Atlantis: Gate

by Robert Doherty

  “So in other words,” Dane said, “all they did was add power to Nazca?”

  “Correct. Our readings spiked right after the detonation.”

  “And sent a nuke, God knows where, into the space-between via Chernobyl?”

  “Apparently.”

  Dane wondered what a nuke would do inside a gate, if it went off at all, which he doubted given the effect gates had on electromagnetic devices. Of course, Kolkov and the Russians knew about that effect so they had probably rigged some other means to detonate the device, he realized.

  “The drain through Nazca is the same?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Ahana replied. “Actually, it might be a little faster. The nuclear explosion might have accelerated things.”

  “How long do we have?” Dane asked.

  “Seventy hours.”

  “Tell Foreman it might be a good idea to get Washington to put a leash on the Russians,” Dane said. He flipped the phone shut and handed it to one of the crewmen standing nearby. Stupidity. He’d seen it in Vietnam, in the places where he and Chelsea had been called to do search and rescue, and in this battle against the Shadow. He knew it was the bane of mankind’s existence.

  He reached down and picked up a set of scuba tanks and slipped them on. With practiced ease he prepared the diving gear, making all the necessary checks just as he’d been trained at Key West so many years earlier during his training. He forgot about Nazca, Foreman, the Shadow, Ariana’s death, Frost’s poetry and everything that had been rattling about his brain. His focus was totally on the task at hand, another trait the military had honed into him.

  In scuba school, as in airborne training, one tenet that had constantly been stressed was that the trainee was entering a naturally hostile environment. One survived neither a parachute jump or a dive without the proper equipment working perfectly. The slightest mistake in such environment could easily be fatal. Because of that, concentration on the mission at hand had to be one hundred percent.

  Dane sat on the edge of the launch and with one hand holding his mask in place fell backward into the warm water. He paused and checked, making sure everything was working correctly. He wished Rachel was here, but he knew the dolphin’s place was the Devil’s Sea gate. He looked down and slowly descended.

  As he passed through one hundred feet, he could see the top of the pyramid. The little light that made it this deep reflected off the smooth black stone. Dane knew the Navy had been all over this area, using all the scientific techniques they had to get an idea of the composition of the pyramid. And he had been briefed on the way over from the carrier that the black stone had defeated all those attempts.

  None had disturbed what was on the flat top of the pyramid though. Dane didn’t know if Foreman had ordered that out of respect for Sin Fen’s remains or because the CIA man feared that such an action would cause a reappearance of the Bermuda Triangle Gate. Dane shook his head as he descended. Foreman wouldn’t have given a damn about Sin Fen.

  Dane slowed, then came to a halt standing on the top of the pyramid, several feet from a large, four foot high slab that was in the center. A Naga Staff was upright next to the slab. Dane hesitated.

  He could feel Sin Fen, her essence. Part of her. And hanging around the essence, was a sense of power coming out of the pyramid.

  Dane remembered his last view of Sin Fen as she lay in a human shaped depression on the slab as her skull changed form, from flesh, bone and blood to crystal, channeling the power of the pyramid against the blackness of the Bermuda Triangle Gate. Blue lightning streaking from the skull, penetrating and dissipating the gate.

  Dane took a step forward, the fins on his feet almost tripping him. He realized he was over breathing, sucking in too much air. He stopped.

  Mission.

  He focused on that one word. Years of harsh training pushed aside the emotions.

  Mission.

  Dane stepped forward. He could see down into the depression in the center of the slab. No bones. Just a pure crystal skull lying at the top. Dane reached out and put his hand on the top of the Naga Staff. His fingers curled among the snake heads. His eyes peering through the mask at the skull, Dane twisted the staff.

  With a solid click it turned.

  Dane’s hand was tight on the Naga Staff, his body tense, but nothing happened. He pulled the staff out of the slot it was in, careful to keep the razor sharp edge away from his body. Then he leaned over and placed his free hand on the skull, fingers spread. A shock ran up his arm, but he didn’t let go.

