Camp Rowe, North Carolina
The mothership was a black mass against a dark, overcast night sky as it descended onto the old airstrip. The Delta Force commandos stared in awe as it came to a hover, the bottom of it just a few feet above the pitted concrete. A cargo door near the front slid open and a metal gangway extended down to the ground. A green glow highlighted the opening and silhouetted two men as they exited the craft. One was huge, towering over his partner, but the smaller man walked with an air of confidence, despite shoulders stooped in exhaustion. It was the same silent confidence all the Delta men guarding the location had.
Major Quinn felt a wave of relief, recognizing Yakov and Turcotte. The relief turned to concern as the two came into the circle of light surrounding the hangar. Both men looked haggard, Turcotte particularly so. There were blisters on his face from the cold, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had gray stubble across his chin. He was absently rubbing the back of his head.
“I think we’ve found Duncan,” Quinn led with. Turcotte didn’t react as the major had expected. No smile, no lifting of the weariness. “Where?” “Stonehenge.”
Turcotte didn’t stop walking, heading past Quinn, Yakov at his shoulder, and into the hangar. Turcotte slumped into a folding chair and Yakov did the same. A soldier came over with a steaming cup of coffee, which Turcotte gratefully accepted. His hands cradled the warm cup and he leaned over, his nose just above it, breathing in deeply.
“Stonehenge? England?” Turcotte finally looked up. “How do you know?”
Quinn knelt in front of Turcotte and spoke softly and slowly. “A craft was tracked from the Gulf of Mexico to Stonehenge. It was too fast to be a jet. Strange thermal signature. They thought it was a bouncer, but all are accounted for. On top of all of that, we got a call from an Israeli sniper who said Sherev took the Ark of the Covenant to an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. And something, some sort of pod, took off from underneath the rig and flew away to the northeast not long ago. Now whatever took off there is at Stonehenge.”
Turcotte had closed his eyes halfway through Quinn’s explanation. “Sherev is dead then?” “I don’t know—” Quinn began, but Turcotte held up a hand, halting him.
“Why Stonehenge?” “We don’t know.”
Turcotte slowly turned half-lidded eyes toward Yakov. One eyebrow lifted very slightly. The Russian was leaning back in his seat, long legs sticking out.
“Does anyone have some vodka?” Yakov asked. When there was no answer he let out a deep sigh and got to his feet. “You Americans are never properly equipped. I assume we must go to England.”
Turcotte also stood. “Call the Brits,” he said to Quinn as he headed for the hangar door. “Get someone there. SAS if they can.”
“Yes, sir.”
Turcotte paused. “What about Tesla and Tunguska?”
“I’ve got quite a bit of information,” Quinn said. “I also have some more info on the way here.” “Did Tesla shoot down a Swarm ship?”
“Yes. He invented—” Quinn began, but Turcotte held up a hand.
“One thing at a time. We’re going to England to get Duncan. Then we’ll be back. Have the Space Command guys here and ready to go when we return. And whatever Tesla invented — find someone who can duplicate it.”
Stonehenge, England
Martaugh’s tongue nervously snaked over his lips as he considered the scene in front of him. The black sphere hadn’t moved and the ramp the man had obviously come out of was still down. There was no sign of the door the man had gone through in the standing stone. Martaugh had called it in, been acknowledged, then put the mike back and sat paralyzed for several minutes of indecision.
Martaugh slowly opened the door and went to the Land Rover’s rear door. He lifted it open and retrieved an old Sterling submachine gun that had been issued to him during the recent turmoil. He grabbed a flak vest, put it on, then made sure he had a round in the chamber of the sub. He made his way forward, the stock of the Sterling tight against his shoulder. His eyes shifted between the ramp and the standing stone the man had entered.
He turned toward the ramp.
* * *
Colonel Spearson, British Special Air Service (SAS) was heading toward Stonehenge within ten seconds of receiving the alert from Quinn in America. He’d been with Turcotte in Ethiopia when they’d found the cavern with the ruby stone in it. He knew Turcotte was a solid soldier. A man you wanted by your side.
