Yeti Unleashed Page 7
“Thank you, Henry,” Harry said. “Sounds interesting.” He nodded to the white-haired man next to Billis. “And you, Felix?”
“Yes,” the man said. “I am Felix Chekhov. My team is working with a retrovirus that was thought to be dormant in chimpanzees. A dormant gene is one that is present but inactive. An example of this would be when a baby is conceived by a blue eyed and brown eyed parent. The child will have brown eyes. This is because the brown eyed gene is dominant and the blue eyed gene will lay dormant. We are hoping to develop a technique to change a single letter of DNA in chimp red blood cells, triggering them to produce more oxygen-carrying hemoglobin. The technique could lead to new treatments for sickle cell anemia and other life-threatening blood disorders. And the best part is, it would do so by activating a naturally occurring gene that’s normally dormant after birth.”
“Well, Felix, that certainly sounds like it has far-reaching implications. Next, please.”
A man in a starched lab coat talked about his work to isolate a bacteria known to be carried by chimps but deadly in humans. Chimpanzees from African sanctuaries carry drug-resistant, human-associated strains of the bacteria Staphlyococcus aureus, a pathogen that the infected chimpanzees could spread to endangered wild ape populations if they were reintroduced to their natural habitat. “Drug-resistant strains of S. aureus are a major cause of deaths worldwide,” he said.
Millie and Jimmy both related their work on the Yeti genome. Millie described how, two months earlier, they had successfully sequenced the entire genome using Sasha’s blood. Now they were beginning the arduous task of comparing the genome to the human genome.
This was the information Harry sought. He pressed her with questions. “According to papers in Dr. Kesler’s possession, he thought the Yeti genome differed from the human by a mere thirty-five substitutions. Is this correct?”
“Well, Dr. Olson,” Millie said, “those numbers were based on an initial computer run and so are preliminary in nature.”
“They aren’t considered hard data?” Harry said.
“Preliminary, like I said,” Millie responded. “Much more work must be done to confirm and validate those initial results. For all we know, Dr. Olson, the Yeti might only be a far, far, distant relative to modern humans.”
“Or it could turn out to be a very close cousin, right?” Radner said, as though he was leading a witness in a courtroom drama.
“Miles, you know we can’t speculate on what the data will show.” Harry smiled and leaned back in his chair, providing more space between him and the facility director. “We’ll just let the results take us wherever it will.”
“Of course,” Radner said. “Just having a little fun.”
Later, after the meeting was over, Harry and Dixie showered and changed then went to the dining hall were the promised reception was in full swing. On the way Dixie was more than animated.
“‘Just having a little fun,’ he said. Can you believe it, Harry? The man is a demeaning creep. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again--I don’t see what Professor saw in the man when he hired him.”
“Yes, honey, I’m sure you’re right. But let’s forget it now and just enjoy ourselves. These folks have put on this reception just for us.”
Dixie smiled and took her husband’s arm as they entered the dining hall.
Chapter 7
Deep in the remote jungles of Peru, Rupert Lowell was up to his waist in an unnamed muddy river. He fought against the current as he struggled for the shore that seemed to get farther away with each passing minute. His legs felt as if they were shod with lead boots, making it near impossible for Lowell to put one foot in front of the other. The strong current pushed him farther away from the safety of the shoreline where his porters watched with frightened looks.
As he continued to struggle against the push of water, Lowell wondered what on earth had possessed him to come to this mountainous jungle. The hope of gold was one thing, but his quest for notoriety was quite another. For him, the remote possibility of locating the lost Inca city of Paititi had been the overwhelming consuming motivation in mounting the small expedition. Weeks earlier, he left Cusco with an ancient map and searched valley after valley for the lost city. Legend had it that Paititi was where the last of the Inca hid their vast treasure of gold and jewels before finally succumbing to the Spanish invaders.
But he was beginning to think the city was nothing more than legend, spawned by tales told down through generations. Nothing more than myth, a gossamer story of fabulous wealth. He was tired, tired down to his soul, and needed rest. During his searching, he fell ill with a shaking fever, endured serious cuts and bruises, and had to be treated for an insidious fungal skin infection. He was ready to return to the States.
