Polar Shift (36 page)

Austin sensed an instant synergy between the two men. “We want you to work with Spider, Joe and Karla to build an antenna capable of neutralizing the low-level electromagnetic waves that are being used to create a polar shift.”

“Building the antenna won't be a problem. It's nothing but metal and wire. But you could use it to hang laundry, for all the good it would do without the correct frequencies that would act to buffer those being used to stir things up.”

Karla smiled and slipped a folded sheet of paper from her blouse. Using infinite care, she unfolded the paper and slid it across the table to Hibbet. He picked the napkin up and frowned as he read the equation written on it. Then the light of understanding dawned in his eyes.

“Where did you get this?” he said in a whisper.

“My grandfather,” Karla said.

“Karla's grandfather was Lazlo Kovacs,” Austin said. “He encoded his work before he passed it down. Thanks to Spider, we've figured it out. Now that we've done all the hard work, can you build us an antenna?”

“Yes,” Hibbet said. “At least, I
think
I can.”

“That's good enough for us. Tell us what you need. You've got all the resources of the U.S. government behind you.”

Hibbet laughed and shook his head. “That's a lot better than dealing with the NUMA bean counters. You don't know the trouble I've had trying to buy experimental equipment.” He paused in thought. “Even if I can whip something together, we'll still need a platform to carry it to where it would do the most good.”

“How big would this contraption be?” Austin said.

“Big,”
Hibbet said. “Then you'd need the generators to power the antenna. And a way to transport something that weighs tons.”

“That's the bad news,” Austin said.

“What's the good news?” asked Hibbet.

Austin grinned. “Necessity is the mother of invention.”

The phone rang just then and Austin picked it up. Pitt must have pulled some major strings. The Pentagon was sending a car over to pick him up.

T
HE EARTH
seemed to be on fire in a hundred different places. Volcanoes erupted like a virulent disease, spewing forth huge, glowing lava fields whose smoke cast a thick pall over the planet. Wind storms of unimaginable power whipped the massive cloud into twisting vortexes that ranged across continents. Tsunamis slammed into the North American coastline on the east and the west and created a narrow continent squeezed by two angry oceans.

Then the image of the ravaged planet disappeared. The large screen in the Pentagon screening room went blank. Lights that had been dimmed for the presentation went back on, to reveal Austin and the stunned faces of a dozen or so military brass and political people who were sitting around a long conference table.

“The computer simulation you just saw was prepared by Dr. Paul Trout, a computer graphics expert at NUMA,” Austin said. “It presents a reasonably accurate picture of the consequences of a geologic polar shift.”

A four-star general sitting across from Austin said, “I would be the first to admit that was a frightening picture, if it's true. But as you say, it's a computer simulation, and could just as well be based on imagination as fact.”

“I wish it
were
imagination, General. We didn't have time to prepare a written summary, so you'll have to bear with me while I lay out the main points of what we're dealing with here. The first link in the chain of events that led to this meeting was forged more than sixty years ago with the work of a brilliant electrical engineer named Lazlo Kovacs.”

For more than an hour, Austin laid out the timeline, touching on Tesla, Kovacs's escape from East Prussia and the electromagnetic warfare experiments conducted by the U.S. and the Soviets. He described his meeting with Barrett, the man who had translated the theorems into reality, the ship-sinking ocean disturbances and the plans to initiate a polar shift. Austin was aware of the fantastic nature of his story, so he left out a few details. Had he not seen them with his eyes he would never have believed in the existence of dwarf mammoths in a crystal city locked in an ancient volcano.

Even without the more unbelievable details, he faced a wall of skepticism. Austin made his case with the skill of a powerhouse attorney talking to a jury, but he knew he would be peppered with questions. An assistant secretary representing the Department of Defense cut Austin short when he was describing Jordan Gant's involvement with Margrave.

“You'll have to excuse me if I find it hard to believe that the head of a nonprofit organization and the billionaire owner of a respected software company are in cahoots to cause this so-called polar shift over some vague neo-anarchist cause.”

“You can argue about specifics,” Austin said, “but this is far from a vague cause. Lucifer used the bright lights of Broadway to send its message to the world and shut down New York City as a warning. I think 9/11 proved that you ignore seemingly lunatic warnings at your peril.”

“Where are these so-called transmitter ships?” asked a naval officer.

“Rio de Janeiro,” Austin replied.

“You said there were four ships earlier but one sank?”

