For Becka, the other half of my sky, my angel, my altar.

CHAPTER 01 Memento Mori

Sondra’s gravestone was fittingly plain.  It lay flat upon the earth, surrounded by April grass still matted from months of snow cover.  A simple grey rectangle, as though reflecting the overcast sky.  Simple black etching, freshly carved only yesterday.  A crucifix on top, then “SONDRA SAMPSON” in block letters, then “U.S. Army.”  At the bottom, where the dates should have been, there was only a star.  She’d never told me when she was born.  She’d never even told me her real name.

Two men had come this morning to lay the stone.  They said nothing to me as I pointed out the correct spot, next to my brother’s grave, two down from my mother and father’s.  The earth above my father’s grave was still freshly mounded––he’d been laid to rest only weeks before.

The men didn’t ask why the ground was undisturbed over Sondra’s grave.  They didn’t ask who she was or what she meant to me.  They didn’t ask about her service.  They didn’t even ask about the star.  Just another job to them.  Life goes on.

I’d met Sondra eighteen months before, on my first mission in clandestine ops.  “Greener than broccoli” she called me, and she was right.  I was nervous, exhilarated, and in way over my head, but she’d had my six and I’d had hers.

Memories flooded back to me.  Our first introduction on a jet flight to Ramstein, and the camo attire that disguised her bodybuilder’s physique.  The way she turned heads walking past tables in a black dress.  Watching her dispatch an opposing agent, twice her size, with a phenomenal display of martial arts.  Barely escaping with our lives across the Czechian border.

And then her final fight, only a week ago, forever etched in my mind.

Would there be a star on the wall for her at Langley?  I wondered about the protocols for that.  Did it matter whether her final mission had been sanctioned?  Did it matter whether her existence had been disavowed?  Did it matter whose side she was on in the end?

I thought about how important family had been to Sondra.  Would her family ever know what happened to her?  I imagined two suits showing up on a doorstep with dour expressions, somber tones, and maybe a flag.  They would explain her heroism and honor in vague terms and thank her family for her patriotism and sacrifice.

But which family?  There was Sondra’s original family––the one that had thrown her out on the streets at thirteen.  There was her aunt who took her in for years afterward.  There was the Army, where she finally found herself despite never really being accepted.  And of course, there was her secret family.

Without a doubt, the analysts in Langley’s dark recesses would discuss her for some time.  They would dissect her strategy and actions, study her motivations, and assess her merits and faults.  They would salivate at the chance to assign blame while assembling a good cover story.  The truth, as always, would be sculpted from the clay of internal politics.

Sondra would have a star here, always, whether or not anyone at CIA approved.  But I hoped they would agree with me.  I imagined them speaking about her in hushed and reverent tones.  An example of American justice, vigilance, and self-sacrifice.  A defender of our rights and freedoms.  A hero who fought against terrorism and tyranny, and ultimately laid down her life in the line of duty.

But that’s not how she died.  That’s not what happened at all.

CHAPTER 02 Big Red

Three weeks earlier…

The Lockheed LC-30 Hercules shuddered from the buffeting crosswinds as we descended toward Ross Island.  It had several porthole windows on each side of the passenger area, but they were all shut on the sunward side behind me.  On the other side, natural light poured in, pure albedo white, reflected from the ice shelf below.  Since our morning takeoff from New Zealand, no one had tried to talk over the pervasive, dull roar of the engines.  Those without noise-canceling headphones wore earplugs.

We sat along the sides on long bench seats, our luggage and supply boxes between us, orange safety netting behind.  My steamer trunk contained changes of clothing, a laptop, and a box of instruments used for repair and replacement of solar filters for large telescopes.  I was a visiting NASA scientist, or at least that was my cover story.  The trunk’s false bottom concealed my Glock-19 and several spare clips, a small assortment of spy tech, and my redpack––the personalized intelligence briefing about my true mission.