They’d already been in the air as part of a training mission south of Hereford, where the Twenty-first Regiment, which Spearson commanded, was headquartered. They were now heading southeast at the helicopter’s maximum speed.
Spearson considered the message and the destination. Stonehenge. Perhaps the heart of ancient England. Predating all the others — the Tower, the kings, the queens, all of them.
From before the time of Arthur even, who it now appears was of alien origin in some manner. Now something was there.
Something unknown, tracked across the Atlantic. Most likely alien in origin. It bothered him greatly that the aliens seemed to have corrupted every legend and myth, even something as noble as Arthurian legend. And now they were at Stonehenge.
“Faster,” Spearson ordered the pilot. In the rear of the Westland Lynx helicopter sat a dozen Special Air Service troopers. The elite of England’s soldiers. They had weapons in their hands and steely looks in their eyes. They were all sick of it. Aliens. Servants of aliens. Humans being manipulated, infected, changed. They’d watched the reports of Taiwan being devastated, Seoul being assaulted first by North Korean chemical agents, then American nuclear bombs, and somehow they knew, they just knew that while humans had always fought among themselves, it was the aliens behind things. Acting from the darkness, from the shadows. And they were all sick of it.
Airspace United States
Turcotte was in the pilot’s seat of the mothership racing across the Atlantic. How fast neither he nor Yakov knew, but the ocean far below was going by at a dizzying speed. Excalibur was leaning against the control console nearby.
“My friend,” Yakov said. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?” “No.”
“Me neither.” Yakov placed a large hand on Turcotte’s shoulder. “Do not let what Aspasia’s Shadow said cause you to doubt yourself.”
Turcotte didn’t respond, staring at the display screens.
Yakov didn’t remove his hand. “And”—he drew the word out, sure he had Turcotte’s attention—“as far as Ms. Duncan goes, you must remember that no matter what her past, she is different now even from the person you knew very briefly the last few months.”
Turcotte nodded, very slightly. “I know.”
“We sometimes do things when we are in stressful times,” Yakov continued, “that in retrospect—” Turcotte interrupted the Russian. “I know I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Neither was I when I got involved with Katyenka,” Yakov said, referring to the woman who had betrayed them in Moscow.
Normally Turcotte would have bridled at the comparison, but too much had happened in the past few days for him to argue anything. “I was a lumberjack.”
Yakov removed his hand and sat down. “What?”
“I was a”—Turcotte hesitated—“a man who worked in the forest, cutting down trees.” “Ah, yes.” Yakov waited.
“It always struck me as very strange what I did. Cutting down living things. Trees. Beautiful big trees. That had been there for much longer than I would be on Earth. The other guys didn’t think like that — I don’t know why I did. But then I would reconcile it with the thought that the wood would be turned into valuable things. A kid’s bed, maybe.” Turcotte gave a thin smile. “Bull, I know. But hey, I had to deal with it somehow. So I dealt with it.”
“And this?”
“I don’t know how to deal with it.”
Yakov slammed a large open palm into Turcotte’s chest.
“You’re human.” His hand thumped his own chest. “
I’m human. That’s it. That’s all. I spent all my life, while you were cutting down these trees you care so much about, tracking these aliens and their creatures. They killed my friends, they destroyed my country. Destroyed many other countries and killed millions — billions of people most likely — over the thousands of years they have been here on our planet. We know they caused the Black Death. Tried to bring a version of it back that we were barely able to stop.
“All those years I spent in the dark, tracking them, I had to, how do you say, deal with it in some manner. Make my mind”—Yakov searched for the words—“wrap around what I was doing, understand it. Just as you had to understand what you were doing. And do you know what I decided? What it came down to?” Turcotte shook his head.
“I am human,” Yakov said. “They, and those who work for them, aren’t.” “That simple?” Turcotte asked, “It is that simple.”
