Текст книги "Ice Hunt"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Bennie stared at her, one eye squinted, judging her. When he spoke next, it was in a calm, measured voice. “Jen, we lost a child, too…a baby girl.”

The simple statement stunned her. Her anger blew out like a snuffed candle. “My God, Bennie, when?”

“A year ago…miscarriage.” He stared out into the dark snowy plains. In the distance the few lights of the seaside village flickered. A heavy sigh escaped him. “It nearly crushed Belinda.”

Jenny saw it had done the same to the man in front of her.

He cleared his throat. “Afterward we found out she would never be able to bear a child. Something to do with scarring. Docs said it was secondary to—” His voice cracked. He shook his head. “Let’s just say, it was secondary to complications from her old job.”

“Bennie, I’m so sorry.”

He waved away her sympathy. “We move on. That’s life.”

Through the window, Jenny watched Belinda laughing as she refilled Matt’s coffee. Not a sound was heard but the whistle of wind across the tundra.

“But you and Matt,” Bennie resumed, “you’re both young.”

She heard his unspoken words: You two could still have another child.

“You were good together,” he continued, kicking snow off his boots. “It’s high time one of you remembered that.”

She stared through the window. Her words were a whisper, more to her own heart than to her companion. “I do remember.”

She had met Matt during an investigation of poaching in the Brooks Range. A conflict had arisen between native rights and the federal government over hunting for food in parklands. He had been there representing the state, but after learning of the subsistence level of existence of the local tribes, he became one of their most vocal advocates. Jenny had been impressed by his ability to look beyond the law and see the people involved, a rarity among government types.

While working together to settle the matter and make new law, the two had grown closer. At first, they simply sought work-related reasons to get together. Then, after running out of fabricated excuses, they simply started dating. And within a year, they were married. It took a while for her family to accept a white man into their fold, but Matt’s charm, easygoing nature, and dogged patience won them over. Even her father.

Benny cleared his throat. “Then it’s not too late, Jen.”

She watched a moment longer, then turned from the window. “Sometimes it is. Some things can’t be forgiven.”

Bennie met her gaze, standing in front of her. “It was an accident, Jen. Somewhere in there you know that.”

Her anger, never far from the surface, flared again. She clenched her fingers. “He was drinking.”

“But he wasn’t drunk, was he?”

“What the hell does that matter! Even a single drop of alcohol…” She began to shake. “He was supposed to be watching Tyler. Not drinking! If he hadn’t been—”

Bennie cut her off. “Jen, I know what you think of alcohol. Hell, I worked with you long enough in Fairbanks. I know what it’s done to your people… to your father.”

His words were like a punch to the belly. “You’re crossing the line, Bennie.”

“Someone has to. I was there when your father was hauled in, goddamn it! I know! Your mother died in a car accident because your father was drunk.”

She turned away, but she couldn’t escape his words. She had been only sixteen at the time. Epidemic alcoholismwas the coined term. It was devastating the Inuit, a curse winding its way down the generations, killing and maiming along the way – through violence, suicides, drownings, spousal abuse, birth defects, and fetal alcohol syndrome. As a native sheriff, she had seen entire villages emptied from no other cause than alcohol. And her own family had not escaped.

First her mother, then her son.

“Your father spent a year in jail,” Bennie continued. “He went to AA. He’s been on the wagon and found peace by returning to the old ways.”

“It doesn’t matter. I…I can’t forgive him.”

“Who?” His voice sharpened. “Matt or your father?”

Jenny swung around, fists clenched, ready to swing at him.

Bennie kept his position before the door. “Whether Matt had been stone-cold sober or not, Tyler would still be dead.”

The bluntness of his words tore at the thick scarring that had formed in her own body. It wasn’t just around her heart, but strung in tight cords through her belly, in her neck, down her legs. The scarring was all that allowed her to survive. It was what the body did when it couldn’t heal completely. It scarred. Tears arose from the pain.

Bennie stepped forward and pulled her into his arms. She sagged in his grip. She wanted to dismiss Bennie’s words, to lash out, but in her heart, she knew better. Had she ever forgiven her father? How much of that anger had become a part of who she was? She had entered law enforcement in an attempt to find some order in the tragedies and vagaries of life, finding solace in rules, regulations, and procedures, where punishment was meted out in blocks of time – one, five, or ten years – where time could be served and sins forgiven. But matters of the heart were not so easily quantified.

