Alex Archer - Polar Quest

“You think there’s something inherent in their properties that you can use?” Annja asked.

“Perhaps. But I do know that with my money and resources, I can get them examined faster than the bureaucrats in charge. And if there’s power to be had, then I want it for myself, yes.”

“Such a humanitarian,” Annja said.

“Not a chance. Five hundred years can do a lot to make you rather self-centered, Annja. I’m horribly selfish, I admit it.”

Annja smiled. “I didn’t want to say anything, but—”

Garin held up his hand. “Get back to your shelter and stay there. If anyone stops you, tell them I said you’re to stay there until I say it’s okay to come out.”

“So, I’m grounded?”

Garin frowned. “Get to work, Annja. Lives just might depend on it.”

Annja opened the door. As she did, one of the medical team soldiers came in and reported to Garin. The medic shook his head. “We did all we could. Colonel Thomson is dead.”

Rogue Angel ™

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Merz for her contribution to this work.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

The LC-130 Hercules turboprop plane jumped and dropped as the turbulence buffeted it about the sky. Annja Creed, dressed in extreme-cold-weather gear issued to her by the U.S. military, clutched at the armrests on her seat. She felt as if her stomach were on a roller-coaster ride and had forgotten to inform her.

She swallowed the rising bile in her throat and felt the plane lurch again. “This is getting ridiculous,” she said. She unclasped her seat belt and tried to stand, bumping her head against the interior bulkhead in the process.

“Damn.”

If the plane was going to crash, she at least wanted to see it coming rather than sit trapped in her seat. Annja clawed her way forward toward the cockpit.

She passed one of the crew on her way. “Is it always like this?”

He grinned. “Yup. This time of year, it’s always stormy down in these parts. You get used to it after a few trips.”

“Wonderful,” she said, not feeling any better about the turbulence.

She made her way to the flight deck. “Hi.”

The pilot turned. “You’re supposed to be strapped in, Miss Creed. It’s not exactly safe for you to be roaming around.”

Annja smiled. “I got the distinct impression that it wasn’t safe sitting in my seat, either.”

“We’re totally fine,” the pilot said. “This is run-of-the-mill updrafts, turbulence and assorted atmospheric anomalies.”

“Anomalies?” Annja asked.

He shrugged. “We don’t really know what to call them. But they come with the territory of flying near the bottom of the world.”

The copilot glanced at her. “You’re in no danger.”

Annja smirked. “Guess I figured if the end was coming, I wanted to see it rather than hide from it.”

The pilot nodded. “Understandable sentiment. I’d be the same way. If you want to, you can stay as we make our approach.”

“How much longer?” she asked.

“Maybe fifteen minutes. We come in low and fast, so make sure you hold on to something when we hit.”

“Hit? You guys sure do have a great way of putting things.”

“Well, we don’t so much land as we skip and slide to an eventual stop. Those skis underneath our wheels are there for a reason,” the copilot said.

Annja nodded. When they’d taken off from the Air National Guard base in New York, she’d noticed the long skis on the underside of the plane. Without the benefit of a proper runway, aircraft going to Antarctica sometimes had to land on skis.

It was the first time Annja had ever done this and she wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

The flight to New Zealand had been a long one with three in-flight aerial refuelings supplied by KC-130 supertankers. Annja had watched the experienced crew guide the plane to within a quarter mile of the flying gas station, take on a full tank of gas and then continue on its way.

She looked out of the cockpit glass and could see snow falling. The pilot pointed to the instrument console. “Wipers, please.”

“Wipers.” The copilot switched them on and they flicked the flakes from the glass.

The plane felt as if it was starting to descend. Annja could hear flaps grinding in the cold blasts of air outside. The pilot kept the throttle up. Suddenly, Annja felt very much out of place.

Best just to let these guys get done what they need to get done, she thought. She turned and headed back to her seat.

She passed more crew members. One of them was drinking a tumbler of coffee. “Can I get you some?” he asked.

Annja shook her head. “No, thanks. Not sure my stomach will let it settle right now.”

He grinned. “We’ll be down in about ten minutes. You can have all you want then.”

Annja sat down and secured her seat belt. As she glanced around the dimly lit interior of the plane, she thought back to the letter she’d received in her mailbox shortly after returning from her latest dig. The letter had been sent from a colleague she’d once worked with: Zachary Guilfoyle. Zach had always been obsessed with prehistory on the planet, and his quest for the strange had made him something of an untouchable among other members of the more conservative scientific community.

But Annja had loved hanging out with him. Zach, while a sucker for any bit of the mythical, was also a mean card shark and could spin a tale that often left you wondering what was truth and what was fantasy.

His letter had asked Annja to come down to the research station in Antarctica. He was currently there, studying something that he would only describe as “very interesting.”

Annja had put the letter away intrigued but with no real thought toward going. She had reports to file for Chasing History’s Monsters, after all. And she had some very overdue bills to pay.

She was all set to send Zach an e-mail telling him she couldn’t go when a pair of men in dark suits, bad haircuts and disposable sunglasses had shown up outside her loft one afternoon as she returned from a jog.

“Are you Annja Creed?” one of the strangers asked.

She glanced at them, knowing immediately they were with the government. “You’re telling me that with all the technology you guys have at your disposal these days, you really have to ask if I’m who you’re looking for? What is that, some sort of leftover ritual you still follow from the Cold War?” she said.

It got a smirk out of one of them. “Well, you were out jogging.”