Fade to Black

5. Christchurch, New Zealand

66 Christchurch, New Zealand GPS Coordinates: –43.531637, 172.636645 March 17, 2010 It was after midnight when Claire, Ethan, and the other members of the team touched down at Christchurch International Airport, the black sky scuffed with ragged moon-illumined clouds. The further they dipped into the southern hemisphere , the scarcer daylight would become. Claire likened the gradual onset of perpetual night to standing in the bottom of a hole she, herself, was digging. Down and down and down while high above the opening pinched slowly closed, stranding her in the thickening darkness with nothing to keep her company but all the skeletons she had unburied along the way. She would’ve enjoyed the opportunity to explore Christchurch but they were only going to be on the ground long enough to transfer their gear to a Hercules C–130 before continuing on to McMurdo Station. With budget oversight committees constantly breathing down their necks, government agencies were more than willing to avail themselves of commercial airlines if it meant saving a buck or two. However, jets liketheBoeing737theyhadflownfromLosAngeleswereill-equippedfortraveltothe remote destinations linking earth’s rugged white underbelly to the rest of civilization. “We have a couple hours on the ground before we’re back in the air.” The deep voice belonged to Sergeant First Class Amir Price. At twenty-seven, he was the only African-American among them. He embodied the rare combination of energetic intelligence and athletic musculature prized by the ancient Greeks. As assistant JPAC team leader he was responsible for handling the logistical end of the operation: travel, equipment, supplies. In his own words, ‘the nuts and bolts.’ A devout Muslim, he’d spent the majority of the flight with his nose buried in the pages of the Koran. “The flight should take about eight hours,” Price continued. “No meal service this time around, so grab a bite and stretch your legs. I’ll make sure our gear ends up where it’s supposed to.” Josh Pryor ~ 67 “Who’s hungry?” Team leader Major Frank DeLuca, an expert in mortuary affairs with more than a decade of field experience, was running the show. Although he exercised his authority with a light hand, it was obvious that his team admired and respected him. Lean and visibly health conscious, it was probably the grim nature of his work that was indirectly to blame for the filigree of broken blood vessels imparting a roseate hue to his nose and cheeks. A drinker, thought Claire. “You buying, Major?” asked First Lieutenant Dale Bishop. A forensic odontologist, his pre-packaged introduction had included something about being a Salt Lake City Mormon who had traded the Tabernacle Choir and clean air for a career in grave-robbing . He had blue close-set eyes, neatly-trimmed blonde hair that was receding above the temples, and perfect teeth. Bishop wasn’t fat, but was saddled with the relaxed midsection often worn by men in their late thirties. “On a government salary?” DeLuca scoffed. “You’ve got me confused with McKenzie. He’s the one pulling down the fat paycheck.” “Why not?” said Dr. Larry McKenzie, a forensic anthropologist, and only civilian member of the JPAC team. “Can’t take it with me.” As a fifty-five year-old JPAC rookie, McKenzie endured his fair share of goodnatured hazing from the others. For more than two decades he had consulted for various law enforcement agencies throughout North America, applying his expertise both at the crime scene and in the courtroom. When JPAC had offered him a position with the Central Identification Lab in Oahu, he’d accepted without hesitation. Leaving behind the clamor and filth of Chicago was a dream come true. His easygoing manner, attentive smile, and evenly tanned skin suggested that he had been making the most of his new home in the tropics. A Johns Hopkins School of Medicine alum, he would also be acting as their medic. “I take back every nasty thing I ever said about you, Doc.” Second Lieutenant Trevor “Witz” Witzerman hardly fit the GI Joe stereotype. Somehow he had managed to retain the narrow shoulders, sloping posture, and generally awkward physique that basic training eliminated in all but the most obstinately unfit. In spite of a meticulous comb-over camouflaging the widening gyre of bare skin consuming the crown of his skull, Witz was losing a war of attrition with pattern-baldness. A communications technician, he would serve as the team’s eyes and ears. “What about you...