The Biofab War
by
Stephen Ames Berry
“Space opera in the Grand Ol’ Tradition.” Other Realms
“Kickbutt military science fiction!” Amazon reader review
To my fellow Ace and Tor author Melisa Michaels, in appreciation of her support, encouragement and many kindnesses.
Stephen Ames Berry’s novels have been published by Ace/Berkley and Tor/Macmillan. His latest novel is The Eldridge Conspiracy.
Author’s Note
This edition differs from the original Ace Books’ edition: it’s been rewritten to reflect present-day Earth and changes later in the series. The plot is unaltered and the heavy blaster fire unabated. Kronarin vowel markers denote retention of High Kronarin spelling conventions.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Also by Stephen Ames Berry
The Battle for Terra Two
The AI War
Final Assault
The Eldridge Conspiracy
Copyright © 1984 by Stephen Ames Berry
Revised edition © 2012 Stephen Ames Berry
All rights reserved
Publishing History
Ace Books edition May 1984
Biofab Publishing LLC revised edition February 2012
Smashwords Edition
V.2 r2
Acknowledgements
Cover
Linda Jane
Proofreading
Dale Bottrell
Formatting
Stephen Robert Gusmer
THE BIOFAB WAR
Chapter 1
“Mr. Natrol,” said Detrelna, “we hang naked in space, solar winds caressing our asses. There are things out there wanting to kill and eat us. How much longer on the shield, please?”
“Watchend, Captain,” replied Implacable’s Engineer, his distraction clear over the commlink. “We’ll have it up by watchend.”
“You’ve chanted that the last three watches.”
“It’s risen from chant to certainty, Captain. Internal security systems are finally on line. Internal and external shield systems shouldn’t be interdependent, but are. The Empire probably quick-rigged repairs just before the Fall and that’s how she went into stasis. But now we can concentrate on the main shield.”
“Everything on Implacable’s either quick-fixed or inscrutable, Engineer. Regrettable you had to repair internal shielding first—it’s not as vital as our exterior shield—little chance of a Scotar assault force flitting onboard so far from home. Will I be seeing the comforting glow of our main shield when I look out the armorglass at watchend?”
“Maybe. It would speed repairs if you didn’t ask how they’re going every time I crawl into some dusty hole. So unless you’d care to come down from the bridge and grab a spanner . . .”
Detrelna switched off with a snort. Swiveling the command chair back toward the big screen, he caught sight of Hanar Lawrona’s grin. “Something funny, Commander My-Lord-Captain?” he asked, exaggerating the title.
“You can’t bait me with that anymore, merchant,” his first officer said good-naturedly, turning back to his console. “And you really shouldn’t harass Natrol. He’s the best engineer in Fleet—probably the only one who could’ve kept this relic moving across the galaxy.”
“He’s an ass.”
“No doubt,” said Lawrona. “A very competent ass.” And so are you, he thought.
Half the slim aristocrat’s age and twice his size, the captain’s image would never adorn a recruiting poster. Luckily for Implacable, the ex-Shtarian trader was as brilliant as he was large.
Lawrona looked up. “Be logical, Jaquel. We’re a long way from the war. There’s no reason for the Scotar to be this far out. Probably no reason for us to be, either.”
“Laguan called this vital mission, Hanar,” said Detrelna, invoking Fleet’s Grand Admiral. “If Archives thinks there’s a chance of finding an intact Imperial matter transporter anywhere in this galaxy, then a ship must be sent. Look on it as a shakedown cruise.”
“Maybe,” Lawrona shrugged. “But how many missions sent at Archives’ request have turned up anything? Two? Four. Out of how many? A hundred?”
“Yes, but one of those was an Imperial citadel with a squadron of cruisers in stasis.”
“A badly functioning stasis field, Jaquel. And one still marginally functioning ship. Our communications, weapons and defenses are unreliable.”
“Tell me something new,” said Detrelna, dialing up a cup of steaming hot t’ata from the chair arm. “At least the beverager works.” A chime sounded.
“Coming up on space normal,” said Kiroda, the very young, very bright subcommander manning Navigation.
If they get any younger, thought the captain, suppressing an urge to check with Natrol, we’ll have to toilet train. “Very well, Mr. Kiroda. Shipwide,” he said over the commnet. “This is the Captain.” His voice echoed through the long miles of Implacable. “We’re entering a star system unexplored since before the Fall. I expect no trouble—we’re far from home and enemies. We’ll make ready, though. Prepare for battlestations. All personnel into warsuits. Captain out.”
Taking the silvery packet from a yeoman, Detrelna rose, unbuckling and setting aside his long-barreled blaster. Shaking open the warsuit, he tugged it on over boots and brown duty uniform, as did the rest of the bridge crew.
It didn’t look like much, that bit of silver foil. A recently recovered product of the millennia-dead Kronarin Empire, its secret still a mystery, the warsuit could briefly absorb blaster fire and double as vacuum and pressure suit.
“Let’s do it, Commander Lawrona,” ordered the captain.
“Battlestations. Battlestations,” Lawrona intoned, the klaxon briefly seconding him.
“All sections report ready,” reported Lasura a moment later.
“Stand by for space normal,” Kiroda said. All eyes turned to the big screen and the gray of hyperspace.
“Space normal . . . now!”
A tugging at the stomach, slight pain in the head, and it was over. Swirling nebulae and a billion hard points of light filled the screen, set among the obsidian of space normal.
“So. Here we are,” said Detrelna. “Anything, Hanar?”
The first officer’s long, tapering fingers flew over his board. “Nothing,” he said finally, looking up from the telltales. “At least nothing hostile. Primitive radio signals from somewhere insystem—too fragmented for immediate analysis. I’ll set computer on it. Permission to launch a survey probe?” At Detrelna’s nod, he gave the order. What looked like one of the many small hull instrument pods shot from the cruiser.
“What have you got for me, Mr. Kiroda?” asked Detrelna.
“Class Five sun, at least ten planets,” said the young officer. “No ships’ traces, no functioning Imperial comm or nav beacons.”
“Which means we probe from planet to planet, looking for Imperial remains.”
“Best chances are with the inner planets, given this system’s configuration and those signals,” said Lawrona.
“Agreed,” the captain nodded. “Follow that probe, Mr. Kiroda. Hanar,” he said rising, “stand down from battlestations. I’m going to get some sleep. Call me if anything at all happens. You have the bridge, Commander,” he added formally, relinquishing his chair and his ship to Lawrona and heading for the closed armored doors. “And keep checking on Natrol.”
Leaning back from the desk screen, Detrelna reread the diary entry:
Arrived today in a star system unexplored since Imperial dreadnoughts last kept the Pax Galactica 5,000 years ago. Is this yet another idiocy conceived by the pedants of Archives in collusion with the cretins of Intelligence? There’re no traces of Imperial bases or survey satellites, though there may be a pre-space civilization on one of the inner planets. Have launched and am following a survey probe there.