“It’s not too late,” Bennie repeated in her ear.

She mumbled her answer to his chest, repeating her earlier words. “Sometimes it is.” And in her heart, she knew this to be true. Whatever she and Matt had once shared was shattered beyond repair.

The door swung open again, bringing with it the warmth of the diner, the smells of frying oil, and a bit of bright laughter. Matt stood at the threshold. “You two really should get a room.”

Jenny pulled out of the embrace and ran a hand through her hair. She hoped the tears were gone from her cheeks. “The plane’s all refueled. We can head out as soon as we’re done eating.”

“And whereagain were you all going?” Bennie asked, clearing his throat.

Matt scowled at him. For everyone’s sake, they had decided it best to keep their destination a secret. “Good try, Bennie.”

The man shrugged. “Okay, can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Actually I can,” Matt said, swinging around. “Hey, Belinda, did you know your husband was making out with my ex-wife on the porch?”

“Tell Jenny she can keep him!”

Matt turned back and gave them a thumbs-up. “You two kids are in the clear.” He closed the door on them. “Have fun!”

Standing in the dark, Jenny shook her head. “And you want me to make up with him?”

Bennie shrugged again. “I’m just a mechanic. What the hell do I know?”

11:56 P.M.

ABOARD THE DRAKON

Admiral Viktor Petkov watched through the video monitors in the control station. The solid plane of ice spread in a black blanket overhead, lit from below by the Drakon’s exterior lights. The four thermal-suited divers had spent the last half hour securing a titanium sphere in place. The procedure involved screwing meter-long anchoring bolts into the underside of the ice cap, then positioning the device’s clamps to the bolts so the titanium sphere hung below the ice.

It was the last of five identical devices. Each titanium sphere was positioned a hundred kilometers from the ice island, encircling the lost Russian ice station, marking the points of a star. The sites of insertion were pinpointed to exact coordinates. All that remained was to establish the master trigger. It had to be positioned in the exact center of the star.

Viktor gazed past the divers to the dark waters beyond. He pictured the huge ice island and the station inside it. He couldn’t have asked for a better place to trigger the device.

Moscow had ordered him to retrieve his father’s work and lay waste to all behind it. But Viktor had larger plans.

Out in the water, one of the divers thumbed the pressure button on the bottom of the device and a line of blue lights flared along the equator of the sphere, drawing Viktor’s attention. The last of the five devices was now activated. In the soft blue glow, the Cyrillic lettering could be seen clearly across the sphere’s surface, marking the initials for the Arctic and Antarctic Research Institute.

“And these are just scientific sensors?” Captain Mikovsky asked, standing at the admiral’s side. The doubt was plain in his voice.

Viktor answered softly. “The latest in bathymetry technology, designed to measure sea-level changes, currents, salinity, and ice densities.”

The Drakon’s captain shook his head. He was no naive recruit. Upon leaving the docks of the Severomorsk Naval Complex, Mikovsky had been given their mission parameters: to escort the admiral on a diplomatic mission out to the site of a lost Russian ice station. But the captain had to know that more was planned. He had seen the equipment and weapons brought aboard back at Severomorsk. And he surely knew of the coded message from FSB, if not the content.

“These underwater devices have no military application?” Mikovsky pressed. “Like listening in on the Americans?”

Viktor simply glanced over and shrugged. He allowed the captain to misread his silence. It was sometimes best to allow someone’s suspicions to run to the most obvious conclusion.

“Ah…” Mikovsky nodded, eyeing the sphere with more respect, believing he understood the intrigues here.

Viktor turned his own attention back to the monitors. Over the years, the young captain might learn that there were deeper levels to the games played by those in power.

A decade ago, Viktor had employed a handpicked team of scientists from AARI and began a covert project out of Severomorsk Naval Complex. Such a venture was not unique. Many polar research projects were run out of Severomorsk. But what was unusual about this particular project, titled Shockwave, was that it was under the direct supervision of then-captain Viktor Petkov. The researchers answered directly to him. And in the hinterlands of the northern coastlands, far from prying eyes, it was easy to bury one project among the many others. No one questioned this work, not even when the six researchers on the project had all died in an airplane crash. With their deaths two years ago, so had died Project Shockwave.

Or so it appeared.

No one but Viktor knew the research had already been completed. He stared out as the divers retreated from the sphere of titanium.

