The Milestone Protocol

by Ernest Dempsey

  “You don’t have to tell me about it,” Sean soothed. “Why don’t you go take a shower. The hot water will do you some good, help you relax a bit.”

  Kevin nodded absently. Then he twisted his head and looked over at the satchel on the desk. Sean’s eyes followed.

  “What is it?” Sean asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Breath blew out of Kevin’s nostrils with the answer. “It’s a copper tablet or plate. Remarkably well preserved, actually. I took it to the university in Volgograd to have it validated. We wanted to make certain it wasn’t a fake.”

  “Well? Is it?”

  “As far as we can tell, it’s authentic, though some of the tests they ran will take a little longer to confirm. Because the tablet lacked significant deterioration—which is one of the ways we can date artifacts—the lab had to use alternative, slower methods.”

  Sean was familiar with the techniques used to extract date ranges from artifacts. The lab at IAA headquarters in Atlanta used some of the best technology in the world for such investigations.

  “May I see it?” Sean indicated the bag with a flick of his eyes.

  “Sure,” Kevin said, a little off guard. His thoughts had wandered, probably to any number of places or events that had rocked his world in the last ten hours.

  He unclasped the satchel, then pulled back the zipper and withdrew a large plastic bag containing the copper plate.

  He laid it on the desk atop the satchel to give it a cushion, then carefully opened the plastic. “I need gloves,” he realized, and pulled a pair of white cotton gloves out of the satchel’s side pouch.

  Once his hands were covered, he opened the bag and pulled out the tablet, laying it atop the plastic.

  Sean scanned the artifact, his eyes poring over it intently. “Looks like Mongolian,” he said.

  “It is. Classical Mongolian. It’s different than the current language being used in Mongolia and certain parts of China, but there are some similarities. I’m impressed you recognize it.”

  Sean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I guess we’re all full of surprises, huh?” It was a question that came out more as a statement.

  “So it would seem. Can you read it?”

  “Uh, that would be a no, Dr. Clark. I speak and read several foreign languages, but not Mongolian. Especially a version you refer to as classical.”

  “Call me Kevin, please. You saved my life, Sean. I am in your debt.”

  “Prolonged.”

  “Excuse me?” Kevin was hunched over the artifact and looked up at Sean.

  “No one can save a life. No human, anyway. We can prolong them, but death comes to us all, Kevin.”

  “Touché.” He returned to his study of the script engraved on the tablet. “Mongolian reads, as you probably know, in vertical columns instead of horizontal like we’re accustomed to.”

  “And what does it say?”

  “That’s what’s so interesting. It appears to be a message from a very important person. If I didn’t know better, I’d say one of the Khans issued it.”

  “What makes you say that?” Sean wondered. He crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side.

  “It bears the seal of the Khan,” Kevin answered matter-of-factly. He pointed at the bottom of the tablet, to a worn mark engraved into the metal. “If I had to guess, and I don’t like guessing, I would say it’s the seal of Jani Beg Khan, the ruler of the Golden Horde from 1341 to 1357. He was the son of Öz Beg, the ruler who led the Golden Horde to some of its most prominent years.”

  Sean puzzled over the script as he listened. “I have to admit, I know a lot about world history and American history, but Mongolia’s history is one area I’m a touch weak on. Are all of those Khans related to Genghis?”

  “For the most part, though some of them were distant relatives. The crown of Mongolia was often the center of much contention. Quarrels broke out amid the family ranks, and many times the fighting led to assassinations or outright challenges to the death. Often, brothers would fight against each other for the throne, each claiming their rightful place. It was very different—in many ways—to most other monarchies where the oldest had the first claim to the throne.”

  “Interesting,” Sean mused. “Heavy lies the crown, although I suppose that has been an issue for most monarchs throughout history.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What about the rest of the message?”

  Kevin straightened and placed his hands on his lower back to stretch. “That’s the truly odd part. It talks about death and suffering in the beginning of the message, which makes sense.”

