Overlord

2

Jo Slater walked along the waterfront of the V&A Marina in Cape Town, questioning pretty much everything in her life. The two and three story blue and white port buildings to her left bustled with people as she threaded through the milling crowds heading onto ships going to exotic locations, or disembarking into Cape Town, eyes wide to capture whatever wonders might come their way. The city billed itself as the “Best Destination in Africa” and even without her foul mood, Slater was pretty sure she would scoff at that claim. Sure, it was nice, but better than Morocco? Or the savannahs of Zimbabwe? Kruger National Park? Victoria Falls? Hardly.

Table Mountain stood tall in the background behind the man-made expanse of Cape Town, and that was most definitely a breathtaking sight. She thought maybe she would rather be there right now. But she had a job to do, and a job was important these days after the debacle of the Lake Kaarme film. Of course there would always be a certain percentage of the population who considered anything a hoax. There was huge movement denying the truth of the moon landings, after all. And an equally large contingent convinced the attack on New York on September 11th, 2001 was the work of the government, or aliens, or the Illuminati. One thing for which humanity could always be relied upon was its consistent percentage of absolute idiots.

But the vitriol she had received for her documentary, the solid mockery from all quarters, had been brutal. And the network had told her, enthusiastically, that a bombshell like that was the perfect note to end the series on. Which was just another way of firing her, none too subtly. So she had been left treading water, unsure where to go with her career, the chances of ever being taken seriously as a genuine journalist more damaged than ever.

Then came Solomon “Call me Sol” Griffin, with his wide smile, sharp suit, and irresistible offers. Come and document this expedition, he had said, and SynGreene would fund a full new season of her show in exchange for those services. Similar format, bigger budget, new channel. It all seemed too good to be true. And if Jo Slater had learned anything in television, it was that too good to be true usually was exactly that.

But what choice did she have? There weren’t any other offers on any tables. She thought it an odd arrangement, with virtually no information given, but Sol promised it would all make sense once she’d signed her NDA and learned the full story. And he had also pointed out that as her reputation was in tatters, no one would take her seriously if she broke those NDAs. That was a backhanded compliment if ever she’d heard one. Regardless, she needed the work.

So here she was in Cape Town, with a new team. Marla Ward, sound engineer, and Jeff Gray, cameraman, trailed along a few steps behind, smart enough to leave her to her thoughts. She’d been prickly with them both, and had apologized for it, but hadn’t been able to shake off the black mood that hung over her. Marla, bless her, had been supportive and was intelligent and fun to have around. Jeff, not so much. As if on cue, the man coughed and laughed. Marla made a sound of disgust. Slater glanced back to see Jeff wiping ice cream from the front of his t-shirt with one palm, the melting cone dripping over the other. His huge backpack of equipment hung off his shoulders, made him stick his rotund gut forward like a ram. His wheeled case stood unattended in the crowd a yard or so from him. There had to be more than five grand’s worth of camera gear in there and he acted like he’d forgotten all about it.

Marla shook her head, moved to stand beside the wheeled hard case while Jeff got himself fixed up. Marla was everything Jeff wasn’t. Slim, short, mousey in appearance. But Slater had quickly learned not to judge this particular book by its cover. She had a firecracker personality when roused, happy to stand up for herself and anything she believed in. Marla was a competent and confident colleague. At least one of them was.

Slater tapped her foot while Jeff finished cleaning up. She missed Dave, who had been lost, like so many others, at Lake Kaarme. Dave, Carly, Aston, all gone. She swallowed the rising lump in her throat and had a moment of realization. It wasn’t just the disruption to her career that was making her melancholy and on edge. It was the start of a new job, so like the last one that had ended in disaster and death. That had begun with a boat, and now she was headed to a ship to meet Sol and the rest of the expedition. To learn exactly what it was she had agreed to. No, she reminded herself. Not agreed to. Only agreed to hear about. She would sign the NDA, find out what the expedition was, and if it all seemed too dangerous or too crazy, she would walk away. The NDAs she, Marla, and Jeff signed would remain in effect. They wouldn’t tell anyone anything. Besides, her reputation was in tatters, as Sol had so kindly pointed out. But they were under no obligation to go along if they didn’t want to.

They moved on again and Slater saw Sol waving from the gangplank of a huge ship. Bright red, with a sharp, high prow, a crane in front of the bridge and a tall scaffold tower of antennas and satellite dishes above the bridge, it was an impressive sight.

“That’s an ice-breaker,” Jeff said, appearing beside her.

