Beneath the Ice (25 page)

“I’m coming home,” Jeter said.

“No, you’re not,” Dad said flatly. “You
stick with your studies. I’m going to be fine, and the company is
sending me to the best doctors. There’s nothing to worry
about.”

“But what about chemotherapy? You’ll need
help . . .”

Dad shook his head. “No, I won’t. The
company has taken care of that, too.” He smiled. “I didn’t come
here to talk about my surgery, but you have a right to know.”

“What then?” Jeter was puzzled.

“It’s time I talked to you about something I
should have brought up long ago.”

Food was brought, and drinks served, but
Jeter had little interest. He was focused on his father.

“You come from very noble stock, Son. We
have a family history that goes back farther than you can
imagine.”

“I don’t follow, Dad.”

For forty-five minutes his father explained
about his lineage, about the people from which he sprang, about
their skill and the nation they had formed. He also explained about
their sudden downfall and effort to return to a former glory—an
effort that had been underway for centuries.

“I’ve never heard of this,” Jeter said. “In
world history class, they mentioned the people you’re talking
about, but we didn’t spend much time on it.”

The man from EA shook his head. “History
classes talk about the people who came after us. They know very
little.”

“Okay,” Jeter had said, “so I’m not Italian
or British. So what?”

“There’s a religion behind it all,” his
father explained. “Some follow it closely; others, like your mother
and myself, don’t.”

“I’m not much of a religious person,” Jeter
said. “You know that.”

His father nodded. “I’m afraid you get that
from me. It doesn’t matter. Belief isn’t part of our religion. It’s
not like the Christians or the Jews or the Muslims. But it is part
of what defines us. It makes us unique.”

“And that makes us a unit, a people with a
single purpose,” the man with the Porsche said.

“No one’s asking you to join a church,” his
father said. “But we are asking that you help keep the system
alive.”

“How?”

The benefactor spoke first. “By learning who
we are and teaching your children when the time comes. At times we
may need help with one thing or another.”

“I’m just a student. What can I do?”

“You won’t always be a student, Robert,” the
man said. “We take care of our own. Do you want to go to graduate
school? We can make it possible. Need money to start a business? We
can provide it. We can help make you successful beyond your
dreams.”

“Wait a minute,” Jeter said. “My father has
been a laborer in the mines all his life. He didn’t get special
treatment.”

“Of course I did, Son. I don’t have the
smarts you do. You got that from your mother. I hated school; I
prefer to work with my hands. I was born a laborer, and I’m not
ashamed of it. You were born for more. I know it, your mother knows
it, and the company knows it, too.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just listen, and help when you can,” the
man said.

Jeter looked at his father, who stared back
with anticipation. “This would make you happy?”

“Yes,” his father said. “And your mother,
too.”

“When does my education begin?”

“We’ll let you know,” the man said. “You
just keep up the good grades. Oh, and one more thing.” He reached
into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys and pushed them to
Jeter. The key chain held a key with the Porsche emblem and a hard
clay cylinder.

“I don’t understand,” Jeter said.

“The car we came over in—I assume you like
it.”

“I love it.”

“It’s yours.”

Jeter couldn’t believe his ears.

“You’re giving me a Porsche?”

The man nodded.

“I’m . . . I’m speechless.”

“That’s a first,” his father chided.

“What’s this cylinder thing?” Jeter studied
it. It had six sides, and the image of a dragon was etched into its
surface.

“It’s our symbol, our identity. The
six-sided cylinder represents the sixty-six clay cylinders that
contain the prophecies.”

“Prophecies?”

“You’ll learn more about those in time. The
dragon is an ancient symbol, something else you’ll learn later. For
now, just know that anyone who carries one of these is family. He
or she is duty bound to help you, and you to help them.”

“Like a service club,” Jeter said.

“In a way, but it is also much more.”

Jeter turned to his father and saw a wide
grin part his lips. It felt good to see his father smile. That day
was the last time he saw his father smile. He died on the operating
table two days later.