It had all started with a simple research paper published in 1979, tying carbon dioxide to the gradual warming of the globe. Fears of melting polar ice caps created horrible scenarios of rising ocean levels and devastating worldwide flooding. Of course, the Arctic and Antarctic Research Institute in St. Petersburg was the central agency in Russia assigned to investigate such threats. It accumulated one of the world’s largest databases on global ice. It was eventually discerned that while the melting of the ice found atop Greenland and the continent of Antarctica could potentially raise the world’s oceans by a dramatic two hundred feet, the northern polar ice cap did not pose such a risk. Since its ice was already floatingatop an ocean, it displaced as much water as it would produce if it melted. Like cubes of ice in a full glass of water, the melt of the polar cap would not lead to a rise in ocean levels. It was simply no threat.

But in 1989, one of the AARI researchers realized a greater danger posed if the polar ice cap should suddenly vanish from the top of the world. The ice cap, if gone, would no longer act as an insulator for the Arctic Ocean. Without its ability to reflect the sun’s energy, the ocean would evaporate more rapidly, pouring vast amounts of new water into the atmosphere, which would lead in turn to massive amounts of precipitation in the form of rain, snow, and sleet. The AARI report concluded that such a change in world climate would wreak havoc on weather systems and ocean currents, resulting in flooding, agricultural destruction, ecosystem disintegration, and worldwide environmental collapse. It would devastate countries and world economies.

The hard truth of this prediction was seen in 1997 when a simple shift in currents in the Pacific Ocean, known as El Niño, occurred. According to UN agencies, the cost to the world was over $90 billion and led to the death of over fifty thousand people – and this was a single shift in currents over the course of one year. The loss of the northern polar ice cap would stretch over decades and reverberate over all oceans, not just the Pacific. It would be a disaster unlike any seen during mankind’s history.

So, of course, such a report led to the investigation of any possible military applications. Could one destroy the polar ice cap? Studies quickly showed that the power needed to melt the vast ice sheet was beyond the grasp of even current nuclear technology. It seemed such a possibility would remain theoretical.

But one of the scientists at AARI had come up with an intriguing theory. One didn’t need to melt the cap – only to destabilizeit. If the cap were partially melted and the rest of the solid ice sheet shattered, a single Arctic summer could do the rest. With the cap turned into an Arctic slush pile, the sun’s energy would have greater access to a larger surface area of the Arctic Ocean, warming the waters around the fragmented ice, thus leading to the meltdown of the remaining ice pack. One didn’t need man-made nuclear energy to destroy the cap – not when the sun itself was available. If the polar ice cap could be shattered in the late spring, by the end of summer it would be gone.

But how did one destabilize the ice cap? That answer came in 1998 when another scientist from AARI, studying the crystallization of ice in the Arctic ice pack and the relation of ocean currents to pressure ridge formation, came up with his theory of harmonics. That ice was like any other crystalline structure, especially under extreme pressure, and at the right pitch in vibration, its structure could be shattered like a crystal goblet.

It was this study that became the basis for Project Shockwave: to artificially create the right set of harmonic waves and heat signatures to blast apart the polar ice cap.

On the monitor, the titanium sphere glowed out in the dark waters as the sub’s exterior lights dimmed. Viktor checked his thick wrist monitor. The plasma screen depicted a five-pointed star. Each point glowed. In the center, the master trigger awaited deployment.

It wouldn’t be long.

Victor stared at the glowing points on the wrist monitor.

The dead scientists had named this configuration the Polaris Array, after the Polyarnaya Zvezda, the North Star. But the nuclear-powered master trigger went by a more technical designation: a subsonic disrupter engine. When it was activated, its effect was twofold. First, it would act as a conventional weapon, blasting a crater a mile wide. But next, rather than sending out an EM pulse like a regular nuclear weapon, this engine would transmit a harmonic wave through the ice. The wave front would strike the five spheres simultaneously and trigger them to explode, propagating and amplifying the harmonics in all directions with enough energy and force to shatter the entire polar ice cap.

Viktor cleaned a smudge off the screen of the monitor. Tucked away in the corner of the screen was a small red heart that flashed in sync with his pulse.

Soon…

For now, he would spend the rest of the night running diagnostics on the project, making sure all was in order.

He had waited sixty years…he could wait another day.