Most of the bench seats were empty, but I was assured they’d be full on the return flight.  McMurdo Base, the largest American encampment in Antarctica, was in the middle of its March scale down, dropping from its normal summer crew of 1,200 down to about 250 for the winter months.  I was flying in with a small tech crew who had no reactions whatsoever to the turbulence that shook the plane constantly.  Not one flinch from anyone, nor any reaction to the announcement “Erebus or Bust” when we’d reached the point where there wasn’t enough fuel to turn back to Christchurch, no matter what storms lay ahead.  Seasoned veterans.  They didn’t seem to notice, or care, that I was sitting on my hands nervously, trying not to rock in my seat or do any other stimming, self-comforting behavior.

When the plane’s large skis finally skidded to a stop along the runway, a sheet of ten-foot-thick sea ice, I felt like I could breathe again.  I peeked out a porthole window and saw Mt. Erebus rising 12,000 feet in the distance, glowing eerily with a sliver of sun peeking out from behind.  The sun had been making lazy circles along the horizon, once around each day, for the past month.  In another two weeks it would set completely, beginning the six-month-long south polar night.

“Hey!  Time to gear up, pal.  Get your Big Red on.”  I pulled off my headphones and nodded back at the techie standing before me.  He was wearing just as many layers, right down to the same NSF-standard thermal underwear and inflatable boots, required of all visitors.  He threw on a large, red, goose down parka, “Big Red.”  It came with an NSF patch on the sleeve, a heavy zipper, a hood, and thick gloves.  Most of the crew donned additional winter hats under their hoods, and I did the same.

The hatch opened and the crew shuffled toward the exit.  None of them carried more than a heavy duffel bag, and I trailed behind them dragging my trunk.  I was last out of the plane.  The pilot stood by the deplaning stairs, greeting the incomers, tufts of graying hair peeking out over his forehead.  He stood leaning slightly against a fierce wind, and took one look at me before springing up the stairs.  He grabbed my parka zipper and pulled it all the way up to my collar.

“New here, eh?” he said.  “No fashion statements, young man.  Let me help you with that.”  He grabbed one handle of my trunk and I took the other.

“Thanks,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the howl of the wind.  “Yeah, it’s my first time.”  I leaned into the harsh wind to keep my balance, but turned my head away from its icy sting.  Today’s forecast for McMurdo was a high of 5˚F, with a moderate gale dropping wind chills down to -35˚F.

“Welcome to Antarctica!  What brings you all the way down here?”

“NASA.  Astrophysics.  Taking solar filters off some telescopes.  Installing a few driver upgrades.  Sun’s going down soon.”

“Yep, sure is.  Summer’s almost over,” he laughed.  “Heh…shoulda pegged you for a ‘beaker.’  You’re just stopping here for a bit until you chopper out to the pole, then.  You staying there long?”

“That’s not the plan.”

He just nodded and let it go at that.  I looked down as we started forward, expecting to have difficult footing on pure ice, but our boots gave good traction.  The ice appeared striated and compacted, and though it had no give, it wasn’t slippery at all.  It was too thick to make the hollow drumhead sound of winter lake ice.  It crunched and squeaked beneath our feet much like sidewalk ice back home, only louder, enough to be heard over the wind.

We trudged toward a forty-foot-long shuttle with giant snow tires and the words “Ivan the Terra Bus” painted on its side.  Ivan belched clouds of diesel exhaust and smelled like a highway truck stop.  The pilot helped me load my trunk and slapped it a few times before turning back toward his plane, hustling to get there before the refueling truck.

Ivan soon had us rumbling toward McMurdo Base, or “MacTown” as the driver called it.  Everyone took the opportunity to lower their hoods again.  The wind blew slivers and pellets of ice which plinked against the window as I stared out at vast tundra.  White upon white as far as the eye could see.  Beautiful, unsullied, and unwelcoming to life.

Before long, the over one hundred buildings of McMurdo base loomed ahead, situated at the bottom and part of the way up a steep and barren hill.  A white geodesic dome atop the hill housed the base’s communications antennae and satellite uplink equipment.  It looked down upon rows of well-organized buildings and countless arrangements of storage containers and heavy moving equipment.  American-made flatbed trucks and jeeps with oversized tires lumbered slowly along the rocky dirt roads between them.  Every technician and driver in sight was decked out in the same thick survival wear.