Stonehenge
Martaugh slid his feet up the ramp. He didn’t dare take a step, afraid his boot would make too much noise. He’d watched the BBC. He knew about the aliens, Area 51, the world war. Everyone did. He had no doubt somehow that this was involved. How he had no idea.
He moved inside. There was a green glow. Martaugh swallowed, but continued forward. The ramp went up to a metal door that was half-ajar. Using the muzzle of the Sterling, he slowly pushed the door open, revealing a chamber. The first thing he noticed was the pale woman covered with blood strapped to a gurney, her right arm ending in a stump.
“Good Lord,” Constable Martaugh muttered.
He sensed, rather than heard, someone behind him and he swung about. His finger froze on the trigger the shock was so great. He saw it wasn’t a person, but a thing, an unspeakable thing, even as the tentacle wrapped around his throat. He opened his mouth to scream, and that was a mistake.
Airspace
The coast of England appeared ahead and Turcotte looked down at the GPS navigational screen to check their location and the direction to Stonehenge. He adjusted course and the mothership turned slightly to the left.
* * *
“One minute out,” the pilot informed Spearson via the intercom.
The colonel pulled back the bolt on his MP-5 submachine gun and made sure a round was in the chamber. Seeing that action, the rest of the men in the helicopter’s cargo bay did likewise.
The Lynx flared as it slowed, losing altitude.
“Talk to me,” Spearson ordered the pilot, who he knew was flying with night-vision goggles and had a clear view of what was ahead. Spearson also had night-vision goggles attached to his helmet, but he couldn’t see past the pilot.
“There’s some sort of black sphere, about five meters in diameter, hovering just in front of the center ring of stones. There appears to be a doorway of some sort, emitting a green light. There’s also a police Land Rover parked nearby. No sign of whoever drove it.”
Black sphere? Spearson had kept up with the torrent of intelligence reports about the recent world war, fought primarily in the Pacific and Middle East and he could recollect no such description. Something new. Something different.
Spearson had been under fire many times, in Northern Ireland, during the Gulf War, in Ethiopia — but he felt a shiver of unease as the Lynx’s skids hit the ground with a slight thump. He didn’t have to yell any commands. He knew the men would be right behind and spread out tactically. That was the difference between the SAS and a regular line unit. He ran from the chopper toward the black sphere, shoving his night-vision goggles down on their slot on his helmet. He blinked for a second as the darkness gave way to a bright green scene, The black sphere was perfectly still, hovering a few feet above the ground, part of the outer shell forming a ramp to the ground.
Spearson froze as a figure carrying a Sterling submachine gun came out of the opening. He had the muzzle of the MP-5 centered on the man, when he stopped his finger, just short of firing, as he recognized the uniform.
“Over there!” the constable yelled, pointing to the left, away from the monument. Spearson turned, as did all his men. Nothing.
Spearson heard the sound of an automatic weapon going off as the first rounds hit him in the chest, knocking him backward. The police officer was moving toward the SAS troopers, weapon to his shoulder, firing.
Spearson landed on his back, his chest aching from the impact on his Kevlar vest. He lifted his head as his men returned fire. He watched in disbelief as the cop was riddled with bullets, yet kept firing. Two more SAS men went down, one fatally shot in the face.
The cop’s weapon — an old Sterling, Spearson could see through the goggles — clicked on an empty chamber. The SAS troops kept firing, literally tearing the cop to pieces until his body collapsed.
Spearson got to his feet. One of his men ran forward and checked the body. Spearson indicated for the rest to follow him. He edged around so that he could see into the pod. A door blocked the way just inside. “Blow it,” Spearson ordered.
One of his men pulled a small shaped charge out of his pack and ran up to the door, placing it in the center. He pulled the fuse.
“Fire!” the demolitions man yelled as he exited the craft and dived for cover. Spearson hit the ground, tucking his head down. There was a sharp crack. He got up and cursed. Only a two-foot-wide hole had been blown in the door.
