Vapor (2 page)

“Not until we’ve secured the reliquary.”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“Yes,” I replied. “It is.”

The reliquary rose out of the pit. It lifted several feet into the air before halting. The clanging ceased.

Wind ripped against the dome tent. Graham cast a wary eye at the covering. “What happens if it breaks?” he asked.

A loud ripping noise rang out. The tent buckled violently as wind swept through a gaping hole, carrying millions of dirt particles with it.

My jaw hardened. “It looks like we’re about to find out.”

The tent shuddered. More dirt swept into it on the back of the vicious wind. It whirled around us, attacking us over and over again.

Fighting the surging current, I moved toward the reliquary. “We don’t have time to transfer this to Lila’s pick-up truck.”

“You’ve got a better idea?” Graham asked.

“We can use our truck.”

“How does that speed things up?”

“By letting us skip a step.” I nodded at the cradle. “It’s too big for Lila’s vehicle. But can it fit on ours?”

He studied the cradle for a moment. “I think so.”

“Good. Then we’ll place the whole thing, cradle and all, onto our flatbed.”

“I suppose it could work. But how the hell are we supposed to get the reliquary out of the cradle?”

“We’ll figure that out later.” I glanced at Beverly. “Where’d you park our truck?”

“On the far side of the barn,” she replied.

“So far away?”

“It’s not like I saw this coming.” Her hands met her hips. “I’m a lot of things, but a psychic isn’t one of them.”

She was definitely a lot of things. Beverly Ginger had learned how to shoot guns and build bombs while employed by the U.S. Army. Eventually, she’d moved her services to a private military corporation named ShadowFire. During that time, she’d acquired skills in carpentry and other forms of construction work.

But Beverly was far more than her skill set. She was also, for lack of a better term, my sort-of girlfriend. In other words, we hadn’t talked about it.

We’d just sort of lived it.

She was beautiful. Her face was perfectly tanned and featured a pair of stunning violet eyes. Her curves seemed to go on forever. Her legs were long and shapely. And her chestnut-colored hair had more waves than the ocean. But her beauty didn’t stop at her appearance. She also possessed something unique, something intangible. There was no word to describe it other than perhaps magnetism. She had that rare ability to walk across a crowded room and leave a gaggle of tongue-tied men and women in her wake.

“Get the truck,” I said. “And make it fast.”

She darted through the flap. Squinting through my goggles, I watched her lithe figure, shaded a gorgeous green, sprint across the desolate landscape.

“What about us?” Graham asked.

“We need to keep this tent in one piece until she gets back.” I nodded at the covering. “Patch up that tear. I’ll check on the poles.”

Graham opened his toolbox. He dug out a roll of duct tape and hurried toward the torn covering, limping slightly on his artificial leg.

I grabbed a piece of cloth and trudged toward the entranceway. A sturdy gust of dry wind ploughed into my face. It dried my sweaty forehead and stole the saliva right out of my mouth. Quickly, I wrapped the cloth around my face and ran outside.

A fierce air current struck a nearby shed. Dirt thudded against the dilapidated wood exterior and pinged off the old sloped roof. Glass windows cracked under the onslaught.

Storms and freak weather-related events, although annoying, didn’t usually bother me. It was part of the job. Over the last few years, I’d survived an underground flood in Manhattan, vicious snowstorms in Antarctica, and endless rain in Mexico. But the rising dust storm was different. It felt strange. Like something out of myth and long-forgotten legends.

I trudged around the tent, feeling drier by the second. My outfit—a navy blue ribbed skullcap, dark gray cargo pants, a navy blue vest jacket, a long-sleeve white shirt, and sturdy hiking boots—rippled in the wind. Sweat beaded up on my forearms only to be whisked away by the blowing air, taking with it valuable fluids and electrolytes.

The tent’s outer structure consisted of sturdy PVC piping, arranged in a dome-shape. The covering was suspended underneath the dome and attached to it with powerful fasteners. This kept the pipes from rubbing against the fabric.

Almost immediately, I saw a pipe shift in the dirt. Then it started to slide out of the soil.

I fought my way to it. Blocking the wind with my back, I drove the pipe deeper into the soil. Then I knelt down and pushed dirt around it, packing the soil as tightly as possible.

Glancing through the translucent covering, I saw the reliquary locked in the gantry crane’s loving embrace. It intrigued me. I knew nothing about it other than the fact that it looked old and was covered with images of death and destruction. I didn’t know who had buried it, how Lila had located it, or what she expected to find inside it. And quite honestly, I didn’t really care.

I just wanted to save it.

The scales of progress vs. preservation had been thrown out of whack and I was, for better or worse, the only one who could restore them. Maybe saving the reliquary wouldn’t fully balance the scales and erase the guilt that plagued my soul.

But it would help.

I packed more dirt against the pipe. But as soon as I lifted my hands, it started to vibrate all over again.

Gritting my teeth, I grasped the pipe. My muscles strained as I drove it even deeper into the soil.

