Lincoln Child - Terminal Freeze

“Another fascinating theory. Except it’s hard to imagine a population explosion needing to be culled up here.”

“Don’t forget, we’re talking about the local ecology as it existed thousands of years ago-when the creature was originally frozen. And even then, given the climate, it probably wouldn’t have taken a large population to overtax such a barren habitat. But in any case the theory goes on to say that the Callisto Effect is, by and large, an evolutionary aberration. Because such a killing machine seems to be too effective. Ultimately, it becomes its own worst enemy. It kills everything-leaving itself without sustenance.”

Logan nodded again, even more slowly, as if fitting a piece into some mental puzzle he was constructing. “‘A perfect weapon,’ you called it. Interesting you should use those words, because I just came across them myself. You see, this morning I found a notebook one of the old scientists left behind. He’d hidden it away in his quarters.” And he patted his shirt pocket with a little smile.

“This morning? And you’re only telling me now?”

“I didn’t realize I had to tell you anything.”

Marshall waved his hand, conceding the point.

“The truth of the matter is, I delayed telling you because the thing is about as hard to read as the Linear A texts of Agia Triada. It’s written in code.”

Marshall frowned. “Why would the scientist do that?”

“No doubt he felt it wasn’t enough just to hide the notes, he had to encrypt them as well. This was the fifties, remember-the cold war was white-hot. People were serious about security; the fellow probably didn’t want to spend twenty years in Leavenworth. In any case, I’ve been working on decrypting it all day.”

“You’re a cryptanalyst, too?”

Logan smiled again. “It comes in very handy in my line of work.”

“And just where did you pick that up?”

“I was once employed by-how should I put it?-by the ‘intelligence services.’ In any case, I’ve had only limited success so far-words, the odd phrase here and there. It’s polyalphabetic, a variant of the Vigenère cipher, but with a nasty twist. I think he combined it with a book cipher, but of course they took all the books away when they cleared out his quarters.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a tiny notebook-battered and dusty and furred with mildew-and placed it on the lab table beside Marshall. He opened it and extracted a folded sheet of paper.

“Here’s what I’ve managed to decipher so far.” Logan unfolded the sheet and glanced over it. “A couple of the entries are quotidian, talk of poor meals and spartan accommodations and working conditions that were less than ideal-I’ll skip those. For example: ‘We’ve had to work very quickly. Unpacked sonar equipment underfoot everywhere.’ And here: ‘The secrecy makes it all so difficult. Only Rose has been briefed.’”

“Rose?” Marshall repeated.

“He was the officer in charge of Fear Base at the time, remember?” Logan scanned down the sheet. “Here we go: ‘It is hor rifying. Wonderful, but horrifying. It truly is the perfect weapon-assuming we can harness its power. That will be’-two words I haven’t yet deciphered-‘challenge.’ Toward the end, the writing gets more rapid, agitated: ‘It killed Blayne. God, it was awful, so much blood…’ And then there’s one other that I haven’t gotten quite right: ‘The Tunits have the answer.’ ‘Tunit’ is clearly a garble of some kind, I have to work some more on that.”

“It’s not garbled. The Tunits are the local Native Americans.”

Logan looked up quickly from the sheet. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. They came here to see us, just after we made the discovery in the ice cave. Warned us to leave in no uncertain terms.”

Logan ’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve never heard of the Tunits. And I know a lot of Alaskan tribes. Inuit, Aleut, Ahtena, Ingalik-”

“They basically went extinct a thousand years ago, when their lands were overtaken and they were turned out into the wilderness. Over the years, those few that remained either died off or were absorbed into the mainstream population. I’m told this is the last remaining camp.”

Logan chuckled. “I knew coming to you wasn’t a mistake. Do you see what this means?” And he slapped the sheet of paper. “This might be the answer we’ve been looking for.”

“You think there’s a connection between the dead scientists and what’s been attacking this base? There can’t be. That creature we discovered has been frozen-under a glacier-for more than a thousand years. The evidence of that is absolutely incontrovertible.”

“I realize that. But I don’t believe in coincidence.” Logan paused. “There’s only one way to find out.”

For a long moment, Marshall did not reply. Then he slowly nodded. “I’ll take the Sno-Cat,” he said. “It’s the only way to get through this blizzard.”

“You can drive one?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know where the Tunit settlement is?”

“I know the rough location. It’s not far, maybe thirty miles to the north.”

Logan folded the sheet, slipped it back into the small journal, and returned them to his pocket. “I’ll come along.”

Marshall shook his head. “It’s better if I go alone. The Indians strongly disapprove of our presence here. They’re suspicious. The fewer who go, the better.”

“It isn’t safe. If you get injured, there will be no one to help.”

“There’s got to be a radio in the Cat. I’ll be careful. At least the Tunits have met me before. They don’t know you. Your time would be better spent here, bringing my colleagues up to speed.”

“The powers that be may take a dim view of your appropriating the Sno-Cat.”

“That’s why we won’t tell them. I’ll be as quick as I can. I doubt they’ll even notice, under the circumstances.”

Logan frowned. “You realize, of course, it’s possible the Indians are responsible for what’s been going on. You said it yourself: they don’t want us here. You could be walking right into a trap.”

“That’s true. But if they can shed any light on what’s happening-any at all-it’s worth the risk.”

Logan shrugged. “I guess I’ve run out of objections.”

Marshall stood up. “Then come and see me off.” And he nodded toward the door.

It seemed that Conti spoke up almost before Fortnum knocked on the door. “Come in.”

The cinematographer stepped inside and closed the door softly behind him. Conti was on the far side of the room, in the makeshift screening area, absorbed by a video playing on his huge LCD screen. The image was choppy and scratchy, but nevertheless instantly recognizable: the Hindenburg, afire and crumpling to the ground at Lakehurst Naval Air Station.

“Ah, Allan,” the director said. “Have a seat.”

Fortnum walked over and settled into one of the comfortable armchairs before the screen. “How’s Ken?”

Conti tented his fingers together. He was still staring at the screen. “I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”

“That’s not what I heard. He’s out of his mind.”

“Temporary. He’s had a bad shock. And that’s what I wanted to speak with you about.” Conti pulled himself away from the newsreel footage long enough to look at Fortnum. “How are you coming?”

Fortnum had assumed Conti summoned him to discuss Toussaint’s condition. Instead, it seemed the director wanted to talk business. He told himself he shouldn’t be surprised: with high-powered directors like Conti, business always came first. “I’ve got half a dozen decent reaction shots to Peters’s killing. I’m rendering them now.”

“Good, good. That’s an excellent start.”