by Greig Beck
“On the plane,” Matt said.
“Yes, on the plane.” Mercer sounded like he had gotten to his feet. “Well, seems you’re a man in demand; they requested you personally. Apparently you’re on their books.”
Matt slumped in his leather chair. He groaned. “I’m on the books,” he repeated softly. “Sir, I’m not…”
“Please call me Edward.”
“Edward, I’m not sure I want to get involved in any more government projects right now.”
“Nonsense – a few days, a week at most, and then next thing you know, you’ll be guiding young minds through the intricacies and beauty of ancient languages. Just as you were famed for doing in these halls of Harvard. You’ll make a fine addition, and I personally can’t wait to have you back in the fold…with us.”
“If I help?” Matt said, weakly.
“If you help, yes, Matthew. It’s a small thing and you can consider it part of the interview process,” Mercer said, hurrying him now.
“No jungles or caves, right?” Matt held his breath.
“Not that I know of, Matthew. Straight translation work – in and out in little more than a day or so, I expect,” Mercer added, sounding bored now.
Matt sighed and closed his eyes. He drained his beer. “Okay, what are the flight details?”
Chapter 6
Hanscom Air Force Base, Massachusetts
The dark blue car eased to a stop and the door pushed open. Matt swiveled his legs out of the passenger side and dropped his bag on the ground, whistling as he looked up at the massive aircraft on the runway.
Beside him the driver leaned forward on the wheel and followed his gaze.
“Yep, she’s a big baby – C17 Globemaster III. That beautiful girl can lift well over half a million pounds of payload at a cruise speed of just under Mach 1.”
“Wow.” Matt turned. “Just how many of us will be onboard?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
The driver grinned. “Well, that there is one of our strategic airlift transports and can take one hundred and thirty fully kitted out troops.” His grin widened. “Or six VIPs, you being one of them.” He winked and then gave a small salute as Matt stepped out and closed the door.
The driver called, “Enjoy your holiday, sir.” He spun the wheel and the dark sedan accelerated away.
“Holiday, huh?” Matt picked up his pack, and headed toward the huge aircraft. The ramp was down at the rear, but the interior was nothing but a black hole at this distance. When he was still a hundred feet away, a figure half appeared at a tiny side door, spotted him, and came down the metal foldout steps quickly. She jogged to him, smiling, hand stuck out from twenty feet away.
“We meet again.” He grabbed her hand and shook it. “Hey, it wasn’t you that had anything to do with me being here, was it?”
She smiled wholesomely and disarmed him immediately. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for academics with charm and boyish good looks. Come on.” She turned and headed back to the plane.
“So, Syria, huh?” he asked, looking up and up at the enormous aircraft.
She nodded. “Now you’re here, we’ll do introductions, and then a formal briefing when we’re under way.”
“I’m the last?” Matt’s feet clanged on the incongruously flimsy metal steps.
“Yep, last but not least.” Tania stopped just inside, and held out an arm directed past the cockpit to the rear of the plane.
Hollow, was Matt’s first impression. Inside the metal skin of the aircraft, the slightly oval shape was enormous at nearly seventy feet in length, about twelve high and eighteen wide. But it was nearly empty. There were just six chairs – two by two in three rows, each fixed to the middle of the craft. There was a small bench-type structure in front of each – a small island for work and rest in a gigantic echo chamber.
A tall man stood at the front: mid forties, looking fit and only slightly army. However, either side of him there were two sharp-eyed military guys who looked tough enough to break boards with their hands and heads. Matt recognized the type – Special Forces. He also recognized the geologist Andy Bennet from the sinkhole at Iowa, and waved.
The tall man raised his hand. “Now, I can say: Good morning, everyone.” He smiled broadly. “Firstly, I’d like to welcome Professor Matthew Kearns and welcome back Chief Geologist Andrew Bennet, and thank both of them for joining us at such short notice. Matt, Andy, my name is Major Joshua Abrams. I am the chief science officer for US STRATCOM, and I’ll be the mission leader on this little trip.”