  “What do you mean?” Sean tilted his head to the side and shifted his feet.

  “You really don’t know much about Jani Beg, do you?”

  “Pretty much nothing.”

  Kevin acknowledged with a nod. “That’s okay. Most people don’t. Unless your area of expertise happens to be Mongolian history, there are few out there who would know much about any of the Khans, save for Genghis and his immediate successors.”

  He picked up one of the complimentary bottles of water on the desk and pried off the lid. “Do you mind?” Kevin asked. “I’m so thirsty.”

  “Have them both,” Sean said, motioning to the second bottle. “They come with the room, but I can get more.”

  “I’m sorry if this place was expensive. I’ll be happy to reimburse—”

  “Not necessary. The IAA can cover it. Besides, this room was cheap. Most of the hotels are inexpensive in Bulgaria, especially this time of year. Honestly, I need to visit here more often. The people are so nice, and it’s a very relaxed culture.”

  “Huh,” Kevin said after taking a big swallow. “I guess I never realized. I always thought of some of these old Eastern Bloc countries as rundown old communist nations.”

  “Yet you do a significant portion of your work in Russia.”

  Kevin chuckled. “Fair point.” He set down the bottle and went back to the subject of the message. “The beginning of the text that mentions suffering and death is referring to the Black Death that ravaged most of the known world. It’s estimated that seventy-five to two hundred million people died between 1347 and 1351.”

  “And Jani Beg ruled one of the more powerful nations during that period.”

  “Yes. And some would say that he was one of the primary reasons the Black Death spread so quickly.”

  “How so?” Sean asked. He raised a thumb to his chin and scratched it for a moment. The scruff on his face had grown over the last few days, and he needed a shave—or Adriana would say he did. Sean got the impression she didn’t like the stubble.

  Kevin blew through his lips, flapping them to express the gravity of his answer. “In 1347, the plague had already decimated his forces. Soldiers were dying throughout his camp. To be honest, Jani Beg was lucky it didn’t take his life as well. The siege dragged on, and as he realized he was losing men while the Genoese inside the city walls simply resupplied from the sea, Jani Beg knew that he couldn’t keep it up forever. Then he had an idea. He used the siege engines to fling his diseased dead over the city walls, spreading the Black Death to those inside.”

  Sean opened his mouth in a silent “ah.”

  “So,” Kevin went on, “when the people within the walls started getting sick, the Genoese traders fled back to Italy, thinking they could outrun the plague. Instead, they carried it back to Europe. Most died on the journey. Once they were in Italy, it spread throughout the continent like a wildfire doused with gasoline.”

  “I wonder, if he realized the impact that decision would have, would he do it again?”

  “I would think so. He was one of those guys who rose to power by killing off his brothers—two of them, in fact. The Khans could be ruthless; it was part of the nature of their ascendancy.”

  Kevin turned his attention back to the tablet. “The rest of this inscription, however, is strange. It looks like the ramblings of a madman.”

  “Did Jani Beg end up going a
little crazy toward the end?”

  Kevin bobbed his head in multiple directions. “Maybe. It’s possible. Many of his line grew more paranoid with old age, which was certainly a result of the constant threat of conspiracy and assassination that surrounded them. The inscription says that this is what they wanted, that he was deceived, and they are always watching, calculating, weighing the sins of man in the balance.”

  Sean stood silent for several seconds. His wrinkled brow and set jaw told Kevin he was thinking hard about the bizarre script.

  “Was he talking about angels or gods or something?” Sean asked finally.

  Kevin let his eyes wander back down to the tablet. “It’s difficult to say. He was a Muslim, so there were religious influences in his life. It’s possible he was talking about some kind of supernatural beings. Or it may have simply been people who wanted him dead, conspirators or those with ambition. He was assassinated in 1357.”

  “So, that must explain it.”

  “Perhaps,” Kevin hedged. “Except that doesn’t jibe with the last few passages.”