The hastiness of Implacable’s refit becomes more painfully obvious each day. Our shield’s been down for what seems several lifetimes and two of our fearsome High Imperial Mark 88 fusion batteries couldn’t heat a cup of t’ata. Our most urgent equipment malfunction is the shield. If we’re attacked by another ship, or if Scotar infiltrators don’t obligingly teleport into a security-shielded zone such as Hangar Deck, we’re dead.
Filing the dairy entry, Detrelna punched up and devoured two large helpings of varx scrapple then dropped into bed, his blaster’s comforting lump beneath his pillow.
Awakening at midwatch, he called Engineering. “Well?”
“Fine, thank you, sir. And yourself?”
“Natrol!”
“Still down, but . . .” He continued hastily, forestalling an awesome tantrum, “we’ve traced the flaw—a relay junction behind some Hangar Deck bulkheads. I’ve got two techs on it. They should’ve reported by now.”
“Check and advise. Bridge. Detrelna. What’s our status and location, Hanar?”
“As you heard, still no shield. Internal security fields are available at need. We’re midpoint between the fifth and fourth planets. We’ve confirmed the signals are coming from the third planet. Sensor probes are negative. The outer worlds we’ve passed aren’t habitable and have no resources worth extracting—nothing there to interest the Empire. Number three’s the most likely.” He glanced at the data trail threading his screen. “Coming up on number four now. Several small moons. Little atmosphere—just another dead . . .” He broke off, blinking. “Kiroda, Lasura, check radiation sensors. N17 band just went off scale.” He checked the trace. “Confirm,” he said tensely.
“Confirmed.”
“Confirmed.”
Computer spoke urgently. “Alert! Alert! N17 sweep. N17 sweep. Request battlestations. Request battlestations.”
“Battlestations!” snapped Lawrona. “Jaquel,” he said into the commlink. “N17.”
“Peak, down, off?” shouted Detrelna over the din as battle klaxons rattled through the ship. He swung out of bed, pulling on his warsuit.
“Yes, But this far out?” said Lawrona.
Another voice came into the commband as the klaxons stopped. “Bridge. Engineering. Hangar Deck isn’t responding.”
“Scotar detected on Hangar Deck,” said computer. “Security fields activated.”
“Captain here. That’s it, gentlemen—Hangar Deck. It’s their standard assault pattern—target the largest open area.” He tugged on his boots. “Apologies, Natrol. Thank the gods you got our security fields on line.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Don’t run with it. Hanar, speed, not subtlety.” He stood, strapping on his blaster. “They’re trapped—now we kill them. I’m closest—I’ll lead the counterattack. You trace that sweep to their base and take it out.”
“Jaquel!” his first officer protested. “Firefights are mine!”
“And you’re welcome to them. There’s no time to trade places. I was shooting it out with Mitan’s corsairs while you were still in the Academy. If nothing else, I’ll draw fire from the assault. Out.” With that, he ran into the corridor past crewmen hurrying to their posts.
Sealed behind the bridge’s thick battlesteel doors, Lawrona sat in the Captain’s chair, softly drumming his fingers on the arm. “Well?” he demanded, unknowingly mimicking Detrelna.
Kiroda looked up, shaking his head. “I need another transmission for a fix. It could be either the fourth planet or one of its satellites.”
“Bridge, Engineering,” called Natrol. “We’ve bypassed that faulty relay from here. I can give you seventy-five percent external shield now.”
Lawrona shook his head, eyes still on the screen with its tactical scan of nearby space. “Negative, Engineer. Leave the shield down. And drop Hangar Deck’s security field. Raise both instantly on my order.”
“Flanking Councilor two to Imperial seven,” challenged Natrol.
“Archon five to Flanking Councilor seven.” Nonsensical as an I’Wor move, it made a fine authenticator.
“Very well, sir. Awaiting your orders.”
Kiroda looked up from the half-finished trace pattern threading across a telltale. “What are you doing, sir, if I may ask?”
“Getting you your N17 source to peek out at us, Subcommander,” said Lawrona. “They know we’re at battlestations. But we haven’t moved on Hangar Deck yet, so they may think it’s a drill. I’m hoping they’ll take the opportunity to flit in reinforcements before trying to move deeper into the ship. When they do, complete your trace.”
“But we’re at battlestations,” protested Lasura. “They’ll think primary shielding has come up.”
“Don’t worry,” Lawrona said, “I’m about to tell them it hasn’t.” Before he could do anything, the commnet chimed.
“Hanar, we’re in position. Have you gotten a trace yet?” At the head of fifty commandos, the captain was pressed against the gray wall of corridor A-10. Around the next curve, the double access doors to Hangar Deck stood sealed.
“No, sir. I was about to inspire it.”
“Do so. Let’s get this over with. Computer. Captain. Leave this channel tied into Commander Lawrona’s and acknowledge.”
The machine beeped its response.
“First Officer to Hangar Deck,” Lawrona said casually.
“Hangar Watch. Ensign Urola,” replied a familiar cheery voice. A dead man’s voice.
“Shield’s still down, Ensign. Engineering wants a two-man maintenance shuttle readied. There’s a faulty hull repeater.”
“Very good, sir. It’ll be ready when they arrive.”
“Thank you, Mr. Urola. Bridge out.
“Did you get that, Jaquel?”
“Why can’t we be that efficient?” said the captain coldly, checking his weapon.
Kiroda adjusted a tacscan setting. “Got the slime. Mark 7, 148. The nearer satellite. Standard defenses.”
“Well done,” Lawrona nodded. “Mr. Natrol, external and internal shields now, please. Mr. Lasura, flank speed for target. Stand by gunnery. They’re all yours, merchant.”
Peering cautiously around the corner, Detrelna saw the security field’s hazy overlay blurring the doors. “Computer,” he said, striding purposefully toward the doors, weapon leveled, “this is the Captain.” Behind him the commandos fell into skirmish order, M-32’s blast rifles at high-port. “On my command, override the seal on Hangar Deck access A-10 and breach security shield to admit my party and me. After we enter, seal and shield the access, opening only on my or the First Officer’s direct, confirmed order. Acknowledge and confirm.”
“Acknowledged. Assault Leader four to Admiral’s phalanx nine.”
“Imperiad four to Admiral two.”
“Order confirmed.”
Detrelna looked at Danir. The young commando sergeant nodded. “Computer. Execute!”
Detrelna charged through as the doors pulled back, an angry bull heading straight down the center of the cavernous hangar. The familiar sight of shuttles, scouts, and fighters nestled in their soft-lit berths didn’t reassure him. Something was wrong: it was too quiet. Hangar Deck was never quiet. There should have been thirty crewmen on watch, performing the necessary drudgery of maintenance and security. Nothing moved. Only the troopers’ footfalls broke the uncanny silence.
Detrelna waved his weapon to the right. A squad broke off, running for the ramp to Hangar Control, recessed behind a great slab of one-way armor glass high above the gray deck.