Amidst much hollering and jeering, one of his porters threw him a rope but it fell short, swept away by the swift water. The porter retrieved the line while Rupert continued to battle the current, struggling to remain upright and not be hurtled downstream. After agonizing minutes, the porter threw him the rope again. This time he grabbed it, tied it around his waist. Using tremendous effort, they pulled him through the current to the shore and safety, where he collapsed at water’s edge, his lungs heaving and burning. He rolled onto his back, allowing his pulse to slow, and stared up at a cloudless, azure sky while his porters gathered around him, jabbering wildly in Spanish and Quechua.
Nash Yarak, Lowell’s assistant and expedition leader, helped him to a sitting position, handed him a water bottle. Lowell took a gulp and spat it onto the sand then took another longer drink. His assistant offered him a blanket that he waved away.
“Damn, boss,” Yarak said, “you almost didn’t make it. And you look all in.”
“I was about done for, Nash. Another few minutes, and I would have been washed downriver and drowned, in all likelihood. Piranha bait. Thank god there were none of those infernal caiman around. Thanks for getting that rope to me. The men hauled me in just in time, I’m afraid.”
Lowell struggled to his feet and stumbled to the nearest burro. Yarak helped him aboard the animal, and the porters pushed along a dense jungle trail to their campsite. The hot sun dried Lowell’s clothes and, soon, he was perspiring freely. After collapsing in a canvas chair, he ate and refreshed himself and watched the sun sink behind a wooded ridge of the Andes. The sky was suffused with orange and magenta hues that, in time, faded to a deep purple. As the afternoon heat dissipated and the temperature began to drop, Lowell called Yarak to sit beside him.
“Nash, we’re done here. We were nearing the end, anyway, so let’s call it finished. We’ve been unable to locate anything that remotely might lead us to Paititi, and I’m beginning to think it’s all a fable. So, it’s back to the States for us. I miss LA.”
“All right, Mr. Lowell, I’ll tell the porters, and we can get an early start in the morning. Try and get a good rest tonight.”
“I need a hot shower and a cold beer, my friend.”
Yarak smiled. “I thought you loved these excursions, Mr. Lowell. Getting old?”
“Sometimes I wonder. No, this wretched heat and humidity saps my strength and reserve. Our next field expedition will be in more tolerable climate.”
“Well, goodnight, sir,” Yarak said and stood. “I need to check on the porters before hitting the sack.”
Rupert Lowell sat and watched the purple sky turn black then stumbled into his tent and into a deep sleep.
***
From his office on Empire Avenue in Burbank, California, Rupert Lowell gazed out at the verdant Verdugo Mountains to the east and watched a bird soar in the warm air thermals moving up the slopes. In the month since returning from Peru, he had gained ten pounds, bought two companies, sold one, and added another 250,000 dollars to his millions. Life had been good since returning home.
Lowell’s passion was making money, and the more money he made, the happier he was, for he enjoyed the finer things that money brought him--Italian silk suits, handmade tie
s, a luxury townhouse in Town Center Burbank, an Astin Martin D89 Coupe, and a Gulfstream G550 corporate jet with his own flight crew. Never married, Lowell preferred to play the field with what he called serial monogamy. He would date a woman for a few months then move on to another. It was a habit with him.
Rupert Lowell was a short man. His need to win, at all costs, was a character flaw he learned from a psychiatrist when he underwent analysis during his thirty-fifth year. Early in his life, he realized he fumbled at sports, so he turned his interests and energies toward other endeavors. He had dreams of becoming an NBA star but his lack of height buried that dream. After college, he found he had a knack for making money, that it came easy for him. His niche was electronics--buying companies that made computer, aviation, and military components. Over the years, his fortunes grew, first doubling, then tripling, then quadrupling, until his personal fortune ranked him as one of the richest men in America. He was on the cover of Forbes and Time, interviewed on the major networks, counseled presidents. He traveled the world, ingratiating himself with the rich and powerful movers and shakers in business and politics.