In fact, after the completion of Project Shockwave, he had held off implementing his plan for two years. He had found a certain peace of mind in simply having Polaris at his command. Now he believed it had been fate that held his hand. Ice Station Grendel had been rediscovered, the very tomb of his father. Surely this was a sign. He would retrieve his father’s body, collect the prize buried within the heart of the station, and then detonate Polaris, changing the world forever.

Viktor stared as the exterior lights of the Drakonwere extinguished. The titanium sphere of Polaris glowed in the dark, becoming a true North Star in the Arctic night.

There was a reason he had started Project Shockwave a decade ago, picked this particular project to exact his retribution. It was in the final words of the 1989 report, a cautionary warning. The scientist had predicted another danger posed by the destruction of the polar ice cap, more than just the short-term effect of flooding and climatic upheaval.

There was a more ominous long-term threat.

As the Arctic Ocean evaporated, its waters would pour over land-masses in the form of precipitation – in the northern lands, as snow and sleet. As the years marched on, this snow and sleet would turn into ice, building into huge glaciers, expanding those already present and forming new ones. Over the succeeding years, glaciers would spread and pile in vast sheets, driving south across all the northern lands.

After fifty thousand years, a new ice age would begin!

Viktor appreciated the symmetry as he stared at the glow of Polaris in the midnight waters of the Arctic.

His father had died, frozen in ice – now so would the world.

6. Icebound

APRIL 9, 5:43 A.M.

AIRBORNE OVER THE POLAR ICE CAP

From the Twin Otter’s copilot seat, Matt watched the sun climb over the top of the world. Light glanced achingly over the curve of ice, searing the back of his eyeballs. Jenny wore aviator sunglasses, but Matt simply stared at the beauty of dawn in the polar region. At this latitude, there were only another ten or so sunrises, then the cold orb would stay in the sky for four solid months. So, up here, one learned to appreciate each sunrise and sunset.

This particular morning was spectacular. A steady southeasterly headwind had managed to sheer away the ubiquitous fogs and mists that usually clung to the cap. Below, and in all directions, lay a pristine world of crenellated white ice, jagged crystalline peaks, and sky-blue melt ponds.

From the horizon, sunlight streamed in a rosy tide, stretching toward their flight path. Hues of orange and crimson rippled across the blue skies.

“A storm’s coming,” a gruff voice said behind him. Jenny’s father had awakened with a yawn.

Matt turned. “Why do you say that, John?”

Before he could answer, Craig made a small sound of complaint from where he lolled sleepily in his seat. Clearly the reporter had no interest in the meteorological assessment of the elder Inuit. From behind Craig, Bane lifted his muzzled face and stretched with a jaw-breaking yawn. The wolf seemed as bothered as the reporter at being awakened.

Ignoring them both, John leaned forward and pointed toward the northern skies. Twilight still clung to that section of the world. Near the horizon, it looked like smoke was billowing up. It swirled and churned.

“Ice fog,” the Inuit said. “Temperature’s dropping even though the sun is rising.”

Matt agreed. “Weather pattern’s shifting.”

Storms up here were seldom mild. It was either clear and calm, like now, or a damnable blizzard. And while snowfall was seldom significant at these latitudes, the winds were dangerous, stirring up squalls of ice and surface snow that achieved blinding whiteout conditions.

He swung to Jenny. “Can we make the drift station before it hits?”

“Should.”

It was the first word she had spoken since leaving Kaktovik. Something had upset her over at Bennie’s place, but she had refused to talk about it. She had eaten her meal as methodically as a backhoe chewing through a stubborn hillside. Afterward, she had disappeared into the hangar’s office for a short catnap. No more than half an hour. But when she returned from the back room, her eyes were red. It didn’t look like she had slept at all.

Her father glanced to Matt, catching his eyes for a moment, almost studying him. When Jenny and Matt had been married, he and his father-in-law had grown as close as brothers. They had camped, hunted, and fished regularly. But like Jenny, after the loss of his only grandson, the man had hardened toward him.

Yet, at the time of Tyler’s death, Matt had sensed no blame from the elderly Inuit. John, more than anyone, knew the severity of life in the Alaskan backcountry, the risk of sudden death. While growing up, he had been raised in a small seaside village along Kotzebue Sound near the Bering Strait. His full Inuit name was Junaquaat, shortened to John after he moved inland. His own seaside village had succumbed to starvation during the freeze of ’75, vanishing in a single winter. He had lost all his relatives – and such a fate was not uncommon. Resources in the frozen north were always scarce. Survival balanced on a razor’s edge.