Walking from behind a shuttle, commslate in hand, a cherub-faced ensign looked up, astonished at the sight of the advancing commandos. “Captain?” he asked, smiling uncertainly. “Why the invasion?”
As he stepped toward Urola, Detrelna’s communicator screeched. Unhesitating, the captain fired a bolt straight into the ensign’s chest. His form ripping, Urola dissolved into a tall, dark-green insectoid. It fell to the deck, a hole seared through its thorax. Bulbous eyes staring sightlessly at the distant ceiling, it lay with legs and tentacles twitching as the humans stormed past.
From atop the flat-roofed shuttles and from behind landing struts, the indigo of Scotar blaster fire lashed out. “Assault!” Detrelna shouted needlessly, snapping off a shot as his warsuit took a bolt. The commandos swept past him, closing with the shapes that flickered in among the shadows, angry red lightning flashed from their rifles. Blue blaster fire touched but didn’t harm them, deflected by the warsuits’ ancient magic.
Unprotected by resurrected Imperial technology, the Scotar warriors fell back until cornered in Flight Operations, where a final volley finished them. Detrelna personally killed their last transmute, distinguishable from the warriors by its thinner exoskeleton and tapering upper tentacles.
“Lawrona,” coughed the captain, gagging on the stench of burnt bug. “The warsuits work. We’ve wiped out their assault force. No casualties. They got the hangar crew. Must have flitted their bodies into space. Have you hit their base?”
“We have.” The first officer stared at the blasted ruins mirrored in the screen. “They stopped the first missile wave, but the next took out their shipbusters and the third finished them. Medium-sized surface base—not hardened. We punched through their shield with the first fusion salvo. We avoided counterfire, but I’d hate to shoot it out with another cruiser without max shield.”
“Very well. I’m on my way.” Turning, he headed for the corridor and the lift. “Well done, Sergeant. Tidy up,” he ordered, glancing at the Scotar corpses being stripped of weapons and heaped middeck for disposal. The viscous green ooze was spreading slowly across the black deck.
Stepping into the lift, Detrelna sketched his action report: alarm quickly sounded, target area sealed and the ship’s reaction force, under his personal command, had killed the Scotar and wiped out their small base. The enemy destroyed, Implacable had resumed her mission. And yet disturbing issues remained. The captain voiced one as he sank into the command chair, dialing up a fruit drink. “What are the Scotar doing this far out on the galactic rim, Hanar?”
“Perhaps they’re also looking for Imperial gear?”
“Make as much sense as our doing so.”
Lawrona thoughtfully tapped the tip of the laser stylus against his teeth. “The question is, how long have they been out here?”
“Long enough to build a base and be annoying.”
“But why? Oh. Jaquel? While we were clearing out that Scotar nest, our survey probe’s been busy.” He nodded to where Kiroda sat reading a scan. “Those radio transmissions are confirmed—early cybernetic-age civilization on the third planet.”
“Cousins?” asked the captain.
“Probably, according to preliminaries. The Empire must have seeded half the galaxy.”
“Perhaps that makes them post-space rather than pre-space? Why haven’t the Scotar enslaved or exterminated those people?” Detrelna crumbled the empty cup between thick, blunt fingers, tapping it into the chair disposer. “The force we just beat could easily have taken one backward planet.”
“Let’s find out. If this system holds any help or any answers, that world is the place to begin.”
“Agreed. Mr. Kiroda,” said the captain. “I’ll take damage control and casualty readouts at my station. Mr. Lasura, resume original heading for the third planet. Commander Lawrona, stand down battlestations and maintain high alert.”
Triumphant from her first battle in five thousand years, Implacable left the molten ruins on Deimos and closed at speed on Terra, Mars fading behind her.
Chapter 2
John Harrison looked up at the security monitor and groaned—Sutherland! Not now.
Impatient, the casually dressed, middle-aged man pressed the buzzer again.
“Coming,” John called over the intercom. Sutherland responded with a thumb raised to the camera.
Padding barefoot along his townhouse’s carpeted hallway, Harrison opened the door, letting in Sutherland and the smell of blooming lilac. Down the block, the first produce stands of the day were setting up on front of Capitol Hill’s Eastern Market. It was only eight, but already the air was moist, the sun too hot for April. It was going to be an early spring scorcher.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” asked John, leading the way back to his office.
“I’ve had myself cloned.”
“You look like hell,” added the CIA’s Deputy Director for Special Operations, taking in the bleary eyes, rumpled shorts, dirty T-shirt and two days’ worth of beard. “The eternal dissertation?” he asked, stepping into the sunny office.
“No.” They sat, John at his desk, Sutherland on the white Haitian cotton sofa next to the fireplace. “Certain Aspects of the Interrelationship of Cartesian Dualism and Quantum Mechanics is finished. Coffee, Bill?”
“Please.”
John poured from the grimy glass pot, handling Southerland a white-and-blue mug. The CIA officer glanced at the caduceus etched into the front. “You on the Russian Intelligence’s Christmas list, John?” he asked, sipping cautiously.
“They don’t do Christmas. No, that’s from a little gift shop in McLean, run by a DAR matron. A couple of your guys told her they were physicians at Georgetown and got her to special order a raft of these.” He hoisted his own mug. “If she ever finds out the truth, it’ll kill her.” They chuckled evilly.
“So, the thesis is finished?”
“Yeah. And I think I survived my orals. We’ll know next week.”
“So why the midnight oil?”
John sighed. “My book. My unfinished book for which I unwisely accepted an advance.” He swept his mug over the desk top litter: canary legal pads covered in an illegible scrawl competed for space with three by five cards, photos and a stale, gnawed bagel. “I’ve got seven weeks to finish—hell!—to write eleven chapters.”
Sutherland’s eyes widened. “Out of that jumble? Ever heard of MS Word?”
“I have. But I’m a Luddite.”
He shook his head. “Always good at getting yourself in a bind, John. What’s it about?”
Extracting a grainy eight by ten black-and-white glossy from the mess, he handed it to Sutherland. “It’s about that debacle.” Taken from a distance, the photo showed a charred, helmeted body amid the scattered ruins of shattered aircraft. All about, the stark Turanian Desert stood mute witness to chaos: weapons, radios, medical kits, intact choppers and code books littered the abandoned staging area.
“It has a title?” Southerland asked with forced casualness, flipping the photo onto the desk.
“Thy Banners Make Tyranny Tremble. We’re using that photo for the jacket.”
“You’re so damned cynical, Harrison. You know what happened. They cut and they cut and they cut until there was no redundancy . . .” He sighed and smiled ruefully. I’m sure it’ll sell a million copies. As an alumnus, you did clear this with us?”
“Harry Rosen in Liaison approved my sources and a brief outline.”
Sutherland’s eyes widened. “That dinosaur? He’s still here? I’d no idea. I’d heard he had a catfish farm in Mississippi.”