His physical stature no longer mattered to him, was no longer an issue in his business dealings. Rupert Lowell was a big man.
He possessed a pale and watery skin whose veins were visible as thin blue lines. His thin face sported numerous scars from a bad case of youthful acne, which he tried to hide with a close-cropped beard of salt and pepper gray.
A certain penchant took root in Lowell’s soul since making it big, one that nearly got him killed in Peru. He was fascinated with lost, hidden treasures, and he searched ancient books and manuscripts for possible places to mount an expedition. His latest search for the Inca city of Paititi was an example of his passion. Lowell journeyed to the Amazon, searched for the Lost Dutchman Mine in the Arizona Superstition Mountains, and dove off the coast of Barbados looking for a lost Spanish galleon. His wealth allowed him to travel the world to indulge his passion, and now he turned his attention to gold in Nevada.
Impatiently, he waited for Nash Yarak to arrive for their meeting. Lowell was eager to discuss his latest idea for their next venture together. He valued the man’s opinion, for they had been through many adventures, and Yarak always had his back.
Like recently in Peru.
Lowell smiled, thinking of how the two men came to be friends. Yarak was a Russian naval officer, a Russian Marine commando, the equivalent of the US Navy SEALs and Israel’s Shayetet 13. He was injured in Russia’s invasion of Chechnya in the late 1990s when a land mine exploded, sending shrapnel into his back. After a long convalescence, Yarak retired from the military and immigrated to the States, where he found work as a bodyguard to a popular rock singer. He married the daughter of the singer’s manager and they settled in North Hollywood. Unfortunately, his wife died in a tragic car accident on Interstate 495 near Santa Monica. Devastated by her death, Yarak just drifted, taking one odd job after another, eventually flipping burgers at a Carl’s Jr in Burbank.
One day Lowell ordered lunch to be delivered from Carl’s Jr, and Yarak delivered the burgers to the office. Lowell struck up a conversation with Yarak and discovered he was an ex-Russian Naval commando. Surprised and interested that the man worked at a hamburger joint, Lowell invited Yarak to his townhouse in Town Center. The man’s easy-going, confident manner, a quiet calm that said don’t mess with me, intrigued him. Lowell offered the man a job and, at first, Yarak worked on small projects, ran errands, chauffeured him to various meetings. With time, Lowell came to trust Yarak and his responsibilities increased, until his present position was one of friend and confidant.
There was a soft knock on the door.
“Come in, Nash,” Lowell said, “and please, take a seat. I’ve got something to show you.”
Yarak slouched his taut frame into a leather chair next to Lowell’s hand-carved teak desk and smiled.
“May I?” he said, removing a pack of cigarettes from a shirt pocket.
“Of course,” Lowell said and handed him a crystal ashtray.
Yarak lit his cigarette, inhaled, then blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “So, what’s up?”
Lowell had a map of the state of Nevada spread on his desk, the part that included a topographic region of the northern portion of the state. He stood over it and pointed. “I’ve been reading about the Lost Coyote Creek Mine, Nash. Ever heard of it? No? It was a mine in northern Nevada that legend says is worth billions in gold. If it could ever be ever found.”
Yarak rose from his chair, stood alongside his boss, and stared at the map.
“Legend has it that it is somewhere around here,” Lowell continued, pointing with a long finger, “in Mule Valley near the Taber River. Over the years, a number of prospectors have tried to locate the mine but without success.”
“No one knows its exact location?” Yarak said. He snuffed his cigarette in the crystal ashtray.
“Its general location is known but this area is a remote, desolate high-desert mountainous region. Getting lost here is easy without the proper navigation aids.”
“You are interested in finding this mine?” Yarak asked, lighting another cigarette.