Though John did not blame Matt for Tyler’s drowning, he did harbor resentment for the ugly period that followed. Matt had not been kind to his daughter. He had been hollowed out by guilt and grief. To survive, he had gone deeper into the bottle, shutting her out, unable to face the blame in her eyes, the accusations. They had said things during that time that could never be unspoken. Finally, it had grown to be too much. Broken, beaten, unhealed, they had splintered – falling apart.

John placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder now. His fingers squeezed ever so softly. In that gesture, Matt found a level of peace and acceptance. It was not only death that the Inuit people learned to survive, but grief also. John patted his shoulder and sat back.

Matt stared, unblinking, at the icy glare of morning, more unsure of his heart than he had been in years. It was an uncomfortable feeling, as if something heavy had shifted loose inside him, disturbing his center of balance.

Jenny spoke, checking her heading and speed with a finger. “We should be at the coordinates Craig gave in another half hour.”

Matt kept his gaze fixed forward. “Should we radio the base in advance? Let them know we’re coming?”

She shook her head. “Until we know what’s going on over there, the less forewarning the better. Besides, radio communication is still shoddy.”

En route, they had been receiving bursts of communication across open channels. Word of the explosions at Prudhoe Bay had spread immediately. As Craig had predicted, news agencies were scurrying, and speculation was rampant.

Craig grumpily sat straighter. “If we just drop in, how are we going to explain our sudden appearance at the base? Are we going to storm in as officers of the law? Investigative journalists? Fleeing refugees seeking asylum?”

“Forget about storming in with any authority,” Jenny answered. “I have no jurisdiction up there. I say we explain all we know and warn those in charge. Whoever attacked us might not be far behind.”

Craig studied the empty skies, clearly searching for any signs of pursuers. “Will the base be able to protect us?”

Matt turned to Craig. “You know more about this Omega base than any of us, Mr. Reporter. What sort of Navy contingent is stationed there?”

Craig shook his head. “I wasn’t given any specifics about my destination…just told to pack my bag, then shoved on the first Alaska Airlines flight leaving Seattle.”

Matt frowned. There had to be at least a sub and a crew. Hopefully more personnel were stationed at the research base itself. “Well, whoever’s there,” he decided aloud, “with the storm coming, they’ll have to take us in. After that, we’ll make them listen to us. Whether they believe us or not, that’s a whole other can of worms. After the explosions at Prudhoe, suspicions will be high.”

Jenny nodded. “Okay, we’ll play it that way. At least until we get a better handle on the situation.”

John spoke up from where he was peering out the side window. “I see something off to the north a couple degrees. Red buildings.”

Jenny adjusted course.

“Is it the drift station?” Craig asked.

“I’m not sure,” Jenny said. “Those structures are about six miles from the coordinates you gave me.”

“That’s the data my editor gave me.”

“It’s the currents,” Matt said. “They don’t call it a driftstation for nothing. I’m surprised the station is even thatclose to the coordinates. Craig’s information has to be almost a week old by now.”

Jenny buzzed toward the spread of red buildings.

As they approached, details emerged. There was a wide polynya lake a short distance from the base. Steel bollards had been drilled into the ice surrounding the open water. Submarine docking bollards, Matt realized. Though presently the lake was empty. Beyond the polynya, he counted fifteen red buildings. He recognized them as Jamesway huts from his military days, the cold-weather version of the old Quonset huts. In the middle of the small village, an American flag fluttered atop a tall pole.

“At least it’s a U.S. base,” Craig mumbled as Jenny banked over the site.

“This has to be the place,” Matt muttered.

A few vehicles were lined up on one side. Clear tracks led from the polynya to the cluster of Jamesway huts. But another track led straight out from the base, well trundled and beaten. Where did it lead? Before he could get a good look, Jenny circled around and prepared to land.

Below, a few figures appeared from some of the buildings. All wore parkas and stared skyward. The plane’s engine must have been heard. Visitors were surely rare out here in the remote ZCI zone of the polar ice cap. Matt was relieved to see that the gawkers wore parkas of vibrant colors: greens, blues, yellows, and reds. Such colors were meant to be seen, to help find a mate lost in a storm.

