Hot Zone (4 page)

The Papago and Pima.

The Population of the Ak-Chin community when Jordan was born was barely four hundred, sixty-five percent of which were Pima, but in recent years had reached upward of six hundred with the emergence of young Indians feeling the need to rejuvenate the culture and the lifestyle they were born into.

Jordan, while she was proud of her ancestry, had no such inclination; she had spent all of her life in the desert and a good portion of it digging in its sands. Her life was meant for the field, for archaeology.

Through the group she walked, observing their methods, ensuring everyone took great care in how they handled artifacts and making sure they respected the ground in which they dug. Jordan still had strong ties to her heritage and spent most of her professional life exploring the past of her ancestors. An elder tribesman and friend of her father's had once told her the desert sands were like pages of a book, as each dune moved on in the winds, a new one formed, bringing with it another part of the story. She loved it out here, this was her life; this was where she belonged.

"You have ten minutes then we have to wrap it up everyone. Joseph, why don't you mark the perimeter of the grid for tomorrow, weather permitting."

One of the students rose to his feet and began placing stakes around the sight the students were investigating. Another student stood and turned to Jordan:

"Miss, doesn't anything exciting ever happen in archaeology? I was kinda lookin' for something like Indiana Jones searching for ancient temples, not digging in sand for teeth!"

Jordan shook her head: "Indiana Jones was a terrible archaeologist for a start. A
real
archaeologist wouldn't leave such a path of destruction. The fact is archaeology is not about a chase through the Amazon or climbing up pyramids. It's about the hours spent in the lab, in front of microscopes, sifting through cups of sand, one at a time. And it's not Jurassic Park either. These are movies people, these are not archaeology." Jordan looked at her watch. "Okay, that's a wrap, let's get this packed up and head back to the bus.”

Back at the Albuquerque campus of the University of New Mexico, Jordan sat in her office, which also happened to be the office of her former boss whom she had replaced. Art Montoya had been her mentor for a number of years. When he had retired Jordan had been the obvious choice to take over as the Head of the department.

She had kept his office as he'd left it: cluttered with old Indian artifacts and walls pasted with clippings related to his work. Jordan had kept it this way to pay respect to a man that had gone out of his way to see her succeed, but even more because his eclectic taste matched hers. This had been her office for a little over a year and it had taken that long to feel comfortable sitting
behind
the desk; a desk that had a foot high stack of term papers for her to grade.

"Oh brother." Jordan said ruffling through them when she heard a knock on her door. Before she had a chance to answer, three men in military uniforms came into her office. Two of the men where Military Police,
armed
, she noticed. The third man wore a class A Naval Commanders uniform complete with fruit salad. Jordan saw the name on his ID tag, Stevenson. He held out his hand. "Jordan Pryde. Mark Stevenson, US Navy." They shook hands.

"Ah, hi." Jordan said confused and somewhat awe-struck by his physical presence. He was a large man at six-four, with a barrel chest and cannons for arms. The fact that he was a handsome blond hair blue eyed sailor wasn't lost on Jordan either. "Something I can help you with?"

"Miss Pryde—“

Jordan cut him off: "It's Jordan, please."

"Jordan, I have been sent here to request your services. You were recommended by Dr Art Montoya, I believe you know him."

"Know him, this is his office you're sitting in."

"Twenty four hours ago Dr Montoya and a group of Greenpeace divers found something on the bottom of the South Pacific, Dr Montoya called for you to come out and help with the find immediately. He said you were the best."

A smile washed across Jordan's face. "He did, did he?" She paused. "So what did they discover at the bottom of the ocean, Atlantis or something?"

Stevenson held a straight face and stared at Jordan, the look told her all she needed to know.

"Oh brother. He thinks he's found Atlantis on the bottom of the
Pacific
Ocean."

"Jordan, we're not sure what the dive team has discovered, that's why we need you. You need to come with us immediately. I have a Black Hawk outside waiting to take us to San Diego, from there we'll fly you out to Papeete, Tahiti." Stevenson seemed anxious. "I don't mean to rush you but there is a certain time restriction on this Jordan, we need to go now."

Jordan looked at the two MP's, staring straight ahead, as stiff as boards.
They certainly take their job seriously
, she thought. Then she looked at Stevenson and saw the impatience brimming to the surface. Whatever Montoya had uncovered in the depths of the Pacific had been important enough to involve the Military. It was increasingly obvious this wasn't as much a request as an order; she didn't have a choice. "What about my classes?"

"Taken care of."

"And clothes?"

"I'm sure we can hook you up in San Diego."

Jordan looked around the room, thought back to everything the Doctor had done for her, she had to pay him back somehow. She jumped from her seat.

She was going to Tahiti.

"Let's fly."

3

Bob Dalton walked out of the International Court of Justice with the weight of a nation squarely on his shoulders. At that moment he was a dejected man at breaking point.

