Novo Cetus

Chapter 17

James Tillman, dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and lightweight khaki pants, carefully prepared a tincture at his laboratory. The state of the art facility was located on the summit of the Aconcagua Mountain in Argentina. His staff consisted of graduate and undergraduate students interning at the research center. This project focused on hydroponics and cold climate plant growth. The team had several "hot houses" at different climate levels throughout the Argentinean Andes. Not one was a classic hot house with tropical temperatures. The temperatures ranged from, at their warmest, chilly to, at the coldest, just under freezing.

James had called the summit lab home for the past two years. The giant rock of a mountain range was not picturesque in a traditional sense; stark and scrappy for miles with dirty hardscrabble snow surrounding bare patches. However, over time, he'd learned to appreciate the barren beauty that kept him alive. His health tolerated this climate so he didn't venture far. He insisted his team use the Koppen climate classification system – a system that calculates temperature with precise accuracy with just pen and paper. Global climate change caused temperature fluctuation of several degrees even at this altitude. Using the Koppen system allowed him to anticipate temperature change and bivouac to colder areas when needed.

Today's group consisted of second year undergraduates here for their study-abroad semester. This program was one of the more affordable foreign internship programs offered since there was little opportunity to spend additional money during their stay at the summit.

James coached them through the preparation of the fertilizer solution used in the hot houses.

"Students," James said while he worked on his blend, "You should not mix up too big of a batch. A slip up in calculations and you've got a pretty powerful bomb." The kid to his left, mixing the solution, hesitated a moment. "And the Sherpa fire and bomb squad is a three day trek away – by camel. That being said, this solution needs to be mixed and applied on site, at each hot house."

The young student next to him finished his mixture. "How do we know it's right?" he asked. James stuck his finger in the solution and then tasted it. "Ahh, that's some spicy fertilizer, kid – a little heavy on the nitrogen, but perfectly acceptable."

The student looked horrified; another student piped in, "Hey James, is sipping that shit what makes you impervious to the cold? If so, give me some on chips, cuz it's pretty damn cold in here!" They all laughed. Everyone liked this program, and they especially liked the very mysterious lead researcher Dr. James Tillman. If you googled him, nothing popped. Physically, he looked like an underfed vampire and was prone to sweat when temperatures reached above thirty-five degrees. Each night he served very smooth, very cold Argentinian Vodka while he really listened to the students as they talked and planned their futures.

James laughed with them, ignored the reference to his penchant for cold weather, and passed around the vial of the fertilizer he'd made. "Everyone dip your finger in the solution and have a taste. That is what it should taste like when prepared correctly. A little more or less acidy is fine."

He looked at this team of young, geeky kids. "How many of you did any physical training to prepare to come here?" A few raised their hands; one guy flexed his muscles. "When traveling between hot houses, you have to pack light," he reminded them.

Dillon, a graduate student in the middle of a yearlong appointment with James, added, "The trip between each hot house is not a hike; it's a trek. Don't be fooled by the cerebral work you're doing here. This can be physically grueling. Hopefully, you are all prepared for that particular part of our program."

Before anyone could respond, a young student burst into the laboratory. "James, you know that chopper that just came in? Well, it's not supplies – it's military and there's a butt-ugly guy looking for you." There were moans and groans regarding the lack of supplies. No one noticed the concern on James' face. Someone looking for me? he thought. That's odd because no one should be able to find me.

The helicopter pilot recognized the man walking toward the chopper. It was not often he dropped someone off on the frozen tundra in his short sleeves. This mission was similar to when he left this guy: pick up, drop off, and it never happened. The pilot turned to the military thug in the back and said, "Hey, we had this target before, remember?"

"I don't remember anything asshole," snarled the goon sent to escort the target.

James walked out of the lab. Immediately, he recognized the man coming at him as the guard that got him up here. Without missing a beat, he turned and started back to the lab. There is a panic room there, he thought. If I can get there and . . . Suddenly a sharp pain smacked his butt. He looked and the last thing he saw before he passed out was a dart dangling from his backside.

When he regained consciousness, James found himself in a heap at the back of the helicopter; handcuffed to a long bench. He rolled to a sitting position and looked around. An imposing six-foot frame, topped off with the ugliest face James had ever seen, sat guard over him. A buzz-cut, square head showcased a bulging forehead that capped bleached-blue eyes and a pendulous nose.

James rubbed his bum. "I figured if I ever saw you again, you'd be a pain in my ass," he said, "however, I wasn't aware it would be so literal."

The goon flipped him off and tossed a package into James' lap. "This is from Hank," he said. "He told me to tell you to trust him and use it." The brute settled back and stared at James.

Trusting Hank Hardin was the last thing James would ever do. He tore open the package and found an inhaler and thermometer. Scrawled across the inhaler were the words "VIRAL BUSTER – BREATHE DEEPLY."

James knew what the thermometer was for. He looked and the temperature was rising.

"Tell the pilot to turn off the heat!" barked James.

"Piss off!" replied the soldier.

James panicked. He looked down at the thermometer in one hand, noting it had inched up one degree, and the inhaler in his other. Pick your poison, he thought. He put the inhaler in his mouth, pressed the button and inhaled deeply.

Bitter bile rose and gathered in the back of his throat. James choked it back. He waited a few moments; for what, he didn't know. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. He checked the temperature on his thermometer – fifty-two degrees. He should have been sweating and shaking by now. He hadn't exposed himself to this type of heat in two years. Through trial and error at the summit he'd discovered that he functioned normally with the thin atmosphere of the Andes and a temperature of no more than forty-eight degrees. Anything else and symptoms would quickly reappear.

"Pilot!" shouted James. "Where are we headed?" He decided to ignore the goon. And, it seemed, the goon had decided to ignore him.

"Ultimately, Colorado; two stops in between to refuel. You are not authorized to leave the chopper," replied the pilot.

"What if I have to go to the bathroom," James asked.

The pilot nodded to a bucket. "There's the head, sir," He replied.

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