“That's right. We assumed that a replacement ship would be built, but we found no sign of it, so we're assuming they're going ahead with the trio.”

“This should be a slam dunk,” the assistant secretary said. “I suggest we send the closest submarine to keep track of these ships, and if they engage in suspicious behavior we sink them.”

“What about diplomatic considerations?” the four-star general asked. “Shoot first and ask questions later on the high seas?”

“It would be no different than shooting down a civilian airliner targeting the White House or Congress,” the secretary said. “Can we do it?” he asked the naval officer.

“The navy likes a challenge,” he said.

“Then that's the plan. I'll run it by the secretary of defense and we can get the ball rolling. He'll brief the president when he gets back tomorrow.” He turned to Austin. “Thanks for bringing this to our attention.”

“I'm not through,” Austin said. “There's reason to believe we have something that will neutralize the polar shift. We may have found an antidote.”

Every eye in the room stared at him.

“What sort of antidote?” the general asked more out of politeness than interest.

“It's a set of electromagnetic frequencies that we think will counter the polar reversal.”

“How do you plan to administer this ‘antidote'?” the assistant secretary said, “with a big spoon?”

“I've got a few ideas.”

“The only antidote I'd like to use is a torpedo right up their butt,” the naval officer said.

Everyone in the room except for Austin roared with laughter.

“Don't mean to be impolite,” the assistant secretary said. “Why don't you work your ideas into a report and get it to my secretary.”

The meeting was over. As Austin was ushered through the labyrinth of corridors, he remembered his meeting with Gant, and his impression that he was not someone whose duplicity should be underestimated.

Slam dunk, my ass, he thought.

T
HE TROUTS HAD BOOKED
a beachside hotel room with a balcony that overlooked the harbor and offered an unimpeded view of the distant shipping docks. Since arriving in Rio, they had taken turns sitting on the balcony watching the transmitter ships.

Trout brought Gamay a cold glass of orange juice and pulled up a chair beside her. “Anything happening?”

Gamay raised the binoculars to her eyes and studied a long shipping dock on the other side of the harbor. “The transmitter ships haven't moved an inch since we got here.”

Trout borrowed the binoculars and inspected three ships tied up parallel to the dock.

“Did you notice that the liner is gone?”

“It was there yesterday. They must have left before we got up this morning.”

Gamay had wondered what a passenger ship was doing in a cargo vessel area. They had read the name painted on the stern:
Polar Ad
venture
. But neither one of them had given the vessel much thought. They had been more interested in the three cargo ships, which were named
Polaris I
,
II
and
III
, after the northern pole star.

“I think we should take a closer look,” Paul said.

“My thoughts exactly. I'm about ready to go for a ride.”

Minutes later, they were driving along the edge of the harbor. The resort hotels thinned out, and the neighborhood they were passing through became more commercial. Eventually, they came to a concentration of warehouses, shipping company offices and maritime buildings. They passed several containerships, and went by the empty berth formerly occupied by the ocean liner. A guardhouse had been set up near the three vessels they had seen from the hotel.

Standing outside the structure was a beefy guard who carried a side arm and a rifle. He was smoking a cigarette and talking to a longshoreman. Paul kept the car at the same speed so he wouldn't attract attention, but he drove slowly enough for Gamay to give the ships a quick but thorough inspection.

“Any other guards?” Trout said.

“Only the one, that I could see. There may be more on board.”

“Maybe not. They wouldn't want to attract attention by having too many security guys hanging around. This could be a golden opportunity to snoop around.”

“Yes, but he had a very big gun. How do you propose to get past that?”

Trout gave Gamay a lopsided grin. “I was thinking that a beautiful woman could provide a, uh, diversion.”

“Here we go again.
Cherchez la femme.
The oldest trick in the book. Do you think he'd fall for a ruse like that?”

“You're kidding,” Trout said with a chuckle. “We're talking about a hot-blooded Latin male.”

“Unfortunately,” Gamay said with a sigh, “I think that you're right. Okay, I'll do my Mata Hari impression, but you're buying dinner.”

A half hour later, they were back in their hotel room. Paul mixed a couple of cool rum drinks, and they sat on the balcony sipping from their glasses and taking turns watching the ships through binoculars until the sun went down.

After a dinner sent up by room service, Gamay took a shower, doused herself with perfume and slipped into a low-cut red dress. Beautiful women abound in Rio, but Gamay drew every male eye in the lobby when she and Trout crossed to the hotel entrance.

