from Everest and the resting place of so many who had tried to conquer the mountain and failed.
With his shaking free hand he reached for the mike to the satellite radio. “This is Turcotte,” he whispered.
There was no answer. “Turcotte here.”
There was a burst of static, then Quinn’s excited voice. “Major! Where are you?” “In the bouncer. Coming down.”
“Thank God. You’ve been off the air for a while. We thought you were dead.” “What’s happening?” Turcotte asked. “Easter Island? Qian-Ling?”
“The shields are down in both places. As near as we can tell from tracking their craft, Aspasia’s Shadow and Artad are fleeing.”
“Fleeing to where?” Turcotte asked. “Uh—well, we don’t know. Artad is heading southwest and Aspasia’s Shadow to the west across the Pacific.” “Duncan?” Turcotte asked. “Nothing on her location.”
Victory is fleeting. The thought came unbidden to Turcotte’s mind and he knew he had heard it from someone. Someone important.
There was a voice in the background, yelling something. “Kincaid’s here,” Quinn said. “He says he has to tell you something.”
The hatch on top of the bouncer was open and Turcotte could feel the level of oxygen inside rise as he descended over India. The sun streaming in through the skin of the aircraft brought welcome warmth. It was probably just around freezing inside the craft now, but to Turcotte it was beginning to feel like being in an oven. Snow that had drifted in was beginning to melt, forming puddles of water on the floor.
“Mike, this is Larry Kincaid.” “Go ahead.”
“Mars. What the Airlia from Cydonia are building on Mons Olympus. I figured it out. It’s a transmitter/receiver of some sort. A very, very big one. I assume it has some way of sending and receiving a message across interstellar distances. Possibly faster than the speed of light. I can’t be sure of that, but who knows what technology they have in that area. We assume the mothership was capable of faster-than-light speed, so we have to assume they have some way of communicating like that. I think they had an array at Cydonia, but it was destroyed long ago. Now they’re rebuilding it on Mons Olympus.”
The words seemed to resound in Turcotte’s mind, a jumbled, confusing mess for several seconds before the pieces fell into place. “So.” He drew the word out as the implications sank in. “We’ve won the battle of Earth. But if Artad gets to Mars and gets a message out to his people, we can end up losing everything.”
There was no response to that.
Turcotte glanced down at the green fields flashing by below. He was feeling a bit dizzy. And much too warm. His body felt as if it were burning up. He was nauseous and he twisted his head to the side as he retched, but nothing came up. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He’d survived for too long on too little. Now he was overwhelmed by too much oxygen, too much warmth, too quickly he realized. He let go of the radio and tried to unzip his parka.
“We need to finish this once and for all,” Turcotte muttered, and then passed out, his hand dropping off the controls.
CHAPTER 4: THE NEAR PAST
Vicinity Groom Lake, Nevada
1942
Balancing in the open back of the jeep, both hands holding on tight to the M-2 fifty-caliber machine gun, the OSS agent imagined himself in North Africa driving across the desert in pursuit of Rommel’s Afrika Corps. The fact that the gun had no rounds loaded was something he chose to ignore.
The driver, Special Agent Cavanaugh, usually tried to do his best to ignore his younger partner. But when, above the never-ending sounds of the wind, he could swear he heard him making rat-a-tat-tat noises, Cavanaugh tapped the brakes, causing his partner’s chest to bang against the back of the gun painfully. Cavanaugh then slowed the jeep to a halt. He got out of the driver’s seat and walked ten feet away, before pulling out his compass to
With his shaking free hand he reached for the mike to the satellite radio. “This is Turcotte,” he whispered.
There was no answer. “Turcotte here.”
There was a burst of static, then Quinn’s excited voice. “Major! Where are you?” “In the bouncer. Coming down.”
“Thank God. You’ve been off the air for a while. We thought you were dead.” “What’s happening?” Turcotte asked. “Easter Island? Qian-Ling?”
“The shields are down in both places. As near as we can tell from tracking their craft, Aspasia’s Shadow and Artad are fleeing.”
“Fleeing to where?” Turcotte asked. “Uh—well, we don’t know. Artad is heading southwest and Aspasia’s Shadow to the west across the Pacific.” “Duncan?” Turcotte asked. “Nothing on her location.”
Victory is fleeting. The thought came unbidden to Turcotte’s mind and he knew he had heard it from someone. Someone important.
There was a voice in the background, yelling something. “Kincaid’s here,” Quinn said. “He says he has to tell you something.”
The hatch on top of the bouncer was open and Turcotte could feel the level of oxygen inside rise as he descended over India. The sun streaming in through the skin of the aircraft brought welcome warmth. It was probably just around freezing inside the craft now, but to Turcotte it was beginning to feel like being in an oven. Snow that had drifted in was beginning to melt, forming puddles of water on the floor.
“Mike, this is Larry Kincaid.” “Go ahead.”
“Mars. What the Airlia from Cydonia are building on Mons Olympus. I figured it out. It’s a transmitter/receiver of some sort. A very, very big one. I assume it has some way of sending and receiving a message across interstellar distances. Possibly faster than the speed of light. I can’t be sure of that, but who knows what technology they have in that area. We assume the mothership was capable of faster-than-light speed, so we have to assume they have some way of communicating like that. I think they had an array at Cydonia, but it was destroyed long ago. Now they’re rebuilding it on Mons Olympus.”
The words seemed to resound in Turcotte’s mind, a jumbled, confusing mess for several seconds before the pieces fell into place. “So.” He drew the word out as the implications sank in. “We’ve won the battle of Earth. But if Artad gets to Mars and gets a message out to his people, we can end up losing everything.”
There was no response to that.
Turcotte glanced down at the green fields flashing by below. He was feeling a bit dizzy. And much too warm. His body felt as if it were burning up. He was nauseous and he twisted his head to the side as he retched, but nothing came up. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He’d survived for too long on too little. Now he was overwhelmed by too much oxygen, too much warmth, too quickly he realized. He let go of the radio and tried to unzip his parka.
“We need to finish this once and for all,” Turcotte muttered, and then passed out, his hand dropping off the controls.
CHAPTER 4: THE NEAR PAST
Vicinity Groom Lake, Nevada
1942
Balancing in the open back of the jeep, both hands holding on tight to the M-2 fifty-caliber machine gun, the OSS agent imagined himself in North Africa driving across the desert in pursuit of Rommel’s Afrika Corps. The fact that the gun had no rounds loaded was something he chose to ignore.
The driver, Special Agent Cavanaugh, usually tried to do his best to ignore his younger partner. But when, above the never-ending sounds of the wind, he could swear he heard him making rat-a-tat-tat noises, Cavanaugh tapped the brakes, causing his partner’s chest to bang against the back of the gun painfully. Cavanaugh then slowed the jeep to a halt. He got out of the driver’s seat and walked ten feet away, before pulling out his compass to
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