“When I saw him, he was opening a guest house on Prince Edward Island. Though from the look of him, he’d better make it soon. Okay, Bill, you didn’t come here at the crack of dawn on a Sunday to shoot the breeze or drink day-old coffee.”
“I have a small bit of nastiness that needs tending,” he admitted. “As you knew when you saw my fine-chiseled face on your stoop.”
“I’d say ‘blurring into fat,’ but go on.”
“Any chance of Zahava’s hearing this?”
John smiled. “No guarantee, but I’ll try.” Picking up the phone, he tapped a digit. A long moment later a mumble could be heard.
“Sorry to wake you, but Bill Sutherland’s here and he wants to talk shop. Fine, yeah, I’ll tell him.” He hung up.
“She’ll be done in a few minutes. She says you’re daffy.”
“What did she really say?” asked Sutherland, trying to kill the coffee’s acridness with a dollop of cream much older than the coffee, it floated to the surface, small clusters of decay.
“It’d be worth my life to repeat it.”
Bill set the mug aside. “The cafeteria coffee’s the same as when you left.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, you can always have your old cubicle back. Same old gray metal desk with the 1942 coffee rings. Squeaky green chair and basic gray phone. Oh, and our current admin assistant’s into Yanov’s Primal Scream Therapy.”
“Fire her.”
“Him. He has a doctor’s note.”
“You make returning sound so attractive.”
Sutherland leaned forward, easing into his pitch. “It pains me to say it, but you’re the best case officer I’ve had since . . . well, since I was a case officer.”
It was, John realized as Bill continued, the classic Outfit pitch. The enemy are upon us! To the walls, brothers! He interrupted with a laugh. “Bill, do you know how often I’ve delivered that line? No, let me finish.” He held up a hand. “I saved Uncle’s ass a lot of times over the years. First with CIC in Asia, then with the Outfit in Africa, and finally running your Eastern networks.”
“Like I said, you were the best.”
“Am the best. Good enough for the Outfit to pay me very well to bail it out, now and then. And when you’re not in trouble, DIA or NSA is. It’s a good living. I don’t have to do it all the time, and I don’t have to put up with bureaucratic BS. So save your pitch for the next candidate. I’m out. But tell me—whose ass needs saving today?”
Before Sutherland could reply, the door slammed back and a great white-haired bear of a man stormed in, wearing denim shirt and pants with red suspenders. Under his left arm was a star-spangled red, white, and blue motorcycle helmet.
“Can’t ride a bike in this town without getting killed,” he fumed. “Some turtle brain’s limo ran the light at Seventeenth and L. Another inch I’d have greased the road with my…” He spotted Sutherland. “Bill! How’s our merry master of mendacity?” he grinned.
“Bob. You unrepentant commie.” Sutherland shook the big hand. “Still riding that suicide rack?”
“My daughter disapproves,” the older man said with a smile. Sinking into an armchair, he plopped his helmet down on the blue-and-white oriental. “But Jason and Melanie adore having the only grandpa in town with a two-wheeled BMW.”
“What brings you across the bridge, Bill? Something lucrative chore we can do?” asked the lithe olive-skinned woman, coming into the room. Her wet jet-black hair was wrapped in a mauve towel, a man’s red terry-cloth robe falling to her feet. Rather large feet, the CIA officer noted covertly.
“Good morning Zahava,” said Sutherland from the safety of his chair
“Good morning,” echoed John and McShane.
“Good morning,” she said, pulling up a chair and lighting an unfiltered Camel. “This had better be worth my crawling out of bed, Bill.”
“It’s worth a listen, Zahava.” He settled back in his chair, the center of attention. “First, though, the usual tired protocols.” Taking a small voice-activated recorder from his pocket, he put it on the coffee table. “This briefing is classified Top Secret/Janissary. No one may reveal any portion of it without the prior written permission of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Stifling a yawn, Zahava poured herself a cup of coffee. They’d all heard this at least a dozen times in the past three years. She glanced at John, toying with his letter opener. Catching her eye, he winked.
“So much for that,” said Sutherland. “Okay, here’s the situation. Royal Petroleum’s been trying to sink some test wells off the Massachusetts coast. The project’s a year behind. Supports for the first platforms haven’t even been sunk. There may be as many as forty-eight billion barrels of oil out there, maybe five times that much in natural gas. The delays, before last week, appeared to be coincidental: small accidents, bad hiring decisions, organizational snafus.”
“There was the litigation,” said McShane. “Greenpeace, the Sierra Club…”
“On appeal,” said Sutherland.
“And those Zodiac boats intercepting supplies,” added John.
“Removed by the Coast Guard.”
“What happened to the windmills?” asked Zahava. “Drilling off Cape Cod—will you be fracking in Yellowstone next?”
“I’m not the bad guy,” said Sutherland. “Just the messenger. And Yellowstone’s seismically active, Zahava.”
“Why would that stop people?”
“What were the other delays?” John asked before Zahava got on a roll.
“Oh, not ordering special equipment, damage to mapping gear, endless negotiations over the clearing and dredging of a modest port facility.”
“Royal’s project crew is based at the Leurre Oceanographic Institute on Cape Cod. Last week they were finally set to begin seismic mapping and core sampling when the submersible Argonaut was lost with both divers. One of them was our man.”
“This is domestic security,” said John. “How did you get into it?”
“Argonaut was ours. She was on loan to Leurre—Leurre’s under contract to Royal. We used her last year raising the Great Wall 49.” It had been a brilliant coup, raising a deep-sunken Chinese nuclear sub, her weapons, navigation and communications systems intact.
“What happened to your submersible?” asked Zahava, tucking her feet beneath her on the chair.
“Lost. And our man murdered.” Sutherland set his coffee mug on the ceramic tabletop. “His body came drifting ashore at Yarmouthport, a spear gun shaft through the heart. A poor attempt had been made to sink it.”
“Anyone I knew?” asked John
Sutherland shook his head. “Joe Antonucchi. He was a field op, mostly West Africa. He’d been investigating the delays for the past month. The night before he was killed he met with an informant on the Institute staff. But we don’t know who the informant was—Antonucchi never got to file a report.”
“Any idea who’s behind it?” asked Bob.
“We first assumed an unfriendly power, trying to restrict our energy resources. But no longer. Take a look at this.”
Sutherland opened his attaché case. Taking out a small flat package wrapped in ordinary brown paper, he removed a triangular-shaped rock, its edges fused. “This came addressed to me two days after we found Antonucchi’s body,” he said, passing the object to Bob. “The package had the right internal mail code and Joe’s fingerprints all over it.”
McShane turned the fragment over in his large hands.
“What do you make of it, Bob?” asked Sutherland.
“I’m a political philosopher and historian, Bill,” he replied, examining the marks chiseled into the front.
“But your hobby’s Bronze Age languages, isn’t it?”
“How much are you paying my grandchildren?” grumbled McShane, not looking up.
“You’re a distinguished scholar, sir, your career one of public record,” said Sutherland, velvet-voiced.