  Dane closed his eyes and visions flashed through his mind: a dirty street in Cambodia; monks praying in stone ruins; the mist of the Angkor Gate covering jungle; the towers of Angkor Wat;

  Dane tucked the crystal skull in the crook of his arm and pushed off, heading for the surface.

  CHAPTER 12 480 BC

  “There is someone we must meet.” Cyra spoke the words softly, the slight breeze coming off the water carrying them away so that only the King heard them.

  Leonidas was standing on the high bank, peering out at the Gulf of Corinth. The army had stopped for the night and the air was full of the sound of an army encamping. They had made good time on the march so far and spirits were high.

  “Who?”

  “An oracle.”

  “Why?”

  “To find the right path.”

  Leonidas laughed. “We know where we’re going. And this is the quickest track to Rhion.”

  “It is not Rhion or Antirhon that concern me,” Cyra said. “I do not think we will have enough time to get to the Gates of Fire if we follow the—” she searched for the right word— “conventional path.”

  “And this oracle will know a better way?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where is this oracle?”

  Cyra pointed to the sea. “She is coming this evening. We must go out to meet her. She never sets foot on the mainland.”

  Leonidas didn’t seem very enthused at the idea. “How do you know she will be out there?”

  “I have had a vision.”

  “Splendid.”

  “I have arranged for a boat.” She nodded to the left and Leonidas saw a small craft with a man standing by.

  “Couldn’t you have arranged for something larger?”

  “You do not like the water?”

  “You are an excellent seer,” Leonidas said. He tapped the armor on his chest “One cannot swim well with this. I do not understand those who make their living plying the water. A man must have firm ground under his feet.”

  Cyra wrapped her cloak more tightly around her body. “Come, Lord. I think we will both want to hear what the Oracle has to say.”

  “Which oracle is this?”

  “She comes from Thera.”

  Leonidas knew of that shattered island, south of Greece. He had heard tales from the few Spartans he knew who sailed. “It is said that island was smote by the gods. That only a fraction of what was once there remains.”

  “It was once home to my people,” Cyra said as they negotiated the rocky track down to the shore.

  “What happened?”

  “The Shadow tried to destroy it.”

  They arrived at the boat. Leonidas offered his arm, but Cyra ignored it and climbed on board. The King followed and the man shoved the boat into the water. He then jumped on board, sitting between two oars. Without a word he began pulling. Leonidas watched the gap between boat and shore widen.

  “Left,” Cyra said softly and the oarsman shifted their direction.

  Leonidas turned his attention to the water and noted a fine mist ahead. “How do you know where she is?”

  “I sense her.”

  They entered the mist and visibility was reduced to less than a thousand meters. Leonidas could no longer see the shore and he wondered how they would make it back.

  “Hold here,” Cyra ordered and the oarsman pulled his blades out of the water. The boat slowly came to a halt. The surface of the water was perfectly smo
oth, undisturbed. Leonidas frowned, remembering the breeze on the shore.

  There was no sound other than the drop by drop drip of water from the oars and even that ceased shortly.

  Leonidas sat stiffly on the wooden seat. He wanted to stretch his legs out, but there was little room and Cyra was so still, her head cocked to the side as if listening, that he didn’t want to disturb her.

  Cyra’s head straightened. “She comes.”

  Leonidas looked into the mist, which, if anything, was growing thicker. He felt uneasy and at first attributed that to being on the water, but then he realized it was more than that. This fog reminded him of that which had been at Delphi.

  “There is danger here,” he whispered to Cyra, his voice sounding harsh and loud.

  “Yes. It follows the Oracle.”

  Leonidas put his hand on the pommel of his sword. He didn’t fancy a fight with the unsteady platform of the boat under his feet.

  Cyra lightly touched him on the shoulder. “There,” she pointed.

