At the wheel, Duncan offered them a curt wave, which was returned with genuine enthusiasm. According to Sanjar, hospitality was a highly esteemed virtue among the Mongols.
In the front passenger seat, Monk played copilot and navigator. He had a map unfolded on his lap and a portable GPS in hand. “Looks like you should take the next left turn. That road should take us into the search zone.”
The word zone was rather generous. The search parameters placed the debris field in a box one hundred miles on each side. Still, that was down from five hundred miles yesterday.
Duncan made the next left turn and headed at a grinding pace into the mountains. The terrain challenged the SUV’s four-wheel drive. It was mostly broken rock and patches of grassland, crisscrossed by forests of larches and pines. Rains had washed out parts of the road, requiring a careful traverse.
“I’m not sure this region needs special protection by the government,” Duncan said. “I think Nature is doing a pretty good job of it herself.”
Sanjar leaned forward from the backseat, which he shared with Jada. “It is why our ancestors chose these mountains for our grave sites. You’ll find them throughout this area. With tombs often stacked atop other tombs. And, unfortunately, grave robbing is a real problem. Locals will often search these old sites, then middlemen from the city drive through and purchase anything scavenged from these tombs to resell in China.”
He pointed ahead to a rounded peak higher than the others. “That is Burkhan Khaldun, our most sacred mountain. It is rumored to be the birthplace of Genghis, and where most people believe he is buried. Some say he is entombed in a large necropolis under the mountain, believed to hold not only his body and treasures, but also that of his descendants, including his most famous grandson, Kublai Khan.”
“That’s a mighty big prize for whoever finds it,” Duncan said.
“People have hunted for his tomb for centuries. Which has led to much looting and vandalism. To protect the environment and our heritage, the government restricts access here, even by air.”
That was one of the reasons their team was driving. But they had another motive, too. Satellite imaging of the region had failed to pick up any trace of the crashed spacecraft, so it was unlikely that a search by helicopter or airplane would have fared any better.
It was even possible the satellite had entirely burned up during reentry. All this might be a wild-goose chase. But they had to make the attempt.
“I should warn you that there is another reason for these restrictions, too,” Sanjar said.
Jada turned to him. “What reason?”
“It is said that Genghis himself declared this area sacred. Many locals believe that if his tomb is ever found and opened, the world will end.”
Duncan groaned. “Great. If we find his tomb, the world will end. If we don’t find his tomb, the world is doomed.”
“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” Jada mumbled.
Duncan caught her eye in the rearview mirror, and she offered a small smile.
“Something Director Crowe said before I set off on this trip,” she explained. “Seems he was right.”
Monk stirred, his nose still in his map. “Never bet against Painter.”
2:44 P.M.
An hour later, Jada half drowsed in the backseat when Duncan loudly declared, “End of the road, folks!”
Jada sat straighter, rubbing her eyes, realizing he wasn’t speaking metaphorically. The dirt track ended at a cluster of five gers. Free-ranging goats ran from their path as the SUV rolled toward the tents. Farther back, a group of horses roamed a large paddock.
After reaching the perimeter of the search zone, Sanjar had recommended this detour off the main road. It wasn’t on any map. But he said that the best bet to find the satellite was to question the locals.
They know every movement of twig and shift of breeze up here, he had declared. If something large crashed in the area, they would know.
As the Land Cruiser drew to a stop, Sanjar hopped out. “Follow me.”
They all clambered free of the vehicle into the chilly day. Jada stretched circulation back into her stiff limbs. Once they were all moving, Sanjar headed straight for the closest ger.
“Do you know these people?” Monk asked.
“No, not personally. But this is a fairly established encampment.”
Sanjar strode up to the stout wood door and pulled it open without knocking. He had warned them that this was tradition, another hallmark of Mongol hospitality. It would be considered an insult to the family inside if you knocked, as if you doubted their good manners and generous disposition.
So in he strode, as if he owned the place.
They had no choice but to follow him. Jada obeyed his prior instructions, careful not to step on the threshold and to turn right as was traditional as she entered the circular tent.
She found the place surprisingly spacious and warm. The roof was supported by ribs of wood; the walls were framed by lattice. It was all sealed against the winds and cold by thick layers of sheepskin and felt.
Faces greeted them with smiles, as if expecting them. It was a family of four, with two children under five. The husband formally buttoned the collar of his del robe and waved them to stools.
Before she knew it, she had a cup of hot tea warming her hands. Apparently an early dinner had been under way, judging from the boiling pots on a central hearth. She smelled curry and steaming mutton. A bowl and plate landed in front of her. The wife encouraged her to eat, smiling broadly, pantomiming with her hands.
“It’s boortz soup,” Sanjar said. “Very good. And those bits on the plate that look like broken pottery are aruul cheese. Very healthy.”
Not wanting to be rude, Jada tried a chunk of the cheese and found it to be as hard as pottery, too. She ended up sucking on it like candy, which the locals also seemed to be doing.
When in Rome . . .