  “Which say?”

  Kevin traced the vertical lines of text with a gloved finger. “The saint guards the rose stone. But be warned. The power of the gods can it unleash, for those who mean to rule.”

  Sean stared at the tablet. Kevin didn’t mention the two symbols at the bottom of the plate, and Sean decided to let it go for the time being. He did, however, know what they were. Sean recognized them from Egyptian history. The ankh was easy enough to identify. He’d seen the image tattooed on people at bars, theme parks, and swimming pools—used as a common design with virtually no meaning to the wearer.

  He knew what it meant, though, and where it came from, just like he knew the second symbol. The bird’s long beak, squat body, and skinny legs were unmistakable standing within the confines of a crescent moon. The ibis was a sacred bird in ancient Egypt, and the likeness on this tablet represented one of the images of the Egyptian god, Thoth.

  For several heartbeats, neither man said anything for what felt like ten minutes.

  “I’m not sure what to make of it,” Kevin admitted after he felt like the appropriate amount of time had passed. “He suggests whoever these beings are must be some kind of kings. And I don’t know what saint he’s talking about. He was a Muslim. It wouldn’t be a Christian saint.”

  Sean’s face darkened, and he slumped into the nearest chair, his tanned face turning to ash. “I think it’s best if we get some sleep,” he said, hiding something with his words.

  Kevin analyzed the man, but he couldn’t get a read on him. “Okay, Sean. Sure. Good idea, although I’m not sure I’ll be able to.”

  “You have a lot on your heart and mind. I’ll order a bottle of something from room service. That will help you fall asleep. What do you like?”

  “Scotch,” Kevin said, he realized, too quickly.

  Sean winced, but pouted his lower lip in understanding. “Okay. I’ll see what they have. You take a shower. Hopefully, the bottle will be here before you get out.”

  A few minutes later, Sean heard the sounds of the water spewing out of the shower head. He called down to the front office and ordered a bottle of whatever scotch they had, though he did it reluctantly. He didn’t care for the stuff, but it wasn’t for him. Nothing would help him sleep that night. Not with what weighed heavily on his mind.

  He sensed something he’d not felt in his entire life, a feeling that gnawed at his gut. Something terrible was coming. He could almost smell it, like an invisible storm about to roll over the mountains and wreak havoc in an adjacent valley.

  Sean needed to find out if his hunch was right. And he prayed it wasn’t.

  7

  Location Undisclosed

  Buri walked confidently into the sitting room. His expensive black leather shoes clicked on the white marble floors. The freshly pressed Italian suit barely fluttered in the breeze as he glided through the lavish halls. He noted the gray veins that streaked each of the marble tiles, the white columns that braced the domed ceiling overhead, each cylinder spaced at equal distance in a circle within the room. White leather couches were positioned against the walls with black and red accent pillows. Gunmetal sconces lined the corridor leading into the gargantuan, circular room. Dim yellow bulbs glowed, giving off enough light to illuminate the spaces but also leaving it dark enough to allow a sense of mystery.

  Two guards accompanied Buri, one on either side, as he strode into the center of the room where two white leather chairs sat at an angle, facing to a singular point where a shared cigar ashtray stood atop a gilded plinth.

  Buri stopped at the two empty chairs and waited. The two guards waited for instructions. They weren’t his personal security team. Those men had been instructed to wait outside the mansion while the host provided his personal bodyguards to escort the powerful man into the palatial home.

  It had been a harrowing experience for Buri just to get there.

  He ran a hand over his thinning hair to press down any loose strands that might have rebelled against the rest. He had to look his best, after all. Buri answered to few people in life. World leaders were beneath him. The cowering herds of humanity gathered like sheep in his dominion, none ever truly knowing what was going on, who was pulling the strings.

  His appointment, however, was the one person he bowed to, the one who gave him all his authority, power, and financial fortitude. Buri knew that this man, the one who led the shadow caste, could build or destroy empires with a single phone call.

