Catacombs

by John Farris

  Henry had on Belov's alpinist's sweater and knit cap, a pair of ill-fitting trousers, and cleated Dacron sneakers Belov had brought along to wear around the camp at night. Henry clung to him through another earth tremor. Particulate matter–tephra–was falling all around them, picking up some of the glow of St. Elmo's fire. But it wasn't a heavy fall, and the hazy orb of the sun could be detected for moments at a time through the ash-laden clouds and fog.

  Belov carried the ice ax in his right hand; his left arm was around the coughing, chill-wracked Englishman. They made slow progress to the old Chapman/Weller campsite, where Henry had to rest. He sat on the ground and looked around him almost sightlessly. Belov had to keep a hand on him or he would have fallen over. He force-fed Henry a few bites of chocolate bar, got him up and moving again, following an uphill track still visible through the stunted tussock.

  In the hours since he'd awakened, Belov had seen few signs of animals and had not heard the cry of a bird, although at these altitudes (he knew from his mountaineering days) one could still expect to find hyrax and duiker, eagle and ibis. The threat from within the mountain had frightened most of them away.

  His own lungs were straining for oxygen, his legs had begun to ache. Henry labored painfully against Belov's side, all but dragging his feet. Belov was so accustomed to the deep-down rumble of the mountain that he didn't consciously hear it anymore. But the noise and the frequent and lengthy harmonic tremors took their toll of his strength. His eyes smarted from high altitude, from the fog and grit.

  He had thought Henry was nearly comatose. He was surprised to hear him speak.

  "If only you could appreciate–the breathtaking purity–of the equations that govern the models of the gravitationally powered dynamo beneath our feet. Have I–did I tell you about the bloodstones, dear boy?"

  "Yes, Henry. They're red diamonds. Etched with mathematical formulae. I can hardly wait to see them. But Henry: How can you be certain that FIREKILL works?"

  "Because of the ancient chronicles. And because of–more recent developments, included in–Tesla's diaries. Tesla knew all about the stupendous power of electromagnetism–eighty years ago. Given the time–the need–he would have evolved something similar to FIREKILL."

  The track was becoming stony, steeper.

  "Are we going the right way?"

  "It must be. Hard climbing now."

  "Do you want to rest again?"

  "No."

  "Who is Tesla?"

  "Nikola Tesla, a great genius. The most significant inventor of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Others–stole from him, profited from his ideas. But it was Tesla who gave us the world as we have it today. He first conceived of alternating current. Three of the prototype generators he constructed at Niagara Falls in 1896 are still working. His inventions include X rays, radar, sonar, lasers, guided missiles."

  "I've never heard of him," Belov admitted.

  "In nineteen hundred, in his laboratory in Colorado Springs Tesla succeeded, by using generators of no more than three hundred horsepower, in drawing electricity–from the earth. He used the earth as an enormous condenser and coil, to build up a surge of energy with a potential of–more than one hundred million volts."

  "In nineteen hundred?"

  "In effect he achieved a method of virtually free, wireless distribution of electrical power over the entire surface of the earth. All the power that mankind would ever need. Constructing FIREKILL, from the models provided by the Lords of the Storm, would have been child's play for Tesla. But even if he had realized what he could do, so long ago, there was no need for FIREKILL then. Only now is it worth the price we shall inevitably have to pay."

  Henry's voice, not strong to begin with, had faded to a whisper.

  "I'd better sit down now."

  Belov gave him more brandy and water to drink. The old man was shuddering, as if he were about to convulse. Belov held him tightly against his own body. Henry groaned, his eyelids fluttering.

  "Don't give up, Henry."

  There was an orange light above them, as if the sun had broken powerfully through the clouds. Belov looked up at it, and thought he was hallucinating. The radiant object floated slowly down through the fog toward them, coming near the ground. He felt the hairs on his head beginning to stir, to stand on end. He started up as the object floated closer, then seemed to bounce and change direction, coming more quickly and straight at them.

  Henry opened his eyes and saw it.

  "No–don't move," he said to Belov. "It won't hurt you."