The wind kicked up a notch. The nearby shed quaked violently. Glass shattered. Wood splintered.

I twisted my head. Metal crashed. Wood beams cracked.

And then the shed disintegrated.

Pieces of wood ripped free. They were joined by the roof, which tore off the structure in largely one piece. The walls blew outward. Rolled-up metal fencing, bundles of blankets, and small tools flew into the air, swept skyward by the swirling winds.

My jaw clenched. The dome tent was built to withstand heavy winds. But I knew it couldn’t last much longer. And once it fell, I’d be powerless to protect the reliquary from the elements.

The pipe continued to vibrate. Then it began to push upward, pulled by the fierce current.

“Tent’s patched.” Graham’s voice crackled in my ear. “How’s it going out here?”

“Help …” I struggled to hold the pipe in place. “Help me.”

Rushing forward, he grabbed the pipe with both hands. Slowly, we shoved it into the earth.

The wind increased in ferocity, rising to gale force levels. Dirt stuffed my nostrils, my ears.

Abruptly, the pipe kicked like a wild mule. Graham and I flew backward, landing hard on the dirt.

Slightly dazed, I lifted my head. The loose pipe sailed back and forth, a slave to the insane winds. Then the pipes on either side of it began to vibrate. Within seconds, they kicked out of the ground as well.

The wind ripped at the covering. Graham’s patch job quickly came apart. Other holes appeared. They widened as the tear-resistant fabric failed its ultimate test of strength.

I struggled to gain my footing, to race forward. But the wind pinned me down. Helplessly, I watched the dome structure break free from the ground. It sailed away, bouncing like a tumbleweed and taking the covering with it.

My jaw hardened as I stared at the exposed reliquary.

Faster. Got to go faster.

Dirt struck my goggles as I climbed to my feet. Hunkering down, Graham and I made our way to the reliquary.

Light flashed. Spinning around, I saw a tiny speck of brightness. Quickly, the speck grew larger.

A medium-duty flatbed truck appeared. It halted about twenty feet from us. Beverly put it into reverse and twisted the wheel until the flatbed faced the reliquary.

As she climbed out of the cab, Graham returned to the crane’s control panel. The gantry sputtered. Curls of smoke rose upward and were quickly swept away with the wind.

Chains clanked as the gantry lifted the cradled reliquary a few feet higher. Manipulating the controls, Graham angled the chain hoist, directing it toward our truck. Then he flicked a switch, causing the giant stone box to halt above the flatbed.

“What’s the hold-up?” I asked.

“The cradle will fit,” he replied. “But we should lash it down before we start driving.”

I winced as dirt-choked wind slashed against the stone box. “There’s no time,” I said. “Lower it in.”

Graham returned to the controls. The cradled reliquary settled onto the waiting flatbed. The rear tires dug an inch or two into the dirt. Then they halted.

I exhaled softly. “Give me some slack on those chains.”

Graham punched a few buttons. The chains sagged.

With Beverly’s help, I disconnected the chain hoist from the gantry system. We placed the chains onto the flatbed, taking care not to scratch the stone box. Then we hustled to the cab.

Beverly climbed into the driver’s seat. I helped Graham through the passenger door and climbed in after him.

Beverly released the parking brake and put the vehicle into motion. Spinning the wheel, she directed us toward the barn. It was tall, rising at least thirty feet over our heads.

As we drew near, the barn doors cracked. Straining her muscles, Lila pushed them all the way open. I caught a glimpse of her expression as Beverly drove us into the yawning interior. She looked furious.

Beverly hit the brakes. Graham and I hopped outside. The wind assailed the barn doors as we helped Lila pull them shut. More gusts of wind struck the barn’s sides as well as its roof. But the old building stood firm.

Lifting my goggles, I turned toward the dimly lit interior. The structure was large and filled with discarded farming equipment. I saw a dust-covered tractor, various tools, and bales of hay. More recent additions included the soil from the pit as well as piles of packing materials.

My gaze flitted to the reliquary. Fortunately, it didn’t look damaged. As I studied it, questions popped into my brain. What was inside it? Why did Lila want it so badly?

And why didn’t she want anyone to know about it?

“What the hell is going on?” President Walters barked as he glared at the pretty face seated at the opposite side of the Resolute Desk. With neatly styled silver hair and a grave countenance, Wade Walters was widely considered a throwback to presidents of earlier eras.

Chief of Staff Melody Pierce brushed a strand of long blonde hair away from her bubbly face. Dressed in one of her trademark form-fitting business suits, she projected her usual mix of flirtation and professionalism. “Please bear in mind my report is preliminary, Mr. President. My people are still gathering information.”

Leaning over, she extracted a thick folder from her soft leather briefcase. She opened it up and began to shuffle through the papers. “As you know, large parts of Africa—especially the Sudan and Sahel regions—are semiarid. They depend heavily on the West African monsoon for precipitation. Unfortunately, the monsoon failed to show up this year, resulting in starvation, epidemics, and looting.”