“Is that what it is?”

“Yeah. And since we’re meeting here, I bet the expedition is to Antarctica.” He immediately started bouncing in a weak imitation of a hip-hop dance. “Ice, ice baby!”

She rolled her eyes and nodded, figuring he was likely correct. The details of their mysterious invitation had been discussed at length on the flight over from Washington DC. Slater had assumed the expedition would be somewhere in Africa, but if Jeff was right about this vessel being an ice-breaker he was probably right about Antarctica too. Her entire perception of what might lie before them shifted dramatically sideways. She had been picturing heat and wild animals, maybe distant tribes. Now a chill ran down her spine despite the blistering sunshine, the perspiration beaded on her forehead cold, as she imagined nothing but ice and snow in every direction.

Sol walked down the ramp to the cement of the port to greet them, hand outstretched. She shook it, then introduced Jeff and Marla.

“Right on time,” Sol said. “So glad you could make it.”

“Jeff thinks this ship is an ice-breaker,” Slater said.

Sol grinned. “He’s right. There’s some capacity for research, which we’ll use to a certain extent, but mostly it’s to transport us to Alpha Base.”

“So that must be in Antarctica,” Slater said, one eyebrow raised.

Sol’s smile didn’t change. “Come on up and I’ll introduce you to the team. Everyone else is already here.”

He turned and strode up the gangplank. With a sigh, Slater followed. A few people milled around on deck, some of them obviously sailors getting the ship ready to depart. But a couple of others looked like soldiers, paramilitary or perhaps private contractors. They were hard-eyed and calm, but seemed somehow coiled, ready for action. They made her immediately nervous.

Sol led her down steel steps and along a narrow corridor into a large cabin. A bar ran along one side, with portholes above it, coffee and cookies at one end, alcohol and glasses at the other. In the middle of the space stood an oval table with a handful of people seated around it. Other than the door they had entered by, one other door stood closed at the far end of the cabin.

“All right,” Sol said. “Let me introduce the team. I’m the representative for SynGreene, obviously, but in terms of team skills, I’m your doctor. Officially, expedition physician.”

Slater was surprised. The man didn’t have the bearing of a medical professional at all. He was large and muscular, disciplined in bearing. She had thought he was almost certainly ex-military. Perhaps he was an Army doctor. He confused her, but people were endlessly surprising.

Sol indicated a large, heavily muscled, dark-haired man in olive green combats. This one definitely had the presence of a military man. “This is Anders Larsen, our geologist.”

The man stood to shake hands and Slater chided herself again for being wrong. Had she completely lost her ability to recognize people? She doubted it. Perhaps both Sol and Anders Larsen might be a physician and geologist respectively, but she was convinced they were ex-military too. Why did that bother her? Did it matter?

Next was a fit and strong-looking woman, quite beautiful, Slater thought, with dark olive skin and thick black hair in a loose pony-tail. This one, at least, had the look of a scientist and not a soldier, though Slater had the distinct impression the woman would handle herself well in a fight if necessary. She exuded confidence. “This is Jahara Syed, our biologist,” Sol said.

Slater shook the woman’s hand, smiling, glad it wasn’t a testosterone pool of a team. Always better to have more women around.

The last person at the table was a middle-aged man, maybe early forties, with neat brown hair and a chiseled chin. He wore new and expensive-looking clothes, had the air of money about him. Old family money, Slater guessed. He stood as Sol introduced him as Digby O'Donnell, expedition archaeologist.

“Call me Dig,” the man said. “Everyone does. Digby is the name all the oldest males in my family share, and father hates me reducing it to Dig. So of course, that’s exactly what I do.”

“Nice to meet you,” Slater said, suppressing a smile. She felt maybe her people radar was recalibrated now. The man’s accent almost had dollar signs falling off it.

“So there’s obviously a lot of extra muscle around coming along with us,” Sol said. “No doubt you saw some of them on deck, and our expedition head, and provider of all funds of course, is Arthur Greene, head of SynGreene. But he won’t be coming along. We’ll keep in touch with him and keep him informed as we go. But this is the core group of experts.” Sol stopped, frowning. “No, wait a minute, we’re missing one.”

The sound of a flush came from the closed door at the other end of the cabin, then the door opened and Slater’s stomach dropped, her face went cold.

“Here he is!” Sol said. “Of course, you know our diver and demolitions expert, Sam Aston.”

Slater’s jaw dropped, her hands trembled, as Aston approached, a nervous smile painting his face.

“Hi, Jo.”