He was New Zealand's diplomatic representative in the week's proceedings to approve an injunction that was to block the French testing in the South Pacific. At fifty-two years of age, Bob's hair had whitened and over the last ten years, the crows-feet around his eyes had deepened. Thin, wire-rimmed glasses pinched his nose as the sweat poured off his high forehead.

The personal pressure he felt to have a successful campaign in the court was causing his ulcer to pulsate waves of pain in his abdomen. But that pressure paled in comparison to the pressure his boss, The Prime Minister of New Zealand, was placing on him.

This was the highest profile case Dalton had ever had; not just for New Zealand, but the world. He knew the damage the French testing was doing to the ecosystems of the South Pacific Atolls and it's surrounding ocean inhabitants and he wanted nothing more then to put an end to their arrogant and selfish agenda.

A fifteen year veteran of world diplomacy, Dalton had started his service representing New Zealand in the United Nations in New York, where he spent eleven years debating with other world diplomats over all matters of international importance. His last four years had been spent as Diplomat to the Netherlands; a prestigious position that included all things to do with the International Court of Justice.

This court; located in The Hague, Netherlands, was the principal judicial organ for the United Nations and had been in operation since 1946. Consisting of fifteen elected justices of various nationalities, each holding a nine-year term, the court's primary function was to settle legal disputes between countries in accordance with international law. However, it also provided opinions on legal questions referred to it by international agencies.

On this day Dalton as well as the Deputy Prime Minister of New Zealand was requesting the court review the 1973 submittal by both New Zealand and Australia regarding French testing and to have the original ruling overturned.

The New Zealanders were unhappy with France's actions during the first days of the hearing. They had continued to go about their tests in Mururoa, even with the knowledge New Zealand had been waiting for the court to make a decision. What amazed Dalton was that the whole world was watching the events pan out and yet the French had little interest in being cooperative or diplomatic.

For his part, Dalton had been expecting good news from the Greenpeace faction, knowing that if there was sufficient radiation leakage
they
would find it. News had surfaced that the dive team had disappeared and only one member's body had been accounted for; found on the boat with fatal wounds described as
fatal lacerations from a living creature.

Dick Finn, Australia's diplomat to the Netherlands approached Dalton with a somber look on his face.

"The French are investigating the incident, they intercepted a Mayday call by Montoya and impounded the boat within an hour."

Finn was tall and gangly, his jaw square, his eyes a deep blue, perfectly complementing his ash-blonde hair. At forty, Finn had been in the Netherlands for six months.

He had been a Commanding Officer in the Australian Navy where he served for twenty years before his government called upon him to serve as the Australian Diplomat before the court. The Australian Prime minister had wanted someone in the Netherlands with military experience. Someone knowledgeable in the ways of all things warfare and international law. Finn was expert in both.

"That was our last hope then. We reconvene in two days Dick. With no evidence of radiation leakage above IAEA standards we're done. And so is that entire area."

"Maybe not. Montoya stated that he had
discovered
something in his Mayday call.

He requested another archaeologist head out to investigate. The USS Kitty Hawk was en-route from Sydney to San Diego stopping in off the coast of Tahiti to airlift in a SEAL team who were training. When the Yanks heard the Mayday call they dispatched the SEAL Team to the area. I guess they didn't want the French to find whatever it is first"

"So what do
we
do?"

"We hope the SEALs go in and kick some arse and then we hope the archaeologist, if she makes it out there, finds something we can use to stop the testing."

"They have to be keeping that quiet, the French don't like people stepping on their toes, plus they have the Foreign Legion soldiers out there." Dalton said.

"It's being kept under wraps, I only found out because of my contact in the Navy, he's working on the Kitty Hawk."

"So we wait then?"

"And pray my man, and pray."

4

On Hao Atoll, one-hundred and seventy miles from Mururoa the Greenpeace ship was anchored just offshore, it rocked gently up and down and in the failing light looked eerily like an old ghost ship whose screams from it's victims seemed to carry on the small waves.

The French Foreign Legion's 5th RPM (Regiment Mixte du Pacifique) had impounded the boat and were investigating the incident. They had taken Montoya's body to their morgue.

In charge of carrying out the investigation was a Lieutenant Colonel by the name of Marc Grosjean. Grosjean was a fifteen-year veteran with the Foreign Legion and had spent the last five years stationed on the Atoll.

He had seen many incidents where crazy environmentalists had gotten themselves into trouble on these surrounding waters, but this was the first time he'd ever taken over a boat where the crew had perished and he was shocked when he had found Montoya's ravaged body lying on the bloodied floor of the bridge.

For Grosjean, the scene had brought flashbacks of his first year in the Legion where he had found himself on a special-ops mission. He was a few pounds lighter then, and his hair was yet to gray he recalled as he stood on the deck of the ghost ship.