He heard shots behind him and spun about. The man who had been with the cop’s body had shot another SAS trooper right in the face. The second man screamed, hands to his face, blood pouring between his fingers. The SAS man fired at his comrades, head shots as he’d been trained.
“Goddamn,” Spearson cursed as two more of his men went down. He squeezed the trigger, the bullet hitting the man in the head, just above the right eye, below the edge of the helmet. Blood and brain flew out the exit wound in the back of his head. And still he fired. Another SAS man was down.
Spearson sensed something overhead, but didn’t take the time to look up. He fired, pulling the trigger as quickly as he could, head shots all, hitting his own man repeatedly until he finally collapsed.
“What the hell was that, sir?” one of his few surviving men demanded as they converged on the body. It was unrecognizable. Spearson had literally blown the man’s head off.
Spearson glanced up. The stars were gone.
Then he was blinded as a brilliant light filled the sky.
* * *
Turcotte was waiting right by the cargo door and as soon as Yakov opened it, he rushed down the still-extending gangway to the ground. He had an MP-5 in one hand and Excalibur in the other. The Russian must have also found some way to illuminate the ground below, because it was as bright as if it were high noon.
Turcotte took in the tableau. The large stones were right in front of him, the black pod, a Land Rover, bodies. A few men in uniform still standing, ripping off overloaded night-vision goggles. He recognized one of the men — Spearson — from the mission in Ethiopia.
“Colonel,” Turcotte called out as he headed for the SAS Commander.
Spearson blinked, trying to reorient himself, still confused and dismayed by the insane actions of his own man.
“Colonel, what do you have?” Turcotte was next to him, noting the bodies. “What happened?” Spearson shook his head, confused and shocked. “I don’t know. The police officer shot at us. Then one of my men — I don’t know why.”
Turcotte looked down at the headless body. Something was stirring in the area of the stub of the spinal column that poked above the neck. Something gray.
“What the hell is that?” Spearson took a step back.
The three-fingered tip of a Swarm tentacle emerged, grasping, searching for a new host. It was slithering out of the body, a foot now exposed. Turcotte swung Excalibur and sliced the tentacle in two, just below the “fingers.” The severed portion fell to the ground, and then began to “melt,” producing a foul smell.
“What the hell is that?” Spearson demanded.
Turcotte ignored the question. “Duncan? Hav
e you seen Dr. Duncan?”
Spearson shook his head, still staring where the tentacle had been. “We just got here. The copper shot at us. Then my man went crazy. What was that thing in him? What is going on?”
Turcotte continued to ignore the questions, as there was no time to explain. He moved toward the pod, both weapons at the ready. It didn’t even occur to him to feel strange holding an ultramodern submachine gun in one hand and a legendary sword in the other. He stepped onto the pod ramp and saw the hole that had been blasted in it. He paused for a moment, then leaned over and poked his head inside. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as he waited for a tentacle to lash out at him. In the green glow he saw Duncan strapped to a table. He took in the massive amounts of blood under and around her; the half-regenerated hand; the Ark of the Covenant on a table next to her along with the crown.
Duncan turned her head and met his gaze. Turcotte could see the pain in her eyes.
“Mike.” She said it so softly, Turcotte wasn’t sure whether there was an actual word or he was interpreting the way her lips moved.
“I’ll get you out of there,” Turcotte said. The hole was too small for him to fit through. He would need more demolitions.
“Mike.”
He definitely heard her this time. He took a quick look around, half-expecting to see one of the creatures he and Yakov had found in the ruins of Section IV. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
Turcotte staggered as the pod moved beneath his feet. “I’ll get you out.” He wondered if it were taking off. He pulled his head out of the hole and stepped back. It wasn’t the pod. It was the ground itself moving. The nearest standing stones were leaning precariously. A lintel stone fell off, slamming into the ground with a loud thud. Spearson was yelling orders, ordering his men to pull back.
The Truth a5-7 Page 13