“Someday, someone’s going to poison you, Bill, slowly,” John said.
Zahava peered over Bob’s shoulder. “It looks like . . .”
“It is.” The professor nodded. “The language Moses learned at the feet of the Great Ramses—Egyptian. Court Egyptian. It reads, ‘The Exalted One: His Dwelling.’”
“Fascinating.” He handed it to John, who glanced at it, then gave it back to Sutherland. The officer carefully re-wrapped it and locked it back in his attaché case.
“Good old igneous granite,” Sutherland continued. “Found all over New England. Very rare on the Cape, though, but present.”
“Why do you think it’s from Cape Cod?” asked Zahava.
“Our resident geologists say it’s from the northeastern United States. I believe Antonucchi sent it to me. He was on the Cape. I assume, therefore, that this three-thousand-year-old item is from there.”
“Are you sure it’s not a forgery?” John asked, disbelieving.
“The stone and inscription are equally weathered.”
“What is something from my part of the world doing in yours?” asked the Israeli.
“There’s some evidence of pre-Columbian colonization of the Americas,” said Bob. “Nothing as far back as this, though.” He pointed to the attaché case. “But who knows?”
“Again, why us, Bill?” asked John. “I’m not trying to drive business away, but why not the FBI?
“We’re in a double bind. I shouldn’t have sent Antonucchi in. And sure, legally it’s a case for the FBI. The Bureau, though, tried to penetrate whatever’s happening at the Institute for eight months. Nothing. The Bureau are mostly good people. I work with them every day. And if I thought this a case requiring the wherewithal to walk unblinking into a firefight, I’d pick the Bureau over the Outfit any day. But this one’s weird and political dynamite. If the Hill gets wind of our involvement in a domestic matter, it’s good-bye Bill. So, I need you, we need you, and at the risk of being gauche, your country needs you.
“Well?”
Bob raised his hand. “Aye.”
“Why not,” said Zahava, her hand joining McShane’s in the air.
Shaking his head, John looked at the cluttered desktop. “Aye,” he said with a sigh.
“I knew you couldn’t let the Gipper down,” Sutherland grinned.
“You’re dating yourself,” said McShane.
Rising, Bill switched off the recorder and pocketed it. “With your help, we’ll get that port facility built and some producing wells dug. Can’t run an armored division on cordwood.”
“Windmills,” counseled Zahava.
Bill turned at the door. “I’ll send a courier around with a full briefing packet. Oh, and John? Throw that coffee out. You’ll live longer.”
“Bill’s in trouble?” asked Zahava over brunch the next morning.
John shrugged, looking up from the patio to the trees surrounding the townhouse’s bricked-in yard. A pair of cardinals contended noisily with a blue jay for the last piece of winter suet hanging from the budding cherry tree.
“A little. What’s he going to do, retire? He’d be home with Shewombod all day.”
“Shewombod?”
“She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. His ghastly wife. He’d be dead in a year. You know our last two assignments were obscenely easy money. Besides, it’s often complex, sometimes intriguing—even dangerous. We’re not going to do this forever, so we might as well enjoy it.”
“And it pays well.”
“There is that.”
“It’s all arranged,” called Bob, stepping onto the patio.
“What is?” John asked.
“Miss Tal’s new career, Special Assistant to my old friend, Dr. Lawrence Levine. Larry’s currently Director of Marine Microbiology Research at Leurre Oceanographic.”
“I don’t know anything about microorganisms, Bob!”
“Ah, but can you type?”
Agilely ducking the napkin ring, the professor sank into one of the white iron lawn chairs. Zahava menacingly hefted a grapefruit half.
“Peace!” McShane laughed, crossing his arms over his face. The grapefruit slowly returned to its bowl.
“Listen, you two,” he continued. “Zahava will have to type, marginally, but it’s superb cover. Someone on the staff knows about that misplaced Egyptian stele and its origins. There are only about two hundred people at the Institute, and Oystertown’s a small place.”
“All right,” conceded the Israeli.
“We’re agreed, then? Zahava goes tonight? Larry will meet her at Hyannis Airport and see her to her motel.” The two nodded.
“And tomorrow,” John said, “I’ll drop in on Fred Langston, the Institute’s Director. I’m an investigator from Royal, checking into the project delays—nothing new for him.”
“And you’re going via Boston?” he asked Bob.
“Yes. I’ve some related research to do, mostly at Harvard. I’ll meet you two at your motel Wednesday.”
“Sounds good.”
“I hate offices.” Zahava made a face then raised her coffee cup. “Well, to a quick and successful investigation.”
John flicked on the Buick’s headlights. The gray Cape Cod twilight found him alone on the two-lane road, flanked by scrub pine. The flight from Washington to Boston’s Logan Airport had been uneventful, only the cold driving rain marring his arrival.
Not chancing the box kite of a commuter plane that shuttled between Boston and Hyannis, he’d rented a car and was now nearing the end of a lonely drive down a nearly deserted Route 6, the only other traffic an occasional truck.
Wondering how Zahava had fared her first day at the Institute, his thoughts turned to dark, slender legs, supple thighs and sleepless, steamy nights in the big king-sized bed.
The tractor-trailer rig jackknifed across the road snapped him back to the present. Slowing to a stop, he saw no sign of a driver. Hoodie turned against the cold Atlantic drizzle, he got out and started toward the overturned cab, silently cursing the moron who’d evidently gone for help without setting flares.
Senses honed on a hundred night patrols saved him, sending him flying back behind the car as the bullets came, shattering the windows. Wrestling the big 9mm automatic from under his pocket, John crawled toward the back of the car as the concealed gunman continued spraying the Buick. Risking a quick look, he spotted the muzzle flash just as the rifle bolt snapped at the end of a magazine. Leaping up, he braced the pistol with both hands against the wet vinyl roof and emptied the weapon into the brush. Changing magazines, he charged across the slick road and into the bushes.
There was no one there, only spent shells and a small pool of a green liquid melting away in the rain.
Shaken and angry, John returned to the car, checking tires and engine. They were okay, but the windows were gone. Breaking away the last fragments of windshield with the tire iron, he got in and drove slowly into the gathering dark, ignoring the rain that swept in, soaking him.
Chapter 3
John reached Oystertown just before five. Once a sleepy Nantucket Sound fishing village, it had been transformed by Leurre’s endowers into a gentrified summer colony, a cobblestoned, yacht-slipped enclave for anyone with the money and taste for what The Boston Globe had dubbed Louisburg Square-by-the-Sea.
Doric-columned brick townhouses lay astride pristine lanes that ran like wheel spokes to Oystertown’s centerpiece, a tidy gas lit town center with a tastefully tarnished bronze fountain, cast as a vaulting dolphin. The Institute fronted on the marina at the end of the square. A rambling old brick-and-stone warehouse that had once stunk of tar and salted fish, it had been gutted and rebuilt by the Leurre Founders Committee, a consortium of energy corporations. At one end was a small pub, at the other a cozy bistro, Chez Nichée.