  The fireball was now only a few feet away from them, but Belov still couldn't judge how large it was. Perhaps the size of a basketball. All motion was suspended, for almost a minute. He heard a faint crackling, as if the air were being charged with electricity. Then the orange ball suddenly swung to the right of them, making almost a ninety-degree turn, and moved on downhill through the fog, bouncing again and again, slowly losing its radiance and bright color.

  "What was it?" Belov asked, his blood beginning to flow freely again.

  "Ball lightning. One of the strange phenomena of this place. They appear out of nowhere. Some drift, some bounce like a child's ball on a banquette. They are a total enigma. No known laws of science can account for their propulsion. They have never been duplicated in a laboratory. Except by Nikola Tesla. He produced fireballs of extreme density, with a strong surface tension. And a temperature seven times hotter than the sun. They may well be a life form which we lack the senses to perceive."

  Henry made an effort to clear his congested lungs. He was left with blood on his lips. He looked drearily at Belov.

  "Well–my boy. If only I could stop trembling. Draw a decent breath. But there's no use lying about. I won't get any better."

  Belov smiled. His own head felt as if it had been split by an ax, but he tried to make it look easy as he hoisted Henry to his feet. They struggled on. This time neither man had the breath for talking.

  They saw more of the curious fireballs: small blue ones appearing out of thin air and dropping to the ground, playful red and white balls that revolved slowly around each other until their formidable energy was slowly dissipated.

  Twenty minutes had passed by Belov's chronometer. He'd lost all sense of where they were, where they'd come from. He couldn't believe they had progressed more than a hundred steps. Lack of visibility was discouraging and frightening. What if Henry had become confused at a turn somewhere below, and they were on the wrong track? Walls seemed to be closing in. Each step was higher and more precarious than the last.

  A conventional earthquake sent them sprawling; they were bombarded by small rocks from the heights. Belov lost his grip on Henry and felt himself carried away by the violent washboard motion of the mountain. He was as helpless as if he had been in the riptide of an ocean. Instinctively he seized a huge cabbage groundsel and hung on. Then he made the mistake of lifting his head, trying to find Henry. A glancing rock struck him in the left temple. He was aware of nothing until well after the quake ceased, and debris stopped pelting down.

  He got slowly to his knees, gagging. His lungs felt packed with dust, and he smelled rotten eggs: Hydrogen sulfide gas was leaking from a seam of the mountain. He gagged and spat. Blood was trickling into one eye. Awkwardly, with numbed hands, Belov knotted a handkerchief around his head just above the eyebrows.

  "Henry!" he called.

  The fog was transformed by a vivid blue glow, arcs of lightning crackling in several places at once. The lightning was a result of electrostatic discharges caused by ash particles rubbing together in the dense air. His hair was on end again. It was terrifying; but the lightning flashes afforded him glimpses of large areas of the mountainside.

  He looked around, but didn't see Henry anywhere. Had he been carried down the mountain, fallen into a crevasse below? Before the quake they seemed to have nearly reached a hoof-shaped cul-de-sac that was unlike anything he'd seen on the mountain. Towering, forbidding walls on three sides enclosed a
n unusually rich alpine meadow of perhaps four rugged acres, where the grass was nearly knee high, the crowned lobelia and groundsel huge. Heaps of lichen-encrusted stones–some of them must have weighed a ton–were everywhere. They looked like cairns. A gully split the hoof between the walls, becoming a chasm at the granitic end of the cul-de-sac. Plumes of gas or smoke were vented from the gully; they merged with the fog.

  Belov staggered on uphill, frequently falling flat as lightning crackled low over the meadow. Finally he stopped and huddled at the base of a cairn, his chest heaving; he was afraid that further movement through the coarse ash-laden grass might attract a bolt to him. The mountain was still now, blessedly quiet; the fallout of old ash from the caldera another three thousand feet above him had lessened.

