"Tootsie."
"Oh geez."
Following the skid marks in the sand we traced the plane back to its initial approach. Staying clear of the waves washing on the west shore, I studied the ocean. Sure enough, there was something jagged just under the surface, momentarily exposed with the crest and gully of the waves. I pointed it out to George and asked for his opinion.
Adjusting a set of folding binoculars, George scrutinized the formations. “Too regular to be natural,” he decided. “And yet too irregular to be a trap."
"Conclusion?"
"A waterfront dock in extremely bad condition. See? Those are the pylons, and out there, the breakers."
That alleviated my fears of us hitting a sea serpent. A little bit, anyway. Proceeding along the edge of the beach, we encountered nothing interesting until the far east end. The thing was mostly hidden by a mass of seaweed, but enough showed. It was the body of a human male in a scuba suit laying face down on the shore. Since he was making no effort to turn over, his lifeless condition was self-evident. Even more so when we moved the seaweed to find only half of the body. From the hips down, he was gone. His wet suit ending in a ghastly view of bones and intestines. There were pressurized airtanks strapped to his back, the breathing hose still in his mouth, and a cracked mask on his face. A bulky sealed bag was over a shoulder and an underwater equipment belt encircled his waist.
I beeped the team on my wristwatch, and they came a running, weapons at the ready. At a safe distance, the group halted and inspected the beach before moving closer. But there was nothing dangerous or suspicious showing, so they joined us with the corpse.
Carefully turning him over, George removed the diving mask. Not a friendly face. Looked like the kind of guy who wouldn't smile without written permission from the boss. He had been a big man, with the kind of a muscular build that comes from hard manual labor, not a gymnasium. His hands were heavily callused, especially along the edge of the palms. I pointed this out to Mindy, who checked the tips of his fingers and thumbnails.
"A fellow martial artist, without a doubt,” she declared. “Definitely a student of karate, with a high probability of something else."
"Strong and trained. A formidable opponent. Father?” I requested pointing to the lower extremities.
"Bitten,” the priest said kneeling, inspecting the wound with a pocket medical probe. “But not by a shark. There's no ripping or tearing of the tissues. This is a single clean slice, almost as if done with a guillotine."
"Interesting. Hypothesis?"
"None."
"Hasn't been dead long, either,” Richard remarked, pressing the pale skin on a forearm with the tip of his staff. “No rigor mortis and the flesh hasn't become bloated with water."
This was hardly dinner conversation, but then we weren't first-timers to this sort of thing. Dead bodies were an occupational hazard. Happily, Abduhl seemed unperturbed. Good man.
"Let's check his stuff,” I directed.
In the waterproof holster at his hip was a 10mm automatic pistol filled with explosive bullets. The manufacturer's name and serial number had been filed off. Odd. An ammo pouch in his belt held ten additional clips, a silver edged combat knife, and four thermite grenades. The bag contained nothing more than the expected spare clothes without labels, generic compressed food and assorted no-name camping gear. But hidden inside a pair of rolled socks, we found a small book in an unknown language. I passed it to our resident scholar.
"That's Greek,” Father Donaher identified, thumbing through the pages.
"Can you read it?"
He gazed at me askance. “I am a Catholic priest."
"So?"
"The original version of the New Testament is in ancient Greek."
"I thought it was in Latin,” Mindy said puzzled.
Donaher scowled mightily. “The Old Testament was written in Hebrew, New Testament in Greek. They were both converted into Latin about 200 AD."
"Oh."
Under his breath, the priest muttered something about dullards and heretics. Better not have been talking about me.
Callously, we stripped the body, searching for additional clues. He wore only swim trunks under the wet suit, as was standard practice. There were no tattoos, but his body was a mass of thin scars, mostly on the back. On a hunch, I checked about his neck and sure enough found a set of invisible dogtags. Setting my sunglasses to maximum, I was able to dimly perceive some flowing script on the metallic ovals.
"Machlokta d'Sitna,” I said, wiping my fingers off in the sand.
"Satan Department,” Richard translated, taking a step away.