Dedicated to Aiding in the Exploration and Utilization of the Oceans for the Betterment of All according to the brass plaque set in the entrance way, the Institute was a major research facility for much of the nation’s undersea energy and mineral extraction.
Parking the shattered Buick under the “Visitors” sign, John repaired himself as best he could, combing his hair, drying his face and shucking his sodden raincoat.
Once in the foyer, the Institute’s nineteenth-century mercantile façade vanished, replaced by the gleaming modernity of chrome and glass.
“Hello,” he said to the lean poker-faced guard behind the reception desk’s teak expanse. “I’m here to see Dr. Langston.”
“Your name, sir?” The black-uniformed guard appeared not to notice John’s dishevelment.
“Harrison. John Harrison.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Harrison.” He murmured softly into a small microphone, nodding to the voice that responded in his earpiece. “Please have a seat, sir. Dr. Langston will be right down.”
Fred Langston was an affable, suave scientist-administrator. Fortyish, black, nattily attired, he quickly got John a fresh change of clothes, making sympathetic noises at his story of a flat in the rain.
Seated in Langston’s tasteful office, John sipped a Scotch and water, admiring the small Klee above the fireplace.
The Director leaned back in his leather Scandinavian desk chair, quietly appraising Harrison. Behind him a big bay window overlooked the wharf, lit by antiqued gas lamps, and the dark sea beyond.
“Sutherland called me this morning,” said Langston. “Warned me you’d be coming up today. He said you were an old friend who’d been retained by Royal. I wish I could be of more help, but”—he spread his hands helplessly . . . “you know as much about that man’s murder as I do.”
“Frankly, I’m only concerned with the murder because it may have some connection with the delays in the Royal project. Antonucchi’s death makes the whole thing look like sabotage.”
Langston nodded, toying with the dolphin-capped stirrer resting in his gin and tonic. “It does. At first we thought it was staff incompetence. No one’s immune from personnel problems. So I had several people borrowed from Royal transferred back to Louisiana, yet the problems continued. Then we lost Argonaut. Until we can get another submersible with her capabilities, we’re stymied. If this is sabotage, Mr. Harrison, believe me, it’s working. You can imagine how Royal is taking all this.”
“Poorly.”
“Very.” He lightly drummed the stirrer on the rosewood desk. “They’re considering moving the entire operation to New Bedford, building the docking and refinery facilities there, rather than up the coast from here at Goose Cove. We could survive without Royal’s contracts and annual grant, but once one major corporation loses faith in you, it becomes pandemic. Old school tie, you know.”
“May I look around, talk with your people?”
“Sure. But the state police and Sutherland’s crew have gone all through that.” He rose. “If I can be of any help, don’t hesitate to ask.”
The rain had stopped. It made the short drive to the Beachcomber Motel cool but dry. A note in Zahava’s hand awaited him at the desk.
John,
Registered here this A.M., but at lunch one of the staff invited me to stay with her. (Her boyfriend’s been deported.)
Directions to an address in nearby Goose Cove Village followed.
Twenty minutes later he was knocking on the door of a cedar-shingled cottage on a quiet pine-treed lot. A cute barefoot blonde in her mid-twenties opened the door, wearing only shorts and a halter-top despite the cold.
“Hi. You’re John, aren’t you? I’m Cindy. Zahava!” she called over her shoulder.
The Israeli—sensibly outfitted in denim blouse and trousers—came off the back screen porch. Planting a wet kiss on John’s lips, she led him into the small living room. The décor was pure Sears, a relief after the Leurre’s oppressive modernity. He sank into a battered armchair, the day at last catching up with him.
Cindy – secretary to Zahava’s new boss, Larry Levine’s—had met Zahava that morning and offered to share her rented house. She was still pining over the loss of her previous roommate, Greg Farnesworth. Greg, the story came out over macaroni and cheese, was a geologist with Royal. He’d been on loan to the Institute for two months, till Fred Langston had cleaned house two weeks before. Greg had been abruptly returned to his home base in Shreveport.
After dinner, John walked Zahava to the shattered rental car parked beneath the pines. He quickly briefed her, adding, “I’m going over to the rental agency in Hyannis now to complain about vandals. I’d invite you along, but there’s still so much glass on the seats . . .”
“What about the man who tried to kill you?” she asked as he eased himself into the car.
“What man?” John said, shutting the door with a faint tinkle. “It was a phantom—when I got there—ten seconds, maybe—he was gone. I should have bumped noses with him or at least seen him. All I saw were some .223 caliber casings brass and a sort of green ooze. I’d swear I hit the bastard, though.” He started the engine. “And if blood were green, I’d know I had.”
“Be safe,” she called as he drove off into the foggy night, knowing how stupid it sounded.
He answered with a wave.
The rental manager didn’t buy it. Belligerent, he was dialing the police when the account number on the contract caught his eye. Hanging up the phone, he shook his head. “You guys,” he sighed.
Five minutes later, John pulled out in a new red Jeep. The manager inspecting the Buick looked up from his clipboard. “Can we have this one this one back in better shape, please?” he called.
It took twice as long to get back to Goose Cove Village. The fog had closed in, making it hard to see beyond the headlights.
A new car was parked in front of the cottage; also a rental, John saw from the sticker.
Gathered on the comfortable old braided rug before a crackling fire were Zahava, Cindy and a sandy-haired man in his early thirties. The stranger drew his lanky frame up to greet John with a crisp, dry handshake.
“You must be John. I’m Greg Farnesworth.”
“Up for the weekend?” John asked, joining them on the rug.
“For the week. Corporate largess,” said the geologist, sipping his beer. “I took some vacation time to plead my case.” He squeezed Cindy’s knee.
She pouted, crinkling her freckles. “I’m stuck here for now—my mother.” Her mother, she explained, was in assisted living, frail and unwell, Cindy her only child. Any move would be traumatic.
“Okay,” Greg said. “I’m buying a house, down on the bayou, complete with swamp and ‘gators and housekeeper. There’ll be a separate apartment for your mother. I promise, no more hurricanes.”
Cindy accepted with a hug and a kiss.
John exchanged they’re crazy glances with Zahava.
After congratulations toasted with brandy hoisted high in styrofoam cups, the topic turned to the Institute and Greg’s job. He’d been in charge of surveying the Goose Cove site. The cove proper, as distinct from the village, was scheduled to be enlarged and dredged, serving as a port facility once the Georges Banks’ wells began producing.
“Geologic sampling is part of the EPA site requirements. I’d gotten as far as sampling strata along Goose Hill—it overlooks the cove and was going to be blown up and carted away—when Langston suddenly declared me and my team bumblers and shipped us back to Shreveport inside of four hours.” He sipped his brandy, staring pensively into the waning fire. Cindy put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Happily, there’s a shortage of qualified petroleum geologists.”
“You’re still with Royal?” John asked.
