The President turned toward Teresa Simpson. “Give me the short version and then let’s get to the problem at hand.”
She nodded and began, “Anasazi Indians—”
“Native Americans, Ms. Simpson,” interrupted the President.
Teresa looked up in shock. “With all respect, sir, the people living in this region whose ancestors lived in these dwellings, refer to themselves proudly as Indians.”
“That may be true; nonetheless, the proper term for these people is Native Americans or indigenous peoples.”
Teresa wondered if she should just stand up, walk to the entryway, spin around, and tell him what an arrogant, politically correct nitwit he was, before slamming the doors shut.
Instead, she drew in a deep breath and started over. “Native Americans lived on the tops of the mesas happily for generations. About a thousand years ago, those living in the North American Southwest suddenly moved into a dangerous system of cliffs and underground dwellings. They lived within these cliffs for approximately 200 years, and then, just as mysteriously, the dwellings were all abandoned. Those living in Northern New Mexico, Colorado, and Arizona are generally known as the Anasazi or as translated, the Ancient Ones. In southern New Mexico, where this particular dwelling was found, the cliff dwellers are known as the Mogollon.”
The President leaned forward. “I thought it was drought that drove them from the cliffs.”
“That’s been a prevalent theory, yes.”
“We’ve all been to Mesa Verde, Ms. Simpson,” he said impatiently. “Can we get to the crux of the situation, please?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Now, I’m not an archeologist.” She glanced sharply at the Secretary of the Interior. “The Secretary fired our best Native American archeologist earlier this year, over strong objection on my part.”
“That would be our wayward ex-employee, Dr. Leah Andrews,” said the President.
“That’s right,” she said. “And we believe that she discovered this hidden cliff dwelling.”
“Which,” the President continued for her, “allegedly contains geologic samples found naturally only in Antarctica.”
Teresa Simpson nodded. “If it’s true and these Native Americans traveled to Antarctica during the Dark Ages—”
“What makes you believe that this isn’t a hoax?”
“I know Leah Andrews,” Teresa replied. “She’s a rock-solid scientist, totally committed to her profession. I strongly believe that Leah is headed to Antarctica along with her husband and your out-of-control billionaire because she expects to find a connection to these Native Americans.”
“Right now, all I want is Paulson and his crew taken out of Antarctica.” The President turned to Fischer. “Which brings us to you, Stan.”
Fischer’s hands shook as he glanced down at his notes. “We believe our best option involves sending down a small contingent of Special Operators. The team will be flown directly to the region in question, where they will be inserted ‘HALO’ to gain the element of surprise.”
Teresa held up her hand.
Fischer’s face flushed with irritation. “You have a question, Ms. Simpson?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t get it. Leah Andrews and her team are not Russian soldiers. They’re American citizens. What’s the need for all the commando hijinks?”
Fischer tossed his folder on the conference table. “They may be American citizens, but they’ve committed crimes placed a vital international relationship, critical as it is at this juncture, in jeopardy.”
“I have a platoon of SEALs standing by in Little Creek, Virginia,” Admiral Wilson said calmly, in contrast to Fischer’s outburst. “With in-flight refueling by way of air tanker, we could fly them direct from their base to the insertion point in Antarctica, provided the weather cooperates. From the time we give the command, we’ll have them on the ice within thirty hours.”
The President leaned forward. “I don’t want just anyone assigned to this mission, Clay. I want the best you’ve got.”
The Admiral cleared his throat, glancing at Teresa Simpson. The signal to the President was clear, that was classified at the highest levels and shouldn’t be discussed with low-level civilian political appointees present.
After an awkward silence, Teresa spoke to clear the tension. “And what if they resist this forced evacuation? I doubt Leah Andrews is going to welcome American commandos with open arms.”
“These are SEALs, Ms. Simpson,” the admiral replied smugly. “They are trained and equipped to be highly — influential.”
“You mean they’re armed to the teeth,” she said.
“Precisely,” he replied.
CHAPTER 48
Leah zipped up her oversized parka, pulled the wool hat around her ears, and walked down the short ramp. She drew in a deep breath and stepped onto the ice. “Damn, it’s cold, Hobson,” she said, stamping her feet on the ice.
“We’re in the middle of a sweltering heat wave.” Jack said, pushing the hood of his parka off. “It can’t be less than five or ten below zero.”
Marko shuffled up next to Leah and nudged her. “Yeah, but it’s a dry cold so you hardly feel it.”
“Dry cold….” Leah repeated, holding back the smile.
She walked out beyond the shadow on the Caribou, getting her first look at makeshift Russian base camp. It consisted of four steel cargo containers all painted in what looked to her like military gray. The Russians had used a tractor to push snow and ice up along the sides of the containers, trying to insulate them from the cold, no doubt. Each one had what appeared to be a stove pipe running out of the top, possibly to vent the makeshift shelters if the Russians were using gas or oil heaters.
A chill ran down her back when she saw the Russian flags flying from steel poles welded to the side of the containers. It reminded her that foreign soldiers had laid claim to this nameless hunk of ice and rock.
About fifty meters away from the circle of container huts sat the B-29. To Leah, the bomber looked ready to fly. The aluminum skin gleamed in the sunshine, the black, four-blade propellers and fresh tires stood out in contrast.
In the distance, the blackened wreckage of the Antonov lay scattered about and her thoughts went to the families of those men who’d perished in such a horrible way, such a long, long way from home.
It would’ve given her the creeps, but Jack said the Russians had mounted a mission and had recovered the bodies, or what was left of them, before abandoning the icy base.
She took a deep breath and focused on the reason she’d risked life and limb: Thor’s Hammer.
She turned and shaded her eyes. Thor’s Hammer looked as if she might reach out and touch it; a massive granite mountain thrusting like a belligerent fist, out of the icy depths. The vein of red granite creating the Thor’s Hammer image stood out within the granite mountain like a neon-lit mega-casino in Vegas.
She understood why it had served as a beacon for aviators and why the cliff dwellers might have remembered it in this wasteland of white and gray.
“I want everyone to gather around,” Jack said. “We have work to do and very little time.”
Garrett, Juan, and Marko filed down the Caribou ramp, zipping up heavy parkas and applying the sunscreen necessary to protect their skin from the deadly ultraviolet rays beaming through a thin ozone layer. Ridley, Angus Lyon, and Orland Perez followed them down the ramp.