“Possibly, and here’s why. According to various sources unearthed down through the years, prospectors had been in this vicinity since the late 1870s, although little gold was ever found in those early years. Then in about 1890, a prospector known as Sims made a trip into the area. He intended to prospect until winter set in and then return to more civilized climates, but in late summer, he stumbled upon some very rich gold deposits. He was still trying to locate its source when the first snow of the season began to fall, so he hurriedly stuck his pick and shovel in the ground to mark the spot.
“For some reason, which has never been determined, Sims told a man about the deposit he had been tracing all summer. He described the terrain and landmarks and even told him of the pick and shovel in the ground marking the highest reach that he had traced the ore. He also said that the man should consider the gold his if anything should happen to Sims and he did not return within the year.
“The following spring, when the snow melted off the mountain meadows, the man returned and, as rapidly as possible, he started hunting for the landmarks which would lead him to the gold. He eventually found the pick and shovel stuck in the ground, and nearby he found a human skeleton. He could never establish whether the bones were that of Sims.
“He wandered in the desert for several days with only a few provisions until he finally found a spring. Resting there, he found gold in a rich deposit of quartz and built a crude mine, vowing to return if he could ever find his way out of the desert. Heading south with a pack loaded with ore, he eventually came upon wagon tracks that he followed into Nevada’s eastern Mohave Desert where Indians found him. Taking him captive, they worked him as a slave for months. Finally a Mormon wagon train came upon the Indian village and freed him with a ransom, taking him to a ranch. He was cared for by the rancher’s elderly mother but, unfortunately, he died before revealing the location of his mine.”
“Quite a lost treasure,” Yarak said.
“Yes, it is. Now, for the current story. In 1961, a map surfaced, claiming to point the way to the Lost Coyote Creek Mine. Sadly, the man who owned the map was murdered and the map was lost. That is, lost until this year when I bought it.
Yarak inhaled deeply on his cigarette and smiled.
“You bought it?”
Lowell nodded.
“So, it’s another adventure for us, eh?” Yarak said. “Aren’t you tired of funding these costly adventures, Mr. Lowell?”
“Look here, Nash. I have no family, no children, no heirs. In fact, you’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a son, so if I want to throw my money after extravagant ventures, I think I’m entitled.”
“I know. I just don’t want you to throw your money away on senseless expeditions.”
“You think this could be a wild goose chase, then?”
“Hope so, my friend.”
“Anything else to go on?”
“Not much. These legends all sound the same to me. It goes something like this. A miner staggers in to the saloon tent, loaded with nuggets. He is a stranger. As he gulps down his whiskey, he mumbles a tale of fabulous wealth, a veritable mountain of gold. At first, the other miners are skeptical, but the size of the stranger’s poke lends certain validity to his story. The miners become convinced that the fabled El Dorado has been discovered--the source of all the flakes and nuggets revealed. Next morning most of the stranger’s gold and all of the whiskey are gone. What remains is hangover, with disappointment later, as the gold cannot be located. The fabulous find is lost again.
“Take, for instance, the case of Jacob Breyfogle, a Nevada blacksmith, who set out in 1864 with a saddle horse and a pack animal. His horse strayed one night and the next morning’s search led to more than a missing mount. Breyfogle claimed to have come upon a ledge of red quartz loaded with the yellow metal. But his luck was mixed. Without his animals, the prospector soon found himself in dire need of food, water, and transportation. Breyfogle was found and rescued by Paiute Indians, who had also found his horse. He returned with his life, but died years later without ever again finding the Lost Breyfogle Mine.
“Another legendary strike is the Lost Cement Gold Mine, said to lie somewhere in dense woods near the Sierra Mountain headwaters of the San Joaquin River’s middle fork. In 1858, a small band of roaming placer miners found a ledge of red cement-like lava, loaded with gold. Partner trouble led to an axe murder, and Indian trouble brought on a hasty exit. The spot was never again located.
“The Lost Gunsight Mine got its name from a rifle part fashioned by Mormons from found metal in the Panamint Mountains. They were unable to find the spot again. The Adams Diggings uncovered a sizable strike for the Mormons near San Bernardino in 1886, but Apaches, taking the lucky location with them to the grave, killed most of the miners.