“These SUVs, you notice something?” Everett asked, pointing to and tapping the three roving vehicles outside the thirty-foot chain link fence.
“Nonmilitary, black in color, and expensive,” he said, adjusting the magnification on the virtual reality map. “Maybe a little bit beyond the resources of the Ecuadorian military.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Carl agreed.
“Colonel, we’re starting our descent into Quito, so you and the captain better buckle up back there,” Ryan said over the intercom.
Everett looked at his and then Jack’s seat belts, which had never been undone from takeoff. “Nah, we won’t tell him. He may think we don’t trust his flying,” he said with a crooked smile.
As Jack sat back in his seat and closed his eyes, his cell phone rang.
“Collins,” he said.
“Colonel, Niles here. I have an update for you on several fronts. Number one, the rest of the civilized world has seemingly turned an ugly eye toward us. They are using the excuse that we introduced fissionable material onto the lunar surface.”
“You’re kidding. I suppose they didn’t see the same footage we did on CNN?”
“Well, the president thinks it’s just a red herring, several of the more capable countries seem to be hell-bent on investigating the event firsthand.”
Jack sat up in his seat and then sat the cell phone down on the table between him and Everett. He hit speakerphone.
“Are they running a bluff? I mean, are they capable at this time of getting there?” Jack asked as he mouthed the word Moon to Carl.
“Well, the ESA claims they have not one, but two prototypes ready to go. I personally find that difficult to believe. They could never have hidden the budget from the European Union. But they did go on television just twenty minutes ago stating they were prepared to shuttle components into South America to start assembly of the two Ariane 7 vehicles.”
“Damn, what does CIA have to say about the accuracy of this claim?”
“Jack, all of our intelligence services were caught flat-footed on this one, and I for one won’t start pointing fingers; keeping tabs on the ESA hasn’t been the highest priority. The same goes for China and Russia. CIA counts warheads and missiles, not lunar-capable systems. For all we know they could launch as soon as they get their systems online and their vehicles assembled.”
“Is there anything we can do about it? I mean it’s obvious to anyone who’s been paying attention that there is a mineral up there that would be highly desirable. And the technology those remotes dug up, that’s not a bad second prize either.”
“The president wants me to get with DARPA and NASA to see if we have any alternatives,” Niles said, speaking of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. “I’m flying out in a few minutes to meet with the Defense Sciences Office in Arlington, and then I’m off to Houston.”
“Do we have any capability at all to get back there since the budget cuts?”
“I doubt it, Jack. That’s why you and Captain Everett had better come up with something. We need Operation Columbus and its artifacts found. One more thing, the excavation you’re visiting is owned officially by Hans Dieter Brinkman, a German businessman who leases and sells land out of his Munich offices.”
“What’s the story on this guy?” Jack asked.
“Well, Europa ran a background check on him and it seems our Mr. Brinkman is the son of Field Marshal Karl Brinkman. We have learned that the field marshal was an engineer before and during the war. He died in 1963 in, of all places, Quito. Pete Golding dug deeper and found that our man was a mining engineer. His son took over the business end of things but has never once set foot in Ecuador. Europa, as is her style, surmises that Mr. Brinkman the younger is nothing more than a front for another owner that she can’t find in the fine print of the property ownership papers. So, watch it, Jack. It could be anyone.”
“Is that all?” Collins asked, shaking his head at Everett.
“There is one more little thing. Pete Golding analyzed the material sent from the Beatles and has come up with an approximate age for the lunar site and the remains found inside Shackleton.”
“We’re listening,” Jack prompted.
“Right around seven hundred million years old,” Niles finally said. “Give or take a month.”
“A month, huh? Well, I can see you’re beginning to develop that sense of humor, Mr. Director. We’ll call when we have something.”
“Okay, Jack. I’m meeting with the president and he tells me I’m going to be incommunicado for the next eight hours, so I guess something’s pretty important. Anyway, good luck.”
As Jack, Mendenhall, Everett, and Ryan waited for the only rental car available at the Mariscal Sucre International Airport, Quito’s brand-new facility, they realized from the taxis and beat-up bus service that the airport had yet to see an influx of high-traffic rental car companies and high-end service industries. The services were somewhat lacking as the four men waited at the curb for their rental to be delivered. Ryan had gone to the only open rental counter inside the terminal and found sparkling new counters and floors, but only one company, Quito Express, was open for business. When Ryan returned he was unusually quiet as he waited beside Will Mendenhall.
“That was pretty quick,” Will stated, peeling his Hawaiian-style print shirt from the small of his back. The heat wave that had struck the foot of the Andes had surprised them when they exited the executive jet.
“Uh, yeah,” Ryan answered and then handed Will a brochure from Quito Express Car Rentals. The large picture on the front showed a shiny new Lexus SUV. The flyer folded out into three large panels of makes and models. “The choice was pretty simple.” Ryan moved his feet uneasily as he looked at the colonel and captain out of the corner of his eye. They stood with their sunglasses on, stoically waiting for any sort of punch line Ryan might add to his statement. They didn’t have to wait long.
Mendenhall was the only one to jump when a large bang sounded in the underground roadway that fronted the large and shining terminal. The backfire was soon followed by the squeal of an alternator belt as their rental pulled to the curb. Jack turned and looked at Ryan, who stood and stared straight ahead.
“I see your taste in cars is right in line with your taste in women, Mr. Ryan.”
Everett just stood and looked from the 1986 Yugo to the brochure Will was comparing to the actual rental. The car was white and looked as if a giant tiger had raked large, sharp claws across its side and hood. The rental manager hopped out. With a gold tooth showing, he smiled and handed Jack the keys. Collins looked at the set of keys and saw the remote door lock. Out of curiosity he pushed a button on the key fob. Mendenhall jumped again as the horn blared and the emergency lights started blinking. Jack pushed it again and the horn stopped, the lights went dead, and they all heard the audible click as the doors locked. Jack lowered his head and handed the keys to Ryan.
“Hey, guys, this was the only thing they had,” Ryan said, objecting to the looks he was getting from everyone as Mendenhall pushed the color brochure into his chest.
“Come on, Ryan,” Everett said, opening the car door and holding the front seat forward for Jack. “Maybe we can find a used llama dealer on the way.”
Ryan looked at Mendenhall, who was just shaking his head.
“Next time, you get the car.”
An hour later, with Ryan driving and fighting the maladjusted wheel alignment along with the burning clutch, they reached the foot of the Andes. The paved roads that Ecuador boasted of in their vacation travel guide, which Will was trying to read in the passenger front seat, failed to mention that the roads had been repaved sometime in the early sixties, right around the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis. They hadn’t seen repair since.