Jessica hawked and spit on the corpse.
"Who?” Captain Hassan asked, hooking both thumbs into his wide belt.
We explained. Satan Department was an old and bitter enemy of ours. Operating as a counterpart to the Bureau, they did not neutralize, or subdue evil supernaturals. But instead, tried to enlist and, if necessary, brainwash, the creatures into becoming spies and assassins for their government. In addition, we strongly believed them to be the masterminds of the slaughter of ‘87. If we ever got any proof, we'd find their headquarters in the Elburz Mountains and reduce it to a smoking hole. We held them in lower esteem than used car dealers.
"My own people,” Hassan said in disgust. “Well, come on, Father. Get it over with."
Raising a hairy eyebrow, Donaher scowled. “What?"
"The last rites, or whatever you call them."
"You are joking,” the priest said coldly.
Abduhl appeared flustered. “You ... you aren't going to lay his soul to rest?"
"A Satan Department agent?” Donaher said, his voice rising in timber. “A murderer, heretic and worse? One of the people who tried to assassinate his holiness, the Pope, and stole the Shroud of Turin, leaving that awful copy in its place? Never! May he burn in hell for all eternity!” An awkward silence followed, as the priest turned and walked towards the plane.
"You guys play hardball,” Hassan softly said.
Mindy kicked sand on the body. “And don't you forget it."
"What about meat-boy here?” George asked, nudging the body with the barrel of his rifle.
"Let his bones bleach in the sun,” Richard snarled in raw hatred.
"And his weapons?"
"Leave them. We have more than enough. Besides they might be booby trapped."
"Good point.” I clapped my hands. “Okay, people, spread out. Let's see what other delights we can find."
Fanning out in a standard search pattern, the team poked and prodded their way along the beach. I followed the shoreline to the plane and was working my way back along the bottom of the cliff where I found Mindy and Michael talking in animated conversation.
"Find something?” I asked, joining them.
"We're just studying this door,” she said, pointing to the blank wall.
Confused, I looked at the cliff with my Bureau sunglasses. It appeared perfectly normal. “What door?"
Father Donaher gestured. “Step closer."
As I did, a door appeared in the cliff. A sharp cut rectangle set in a recessed alcove. Pretty high flouting illusion to beat my glasses. This beach was becoming a plethora of surprises. On the lintel above the portal there was an arcane symbol of some sort and a collection of tiny squares set in staggered horizontal lines. Interesting. Ornamental design, or message?
"Jess, can you get any impressions?” I asked hopefully.
Occasionally by holding an object the telepath could tell us a wide variety of things about the owner; age, sex, disposition, inclination, political affiliations, all sorts of stuff.
"Just old,” she said, hugging herself. “Very, very old. Two thousand, three thousand years. Maybe more."
That was something anyway. Going with the theory of Occam's Razor, I tried the obvious first. The simplest answer is often correct. But no hinges or handle were readily apparent. I checked in the usual places for hidden levers, or counterweights, to no ava
il. I could see why they called for me. Pulling out an old fashioned magnifying glass from my fatigue jacket pocket, I examined the portal from top to bottom and side to side. The smooth flowing grain of the stone was almost hypnotizing in its dull regularity.
"Well?” Donaher asked eagerly.
"Beats me,” I admitted stepping away and brushing sand off my knees. “Couldn't locate a pinhole for physical manipulation and the doorjamb is too fine for jimmying."
"Try something else,” Mindy suggested helpfully.
"What a grand notion. Unfortunately, I can think of any number of ways it may be unlocked; a magnetic key waved over the correct spot, radio message beamed in code, vocal command like ‘Open Sesame'.” I waited. Nothing happened. Oh well. “Whoever built this knew what they were doing."
The rest of the team had gathered round by then and were brought up to date.
"Blast it open,” George said, reaching into a canvas bag over his shoulder. “We have plenty of C4."
Judiciously, I decided to give Richard a try first.
Drawing his wand, the wizard chose a page from his book and gave a short incantation. A stream of sparkles flowed from the tip to dash against the portal in a pyrotechnic display of multi-colored lights and nothing more.