  Buri had to look his best for this meeting. The man they called Odin appreciated professionalism. And while Buri assumed he was being called in to meet with Odin for questioning regarding the incident at Hell’s Gate, he was confident he had a good explanation for the man who held sway over his life.

  Odin, of course, was the name of the All Father in Norse mythology, the great warrior god who reigned from his throne in the realm of Asgard, weighing the fates and determining the destinies of the people of Earth.

  This Odin was no god; at least Buri didn’t believe so. He’d been around the man often enough to know that he was mortal and would—eventually—have to pass the torch on to another. Buri coveted the role, as did the other leaders of the various societies under Odin’s rule. The man was no god, but he held information that made him as much to the rest of humanity as any who’d ever walked the earth. And much like the ancient deity, he too held sway over the lives of human beings and governments.

  Buri commanded an incredible amount of power, but even he had to kneel at the feet of Odin, the leader of the shadow caste. Only the leader could decide who would take the reins after Odin’s demise, unless he didn’t designate a successor. In that case, the council would decide, and Buri didn’t want it to fall on their judgment. Deep down, Buri held out hope that his determination and persistence with the Quantium experiment he’d conducted at Hell’s Gate would be applauded, but he knew that was unlikely. He’d failed, and done so without permission, hoping to access a gate that would enable him to travel between dimensions, and perhaps even through time itself.

  “Hello, Buri.” The voice spoke from somewhere in the room, but the man didn’t appear.

  It wasn’t his first meeting with Odin in this way. Buri had only met the man face to face on two occasions. Those meetings allowed him to put an image to the voice.

  Buri bent a knee on the floor before an imaginary throne. “Thank you for allowing me into your sanctuary, Great Leader.” Buri’s words echoed off the hard floor and reverberated up into the domed ceiling where they died.

  “Sit,” the voice boomed.

  “Yes, Great Leader.”

  Buri rose from his position and shifted, moving to the chair on the right, knowing that Odin would always reserve the one on the left.

  When Buri was sitting comfortably in the chair, the voice spoke again. “Tell me what happened in Bolivia.”

  “Well.…” Buri began, his bony fingers lacing togeth
er on his lap. He crossed one leg over his knee in an effort to remain calm, but this man was the one person on the planet who made him nervous. A single wrong word, and the two guards who’d escorted him into the sitting room would kill him in a second. “I discovered the stones that were used by the ancient ones at the Sun Gate in Bolivia. I also found enough Quantium to power the gate and open the portal. It should have worked. I’m still not sure what happened.”

  “You attempted to open one of the ancient portals without my permission,” Odin said. His voice remained calm, matter-of-fact, though Buri could feel the disapproval under the man’s tone.

  “Yes,” Buri confessed. “I thought it unwise to bother you with such matters.”

  “This is not a trivial thing, Buri. You could have undone everything we have worked for throughout the ages.”

  “I was careful, sir.”

  “Not careful enough.” Odin’s voice boomed throughout the room and echoed down the corridor. “There are a few who know what happened, who were there when you failed. Now those people must be eliminated.”

  “You speak of the researchers from the IAA, Master. I assure you, they will be no trouble. I will handle it as soon as I get back to—”

  “It’s already handled,” Odin said in a foreboding tone.

  Buri looked up from staring at the floor. He didn’t know where to look, though he thought one of the cameras perched along the wall opposite him was probably correct.

  “You killed them?” Buri sounded surprised, though he shouldn’t have been. Odin’s capabilities were virtually limitless.

  “No,” the voice said. “I said it’s handled.”

  Buri couldn’t hide the puzzlement on his face. He tilted his head to the side, visibly trying to process the information.

  “They went back to their hole in Atlanta,” Odin explained. “There was nothing left for them to investigate at the blast site. Unfortunately, because of your carelessness, an ancient portal was destroyed.”

  The accusatory tone struck a nerve with Buri. He quickly turned defensive.