Free Decipher by Stel Pavlou

ferocious. Heavy rain driving in squalls. Vast freezing sheets lit up brilliant white against a grim black sky as lightning coursed through thick angry cloud.
    When the plane shuddered this time, it caught November Dryden, who had been staggering up the aisle, completely off-guard. She gripped the nearest head-rest, which forced Richard Scott to snatch his drink off the tray before it shot across the cabin.
    He glanced up at the student. “Are you okay?” he asked gravely.
    November wiped her mouth. Her face was pale; sweat beaded across her forehead. “Professor, do I look okay to you?” she mumbled.
    â€œNo. You look like shit.”
    â€œThen stop asking stupid questions,” she growled, resuming her struggle for the nearest bathroom.
    The man sitting next to Scott nodded his approval. “I like her.”
    Scott smiled briefly by way of a polite response and returned to reading Sarah Kelsey’s extraordinary geology report. It made for disturbing reading, and for a while Scott hadn’t even figured out why he’d been sent it in the first place. But then he had remembered that the oldest known piece of literature was the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh. It was the story that formed the basis for the Bible’s tale of Noah’s Ark, and was written in cuneiform. Perhaps this Ralph Matheson person was anticipating that this new pre- cuneiform text was an even earlier version of that same story. Sarah’s report may have been sent to get him in the mood. Now that would be something special …
    â€œTell me, Dr. Scott, how do you really feel about the possibility of doing archeology in Antarctica?”
    Scott snapped his head up from reading. “Excuse me?”
    The plane shuddered again as the guy indicated an identical
set of documents on his own tray, right down to Sarah’s geology report. “It’s all right here,” he replied.
    Scott studied the man next to him with some suspicion. He had tanned Hispanic features, thick black hair, and was leaning against the window, looking bored, but he had an enigmatic hint of amusement tugging at his lips.
    â€œI, uh, I didn’t get to that part yet. I’m sorry. How do you know who I am?” Scott demanded.
    The man held up a copy of the thesis he was reading. Tales of the Deluge: A Global Report on Cultural Self-Replicating Genesis Myths by Dr. Richard Scott. It even had his photo on the back.
    â€œI pay attention to the details, don’t you?” the man responded. “I’m reading yours; you’re reading hers.” He sighed. “But no one seems to be reading mine … In any event,” he added, “I think this is all a crazy notion. Have you seen how cold it is down in Antarctica? First of all I’d have to ask who the hell lived there? And second of all I’d have to ask who has that kind of stamina that they could actually do archeology in those temperatures.” The guy smiled. Quietly punched a button on his arm rest, closed his eyes, and reclined.
    â€œThere must be some mistake. I didn’t agree to go on any dig. Someone wanted my opinion on some texts, that’s all. Who are you, anyway?” Scott insisted.
    The guy snapped his eyes open suddenly as the plane dipped wildly. He stuck his hand out but Scott was in no mood to shake it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “How rude of me. Here we are about to crash into the ocean and we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Jon Hackett. I believe we’re going to be working together in Geneva.”
    Scott was confused. “In what capacity? And what makes you think we’re about to drop into the ocean?”
    The main cabin lights suddenly dimmed. The whole plane shuddered as the lights flickered off, then on. There were screams from somewhere in the rear. Call bleeps rang out throughout the cabin. Seatbelt signs blazed.
    Â 
    Scott and Hackett squirmed in their chairs as they hurried to