The shipping dock had undergone a stark personality change. The trucks, longshoremen and stevedores had left for the day, and the dock area had developed a rank, sinister atmosphere. Unevenly spaced pole lamps cast yellow puddles of light that were diffused by a fog that had moved in from the harbor. A foghorn moaned in the distance.

Gamay drove past the empty berth formerly occupied by the
Polar Adventure
and pulled the car over and parked under a lamppost near the guardhouse. She got out of the car, stood in the light and took a swig from a bottle of rum. With noisy fanfare, she raised the hood and poked her head underneath. Then, swearing loudly in Spanish, she kicked the fender, looked around and waved at the guard. Weaving as she walked, she made her way over to the guardhouse.

The guard was a dark-complexioned, muscular man with an expression of bored suspicion on his flat-featured face. Gamay spoke perfect Spanish, but for the benefit of the guard she slurred her words. She said her stupid car had stalled, and asked him to come take a look. He glanced at the car, which was partially obscured by the shadows, hesitating.

“Don't tell me you're afraid of me with that big gun you're carrying.”

She staggered and seemed to fall before she grabbed the guard's shoulder and gave him a blast of rum-soaked breath. The appeal of a sexy, drunk woman and the veiled insult to his manhood did the trick. He laughed lustily and put his arm around her shoulder. Gamay laughed too, and they made their way back to the car.

“I think they gypped me and there's no engine,” she said, placing her hands on her hips.

She was gambling that he would follow the male instinct to stick his head under the car hood. When he did, Trout stepped out of the shadows, tapped him on the shoulder, then dropped the guard with a powerful right cross. With Gamay's help, they gagged and tied the dazed guard with towels borrowed from the hotel, took his guns and stuffed him in the backseat of the car.

Trout put the man's cap on his head, slipped a flashlight into his windbreaker pocket and tucked the pistol in his belt. “Call in the cavalry if I'm not back in twenty minutes.”

Gamay hefted the rifle. “Be careful,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “You're
looking
at the cavalry.”

Trout would rather have Gamay at his back than a hundred John Waynes. She was an expert marksman, and anyone caught in her sights would have a short life. He swiftly climbed to the top of the gangway and looked around the deck. The fog that hung over the ship and dampened the deck lights would make him less visible, but it would also provide cover for any guards watching the deck.

He had seen the photos Austin and Zavala had taken of the ship exhumed by the whirlpool and had a general idea of the layout. He blindly navigated his way through the murk and managed to find the superstructure without slamming face-first into it. He felt his way along the exterior until his groping fingers came to a door. He stepped into a darkened space and flicked on the flashlight he had borrowed from the guard. A companionway led to a deck below.

Clutching the guard's pistol in his free hand, he descended the stairs and followed a maze of corridors. At the end of one passageway, he paused and put his ear against a metal door, then tried the handle. The door was unlocked. He opened it and stepped through.

His footsteps echoed as he slowly made his way to a railing and saw that he was standing on a balcony. He was in a cavernous space that must be the generator room Austin and Zavala had described. He flashed his light around and realized why there was only one man guarding the ships. There was nothing to guard. The room was empty.

Trout made his way back to the main deck. Austin had talked about a shaft that ran down through the hull from the deck to the water. He finally found it, along with the framework around the rectangular opening. But there was no sign of the cone-shaped structure. The ship seemed to have been stripped clean. He pondered the idea of checking out the control room, but decided that there wasn't time. Gamay would storm the ship in search of Trout if he didn't come back when promised. He headed for the gangway.

The guard had regained consciousness, and Gamay had to threaten him with his gun to quiet him down, but other than that there had been no incident.

“What did you find?” she said.

“
Nothing.
And that's what's so interesting. My guess is that the other ships are stripped down too.”

They dragged the guard from the car and left him in the shadows. He had started struggling against his makeshift bindings. With a little more effort, he would be able to free himself. About a hundred feet from the guardhouse, they tossed his guns into the harbor. There was little chance that he would raise the alarm once he got free. His employers would not be pleased if they learned he had fallen down on the job. He would have enough trouble explaining what happened to his weapons.

On the drive back to the hotel, Trout described his search of the ship and the surprising results.

“But
why
? And what did they do with all that stuff?”

Trout shook his head, picked up his cell phone and punched out a number from the directory.

“We'll let Kurt figure that one out.”