Exit 9 (4 page)

He closed his eyes for a second. Yes, they were fighting a war, and yes, people were going to die doing things he sent them out to do, but he didn’t have to be okay with it.

He removed the mag from the Taurus, emptied the chamber, then put the gun and the unused ammunition on a shelf along the back wall.

Nodding to his friend, he said, “Let’s go.”

He followed Pax into the corridor and down to the Bunker’s communications room, ignoring as he always did the pain in his bad knee.

Sometimes it was hard to remember they were over thirty feet below the basement level of the Lodge—the Ranch’s main building. At that moment, though, Matt was keenly aware of it, feeling every inch of dirt pressing down on him.

The year that was finally coming to an end had not been a good one. First there had been the Sage Flu outbreak in California during the spring, a planned attack meant to test a particularly vicious viral strain. There was no question in Matt’s mind that the people of Project Eden—the people he and his meager group of like-minded individuals were trying to stop—considered the test a success. Even at conservative estimates, when the virus was in its deadly phase, its mortality rate was near 99.8%. Unleashed on a worldwide scale, it would mean the deaths of seven billion people, and unleashing it on the world was exactly what the Project had in mind.

Not long after the outbreak scattered, reports came in from all over the globe. The few warehouses and depots owned and operated by the Project that Matt’s people had been able to identify were being stocked with food, medical supplies, weapons, and pretty much anything else the Project would need to survive the apocalypse it was planning on causing. These were just the tip of the iceberg, he knew. There had to be more, hundreds, maybe over a thousand.

Matt and his people, taking a cue from the French in World War II, had started referring to themselves as the resistance. They’d been trying for years to get a better handle on the Project, and to figure out a way to stop it before the organization carried out its plans. Sometimes it felt like Matt and his team were getting close, that they
would
be able to stop the horror before it happened. But that had just been a dream.

The Project had been going on for decades, and now had people entrenched in governments and businesses and organizations all over the globe, in position to obstruct any potential threat to their plans. In the last six months, the resistance had been falling farther and farther behind, and then, three weeks earlier, the message had come in from Heron, the only operative they still had within Project Eden. They didn’t have years to stop the coming genocide. They didn’t even have months. Seven weeks, the message had said. Tops. Which meant no more than four now.

The Project was calling it Implementation Day.

Such a sterile name for such a horrific plan.

The Bunker’s communications room had become the de facto command center for the resistance. There were nearly two dozen people there when Matt and Pax arrived. While a handful was manning the actual communication terminals used to keep in contact with field teams, most were gathered in the far corner near the conference table.

Rachel Hamilton, Matt’s sister, was the only one sitting down. The others were looking at a map of the Arctic Circle pinned to the wall.

Out of habit, Matt glanced at the row of monitors that had been set up on a table nearby. Five were playing feeds from the major cable news networks: CNN, MSNBC, FOX, PCN, and BBC. At the moment, the reports seemed to be the typical crap that had no relation to anything important. If Heron’s message was right, though, that would change soon.

As Matt walked up, the others moved to the side so he could approach the map. Black Xs marked the current locations of the different scout teams that had been sent north. Each team had been given a list of ten to fifteen research stations and outposts to check. This had been the final part of Heron’s message, an arrow pointing in the direction of Bluebird, Project Eden’s main facility where all the decisions were supposedly made.

Best location BB n of sixty-six. Sci fac.

Best location for Bluebird, north of the sixty-sixth parallel. Science facility.

The sixty-sixth parallel was basically the location of the Arctic Circle, minus a few degrees. Though sparsely populated, there were a considerable amount of scientific outposts north of the imaginary line. If the information was correct, one would be Bluebird. The problem was, which one?

Five teams had been sent out, each designated by a color: orange, green, purple, yellow, and brown. Lines were drawn from location to location, indicating the path a particular team was taking. Those places already checked and cleared were circled in black. So far the tally was twenty-seven. Those that had been checked but with inconclusive findings were circled in blue. There were only two of these. Once Bluebird was found, it would be circled in red.

The missing team’s color was yellow. Matt retraced its progress from where the team had started along the northern edge of Greenland, then across the Lincoln Sea to Ellesmere Island in northern Canada, Axel Heiberg Island, Yanok Island, Amund Ringnes Island, Ellef Ringnes Island, and then nothing.

“The weather’s pretty rough up there right now,” Leon Owens said. “Could be they got caught in a storm.”

That had definitely been a chance they’d taken, sending their teams out as winter was approaching, but given the deadline, they couldn’t very well just wait until spring. At first they’d been aided by a mild fall that seemed to affect the entire Northern Hemisphere. Matt had hoped that would continue, but always knew it was unlikely.

He touched the X on Ellef Ringnes Island. This was where the team’s last transmission had originated from. The outpost they had checked there was a relatively new facility constructed only a few miles away from a permanent automated weather station that had been on the island for years. Was it possible that the facility was Bluebird? Had they, perhaps, hidden their identity enough so that yellow team had reported the location as checked and cleared, then been eliminated by the Project? Or had the team made it to its next destination, only to be captured or killed soon after arrival?

Matt followed the line to what yellow team’s next stop would have been. Lougheed Island. By the schedule, the scouts should have arrived there two days ago, right around the time they stopped reporting in. So could that be where Bluebird was?

It just didn’t feel right. It was too…easy.

“Josh?” Rachel called out. “Can you play the yellow team’s last message for me again?”

Josh was one of the people manning the communication terminals. “Sure,” he said.

Matt glanced at his sister. He could tell something was bugging her and she was trying to work it out. He refrained from asking her what she was thinking, though, knowing from experience it was better to just let her go.