  Unexpectedly the weather on the vast mountain began to change, for the better. A strengthening wind attacked the thick mantle of summit clouds. The rays of the sun struck the sheer granite of the cul-de-sac. The walls glittered like metallic mirrors. Looking up through a haze of tephra, Belov saw the dirty white summit of Kibo, a gray-blue sky above. The fog dissipated rapidly in the warming sun, which was now past its zenith. Looking down, he could see as far as the montane forest belt, the dark-green tops of trees still nearly buried in furrows of white fog. The lull, after a morning of tension and hazard, was almost enough to put him to sleep.

  Belov shed his pack and stood wearily. He put his hands to his mouth and called.

  "Hen-ry!"

  The cul-de-sac reverberated with the echoes of his voice. He was nearly startled out of his boots when Henry's voice came back to him. It was little more than a strangled whisper, but he heard every word clearly, as if Henry were just a few feet away.

  "No need to shout. I hear you perfectly. It's–the peculiar acoustics of this place."

  Belov looked around in amazement. And saw no sign of the gaunt Englishman. Impossible for him to have traveled any significant distance on his own. The strengthening sunlight was hurting Belov's eyes. He took out glasses with gray polarized lenses and put them on. His hands were trembling from excitement.

  "Henry–where are you? I don't see you."

  Again he spoke loudly, unsure of his own senses. In reply he heard only the chilly wind sweeping through the cul-de-sac. The hairy, cigar-shaped lobelia stirred like apparitions. His head throbbed where the rock had struck him. He began to wonder if he'd suffered an auditory hallucination. Then came the unmistakable sounds of a desperately sick man coughing, gasping for breath.

  "Don't know–how I got here. I blacked out–during the quake. They must have found me–brought me inside."

  "Inside? What do you mean? Where are you?"

  "In the Catacombs, dear boy. Waiting–for you."

  Chapter 28

  MOMELA LAKES

  Chale Point, Tanzania

  May 23

  After lunch at Chanvai Robeson Kumenyere joined Jumbe on the verandah of his house. For the first time in several days the summit of Kilimanjaro, still intact despite the recent jolts and jettings of ancient ash from the fumarole, could be seen clearly. Jumbe was slightly cheered. For him the mountain was a symbol of the potential greatness and unity of Africa; the threat of a destructive eruption that might blow the famous peak sky-high and leave scars that would endure for a century was an omen too obvious to ignore.

  He had had no visitors since the Russians; he had accepted few phone calls. Kumenyere sensed in him a vital weakening of resolve.

  The two men lit their pipes and smoked in silence for a while. Some vervet monkeys, white hoods around their black faces, sat grooming and chatting a few feet away, in the crook of a giant heather tree. Over the dwindling wetland of Big Momela a close-knit flock of marabou storks arose, disturbed by a midday prowler.

  "Do you think the danger's over?"

  "I've never thought there was any real danger of an eruption," Kumenyere replied. "The mountain is always talking to itself. I'm told it may go on like this for another month. There have been a few small avalanches and mudslides. Nothing serious." He reached out and clasped Jumbe's hand. "You mustn't look this way. Tired, old, defeated. You are Jumbe Kinyati, the greatest leader Africa will ever know. You are on the verge of a spectacular success. The news is all good, Jumbe."

  "Is it?"

  "The doctors from Houston are very optimistic about the outcome of your surgery. I spoke to them again only this morning. And in less than two weeks black men everywhere will be rejoicing in the freedom of their brothers in South Africa."

  "So many other men will die first. Why can I find no other way?"

  "It's better this way. Two swift, powerful strokes. Remember. If you had had missiles six years ago, your Sons would not have died in Rhodesia."

  Pain; anger. Jumbe was predictably aroused. But only for a few moments. Then he slumped back in his chair.

  "I don't have missiles now."

  "The Russians will deal with you, Jumbe. You've manipulated them with great skill, left them eager but without a choice."

  "And the Americans?"

  "But we never counted on them; they were necessary only to bid up the game. They have reacted in a typical fashion–by sneaking CIA agents into the country and attempting to steal the bloodstones."

  Jumbe looked at him in astonishment. "Why wasn't I told about this?"