The crew disembarked at the station, but I remained in my seat.  I knew I’d be met by an official, and the fewer prying ears around, the less I had to worry about my cover story holding up.  I zipped my parka back up and the driver helped me drag my trunk off the back of the bus.  As he closed Ivan back up, another uniformed man marched briskly toward us.

“Deputy Marshall Pete Johnson,” he said, extending a gloved hand.  “Are you Thomas Vale?”

“Just Thom, please.”

“Thom.  Welcome to McMurdo.  I think it best we save the conversation for the Director’s Office.  Leave your gear.  I’ll have some GA’s bring it up to your quarters.”

I nodded and followed him.  He led us past several buildings and up a long flight of stairs.  The buildings mostly had simple designs, predominately large rectangular boxes with peaked, sloped roofs.  They had vertically-arranged metal siding on the outside and heavy insulation within, as though functionality and speed of assembly had been key factors in their design.  Some of the buildings had small additions, similar to mudrooms, serving as airlocks against the cold.

The warmth of the main building felt like a hug as we entered it.  I excused myself to a restroom.  I desperately needed a break from the stimulation.  As a high-masking autistic man, I was accustomed to wearing noise-canceling headphones, and they had certainly helped on the plane.  But the bright light of the sun on the snow, the temperature extremes, and coarseness of some of my clothes were overloading my senses.

I rolled my neck and shoulders to try to alleviate tension.  I closed my eyes and took deep breaths.  The bathroom mirror showed my face slightly reddened from exposure, and warm water pouring over my hands took away their chill.  I looked at myself in the mirror for a minute after drying my hands.  What had I gotten myself into this time?

The marshal was waiting outside the lavatory.  His posture was tense and his eyes were alert.  He seemed intent on keeping me isolated from the ordinary McMurdo staff, at least for now.  He led me to the Office of the Area Director, Dr. Jane Mabry, who welcomed us warmly and offered us coffee.  Her blue eyes twinkled with a serene light that matched her smile.  But as the door closed behind me, the twinkle disappeared, and she sat back in her chair with a businesslike demeanor.  She rolled up the sleeves of her thick, cotton work shirt, revealing calloused and weathered hands.  The marshal remained standing, rigidly.

“This is a rather unexpected visit,” she began.  “Forgive me if I’m unprepared, but I was only informed yesterday that you were on the way.  And it’s not every day we get a visit from…the CIA, is it?”

“Homeland Security,” I said.

“Bit far from your homeland, I think.”

“Yes, ma’am.  I can…”

“Doctor,” she corrected.

“Yes, Doctor.  I can assure you I wouldn’t have come all this way without a serious security concern.”

She leaned forward in her chair, and the marshal shifted uneasily.  “We don’t have crime down here,” she said, and paused expectantly, awaiting my reaction.  I gave her none, and she continued.  “At least, what little there is…we deal with it ourselves.  People don’t bring much worth stealing.  Everyone here is simply committed to the pure pursuit of science.  We don’t have police at McMurdo.  We don’t even have a military presence beyond the Navy helping us with transport, and of course Marshal Johnson here.  We don’t need it.  This just isn’t the kind of place where we have…security concerns.”

“Oh, I’d love to agree with you,” I said.  “I hope you’re right.  I’m a fellow scientist, you know.  Applied mathematics.  I wish it was true that every scientist was as noble as his pursuits.”

“Well, I don’t know what experiences you’ve had in the past, Mr. Vale…”

“Doctor,” I corrected.  “But please, just call me Thom.”

Dr. Mabry pressed her lips together flatly and glared at me.  “What concerns me, Thom, is your presence having a toxic effect on our work environment.  Or worse, the good reputation of this community and its civilians being sullied by baseless accusations!”

“Why would I want to do that?” I asked.