He nodded. “I’d rather leave on my schedule than theirs.”
“Why do you think Langston got rid of you?” asked Zahava.
“Probably afraid of what I’d find up on that hill. Something that could end the entire operation, cause him to lose his grants, his imposing home, his nice office.”
“And did you?” asked John.
The geologist gave him a hard look. “You’re not working for Royal,” he said flatly. “Not their type. Government?”
“Sort of.”
Farnesworth nodded. “Yeah, I found it.”
Before going to bed, John made two calls, one to Sutherland, the other to McShane in Boston.
Chapter 4
Following John’s directions, McShane had no trouble finding the dirt road leading from the paved, two-lane state highway to Goose Hill and the cove. He pulled into a small clearing among the bayberry and scrub pine at the foot of the hill. Parking next to a red Jeep, he made his way along the densely overgrown trail to the foot of the hill, brushing aside the morning’s dew-covered cobwebs with his gnarled blackthorn Irish walker.
As he ascended, the trail quickly turned into a rocky defile, the undergrowth becoming sparser with each step. Passing between two boulders, he heard the soft snick of a well-oiled gun bolt sliding home. Taking a chance, he called, “Zahava! Don’t shoot! It’s kindly old Professor Bob!”
Lowering her Uzi, she stepped from behind the right-hand boulder, all contriteness. “Bob! Are you okay? I hope I didn’t frighten you.”
“I am. You did not. I came of age in an Asian paradise called Forward Firebase Charlie. I used up my whole life’s ration of fright back then.”
“So, not always kindly Professor Bob.”
“We live our live in stages my dear, our past selves often people we wouldn’t recognize. Or be caught dead with. Where is everybody?”
“Up ahead, in a maze of boulders. Greg . . .”
“The geologist John mentioned?”
“Yes, Greg’s trying to find a particular rock.”
“That’s what geology is all about. Lead on.”
They found the trio (Cindy having been ordered off to work, lest her absence arouse suspicion) on a shoulder of the hill, walking behind Greg as he slowly followed a map through a great tumbled-down pile of boulders. After quick introductions, he returned to his task as Bob quizzed John. “Why in God’s name did you drag me up here? I barely had time to finish at Harvard.”
“Finish your lunch at the Faculty Club, you mean?”
“Oh? I told you that? It was seafood buffet day—real scallops.”
A triumphant “Eureka!” turned them toward Greg, who was dancing an impromptu jig before a large oblong outcropping that fell from the hill’s brow to their feet.
“What’s so unusual about that piece of granite, sir?” demanded Bob, walking over to tap the rock with his stick.
“Several things,” the geologist said with a smile, fondly stroking the outcropping. “One, it shouldn’t be here. Granite in this quantity shouldn’t occur on transient geological structures like this sandy peninsula. But we could probably explain it away, except that it isn’t granite. It’s not even rock—I doubt any of this hill is.”
“Feels like rock,” said Bob, touching the surface.
Greg extended his rock hammer. “Prove it—chip off a sample for analysis.’
Rising to the bait, Bob took the chisel-pointed tool and swung hard at a rounded edge. There was no visible effect. Mumbling, “Obdurate matter,” he handed his stick to John. Seizing the hammer with both hands, he braced his legs, aimed carefully, and swung at the offending rock with all of his not inconsiderable bulk. The hammer rebounded, its target unblemished in the morning light.
“I yield,” he said with more humility than either John or Zahava had ever heard. “What is it?”
“Well,” said Greg, recovering the pick, “according to spectrum analysis of a small portion—which I freed after three hours’ work with a laser torch—it’s an alloy with the density of titanium, but 104 titanium’s tensile strength.
“What is it?” repeated Bob.
“I’ve no idea—neither does the lab that ran the tests. “But here’s the show stopper.” He took a flashlight from his daypack. “I stumbled onto this while adjusting the laser.” Flicking on the beam, he flashed it onto a dark upper corner of the outcropping, a spot the sun never touched. A tiny green flash responded.
The lower quarter of the outcropping noiselessly swung aside. A neatly finished opening the width of two men yawned before them, dust-laden stairs dropping into the hill’s stygian gloom. Two sets of fresh boot prints, one up and one down, told of recent entry.
For a long moment only the sound of wind and tide playing against the weather side of the hill was heard.
“Oh my,” Bob managed, a quiver to his voice. “The implications of this, if it’s what I believe, are so vast, so sweeping . . .”
“Wait’ll you see the rest,” said Greg.
“Yours?” John asked, pointing to the boot prints.
“From the day before my banishment. Care for a tour?”
“Try to stop me,” said John. “Someone should stand guard,” he added, carefully avoiding Zahava’s return glare. “Hate to get trapped in there.” Relenting only after heavy pleading, she turned to go, pouting. “Better get the Uzi out of my car trunk,” he added, tossing her the keys.
“Expecting another attack?” asked Greg.
“At least,” said John.
Greg led the way with his big hand torch, followed by Bob and John. He counted 150 steps down before the rock-hewn passage turned sharply right, widening into a vaulted chamber, its center dominated by a rough stone altar. The walls tiered upward into equally rude stone benches. In all, John guessed the small chamber might have held fifty people.
“Do you know what this is?” asked Greg, his tone implying they didn’t.
“It would appear to be an altar chamber sacred to Bel of the Celtiberians—the Celtic peoples,” Bob said evenly. He brought out his own light from a baggy tweed pocket and played it over the oval altar stone. “Seeing the earlier sample from here, I was expecting something like this. This chamber could probably be dated around 100 AD, if certain huge conflicts didn’t exist.”
“Such as?” asked John, knowing of at least one: sophisticated technology guarding the entrance to a rude temple contemporary with Augustus Caesar.
“This,” said Bob, holding up the stone fragment John had last seen disappearing into Sutherland’s briefcase. “I had to sign my life away to get this from Bill. As we know, it’s Egyptian of the Middle Kingdom. It fits perfectly, I’ll bet, into that freshly carved niche over the outside entrance way. Your work?” he asked Greg.
“Yes.” The geologist nodded. “I gave it to Joe Antonucchi the night before I was shipped out. I see he managed to get it off before he was killed—a killing, by the way, I only heard about from Cindy a week after it happened.”
“You’re clean,” said John. “The FBI placed you in Shreveport that day. So, you think this is what got Antonucchi killed, Greg?”
“Yes. Once this find was announced, no port facility, no more Royal contract. This would have become the new Area 51. And put a crimp in Director Freddy’s life-style.”
“Yes and no,” said Bob. “If I were Langston, I’d give my right hand to have found this. I’d use it to catapult my scientific career into the heavens. My colleagues would honor me—once they got over the shock and stopped belittling me. Any university in the world would have me on my own terms. Rumors of government intrigue and involvement would only heighten my reputation. And my lecture fees…!” He leaned against the altar, silhouetted by Greg’s powerful light. “You’d do very well out of this, Greg.”
“I know.”