Andy stuck up his hand, but Abrams shook his head. “Later. You’ve both met Captain Tania Kovitz, our senior archeologist. And these two big guys either side of me here are lieutenants Lester Hartogg and Rick Berry. They will be our support officers.”
On face value, both of the huge men simply looked bored, but their eyes were alert. It’s always the eyes, Matt thought. They were the giveaway of a killer. Berry’s were dark and pitiless. Hartogg’s were ice blue, set in a ruddy face with red hair and stubble – he would have made a good Viking. The men’s flat-eyed stares spoke of the more brutal aspects of combat – receiving and, undoubtedly, delivering.
Matt exhaled slowly. If they needed soldiers of this caliber, then Mercer’s “straight translation work – in and out in a day” talk might not have been the whole truth.
“That’s all we need to do for now. The distance to Aleppo in Syria is five thousand four hundred and seventy miles, and should take us just on fourteen hours. I’m sure that’ll give us plenty of time to get to know each other real good. After we take off and then have leveled out, there will be a formal briefing. Until then…” Abrams gave them a small informal salute before looking over their heads to the cockpit. Matt spun in time to see the pilots close the cabin door. Almost immediately, there was an electronic whine and the huge metal tongue of a rear ramp began to lift. At the same time, the smooth sound of the Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines came to life.
Matt turned back and saw Tania Kovitz looking at him, so he smiled and nodded. She returned the gesture. Maybe the trip might not be so bad after all, he thought. Next he leaned forward and saluted Andy. The geologist gave him a lopsided grin: he seemed to have recovered from being near buried alive. It was the first time he’d gotten a good look at the guy, what with them having spent most of their last encounter in HAZMAT suits. Andy looked only slightly older than he was, and had short sandy hair and a tan line that stopped halfway up his forehead – Matt had seen them before on guys that wore hardhats in the field.
They took their seats, Abrams and Hartogg in the front row, then Tania and Berry, followed by him and Andy in the rear two. Matt gritted his teeth as the huge machine rumbled down the runway and lifted into the air. It seemed no time at all before his ears had popped and Abrams was unbuckling and getting to his feet.
The major stood, his expression more formal, in one hand a slim electronic tablet. Now that they were sealed in and on their way to about twenty-eight thousand feet, he knew there was no backing out. He held his arms out wide.
“Our mission is one of many. In a way we are an exploratory team investigating the sinkhole occurrences happening across the world. To date, there have been a thousand significant earth-drop events across the United States, and globally the number is twenty times that…that we know of. We now know there are holes opening up below the ocean, so at greater depths, beyond our scopes, there could be many, many more.”
“Thousands?” Matt frowned.
Andy nodded. “Yep, and earth-drop is probably a better description than sinkhole for what’s going on. A sinkhole usually implies subsurface water – none of these have had that cause. Instead, the earth simply drops away without any discernible geological influence. It’s weird.”
Abrams smiled grimly. “Andy is right.” He paced. “He was also the first geologist on site in Iowa for what we’re calling the genesis event. Although there could have been smaller ones earlier, this was the first one where we managed to obta
in samples – all of which still defy explanation. Bottom line is, we’re stumped as to what’s causing these events, as is almost everyone else.”
“Almost?” Matt asked.
“Almost.” Abrams nodded, giving him a grim smile. “And that brings us to our mission. Seems we have someone in Aleppo, Syria, who believes he knows what it is we’re dealing with. He anticipated the recent earth-drop events – every single one of them – and so proved he is the real deal. We know because…well, let’s just say he sent us a calling card.”
“Come on, Major, no need to be coy. I’m here now, locked in with the rest of you.” Matt held out his hands. “What exactly was this calling card?”
Abrams half smiled, and then nodded. “Okay.” He lifted the tablet, and flicked his hand across the screen several times, looked at the image he’d called up, and then handed it to Matt.