Long ago, the president had hardened his heart toward ordinary people. It was a necessity of his position. People died everyday under tragic circumstances and it just wasn’t practical to grieve all of them. “Sounds like perfect circumstances for chaos.”

“Exactly. The Sudan region is on the brink. Warlords are rapidly consolidating power.” Pierce hesitated. “Many people agree with them that, well …”

President Walters resisted the temptation to raise his voice. Pierce was a good woman and a loyal ally. Before dipping her toe into politics, she’d managed to kick start three successful businesses in two separate industries. But at thirty-eight years old, she was still quite young and, more often than not, afraid to be the bearer of bad news. “Spit it out, Melody.”

“They blame us for the situation, sir. And they’re not the only ones. Unusual weather phenomena—freak storms, droughts, and deluges—are happening everywhere. No one has made a public statement to this effect, but people across the globe are whispering amongst themselves. And for the most part, they’re blaming us.”

Senior Advisor Alex Foster cleared his throat. “Us?”

President Walters tilted his fine leather chair backward as he waited for Pierce’s response. He’d known Foster for years, all the way back to their undergraduate days at Yale. Foster was smart and came from a family with much influence in South Carolina’s political scene. On top of that, he was a valuable asset. His calm, methodical approach to politics made for a good counterbalance to the president’s more freewheeling style.

“They believe America’s lust for energy has brought the global climate to a dangerous tipping point,” Pierce said. “They’re worried that if we don’t change our ways soon, the results could be catastrophic … and permanent.”

The president arched an eyebrow.

“At the very least, we’re looking at rising global unrest,” Pierce continued. “Take the Sudan for example. People from all over the region are leaving their homes to join warlords. It’s not that they necessarily like the warlords. But the drought has left them with little choice. Unless the weather reverts to a more natural state in the near future, increased instability and even civil war are distinct possibilities.”

“I see. Well, please keep me apprised of the situation.”

“We really need to devote time to this issue, Mr. President. It goes much further than the Sudan. It could have—”

“I agree. It does deserve time, but not right now. As you know, we have our own environmental crisis.” President Walters glanced at Foster. “Speaking of which, do you have an update on the drought?”

“Yes, sir.” Foster pulled a file out of his briefcase. “The National Weather Service continues to report a severe drought across large parts of the continental United States. On average, the entire southwest, from southern California straight through Texas, has experienced a ninety-five percent decline in precipitation, year over year.”

The president shook his head. “Incredible.”

“Freshwater lakes are drying up across the country and we’re seeing significant increases in forest fires, heat waves, and dust storms. All things considered, it’s the worst drought since the Dust Bowl. And unfortunately, there’s no end in sight.”

Pierce crossed her legs, revealing a glimpse of her silk-encased thighs. “It’s climate change, pure and simple.” Her voice grew bolder. “We all know it. The question is whether or not we’re ready to do something about it.”

President Walters forced himself to ignore the slight bouncing of her legs. Her flirtatious manner always caused his heart to speed up. He longed for companionship, especially since his wife barely spoke to him these days. His devotion to his job, coupled with a casual fling with a White House intern, had damaged their relationship beyond repair. “It’s not about reality,” he replied. “It’s about perception. And unfortunately, the polls are clear on this point. The American public has yet to accept the science of manmade climate change as gospel.”

“Polling data is immaterial. All that matters is what’s best for the country, for the world.”

The president realized he was staring at her shiny lips. Swiftly, he averted his eyes. “Why do you think I pushed Congress to authorize the Columbus Project?”

“The Columbus Project is good, but it’s not enough. We need something bigger, something transformative.”

“Wheeling back the damage of modern civilization is no easy task. It’ll require massive changes to every level of society. I’m not sure the American people are ready to accept that.”

Foster grunted as his pocket buzzed. Reaching inside, he extracted his phone. He pressed the screen a few times. Then he turned his body, angling away from the conversation.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way.” Pierce swept a hand through her hair. “But great presidents don’t lose sleep over public opinion. They seek the best for their constituents, regardless of the political cost.”

A headache sprouted in the president’s skull. Gently, he rubbed his temples.

Winning the presidency was supposed to be the highlight of his political career. But after three years in office, his term had become a nightmare. His popularity had soured. Scandals of all shapes and sizes plagued his administration. Worst of all, the inexplicable weather situation had caused irreversible damage to his support base. Practically the entire United States was a disaster zone and unfortunately, FEMA’s response had been laughable at best.

“I know your feelings on the matter,” the president replied. “And believe me, I’m sympathetic. But my political capital is near zero. And even if I managed to get Congress on my side—a tall order, mind you—I’m not convinced a complete reworking of American society is the best move.”

Pierce pursed her lips.

“Holy …” Slowly, Foster lowered his phone. His body twisted toward the president. “I need a word in private, sir.”

“That’s fine.” Pierce gathered her belongings and stood up. “I was just leaving.”

Foster waited for her to exit the room. “We’ve got a problem,” he said. “A big one.”

The president’s headache turned splitting. Again, he rubbed his temples. But this time, it didn’t help. “What now?”