Sanjar spoke with their host in a native dialect. It involved much gesturing, some corrections. But the husband began nodding vigorously, pointing northeast.
Jada hoped it was a positive sign.
The talk continued for some time after that. She could only watch and eat. To the side, the children found Monk’s prosthesis fascinating. He had one boy on his lap, showing the child how the hand could be detached from his wrist, yet the fingers still wiggled.
Jada found it actually disconcerting.
The children were enthralled.
Finally, Sanjar grabbed his own bowl of soup and tucked in with a spoon. He explained while eating. “Our host, Chuluun, says he heard stories from someone passing through yesterday, coming from the north. The man spoke of a fireball in the sky. It supposedly crashed into a small lake at the snow line of the neighboring mountain and set the water to boiling.”
Monk frowned. “If the wreckage is underwater, no wonder it was never picked up by satellite.”
“Then how are we going to get to it?” Jada said.
They hadn’t thought to bring diving equipment, let alone a wet suit.
“We’ll have to cross that bridge when we get to it,” Monk said. “Let’s find this place, confirm the location, and we’ll ship in what we need from there.”
Sanjar had an additional precaution. “Be warned. It’s a treacherous trail to reach that location. We’ll never make it by car or truck. I’ve asked Chuluun if he would be willing to lend us four of his horses.”
Jada balked at that idea. She could ride, just not well.
Still, it’s not like I have much choice.
“Did he agree?” Monk asked.
“Yes, and he’ll even send one of his cousins to guide us there. With luck, we should be able to reach the lake before the sun sets.”
Monk stood up. “Then let’s go.”
Jada followed his example, bowing her thanks to their hosts. Chuluun led them outside and spoke to one of his children who ran off to a neighboring ger, likely to fetch the cousin.
Chuluun pointed pas
t the neighboring sweep of meadows, patched with dense forests, to the next peak, its upper slopes white with snow.
That was clearly their destination. It looked no more than twenty miles away. With their goal so close, trepidation set in. Responsibility settled heavily on Jada’s shoulders. The world was looking to her for answers, for a way to avert the coming doomsday.
As if reading her intimidation, Duncan stepped to her side, answering her silent question.
This is how.
By working together.
A commotion drew them to the next ger. A young woman, no older than eighteen, came charging out, snapping together the collar of her sheepskin jacket snugly. She had a flag of black hair, loose to her midback. With a leather tie in hand, she magically bound her hair into a fast braid. Once done, she snatched a curved bow from beside the tent and shouldered a quiver of arrows. She also carried a rifle over her other shoulder.
Was this their guide?
She approached them in knee-high Mongol boots that looked well worn. “I am Khaidu,” she said in heavily accented English. “You wish to go to the Wolf Fang. I will take you. Good time to go.”
She looked to be in as much of a hurry to leave as they were.
An older man appeared at the door, calling over to her.
She harrumphed and stalked away.
Sanjar explained. “A suitor for her hand. Likely an arranged marriage.”
No wonder she wants to leave.
They all hurried to catch up as she headed for the paddock.
Monk smiled. “This trip just got a little brighter.”
“You’re married.” Duncan nudged him. “With kids.”
He scowled back. “You say that like I’m dead.”
Jada sighed.
Maybe I’m better off going alone after all.
3:33 P.M.
Duncan stared up at the Wolf Fang as they set off on horseback across the highland valley toward the snowy peak. The mountain did indeed look like a hooked fang, pointed up at the sky.
With the sun overhead, the day’s chill quickly warmed away. It was a pleasant afternoon for a ride, made more so by the rugged landscape they traversed. With a thunder of hooves, they raced across meadows of porcupine grass or skirted dense forests of white-barked birches, fringed with blueberry and blackberry bushes.
Jada clearly did not share his passion for this ride. He noticed how tentative she was with her horse, so he kept by her side.
Monk brought up the rear, while the fiery Khaidu rode ahead with Sanjar. But in the true lead was Heru.
It seemed the falcon had recovered from taking a hard knock yesterday. Set free, the bird soared high into a crisp blue sky, obeying the occasional whistled command from his handler.
Sanjar was plainly showing off for Khaidu, who kept close to his side. And it seemed to be working. She leaned over often to ask a question or point out some feature in the land.
Meanwhile, Jada’s attention was not on the skies, but on the ground zipping under her mount’s hooves.
Duncan tried to reassure her as they climbed a slippery slope of shale. He patted his stallion’s spotted neck. “Just trust your mount! They know what they’re doing. These are sturdy Mongol horses, descendants of those that Genghis himself once rode.”
“So in other words, they’re last year’s model.” She offered him a crooked smile, trying to put on a brave face.
A few minutes later, they reached a narrow path with a steep drop on one side. He drew abreast of her, putting himself between her and a long fall to the sharp rocks below. Now was not the time to panic. To distract her, he talked shop.
“What do you think really happened when that satellite crashed?” he asked. “About the image it shot?”
She glanced to him, clearly distracted but willing to talk. “Dark energy is the stuff of time and space. When we drew that much energy into the earth’s gravity well, the smooth curve of space-time around the planet wrinkled along that path.”