It showed a map of North America, crisscrossed with something that looked like veins running over the countryside. The veins intersected at certain points, some small, some large. Red dots of different sizes were at the intersection points.
“That is the calling card.” Abrams’s face had became serious. “The sinkholes identified…before they occurred.”
Matt snorted softly. “Ley lines.”
“What?” Abrams frowned.
Andy slapped his leg. “Of course, ley lines; I thought I recognized them. We come across references to these all the time in unexplained geological phenomena. They’re a joke.” His grin fell away at the look on Matt’s face. “Aren’t they?”
“What’s a ley line?” Abrams asked.
“A metaphysical reference,” Matt said. “There was an English archaeologist named Alfred Watkins, who in 1921 identified a sort of connection between alignments of ancient monuments and megaliths, natural ridge-tops and water-fords. They are also supposed to have been influenced by the sun, moon and other astral bodies.”
Matt looked down at the image again. “Watkins’s work was influenced by an even earlier paper by William Henry Black given to the British Archaeological Association in 1870. Black speculated that there were spiritual geometrical lines which covered the entire world.”
“Spiritual?” Abrams shook his head. “What we’re dealing with is definitely not spiritual.”
“I agree.” Matt shrugged and handed back the tablet. “But that’s what the lines represent.” He looked at his colleagues, and his brow creased. “Okay, I understand why Andy is here, and Captain Kovitz, and also Berry and Hartogg, but why am I here? It can’t be just because you need some Syrian translated. There are thousands of American Syrian speakers, some of them already in the military, so I’m assuming it must be something a little more complex.”
Abrams paced for a moment, as if thinking through his answer. “Our contact has alluded to a document, a manuscript or a book or something written in different ancient Arabic scripts. We don’t know what it is at this point in time, and he wouldn’t tell us.”
“Arabic?” Matt shook his head. “Are you sure? ‘Arabic’ includes numerous dialects and type-forms across a huge territory, stretching across the Middle East and down through much of Africa.” He pushed his hair back. “In Syria, I think we’re more likely to be looking at Syriac. That’s a Middle Aramaic language, written in the Syriac alphabet. It was spoken for centuries, but it wasn’t a literary language until around the fourth century.”
Abrams opened his arms. “You see; you’re already of value.”
“No, no, no. I know when someone’s blowing smoke. Any first-year languages student could have told you that. One more time: why am I here, Major?”
Abrams grunted. “Professor Kearns, I could not begin to form a satisfactory explanation for you at this point. You’ve seen the symbols we have been encountering in the sinkholes – Doctor Albadi has similar glyphic representations. He also said there would be critical translation work, and we needed to bring someone expert in numerous Middle Eastern dialects…and some older languages.” He held up a hand. “I don’t know which yet, but our new friend said some of the languages would be…challenging. He also said that our specialist needs to have an open mind. I’m loath to embark on speculation without something a little more concrete.”
He looked from Matt to Andy. “So, in a nutshell: we are going to meet Hussein ben Albadi, a doctor of anthropology formerly of the University of Damascus. He now resides in a small town on the outskirts of Aleppo. He has some compelling information for us – and I believe he has something worth seeing and listening to. Something that is critical to our survival.” He took a breath. “We need to hear it first hand – all of us.”
Chapter 7
Aleppo International Airport, Syria
Yellow dust and broken brick, peeling paint and miles of ochre roadway: these were the impressions Matt got as they sped away from the airport. The battered minivan continued past the city center, heading west, fast.
Their plane had immediately dusted off, not even waiting for a refuel – armed men in jeeps had chased it down the runway. It would take on more fuel in Israel, and then continue home. The airport was too unstable for it to stay, and the team knew that getting back stateside would mean they’d need to travel by another route. The expedition’s return plan now was for them to make it across Turkish border – A few days, my ass, Matt thought. Lucky he didn’t have any houseplants.
Matt leaned forward to the driver and spoke in rapid Syrian; he grunted, nodded and then spoke out of the side of his mouth, keeping his eyes on the partly obliterated road and the groups of sullen-looking men patrolling the streets.