“Besides,” John added. “Royal wouldn’t cancel Leurre’s contract. They’d just move the docking facility to New Bedford and bask in the sheen of Langston’s reflected glory. The positive PR would help overcome the flak they’re taking for wanting to drill here.”
“Any thoughts on the doorway?” asked McShane.
“A million,” Farnesworth grinned. “All culled from Saturday sci-fi reruns. I do have an observation, though. Even under a magnifying glass, there’s no visible separation between rock and door. They seem melded together—maybe on a sub-molecular level.”
Bob cleared his throat. “Well that steals some of my thunder.”
“We interrupted you,” said John. “You were saying about the fragment?”
“I was saying that fragment’s in a language whose peoples were dust five thousand years before the Celts of Europe. There are lucid arguments for the existence of ancient trading routes to the New World from the Classical—Egypt, Tarshish, Carthage. Dead Mediterranean languages have been found carved into rocks throughout North America, especially New England. But this is the first evidence that allegedly unrelated, loose trading confederations not only were established on these shores, but also overlapped, interacting with each other down through time. To believe that two people so far separated in time and origin as the Celts and the Egyptians occupied the same concealed site—concealed, mind you—fifty centuries apart through coincidence . . . well, I can’t accept it. The little green light and its wondrous door only fuel my skepticism.”
Automatic weapons’ fire echoed faintly through the temple.
“Zahava!” cried John, leading the rush for the stairs.
Chapter 5
Zahava had been settled behind some boulders no more than ten minutes when movement in the undergrowth below snapped her to alert.
Led by Fred Langston, a score of M-16 toting Institute security guards were winding their way up the trail toward her. When they were out of the brush, about forty yards away, she shouted, “Halt!” and fired a warning burst.
All but Langston dived for cover. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. “Harrison, is that you?”
“His associate,” Zahava called back.
“I’m unarmed and coming up alone.” Which he did, topping the rough trail quickly, not breaking a sweat.
“Where’s Harrison?” he demanded, ignoring the Uzi’s muzzle leveled at his belly.
“Here.” John appeared from behind the boulder, Greg and Bob behind him.
“Hi Freddy.
“Farnesworth?” Langston turned angrily to John. “Harrison, this area’s strictly off limits. We’re doing some very delicate work up here. No trespassers.”
“I thought I had carte blanche.”
“As relates to Argonaut and the murder. This isn’t related. You have to leave.”
“And if we don’t?”
“I’ll be forced to expel you.” He emphasized “expel.”
“How did you find us, Dr. Langston?” Bob asked, surveying the guards deploying along the hillside. “You and your Delta Force just happen to be grouse hunting?”
“We have an extensive security system.”
“Expensive, certainly,” said John. “Once I make a few phone calls, the FBI will be visiting you in force. You can tell them why you need automatic weapons.”
“You’ll need to leave to make that call—this hill’s a dead zone—no cellphone service. You have three minutes to be on your way, Harrison.” Turning, he started back down the trail.
“Hey, Freddy, I found it,” Greg said, leaning insouciantly against a boulder. Langston froze for an instant, then resumed walking, seeming not to have heard.
“Take cover,” John said. “It’s their move.” He joined Zahava behind the rocks, pistol drawn.
The guards had used the time to find better positions. Reaching them, the Director barked an order, diving for cover.
A hail of M-16 slugs ricocheted off the rocks. The barrage was so intense that John and Zahava couldn’t return the fire. It was only a matter of moments until a bullet would find one of the four.
Gauging a retreat over the hilltop, John saw two black-uniformed figures low-crawling along the crest. Sighting carefully, he snapped off five quick shots. One man rolled backward out of sight, his short, blunt weapon clattering down the hill. The other beat a hasty retreat.
“Cover me!” Greg shouted above the din. As John and Zahava fired, drawing the return fire, the geologist scampered out onto the trail and back again, clutching his prize: the fallen man’s weapon. “M79 grenade launcher,” he panted, breaking open the breach. “My Dad had one of these in ‘Nam.” He snapped the weapon shut.
“Wish my Dad had given me a grenade launcher,” said John. “Or an RPG. We can’t stay here and we can’t retreat. Can you use that?”
“He brought some ammo home, too,” smiled Greg, slamming the weapon shut.
“Yeah, well it’s only got one round. Bob, when you hear the explosion you and Greg run for the passageway. Zahava and I’ll cover you.”
McShane nodded curtly.
“Now!”
Sighting carefully, Greg fired. The grenade exploded between two of Langston’s men, hurling them into the scrub. John and Zahava emptied their magazines into the rest. A light scattering of fire responded. “Let’s go!” said John. They ran after the others.
“Where’s Bob?” John asked Greg, waiting for them inside the open entrance.
“In the altar chamber. Hurry, I’m closing the door.” He shined his light at a point inside the doorway parallel to the sensing device on the outside. The rock swung silently shut. They found Bob busily examining the altar.
“Think they’ll follow?” asked Zahava.
“No. Langston obviously knows what’s here and how to get in. And he knows we’d slaughter his men in that narrow passageway. They’ll post guards and wait for us to die of thirst.”
“Now what?” Greg asked as he and John sat on a bench, sharing a canteen. “You do this stuff for a living.”
John shrugged. “Dunno. Is there another way out?”
“Not that I found.”
“We’re doing brilliantly,” said Bob, looking up from the pedestal. “In one day we’ve uncovered the villain, made archaeological history and stood off a band of desperados. Now all we have to do is get out alive.”
“Please continue your briefing, Bob,” John said. “We have time.”
“My pleasure.” He sat atop the altar, legs crossed, stick by his side. “Let me recap for Zahava what happened while she was topside.” Which he did, continuing in his best seminar manner, “So finding this site creates more mysteries than it solves. We can credit, given the mass of conventionally ignored evidence lying about the New World, that there was a great deal of pre-Columbian exploration of the Americas, stretching from the ancient Mediterraneans forward to the Celts at about the time of Caesar. The Celts, by the way, were superb mariners. Caesar himself says so in the third book of his De Bello Gallico, The Gallic Commentaries.
“Trade between this continent and Europe, we may speculate, effectively ended with the rise of Roman might. The colonists were then absorbed by the ‘natives,’ themselves the children of previous colonies, their heritage long forgotten. From these peoples came the various Native American tribes.
“That, at least, is how archaeology, once it confronts this find, will explain it. What it won’t and can’t explain is the concealment of this site by a sophisticated technology at least equal to ours yet dating from the site’s construction.
“Equally bizarre is the seemingly successive sharing of this site by the diverse peoples who touched these shores. Such a technology, such an artful melding of different cultures, bespeaks a sophisticated guiding force, a mentor, stretching forth its hand through the centuries. Who built this place and why? How many different feet have trod here? And, more pressing, why is Langston so determined to keep it secret?”
“Aren’t you leaping to conclusions, Professor?” asked Greg.
“What’s your alternative? Piltdown Man, the Hitler diaries, an elaborate hoax?”
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