"Sealed,” he said at last, lowering the wand. “There was a faint indication of an internal mechanism, so it is a doorway. But the thing is so heavily magic shielded, we may have to use dynamite."
"C4,” George corrected with a smile.
"Hopefully not,” Father Donaher drawled. “That would only preclude us from closing it again behind us, and might just inform the whole damn island that we're here.” There was general agreement to that.
I addressed Mindy and George. “Bring the supplies. When we get this open, it may only be so for a short time and we better be ready to move."
"Good idea,” she said, and they departed.
The sea breeze tugging at her hair, Jessica worried a knuckle. “Too bad we can't leave a radio beacon, or broadcast a message, to the Bureau in case this cloud lifts."
"The radio is in working order,” Hassan said, sliding back his cap. “But much too cumbersome to bring along."
"Then leave it inside the plane,” I decided curtly. “Can you key it to broadcast a short message every hour?"
"Easily. But the set is powered by the engines, with them gone, the batteries won't last for more than a day."
I frowned. “Damn."
"Excuse me, but we have electrical power coming out of our ears,” Richard said, rolling up sleeves.
"Whatchamean?” the pilot asked.
"The NASA fuel cells,” he said simply.
Hassan and I exchanged glances declaring our total abject stupidity. Quiet and efficient, the fuel cells were what NASA used to power space shuttles. Utilizing ionic polarization to chemically convert methane into electricity, the fuel cells would calmly sit there generating power for the next month, whether we used them or not.
"Right,” Hassan chuckled, starting to run off. “I'll get right to work re-wiring the—"
With a startled cry, Captain Hassan lurched, red blood spraying from his neck. As we rushed forward, a watery something behind him yanked a crystal spear from his neck and the pilot dropped to the sand.
Standing brazen, the translucent creature was vaguely humanoid in shape, but totally devoid of any details; facial, bodily or otherwise. Nothing more than an outline. Ridiculous as it sounded, the thing appeared to be made of fluid water, for its body sloshed as the creature waddled toward us and threw the ice spear in a three fingered hand. I ducked and Richard knocked the spear out of the air with his staff.
"Take it alive for questioning,” I ordered, drawing my pistol.
Going into a marksmen stance, Father Donaher snapped off a shot with his pistol, hitting the thing in the shoulder and the water creature burst apart in a gush, the liquid contents flowing into the beach. I watched for treachery in the sand, but apparently it was gone. Maybe they were specifically vulnerable to lead. What a nice change that would be from wooden stakes, silver bullets or depleted uranium slugs.
Then Jessica cried an alarm and I saw several more of the creatures coming from the west. We tried wounding them, but a single shot and poof.
"These guys are wimps,” Richard declared, as a ray from his wand blasted the last and it dissolved into the sand.
Sadly, Jessica agreed. Even her stun rifle had killed them.
A wave from the sea washed onto the shore and four more of the water creatures were formed. Relentlessly, they started waddling forward, ice spears and axes glittering in their chubby mitts.
"Yeah, but there's an ocean of them to seven of us,” I noted. “They will just keep coming until we run out of ammo and eventually keel over from exhaustion."
"Any suggestions?” Jessica asked, holstering her taser and sliding a shotgun off her shoulder. She jacked the pump with one hand, chambering a cartridge.
Another wave. Six, this time.
"Keep firing for the present. Michael, check Hassan."
The priest thumped over to the sprawled form and reached to turn him over. Steam arose at the touch and he jumped back.
"Dead,” the big man said, painfully flexing his fingers. “Frozen solid. I nearly got frostbite just touching his clothes."
I gazed at Richard. “Wimps, huh?” He shrugged.
At this point, Mindy and George returned loaded with our packs, gainfully pushing a wheeled cart over the hard packed sand. Thank God we hadn't tossed both of them overboard. At the end of the beach, I could see a dozen or so of the water demons beating on the plane with their axes. Rapidly, the fuselage started to cake over with ice and I kissed the rest of our supplies goodbye. Even if we fought our way to the DC-3, there was no way we could defrost an aircraft and protect ourselves simultaneously.