“Shou-Kran.” Matt wedged himself back in between Andy and the SEAL Rick Berry, who took up most of the seat, and, like Hartogg in front, never took his eyes off the streetscape.
“Bashnatrah,” Matt said, and half turned to Abrams and Tania seated behind him.
“That’s right: Bashnatrah,” Abrams said, also keeping a close watch on the passing street.
“It lies on an ancient merchant caravan route between Aleppo and the Mediterranean. Mostly cultivated farming land, and one of the few towns as yet untouched by the civil war. It’s where we’ll find the summer place of our contact.”
“Doctor Hussein ben Albadi,” Matt said.
“Ah…he is honorable, good man,” the driver said over his shoulder.
“An honorable man.” Abrams nodded. “Good.”
Once past the city perimeter, the driver became a little more relaxed – there was less debris, fewer bands of watchful soldiers or rebels – but still the SEALS kept their weapons ready.
“Slow down,” Hartogg said.
The driver turned and frowned at him, but shrugged and then eased back a little. Andy looked out at the near empty landscape, seeing nothing. “Expecting trouble?” he asked.
“Always,” Berry said from next to Matt.
“IEDs,” Abrams said from behind them.
“Great,” Matt whispered. Improvised Explosive Devices, or IEDs, were one of the deadliest creations of modern Middle Eastern warfare. They’d started as little more than buried mines, but as those taking defensive measures became better able to deal with the simple explosives, then so too did the bomb builders adapt. The IEDs became more sophisticated, making use of professional concealment techniques, armor-piercing shells, remote or automatic detonations and pressure or motion detection. The big ones could easily take out an armored troop carrier. Matt gripped the seat back. To a flimsy minivan, they’d spell total obliteration.
“Not Syrian.” The driver slowed even more. He turned, his face furious. “No Syrian would make this type of war.”
Abrams leaned forward to look past Matt and Berry through the windscreen. “That’s the problem – a lot of militias now, crime gangs, and foreign fighters who hate everything and everyone.”
“Al-Qaida, ISIL,” the driver said. “Cut off heads.”
Andy snorted. “Did I thank you for inviting me yet?”
Tania leaned forward to p
at Matt and Andy’s shoulders. “Don’t worry boys, stay close and I’ll protect you.”
In another hour they began to see more green and less yellow, and soon they pulled into a large property. Stout metal gates swung open, and, after the ochers of the trip, the magnificent green oasis was a welcome sight. As the van coughed to a halt on crunching gravel, a small, round man appeared on the front porch and raised his hands.
“Welcome, welcome.”
“Hold.” Berry and Hartogg were first to alight, taking up positions each side of the van, their eyes moving over everything.
After a few minutes, Hartogg nodded to Abrams – the major stepped out. “Doctor ben Albadi?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, I am ben Albadi. Call me Hussein, please. Welcome.” He came down the few steps, and shook hands, clasped shoulders and grabbed elbows as introductions were made.
Matt heard the van start up its engine, and he turned to see the driver mouth “Good luck” in Syrian before accelerating hard toward the gate.
“Hey!” Matt took a step but the van picked up even more speed, turning hard on the gravel.
“Sonofabitch.” Tania started to chase it, but Albadi yelled after her.
“Forget him, miss; he was brave enough just to bring you here.”
Abrams watched the cloud of dust as it disappeared, growling low under his breath. “Great.”
“Someone tell me we have a Plan B to get home.” Andy looked from Abrams to Tania.
Matt shook his head. “I thought he was Plan B.”
“Work first, worry later.” Abrams turned away. “Doctor, show us what you’ve got.”
Albadi nodded and led them inside; the temperature immediately dropped ten degrees.
Matt wiped his brow, relieved to be out of the heat, and looked around at the sprawling single-level house in disbelief – it was packed from floor to ceiling with books, papers and overflowing boxes. The air smelled of mold, ancient paper and drying leather.