  A boat slowly appeared, one unlike any that the Spartan King had ever seen. The first thing he noted was the up thrust prow, with an intricate carving at the tip. Leonidas squinted, making out the details: seven snake heads originating from one body. Then the rest of the boat came into view. It was long and sleek, very different from the short and stubby boats the Greeks and their neighbors favored. Six oars on each side swept into the water in unison, then rose out and came to a halt.

  The boat glided smoothly through the water, slowing, until it stopped less than two feet from Leonidas and Cyra, an impressive feat of seamanship. Shields lined the side above the oar-holes and no one was visible.

  “Come,” Cyra was on her feet. She reached out and Leonidas noted a set of notches in the side of the ship. Cyra put her hand in one, foot in another and then quickly climbed on board. He reluctantly followed.

  Climbing over the edge he paused, looking into the ship. The first thing he noted were the twelve oarsmen. They were large, well-muscled men with black skin. Leonidas had heard tales of such dark-skinned men living to the south on the other side of the Mediterranean, but he had never seen one. They wore the skins of animals, but such creatures the King had also never seen—yellowish hide with black spots.

  “Come.” Cyra was waiting.

  Leonidas followed her gaze to the rear of the boat where long reeds had been woven into a semi-circular shape, the interior of which was lit by a dull blue light. It reminded him of the Corycian cave, as if the best attempt to transport such a place onto a boat had been made. The blue glow came from a stone similar to what he had seen at Delphi. A figure was seated on the other side, a long hood covering the face.

  Leonidas followed Cyra along the center plank. The oarsmen ignored them, sitting as still as statues. Leonidas noted their weapons—long, curved swords that looked very heavy. The metal gleamed and he could tell the weapons were well maintained.

  Cyra entered the reed cave and bowed her head. Leonidas stood next to her and chose not to bow.

  “King and priestess.” The voice was low and sensual, as if from a girl in her prime. But when the figure pulled back the hood, a lined, old woman’s face was revealed.

  “Oracle,” Cyra acknowledged.

  “You called me here,” the Theran Oracle said.

  Leonidas glanced at Cyra. How could she have summoned the Oracle?

  “We were both called here,” Cyra said. “I fear we will not be able to make it to the Gates of Fire in time.”

  The Oracle looked at Leonidas. “Because he is true to his laws, he does not follow your advice.” She held up a hand, forestalling Cyra. “It is as it must be, for his laws are what makes him what he is. And what he is, is what is needed.”

  “But if he is not at the Gates in time—” Cyra began, but was cut off.

  “Why do you think I came? I will show you a way. It is a perilous journey, but I will give you a weapon that will help.”

  At the word weapon, Leonidas’s interest perked up, only to have his interest dashed with the Oracle’s next words.

  “I will also tell you what I know that you need to know. There is a woman that is with Xerxes. Her name is Pandora.”

  Cyra nodded. “I know.”

  “Do you know what she is?”

  “An adviser to the Persian King,” Cyra said.

  “She is a Sybyl,” the Oracle said.

  “A Sybyl?”

  “A priestess who has been suborned by the Shadow. She advises the Persian King. Fortunately, he follows her advice about as well as our King here.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Leonidas said, stung by the conversation bypassing him.

  The Theran Oracle continued to ignore him. “What do you know of Ahuramazda?” she asked Cyra.

  “That is the name of the god that Xerxes—and the rest of the Persians—worship,” Cyra replied.

  “What else?”

  Cyra shrugged. “No more.”

  “Too bad,” the Oracle said. “You must remember that there is some degrees of truth in all things, even lies.”

  Leonidas shifted his feet. The mist was getting thicker. He wished the old lady would give them the weapon and tell them the way and be done with it.

  “Those who worship Ahuramazda believe he created the world.”

  “All beliefs say their god created the world,” Leonidas interjected, trying to hurry her to the point.

  “Ah, but the priests—called Magi—of Ahuramazda say he created seven worlds, all branching from him. The oldest of these worlds is called Asha, or the Fire World. Fire is worshipped by the followers of Ahuramazda as the sacred channel to eternal light. To get to the eternal light one must pass through the Infinite Darkness.”

