti has just told me the real reason they’re here,” Marshall said as Sully joined the group.
“Oh?” Sully asked. “What’s that?”
“They want to cut the Smilodon out of the ice cave and thaw it in front of live television cameras.”
Sully blinked in surprise at this revelation, but said nothing.
Marshall turned back to the producer. “It’s one thing for you to take over our base, interrupt our research, let your people treat us like squatters. But I’m not going to allow you to jeopardize our work.”
Conti folded one arm over the other. Marshall realized Ekberg was staring at him intently.
“That carcass represents an important—maybe hugely important—scientific discovery,” he continued. “It’s not some cheap publicity stunt you can exploit for your own ends. If that’s why you came up here, I’m sorry you wasted your time and money. But you might as well pack up and leave now.”
Sully seemed to master his surprise and hear Marshall once agai
n. “Ah, Evan, there’s really no need—”
“And another thing,” Marshall spoke over Sully. “I’ve already told Ms. Ekberg here: that cave is unsafe. The vibration of heavy equipment could bring the damned thing down on your heads. So even if we didn’t object to your crazy idea, there’s no way we’d grant you access.”
Conti pursed his lips. “I see. Was there anything else?”
Marshall stared at him. “Isn’t that enough? You can’t have the cat. It’s as simple as that.”
He waited for Conti’s response. But instead of replying, the director threw a significant glance at Wolff.
Wolff cleared his throat and spoke for the first time. “Actually, Dr. Marshall, you’re right. It is simple: we can do whatever we want.”
Marshall turned toward Wolff, feeling his jaw set in a hard line. “What are you talking about?”
“If we want to cut the cat out of the ice, we can. If we want to chop it up and barbecue it, we can do that, too.” The channel rep reached inside his parka and withdrew a sheaf of papers, which he held out to Marshall.
Marshall didn’t take them. “What’s this?” he asked.
“This is the contract that your Dr. Sully, and the head of NMU’s research department, signed with Terra Prime.”
When Marshall didn’t reply, Wolff went on. “In exchange for underwriting your six-week expedition, Terra Prime—and by extension its corporate parent, Blackpool Entertainment Group—has exclusive and unlimited access not only to your site but to any and all discoveries you make, at our sole discretion.”