I would like to dedicate this book to my two beautiful sons Theo and Max, who have not only changed my life but are also the inspiration for why I love to create. I would also like to dedicate this book to my amazing wife, who has been nothing short of patient and has been a source of inspiration throughout the entire project. And to my sister Alina, who as a professor of British Literature flat out told me “good luck on this one, it’s not my thing,” but I love her nevertheless.
To Helen Rosburg, who originally gave me the strength and faith to continue writing. To Brad Munson for editing the project, to Grant Grinder for his invaluable assistance and love of the story. To David Kuhn, who I remember telling, “I am clearly not a writer, I just have story to tell,” to which his response was, “then what the hell are you doing writing five hundred pages?” To Shannon Woods for her passion of the story and her professional job in proofreading. To all my friends and family, whether avid readers or not at all, and to the ones who pretended they read the book, I thank them all.
PROLOGUE:
THE ESCAPE
STATION 3-27
Ross Ice Shelf, Antarctica
“That’s insane.”
The violent blizzard was menacing—the most powerful storm Robert Donnelley had experienced in two years stationed in Antarctica. He could hear it screaming outside Station 3-27 as the murderous wind scraped a swarm of ice particles from the surface of the Ross Ice Shelf; less than twenty-two seconds later, the same ice particles pounded the walls of the modular scientific outpost, half-buried in the desolate terrain. According to Donnelley’s readouts, the wind speed exceeded 122 miles per hour.
Inside the tiny domed facility, Donnelley’s hand shook as his fingers tightened on the syringe he was about to plunge into his thigh. Ignore the shaking, he ordered himself as he took a breath and let the needle penetrate his flesh. He tried instead to focus on the label that read “INSULIN…EXP 11/2038.” He knew that this was the last of the med packs, and he knew it didn’t matter anymore. He would have all the insulin he needed soon enough. A two-year supply, he thought. All gone now.
Donnelley pressed the release mechanism on the syringe, and the chemical entered his bloodstream. He sighed as he pulled the syringe free and leaned back in his chair; he looked at the nearly transparent holographic screen perched precariously on a shipping cubicle and watched a dark-skinned man with a wide nose and a grim expression address a huge, colorfully dressed assembly.
“…and for these reasons, the United Nations Special Committee on Antarctica has voted in the majority to extend the terms of the Madrid Protocol for an additional twelve years, through December 31, 2051.”
“That’s what I mean,” his partner said. “Insane.”
The man on the holo-display continued. Donnelley knew it was Mohad Anan, the Secretary General of the UN. Everyone knew that, even in the remote outskirts of Antarctica. “During this extended interdiction,” Anan said, “as in the past, no nation, corporation, or non-governmental entity of any kind shall establish any installation or habitation of any kind; no exploratory or military action will be tolerated, and no development or exploitation of natural resources will be undertaken within the disputed territory as defined in Section I of the Protocol, understood to include the entire continent of Antarctica and the whole of its coastal waters.”
“Jesus.”
The roar of the Assembly broke over Anan, and the world leader pounded his gavel for quiet. Donnelley’s research partner, Brad Parkinson, sandy-haired and sharp-chinned, shook his head in disgust. “Jesus,” he said again. “What are they thinking?”
“They’re thinking if they end the Protocol and let every country on Earth come swarming in here to fight over the natural resources, it’ll cause World War Three,” Donnelley said, sounding weary. “And Four, and possibly Five.”
“That’s bullshit,” Brad said. “I think they’re just choking it off to try and keep the Chinese from taking it all. What do you think?”
“I think…” he glanced at the screen again. Anan was plowing ahead, despite the roar of the crowd and the howl of the wind outside. “Further,” he said, “as stated in Protocol 7 of the Antarctic Treaty, all established facilities now in operation in the disputed territory are to be immediately decommissioned, and all personnel are to be withdrawn to their home countries or declared neutral territory no later than March 31 of this year, 2039. The United Nations Enforcement Division will