  Leonidas had no clue what she was speaking about, but he remained quiet, realizing nothing he could say or do could hurry the old woman along. He noted that the ship was moving very slightly, as if riding on a low swell now.

  “And the end of the world,” the Theran Oracle continued. “Do you know how those of Ahuramazda say it will end?”

  Cyra remained silent, indicating she didn’t.

  “Purification by fire.” The old woman reached inside her cloak and pulled out a roll of parchment. She un-scrolled it slightly and read. “‘And a great river of blazing fire will flow across the land and will consume everything, land and ocean, man and creature, even unto heaven and hell. The entire world will be scorched and the human race annihilated except for the

  chosen ones, the angels of white, also known as the light travelers.’”

  Leonidas thought of the Valkyrie—easily an angel of white to the unknowing eye.

  The Theran Oracle opened up the scroll a little further, then looked up. “What is interesting, as near as I can make out from this translation, is that the followers of Ahuramazda believe the world goes through a cycle of destruction and re-birth. Thus the world has been destroyed many times.”

  As with the rest of it, that made little sense to Leonidas. He noticed that the forward most two rowers had stood up, swords in hand and were peering over the bulwark. The Oracle spotted him noticing. “Yes. They come.”

  “Valkyries?” Leonidas drew his sword.

  “Yes.” She pointed to her right. “Take that.”

  Leonidas noted what appeared to be a pole in the shadows. When he stepped forward to grab it, he paused. It was a weapon, one end of which was a wide spear blade, the other, like the prow of the ship, a seven-headed snake.

  “You may use that against the Valkyries. It will cut their skin easily. But I must have it back—”she looked at Cyra. “After you have the golden sphere, you must bring the Naga Staff back to me. It will be needed later.”

  Leonidas hefted the spear. It was surprisingly light. He held the blade close to his eyes and was amazed at the workmanship. It was beyond any edge he had ever seen and the metal was something no blacksmith he knew had ever worked with.

  “Tell me,” the Oracle said to Cyra, “have you
been properly taught the four stages of awareness?”

  “Awareness of self. Awareness of others. Awareness of the world. Awareness beyond the world.”

  “Very good. Because you will soon face the fourth stage.”

  One of the oarsmen at the front of the boat called out in a strange tongue, but there was no mistaking his intent—alarm. Leonidas strode forward. Behind him, Cyra leaned close to the Theran Oracle who handed her a piece of parchment.

  Leonidas came up between the two oarsmen. They glanced at him, noted the staff in his hand and then turned their attention back to the fog. Leonidas felt cold, a strange sensation considering it had been warm just moments earlier. He glanced over his shoulder and noted that the other oarsmen had all given up wood for steel. A half dozen were arrayed in front of the Oracle and Cyra. The rest were facing the sides of the ship.

  The man to Leonidas’s left hissed something. The king turned in that direction and saw two white figures float out of the fog toward the ship. They paused about twenty feet away, suspended about ten feet above the water, just barely visible.

  A scream from behind caused Leonidas to spin about. One of the oarsmen was being held in the air, run through by a tentacle with teeth on the end that had gone in his back and punched out his chest. More of the arms appeared, blindly grasping for targets. The men hacked at them with their swords.

  Leonidas turned back toward the Valkyries. The two hadn’t moved. He ignored the sounds of mortal battle behind him and remained focused on the two white creatures, the Naga Staff at the ready. For the first time he noted that they were holding something between them, a black cylinder about five feet long that tapered to a point—which was pointed directly at the boat. Leonidas frowned as the cylinder began to transform at the rear, the black becoming gold, moving slowly forward.

  “No!” The strength of the old woman’s yell surprised Leonidas. He turned. The oarsmen were having some success keeping the kraken arms at bay; the deck was littered with severed arms. The Oracle was coming forward, Cyra helping her. The old woman held something glittery in her hands, out of which a bright light was emanating. Leonidas blinked when he realized it was a skull, but one made of a clear material, not bone.