Yanking aside the canvas covering the cart, I snatched a bag of ammo and an M16/M79 assault rifle. Half machine gun, half grenade launcher, it combined spray-and-pray firepower with big punch capability and was my favorite thing in times of trouble this side of Not Being There In The First Place.
"How's Abduhl?” Mindy demanded, tossing Donaher a pack.
The priest made the catch. “Dead. For keeps."
Stringing her bow, Mindy spat an oath that could have raised a bloodblister on boot leather. Wow. Guess she had really liked the pilot a lot. Too bad.
"George!” I barked, shoving a 40mm shell into the breech of the bottom-slung grenade launcher. The upper machine gun already had a fully loaded 30 round clip in it.
"Ed?” the soldier panted, as he helped Richard don a bulky backpack twice the size of the others.
"Get the door."
"Check."
Grabbing a sealed plastic tube, he pulled the arming pin, extended the muzzle, flipped up the sights, released the safety, aimed and fired. On a lance of fire, the Light Anti-Tank Weapon rocket impacted directly on the rock and detonated with spectacular results. We rushed forward, but halted as the smoke cleared and could see that the surface was undamaged, not even a scratch.
"Have to try something else,” he sighed tossing the exhausted rocket launcher aside.
Watching the beach, Mindy notched an arrow from her double-quiver. “There's no time!"
"Don't be an idiot,” George snapped. “We have plenty of time.” Taking a grenade from a carton on the cart, he pulled the pin, flipped the handle and tossed the canister on the shore, where it bounced along the beach and splashed into the water. A split second later, the ocean jumped and formed a geyser of boiling steam. The process continued as George lined the shore every few meters with the canisters.
"Those are thermite grenades,” he explained lugubriously. “A non-stoppable chemical reaction which burns at 3,000 degrees Kelvin, the surface temperature of the sun. The ocean won't put it out. Can't. On the contrary, the oxygen in the water will only act as additional fuel, maybe doubling the burning time."
George glanced at his watc
h. “Okay, I just bought us five minutes. Now you brainy types solve the door."
"Three on three,” I ordered. “Group A, the door."
Father Donaher, Richard and Mindy returned their attention to the problem, as George, Jessica and I assumed a defensive position to protect their rear.
Racking the bolt on my machine gun, I spoke to Jessica. “Sometimes, I wonder if we shouldn't put George in charge."
"I think he already is,” she replied in a stage whisper.
More water babies tried to rise from the sea, and departed this world with a minimum of fuss.
The scholars nosily debated the virtues of the portal, arguing pedantically over this and that. The sea was starting to cool, when a cry of victory cut through the verbal morass.
"Details,” I snapped.
Father Donaher spoke, “Those squares above the door can be depressed in the manner of a keyboard. They must be the way in."
"Great!"
"Not really,” Richard added over his shoulder. “With almost a hundred squares, there's over eight hundred thousand possible three digit combinations, and the entrance code might be a four, ten, or even a hundred integers."
Triggering the M16, I mowed down a fresh group of waddling wonders coming in from the east. “Doing the gambit would take longer than we have, that's for damn sure."
"Wait, I got an idea,” Jessica said, punctuating each word with a shotgun blast.
"Okay, switch!” I cried.
The two groups changed positions.
"Talk fast, lady,” I suggested as we gathered around the door.
She pointed to the symbol on the lintel above the rectangle. “Might that not be an icon for water?"
"What if it is?” George asked, resting the butt of his rifle on a hip.
"Well, you must have observed the definite water motif in every attack on us."
"And?” I snapped impatiently.
"I'm betting the key for entrance is water."
"Okay, spell water."
"How?” Jessica demanded. “There's no letters."
An easy problem. “Anybody touch type?” I asked above the gunfire. Donaher could. He and George moved and the priest tried the ploy. Results, negative.
"Try Greek,” Mindy suggested, loosening a Bureau arrow with violent results.
Judgment Night [BUREAU 13 Book One] Page 10