Henry Sachs hung up the phone and fought back hot
tears. The president had been kind, very gracious, but he brought
no hope. He had told Henry of the crash and been honest about the
wasted search efforts conducted in the Ross Sea.

“Not that it would have made any difference,
Henry. The

photos of the crash make it highly unlikely
that there were any

survivors.”

“Perry wasn’t supposed to be on that
flight,” Henry said.

“I’m told that repeated efforts to contact
the research site have been in vain. The consensus is that there is
no one there to answer.”

“That’s not like Perry, Mr. President.
Something else is wrong. I can feel it.”

The president said he
understood, but Henry doubted his con
viction. “I’ve ordered another satellite survey. We plan to
look for signs of life.”

“How would you tell?” Henry asked. “Unless
someone happens to be walking outside, you won’t see anything.”

“Actually,” the president said after a
moment’s hesitation, “we can.”

When the call was over, Sachs was left
clinging to a single hope: that despite the silence of the camp,
Perry was still alive deep in Antarctica.

Henry Sachs noticed his hands were
shaking.

Jeter stepped from the limo that had pulled up the
long drive of his Georgetown home. It was a home he saw less and
less, spending up to sixteen hours a day in the West Wing.

He gave the driver a cursory wave and
plodded up the steps of the colonial home. The sun had set hours
before, and the moonless night matched the darkness in his soul. He
was a man caught between two ideals, two commitments, two loves. On
one hand he had made a promise to his father two days before the
old man died; on the other, he had made a commitment to the
president and to his country.

“Hey, stranger,” a sweet voice said from the
sitting room. Jeter walked in and kissed his wife gently on the
lips. The kiss felt good; it reminded him that someone in his very
confused world loved him unconditionally.

If Nobel Prizes were given for patience and
understanding, then Martha Jeter would have a closetful of them.
Being married to a man entrenched in the halls of government was no
easy task. His hours were long, his frustrations high, and his
absences frequent. Martha bore the burden of household and family,
almost single-handedly raising their daughter Courtney.

“You look wrung out, baby,” she said. Middle
age had been kind to her. She was slim, dark-eyed, and had a mane
of auburn hair that caught the eye of both men and women.

“I’m beat, and I have to be at the office
early.”

“That’s not new. You’re always at the office
early.” She patted the seat next to her and set aside the book she
was reading. Martha seldom watched television and avoided the news
as much as possible. “I live with the news,” she had said many
times.

“Yeah, I know. I’m thinking of quitting and
going into real estate.” That made her laugh. “What? You don’t
think I can sell town homes to freshman congressmen?”

“You’d be the best at whatever you did. I
just had you figured for the speaking circuit. Can I fix you a
drink?”

“A highball,” he said.

“Uh-oh, the drink choice of a bad day.” She
rose and made her way to the wet bar situated in the corner.

“Some days are worse than others. It comes
with the territory. Did you hear from Courtney today?”

“She sent me an e-mail. She’s planning a
weekend trip to San Francisco.”

“Why she chose to go to Stanford University
is beyond me. A California school of all things. I could have
gotten her into George Washington.”

“That’s your alma mater,”
Martha said, returning with the
mixed
drink in one hand and a bottled water in the other.

“And just what is wrong with my alma
mater?”

“Nothing. It’s just
your
alma mater. You
know how independent Courtney is.”

“I’ve got the gray hairs to prove it.” He
took a sip of the drink and set the glass aside. He ran his hand
through her hair. “How come I got all the gray?”

“Who said you did? You can buy magic in
boxes these days. You find them in the cosmetic aisle.”

Jeter chuckled. He couldn’t remember the
last time he had walked into a neighborhood store. “A weekend in
San Francisco, eh? Ah, to be young.”

“Oh. A messenger brought this by about an
hour ago.”

“What is it?”

“A package—that’s what messengers
bring.”

“Very funny. Hand it here.”

She reached forward to the wide, walnut
coffee table at their feet and picked up a brown envelope. Jeter
saw his name and ad-dress neatly penned on the front, but no return
address. He opened the envelope and removed a picture.