The room was wired so that communications could either be heard over headphones worn by the people at the terminals, or on a speaker system that broadcasted the voices to the whole room.

After a few seconds, a voice fighting through static said over the speakers, “Yellow calling Bravo Four. Yellow calling Bravo Four.” Bravo Four was the code name for the Ranch.

“Bravo Four. Go, Yellow.” The new voice was crisp and clear. Matt recognized it as belonging to Gary Atkins, a member of the communications team.

“Lake hunter. Repeat, lake hunter.”

There was a pause as Gary no doubt was checking the list of codes to make sure yellow team had used the correct one. Each was used only once, and in a specific order.

“Roger, Yellow. Quiet night.” That would be the return code.

“Status, Y6 clear. Proceeding to Y7.” Ellef Ringnes clear. Proceeding to Lougheed Island.

“Roger, Yellow. Y6 clear. Proceeding to Y7. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Bravo Four. Yellow out.”

The recording cut off.

“Play it again,” Rachel said.

The message once more filled the room, but whatever Rachel had noticed, Matt had yet to pick up.

When it was through, she said, “Play the reports from the last four stops.”

They listened as the yellow team reported in from two different locations on Amund Ringnes Island, one on Yanok Island, and one on Axel Heiberg Island. Each report was basically the same: target checked and cleared, moving on.

When they finished, Matt couldn’t help but ask, “What is it?”

Rachel frowned and shook her head. “I…I don’t know. I thought I had something, but…”

“What?”

Again, she shook her head. “Nothing, I guess.”

He knew that was a lie. Whatever it was, she was still mulling it over. But that was her way. Once she had it figured out,
if
she ever did, she’d share it with him.

He looked back at the map. “We can’t ignore the fact that they might have found Bluebird. We’re going to have to divert one of the other teams to check this out. Leon, correct me if I’m wrong, but it looks like brown team is almost done with its route.”

Leon nodded. “They’re due to report in this evening. Once they’ve done that, they’re freed up.”

“Good. Send them to Lougheed. Let’s find out what happened to our people.”

“Will do.”

Leon and the others returned to their desks, leaving Matt and Pax standing at the map.

“And if it is Bluebird?” Pax said.

Matt knew exactly what his old friend was asking. It was something he’d also been giving a lot of thought to. “It’ll be time to bring him in.”

5

I.D. MINUS 14 DAYS

B
ROWN TEAM LEADER
Gagnon looked out the window from his seat behind the controls of the seaplane at the circle of light on the choppy ocean below. Wright, his partner, sat in the seat behind him, operating the wireless remote that controlled the spotlight attached to the bottom of the plane.

Since the previous afternoon, they’d been searching for any sign of yellow team. They would have started sooner, but a severe storm had passed through the area, grounding them for over forty-eight hours.

The real miracle, if one wanted to call it that, was that the sea hadn’t completely iced over yet. That was global warming for you, Gagnon thought. Even this close to winter, there were still ice-free parts of the Arctic Ocean that had never been that way at this time of year in the past.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Just water.”

It was all that Gagnon had seen, too. “Let’s move on to the next sector.”

He straightened out the plane, and headed for the next grid coordinates.

They were both acutely aware that it could have been the middle of summer with twenty-four-hour daylight, and they might still not spot any wreckage if something
had
happened to the yellow team’s boat. A rogue wave could have swamped the vessel and taken the whole thing down, or the rough seas could have broken everything into tiny bits and spread it far and wide so that there’d be nothing to draw attention. The fact that it was less than two weeks shy of winter, and the only light they had to cover the hundreds of square miles below them was a small spotlight, made the task seem impossible.

Two more hours, Gagnon decided. If nothing turned up, they’d call it a night and radio the Ranch to see if they should continue the search tomorrow or pack it in.

__________

T
HE ISLAND WAS
small, found on only the most detailed of maps. At its widest, it was only a quarter-mile across. It was, in the most generous terms, a rocky, ice-covered piece of nothing.

Five hours earlier, two men, a camouflage shelter, and the equipment they would need for their assignment had been flown in. At the time of their drop-off, they’d been unsure how long they were going to have to stay, but at most, it would be no more than two nights, and it was quite possible they’d be sleeping in their own beds back at Bluebird that very evening.

Ten miles away, a Project boat, looking very much like a fishing vessel slowly making its way back to port somewhere to the south, was scanning the skies with a compact yet powerful radar system. The information it collected was transmitted real-time via satellite to a handheld device that was part of the equipment the two men had brought with them.

For nearly an hour, they had been watching a blip weave back and forth across the screen, slowly growing closer to the island. It was getting late, though, so at some point the plane would undoubtedly break off and head back to the small village several hundred miles away that its occupants had been using as a base. If that happened, the men would definitely be spending the night.

“We could try it now,” the junior of the two suggested.

Without looking away from the screen, the other man shook his head. “Not yet.” It was important that this worked so he didn’t want to risk any mistakes.

Over the next thirty minutes, the plane continued to move closer. Finally, when it was within two miles, the man in charge looked up.

“Now,” he said.

The younger man picked up a second device, a tablet computer synced in to a localized network they’d set up when they first arrived. The man brought up the appropriate screen, and pressed the appropriate button.

Ten seconds later, on the other side of the island, a radio beacon went live.

__________

B
OWOP-BOWOP.

The signal came in bursts of two, each set separated by a second of silence. It was so faint at first that it didn’t even register with Gagnon or Wright. When it finally did, the pilot looked over at the radio, surprised.

The receiver had been tuned to the frequency that would be utilized by the yellow team’s emergency beacons, but since the searchers had started the day before, they’d picked up only silence. They assumed any beacons were either at the bottom of the sea or no longer working.