He looked again into the crater. It was enormous, miles across, and strangely devoid of ice now he was at the top. He still felt the bitter cold at his neck as he perched above it, but on his face, he could feel the warmth emanating from below. No doubt it would be warm once they were under the blanket of the strange, thick fog. He stared. It swirled and moved like a sea that had eddies, currents, and whirlpools all just below the surface.
Visibility would be impeded, and he had been told to expect a communication blackout once they descended. But still, Zlatan had the advantage, and he needed to use it. He felt a moment of uncertainty and calmed himself by thinking of Rahda. For you, my love.
He looked out over the massive smoke-filled crater that looked like a titan’s boiling cauldron then waved his men on. Together they descended the several hundred feet down the side of the mountain and entered the smog layer — well before they had even found the bottom.
Zlatan held up a hand, watching the fog swirl past it. Looking closely, the fog wasn’t actually a mist, but instead countless small dust-like particles. The closer to the ground, the more there was. He could just make out a soft whining sound, like the noise the wind makes when it sneaks in through a gap. Strange.
It was like entering the atmosphere of an alien planet. The Russian grimaced as the particle gases stung his nose and throat — he had been told by his superiors to expect a significant moisture suspension, possibly from ice melt. But this stuff had a tang of something different, something organic. The Kurgan bodies would be able to fight off most contaminants and toxic substances, and he hoped this wouldn’t prove debilitating.
In a few more seconds he adjusted, and was at least thankful for the blanket of warm air allowing his fingers to thaw and the ice on his body to melt. He rubbed at his dripping nose. It was only around fifty degrees Fahrenheit within the mist layer, but compared to above it, it was a luxury.
After several hundred feet of scaling down, the Kurgan reached bottom. Zlatan slowly turned; the mist layer here was so thick, it created a twilight gloom, and underfoot he felt something that was akin to slimy moss.
He held up a hand and his team froze. Zlatan stood silent, listening — had he heard something? Movement? He let his eyes slide slowly around them and strained to hear.
Nothing now but the background whine. After another moment, he gave up and turned to his team. “Virinov, use the tracker.”
The man close to him nodded, and removed a cigarette-pack sized device from a pouch, turned it on and held it out. Immediately a pulse emanated from the device and he watched it for a few seconds before lifting his head and pointing off into the distance.
“That way; 4,400 feet.”
Zlatan looked in the direction Virinov had pointed — just like all around them, there was nothing but a wall of thick cloud. He blew hard, making the speckled fog in front of his face swirl away into tiny spinning eddies.
His tongue was coated with the strange sweet taste of the mist. He spat on the ground. It came out like a paste.
Zlatan waved his men forward. “Move out.”
CHAPTER 15
Morag took off a glove and placed a finger against the helicopter window — even through the double-layer insulated glass it was so cold it stung her fingertip. She pulled it back and blew on it before jamming it back into her glove.
She looked down at the plains of dry, brown grasses. Some caribou meandered about as they flew over, a few patches of snow were like blinding white oases, and from time to time a wind flurry would lift some flakes that danced madly across the uninviting scrubby landscape.
Upon departure she had maintained her furious indignation at Alex Hunter and his team, but when they turned away she had winked at Calvin, and nodded at his camera. Calvin had raised his eyebrows and shook his head, but she mouthed with her teeth clenched, start fucking filming with all the silent force as she could muster. The cameraman had looked pained, but surrendered. He snuck out another spycam and held it rolled in his fist. He began to record some film in the chopper, panning it over the faces of the HAWCs. He then carefully lifted it to capture the NASA crew as well.
Morag felt extremely confident. She’d worked with military types before; a few yes sirs, no sirs, and the occasional smile, and you could wrap them around your little finger in no time. She hoped.
She looked again at the group in the massive chopper’s hold. All the men could have been cut from the same block of cold, hard iron: rock-like stubbled jaws, multiple scars, and eyes that were so alert, they looked like birds of prey. The one called Garcia looked Spanish, had the thickest hair she had ever seen on a human being, and was missing a small piece of his left eyebrow.
The two female HAWCs, Casey Franks and Anita Erikson, looked like they could easily hold their own with the tough-looking men. For one, Casey was probably just as heavily muscled, and Morag noticed that the guys gave her due respect, as there was a ferociousness about her that was intimidating, even to them. She reminded Morag of a spring-loaded bear trap — keep clear or lose an arm. Adding in a scarred face did nothing to humanize her in any way. She looked tailor-made for the job.
The other Special Forces woman, Erikson, was taller and leaner, with brown hair pulled back tight and Nordic-sharp cheekbones. Her voice carried a hint of a Germanic accent and Morag noticed that from time to time the woman’s eyes went to Alex Hunter. Morag smiled; there was some interest there. An old flame maybe or just hopeful.
She followed the woman’s gaze to the HAWC leader. She knew what Erikson was looking at — Morag also liked the look of him. Alex Hunter was big, brutally handsome, and definitely a take-charge kinda guy. If she could win him over, she’d have them all saying “cheese” before they knew it.
Casey Franks turned in her seat and leaned a forearm on its back to stare for a few seconds.
“So, news-chick, what’s your story?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Morag shot back with a grin.
The HAWC woman sneered, or maybe smiled. It was hard to tell as up close Morag could clearly see the scar running from chin to up past her eye that pulled her cheek into a sneer.
“Deal — you first,” Casey said.
“Okay.” Morag nodded. “Well, I’m Morag O’Sullivan, and I’m a journalist who works the major news desk at the Los Angeles Times. Calvin there is our gun cameraman.”
Casey never even looked at him, and didn’t seem interested in him or his story in any way.
“Your turn.”
“Casey Franks, soldier and stone-cold killer.” She grinned, meaning it.
Morag raised her eyebrows. “Must look good on a resume.”
“Does on the ones that count.” Casey motioned with her head to the peaks looming up in the distance. “So, climbed before?” she raised her chin. “And I’m not talking about in some swanky gym where you play on colored lumps of plaster stuck on a wall.”
Morag snorted. “Listen GI Jane; I’ve been up Mount Rainer, 14,411 feet. Higher than where we’re going now.”
Casey nodded. “That’s just a fucking steep hill for tourists. What else you got?”
Morag leaned forward. “And for fun, I climbed the wall of the El Capitan in Yosemite — the hard one.” Morag sat back. “What about you?”