“And time skipped a beat,” he said. “You also mentioned to Painter that you believed the Eye of God might have become entangled at the quantum level with the comet.”
“If it absorbed enough dark energy, it’s a possibility. I’ll know better once we reach the wreck of the satellite.”
“Then let’s examine the converse.”
She glanced at him.
“The cross,” he explained. “Let’s say it’s a piece of the comet that fell to earth when it last appeared. Or maybe it’s some asteroid that passed too near the comet at that time, absorbed its energy like Genghis’s tissues did, and fell to earth as a meteor.”
She nodded. “I hadn’t even considered that second option, but you’re right. That’s a possibility, too.”
“Either way, I’m not sure it matters. The bigger mystery is: how did the cross grant St. Thomas the ability to predict this doomsday?”
“Hmm. That’s a good question.”
“So I’ve stumped you, Dr. Shaw.”
“Hardly,” she said, clearly spurred by the challenge in his voice. “Three facts to consider. One, dark energy is the driving force behind quantum mechanics. They are one and the same. A universal constant.”
“You mentioned that before.”
“Two, some individuals are more sensitive to electromagnetic radiation. Even without magnets.”
She looked pointedly at his fingertips.
He was actually familiar with the concept of electromagnetic hypersensitivity. Some people got sick if they were exposed too long to power lines or cellular towers, showing symptoms of headache, fatigue, tinnitus, even memory loss. While conversely, some individuals had a positive effect. It was believed that dowsers—those people wandering around with divining rods looking for water, buried metals, or gemstones—were uniquely attuned to the tiny gradient fluctuations in the ground’s magnetic field.
“Three,” she continued, “a common consensus among neuroscientists is that human consciousness lies within the quantum field generated by the vast neural network that is our brain.”
“So consciousness is a quantum effect.”
She smiled whimsically. “I’ve always found that last thought reassuring.”
“Why?”
“If that’s true, then by virtue of quantum mechanics, our consciousness is entangled across all the various multiverses. Perhaps when we die, it’s just a collapse of that potential in this timeline and our consciousness shifts into one where we are still living.”
From his doubtful expression, she delved deeper. “Take cancer. You have this cell in your body that divides wrong, a small mistake in a process that happens over and over again in a healthy body. If it divides correctly, no cancer. If it makes a mistake, you get cancer. A mere toss of the genetic dice. Heads or tails.”
Duncan hid a wince from her. Her words struck too close to home. His hand rose to touch the palm print tattooed on his chest. He pictured his younger brother, wasted to bone in a hospital bed, leaving behind nothing but the ghost of his shit-eating grin. Billy had died of osteogenic sarcoma, losing that toss of the genetic dice.
Jada continued, oblivious to his reaction. “But what if we are all entangled across multiple universes? That opens up a unique possibility. In one universe, cancer may kill you, but because you’re entangled, your consciousness shifts into that other universe where you don’t get cancer.”
“And you keep living?”
“Or at least your consciousness continues, merging with the other. This can happen over and over again, shifting each time to a timeline where you live . . . until you live your fullest life.”
He pictured Billy’s face, finding comfort in that possibility.
“But what happens after that?” he asked. “What happens when all those potentials collapse down to a single universe and you die there?”
“I don’t know. That’s the beauty of the universe. There’s always a new mystery. Maybe all this is just a test, a grand experiment. Many physicists are now convin
ced our universe is just a hologram, a three-dimensional construct built upon equations written on the inside of the sphere of this universe.”
“But who wrote those equations?”
She shrugged in her saddle. “Call it the hand of God, a higher power, a superintelligence, who knows?”
“I think we’re getting off track,” he said, returning to the subject of St. Thomas and his vision of doom. “To summarize your three points. The human brain functions quantumly, dark energy is a function of quantum mechanics, and some individuals are extrasensitive to EM fields.”
She looked at him to see if he could put it all together.
He was up to the challenge and proved it.
“You think St. Thomas was a sensitive. Because of that, he was especially affected by the dark energy given off by the cross, an energy that warped the quantum field in his brain to bring him a vision of this time.”
“Or there might be a simpler explanation.”
“Like what.”
“It was a miracle.”
He sighed loudly. “Whether science or a miracle, it still strikes me as damned coincidental that both the Eye of God and inner eye of St. Thomas had a vision of the exact same moment in time?”
“And God doesn’t play dice with the world,” she said, quoting Einstein.
Nice.
“I don’t think it was a coincidence,” she continued. “Remember, time is just a dimension. It has no inherent flow backward or forward.”
“In other words, the distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion?” He raised an eyebrow toward her. “See, I can quote Einstein, too.”
She grinned, looking five years younger. “Then consider time like a point in space. Both the Eye of God and that inner eye of St. Thomas slipped to that same point in time, likely when the comet’s corona of dark energy will come closest to Earth. There, like hitting a deep groove in a record, they both became stuck, trapped and playing the same bit of music over and over again.”
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