CROSSFIRE - Atlantis DSV - New Cape Quest

to how this action can contribute in any meaningful way to the recapture of Pearl Harbor. If
you were in my position... what would you do?”
Admiral Ainsley allowed an inward, half-smile. There wasn‟t a day that went by where
Ainsley didn‟t recall vividly the destruction of the Atlantis, and Banick knew it. “You already
know what I‟d do,” Ainsley countered firmly. “I followed my orders, irrespective of the cost.”
“Even though you knew full-well what those orders might mean for your command?”
Ainsley turned, and stared through the dark viewports at the black ocean beyond. All
he saw, though, was his own reflection in the glass. “Twenty four hours,” Ainsley sighed.
“That‟s all I want.”
“And if we haven‟t found anything by then, you‟ll return to the mission?”
Ainsley rounded on the Captain, restraining himself only at the last second as he
raised an accusing finger, and then stopped. “...We haven‟t left the mission,” he said with
acid. “Even I have my orders, Banick. Try not to forget that.”
“We‟re out here chasing rumours and shadows,” Banick snapped back. “You have
absolutely no way of knowing that message you got wasn‟t a trap. For all we know, that‟s
exactly how we lost the Aquarius.”
Ainsley snapped. “I want answers!” he spat, his voice shouting through the darkness
and silence to make the Captain step back. “Aquarius, Atlantis, seaQuest – all of them gone
and not one of them for a single explanation that makes any sense, or has given me a single
reason to sleep better at night. We were used, and now whoever did those things is using us
again. I want them, Banick. And by the time I‟m done, I will have their hide nailed to my wall!”
Ainsley‟s fist slammed in to the desk hard, making the china set on the side rattle
noisily, a teacup sliding off the table and smashing across the floor. Banick‟s eyes glanced at
it for a moment, and then locked back with the Admiral – the man‟s grey eyes cutting a hole
through him with a look he‟d only seen a few, dark times. “Do you really think that now, after
so long, we‟re any closer to knowing the truth than we were when we started?”
“We have to be,” the Admiral rasped - his knuckles cracking as he squeezed his fist
closed. “Get us to Macaw, Captain. Best possible speed.”
~
T H E G I R L A T T H E E N D O F T H E W O R L D : III
One hundred miles off the west coast of Africa, August 9 th , 2030...
Anne Ballard stared at the computer monitor, trying to force her eyes to focus. It had
been three days since she last slept, her mind still a swimming mess of disjointed thoughts,
concepts and realizations that made her ache. The results of the last test were impossible to
read any other way – the last introduction of the catalyst had caused a cascading decay of
neurological functions in 95% of subjects.
...Including Subject One.
It had taken forty six hours of constant genetic chemical analysis to find a solution to
that problem, but the possibility existed that it may well exacerbate the issue. The mapping
of the human genome was well known, but the strain of DNA used in the catalyst was still a
complete mystery. The compartmentalization of the project team meant that not one person
knew everything there was about the engineered properties of the strain, and she was
beginning to doubt if there was anyone who knew anything at all.
The possibility existed in her mind that the strain hadn‟t been engineered at all, but
Thecus van der Weer had since disappeared – taking all of his notes with him. If anyone
knew, it would have been him.
This brought Ballard back to her original hypothesis, and a gamble that would either
advance the project well beyond its expected outcome, or leave everything in ruin. The
decay in the genome brought about by the catalyst‟s introduction was a result of the strain‟s
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