“So what is it? More love notes from
political groupies?” He didn’t answer. “Robert?”

“It’s a picture.”

“Of what?”

“Of Courtney.”

“Really? Maybe a friend sent it.”

Jeter knew the photo didn’t come from
friend. That was made clear by the crosshairs drawn over the image
of his daughter’s head.

Chapter
22

Sarah watched the
monitor closely
. “It should be soon,” she said. “Maybe
a meter or two.” She pulled the joystick control closer.

Perry watched her carefully, hoping the
stress of being confined in the Chamber with a ruthless woman and
her henchmen holding guns wouldn’t trigger an episode of
narcolepsy. He had no idea how Tia would respond or if she would
believe it was anything more than a trick.

Tia had brought the rest of the crew into
the Chamber. Jack sat on one of the folding chairs. The left sleeve
of his parka was dyed dark red with his own blood. Tia had allowed
Gwen to examine the arm. He had been fortunate; the round that had
been redirected by Perry’s quick reflexes had torn a ragged hole in
the upper arm. Gwen had been forced to suture the wound. Jack
didn’t complain. Instead, he had taken the additional pain
stoically.

Griffin stood next to his
sister and near the monitor. The thought
of seeing a lake no one had ever seen apparently had
enlivened him from his emotional catatonia.

Larimore was bracketed by two of the gunmen.
He had endured a beating for lying about Gwen and Sarah. Why Tia
had let him live, Perry couldn’t fathom. She didn’t seem the
forgiving type.

Gleason and Dr. Curtis huddled nearby, and
another guard watched them from a step or two away.

The room seemed to chill even more,
something Perry didn’t think was possible. He gazed at the open maw
of ice through which a metal cable and thickly insulated fiber
optics descended. The support cable was slack, allowing the weight
of Hairy to pull it through the freshly melted ice. When it broke
through, the cable would pull taut.

“What happens next?” Tia demanded. She was
looking at Perry.

Perry was in no mood to explain anything. He
was a package of anger and frustration, both of which he kept in
check. They were good for emotional fuel, but such emotions could
cloud the thinking if given too much sway. He took a moment to
weigh the price of silence. He decided that he was willing to pay
it but doubted that he would be the object of the woman’s wrath.
Most likely she would hurt someone else to get Perry’s
cooperation.

“At some point, the ice beneath Hairy will
give way, unable to support its weight. When that happens, the feed
line will snap tight. That will be the first indication. We should
also see something on the monitor. Though not immediately, because
the onboard lights won’t have come on.”

“Why not turn them on now?” she
wondered.

“Power and protection. Most of the power is
being used to heat the head that melts the ice. The lights are
hidden behind protective panels. Ice is hard and sharp. It may be
made of water, but it can easily rip a hole in metal.”

“Just ask the owners of
the
Titanic,”
Jack said.

Tia turned to him and frowned. “I would
think you’ve had enough pain for one day.”

Jack shrugged.

“Go on,” Tia prompted.

“The cryobot will fall a few inches,” Perry
said, “and a gush of air will probably shoot out of the hole.”

“Air?”

Griffin spoke up. “Yeah, air. There’s a good
chance that some air is trapped between the lake and the ice sheet
above. Of course, that’s just speculation.”

“Your science can’t tell you for certain,”
Tia sneered.

“No, my science can’t tell me, and neither
can anyone else’s. We think we know what’s going on down there, but
we won’t know for sure until we look. Not that I approve of any of
this.”

“Your approval isn’t needed,” Tia said.

“Tell her about the water, Sachs,” Griffin
snapped. “I’m sure she’ll find that captivating.”

Perry worried about Griffin. He had lost
control once, and now it looked like he might do so again. He was
emotionally sensitive, something that was apparent the moment they
landed and Griffin greeted them with the news that he was team
leader. He had been pouting ever since. Now, under the weight of
impending injury and probably death, under the constant gaze of gun
barrels, he looked like an earthen dam with ever-widening
cracks.