  Kumenyere laughed. "Don't worry. The bloodstones are safe. The Americans didn't steal them. They didn't come close. Nor will anyone else. I simply didn't want to bother you this morning with trivial matters. The two Americans were picked up by our soldiers in the Makari Mountains the day before yesterday. They are being held at our Chale Point base on Lake Tanganyika. No identification. But from the description I received, one member of the team has to be Raun Hardie."

  "Then why were they looking for the Catacombs in the Makari Mountains? She knows better."

  "I have an idea that Miss Hardie deliberately misled them about the location of the Catacombs. Remember, she was imprisoned by the U.S. government for alleged subversive activities. Some say she was unfairly treated. I would enjoy talking to her about her possible motivation for misleading the CIA. But it doesn't seem worth even- the slight risk of letting her live another day. Of course the decision is up to you, Jumbe."

  Jumbe thought about it. "Whatever Miss Hardie's motives were, she has not done us any harm. Perhaps we owe her her life."

  "There are six days left before the twenty-ninth of May. Other CIA agents may be in the vicinity of Tanganyika, or on the way there. If a signal went out before their capture, there could be a rescue attempt. If this attempt succeeds, and she has a change of heart–"

  "Yes, I see."

  "How much trouble is it to dispose of both of them, in such a manner that no trace can ever be found?"

  Jumbe bit down on the stem of his pipe and sat staring at Kilimanjaro.

  "Handle it your way, then."

  For fifty-six hours Raun Hardie and Matthew Jade had been imprisoned in a square windowless metal storage building with a concrete floor. The building was about seven feet high. The only air and light came through four horizontal louvered vents at the top of the barred and padlocked door. Each vent was half an inch wide and six inches long. The sheets of metal were corrugated, bolted together, bolted to the floor. The roof had a slight pitch to it; there was a difference of less than a foot from front to back. The building was not quite large enough for either of them to lie flat on the evil-smelling floor; but they couldn't have done this if they'd wanted to because of the way in which they had been handcuffed together: her left wrist to his right wrist, and vice-versa. They could stand, facing each other like partners in a bondage dance; sit cross-legged or yoga fashion, a position at which Jade was much more adept than Raun; or lie, fetally, on their sides with their arms against their chests, a position which allowed them to catch an hour or two of shallow sleep at a time.

  Their clothing had been taken from them at the outset; except for a bloodied twist of bandage around Jade's hea
d they were naked. Clothing would have slowed the rate of evaporation of precious moisture from their skin, but in clothes they couldn't remove they soon would have fouled themselves unendurably. Even so sanitation was something of a problem: The only outlet was a rank hole in the middle of the concrete floor, and tactful cooperation was required by each partner.

  Total nudity also helped ease a more critical problem: getting enough fluids to stay alive in the miserable heat of the metal box. They were near the lake-shore, they knew that much: Jade had identified the sounds of an engine and bucket line as a dredger in operation, but the door of the box faced away from the lake and the potential of cooling breezes during the long days.

  From the moment the door had been locked it was not opened again. They had neither food nor water. Twice a day–after shivering on the cold floor all night, and broiling under the tropical sun–the nozzle of a hose was thrust against one of the vents and they were drenched with chilly or tepid water from the lake. They quickly learned to lick each other to slake their thirsts and replenish some of the salts leeched from their bodies by profuse sweating, but the gains were always marginal. Their lips swelled, their throats ached from dehydration, palpitations and cramps were common–at least for Raun, who screamed often from the pain of knotted calves and thighs.

  During the day they heard the sounds of drilling soldiers, the siren of a lake ferry, helicopters arriving and departing, the whistling scream of MiG fighters overhead. At night they heard laughter from a bar, the lap of waves against the shore, hippo and crocodile in reedy coves.

  Raun had passed the initial hours of confinement in a state of shock that was expressed as gritty good hopes, then embarrassment at their mutual predicament, then nagging fear of being suddenly taken from captivity and turned over to a barracks of bored men for a gang rape. When nothing at all happened she decelerated through morbid self-pity and a bout of hysteria, bottomed into a torpid depression.