For a moment, Dr. Mabry looked ready to spring from her chair and launch into a tirade in defense of her staff.  My mission briefing had included a file on her, and unsurprisingly, she’d had few encounters with government officers except those from NSF, NIH, or other science-oriented agencies.  Her anxiety was understandable.  She instead sank back in her chair and calmed herself in response to my appeal to reason.

“I understand your concerns,” I said.  “That’s probably why they sent me.  I’m discreet. I’m here to conduct a quiet investigation, and then leave and report.  Preferably without anyone noticing.”

“And what, pray tell, are you investigating?

“Cyber espionage.”

Her impassive face did little to hide her surprise.  A slight raising of her eyebrows, and widening of the pupils.  Blush response is one of the easier microexpressions to detect.  I’d acquired many skills back at The Farm, nearly ten years ago, when I was still a clandestine ops recruit.  This particular skill gave me a solid read on her.  A surprise response in the absence of a fear indicator––she genuinely had no idea what I was talking about.

I turned quickly toward the marshal, who diverted his eyes.  He looked down and to the right, and there was a faint spasming in his neck.  Subvocalization.  For most people, the mental act of “talking to oneself” is often accompanied by involuntary neck twitches.  He also didn’t know anything about any cybercrime, but he was thinking about it. 

“It has to do with one of the engineering projects,” I continued.  “You currently have a team working with autonomous vehicles––the ‘LAINEE Project,’ correct?”

Dr. Mabry nodded silently.  I was referring to the Large-scale Artificial Intelligence Navigation in Extreme Environments initiative, currently being tested in Antarctica.  The idea was to create a coordinated team of AI robots capable of surveying difficult environments.  NASA would send them to the moon or Mars, and biologists studying extremophiles could send them into volcanoes or the ocean floor, et cetera.  And undoubtedly the Department of Defense, footing most of the bill, had plans for them in the rockier regions of Central Asia.  For now, they were still in the prototype-testing phase.

“A lot of that crew flew out last week,” the marshal said.  “Loaded them up myself.  A few are staying on another month.  I could scare up a list for you.”

“That might be helpful,” I said.  “But there’s a good chance it’s your satellite communications and IT that I need to check out.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because it’s not the robots themselves we’re concerned about.  We know most of them are already back in Christchurch, to be shipped back to the States.  It’s the algorithms that coordinate those robots that concern me.  They’re highly classified, above Top Secret.  And pieces of their code have been showing up recently on black market sites on the dark web.”

“Well that’s…that’s just…”

Dr. Mabry and the marshal exchanged looks that were somewhere between disbelief and defensiveness.  Mabry turned for a moment to sift through a stapled packet of papers on her desk, and then leaned toward her office wall and glanced at a duty list that was thumbtacked to a corkboard.  The corners of her eyes drooped.

“Let me repeat something,” I said.  “I’m not accusing anyone of anything.  We don’t know how this is happening.  That’s why I’m here.”

“How do you know the code was stolen from here?” she asked.  “Aren’t most robotics programs pieced together out of shareware?  Don’t they use the same basic coding in a lot of different programs?”

“Yes, actually.  The AI in each robot is largely the same.  And the algorithm that links them all together, and coordinates them, and optimizes their combined efforts…we use it for all kinds of projects.”

“Then it could have been stolen from somewhere else.”

“No.  Because we built in a pigeon trap.”  The marshal had an instant look of understanding, but I could tell the director needed an explanation.  “It’s an old spy trick, for detecting a mole.  You know, someone who’s leaking information.  You give the same document to several people, identical except for a few stray punctuation marks, or extra spaces.  Things no one would notice.  They’re all secretly given a slightly different document, so if it shows up later in the hands of someone who shouldn’t have it, then you know who leaked it.”

“I see,” she said.  “Their codes have extra characters that don’t affect how they run.”

“Like fingerprints,” the marshal added.  “You think you caught someone red-handed?”

“Not quite,” I said.  “We know the leak is from here.  We just don’t know who’s doing it, or how…yet.”

Drawing Dead is expected to release on 2/2/27. Please stay tuned….