Thankfully there was not a single whiteparka among them.

Jenny set the plane’s skis and dropped the flaps. She began a smooth descent to the tabletop ice field just north of the base. “Everyone buckle in,” she warned.

The Twin Otter fell toward the ice. Matt gripped his seat arms. The plane swooped down, leveled off sharply, then skidded over the ice. The vibration of the skis over the slightly uneven surface rattled every bolt in the plane and the metal fillings in Matt’s back molars.

But once she had touched down, Jenny quickly cut power and raised the flaps to brake. The plane slowed, and the vibration died down to a gentle bumping.

Craig let out a sigh of relief.

“Welcome to the middle of the Arctic Ocean,” Jenny said, and angled the plane around. She taxied back toward the base, now a short distance away.

“The Arctic Ocean,” Craig echoed, eyeing out the windows suspiciously.

Matt could relate to his misgivings. Since three years ago, he distrusted ice. Though the footing under you might look solid, it wasn’t. It was never a constant. It was an illusion of solidness, a false sense of security that betrayed when one least expected. You just had to turn your back for a second…a moment’s distraction…

Matt continued to grip his chair arms as if he were still falling from the skies. He stared out at the world of ice around him. Here was his personal hell – not fiery flames, but endless ice.

“It looks like we’ve stirred up a welcoming party,” Jenny said as she cut her engines and the twin props slowly rotated down.

Matt swung his attention back to the base. A group of six snowmobiles rumbled out toward them. They were manned by men in matching blue parkas. He spotted the Navy insignia.

Base security.

One of the men stood up in his snowmobile and lifted a bullhorn in his hand. “Vacate the aircraft now! Keep your hands empty and in plain sight! Any attempt to leave or any hostile action will be met with deadly force!”

Matt sighed. “The Welcome Wagon sure has gone to hell these days.”

6:34 A.M.

ICE STATION GRENDEL

Amanda stared at the chaos, amazed at the amount of work that had been done in a single night. Not that day or night really had much meaning in the station, especially in the dark ice tunnels of the Crawl Space. In the detached isolation of her silent world, she watched the drama play out.

“Careful with that!” Dr. Henry Ogden barked across the frozen lake. Even from here, Amanda could read his lips and exaggerated expression.

Under his supervision, a pair of graduate students struggled to raise a light pole. It was the fourth to illuminate the cliff face. Nearby, the generator, which was running the lights and other assorted equipment, trembled in bad humor atop its rubber footpads. Power cords and conduits snaked across the ice lake’s surface.

Small red flags marked off sites on the lake. The rocky cliff face itself was no less assaulted. Steel ladders leaned against it. More flags checkered its surface.

Sites of specimens, Amanda imagined. She stared at the sections of the lake cordoned off with string and flags. She knew what specimenslay frozen under those spots. The grendels…as they had come to be called.

News of the discovery had spread quickly. While Amanda was sure Dr. Ogden had not divulged the information himself, such a secret could not be kept long among a group of isolated scientists. Someone had clearly talked.

All around the huge cavern, research students and senior members of the biology staff labored together. But Amanda also spotted several scientists from other disciplines, including her dear friend Dr. Oskar Willig. The Swedish oceanographer was the elder statesman of the entire Omega group. His accomplishments and credentials were numerous and well-known, including the Nobel Prize in 1972. His unruly gray hair was equally as distinguishable, making him easy to spot.

She crossed toward him, stepping around the piles of sample bottles and boxes. At least someone had sanded the floor and strewn a few rubber mats over some of the busier work areas. Dr. Willig knelt on one of these mats, staring down into the ice.

He glanced to her as she walked up. “Amanda.” He grinned and sat back on his heels. “Come to see the mascot of the station, have you?”

She returned his smile. “I caught the creature feature last night.”

He climbed to his feet with an ease that belied his age. He was a wiry, fit seventy-year-old. “It’s a tremendous discovery.”

“The legendary Grendel itself.”

“Ambulocetus natans,”Dr. Willig corrected. “Or if you are to believe our notable colleague from Harvard, Ambulocetus natans arctos.”

She shook her head. Arctic subspecies…it seemed Dr. Ogden was not wasting time staking his claim. “So what do you think about his assertions?”

“Intriguing theory. Polar adaptation of the prehistoric species. But Henry has a long way to go between theory and proof.”