PLAZA

by Shane M Brown

  'Gordon...,' warned Spader. 'We don't have time for this. We need to get moving.'

  Gordon met Spader's glare. 'Just give me one minute. He might be able to help.'

  Spader started rapidly packing up Gordon's equipment. 'Make it quick.'

  'I'm not helping you,' declared Ethan. 'I want to know what the hell you're even doing here!'

  'That's what I'm trying to show you,' insisted Gordon. 'If you want this site back to normal, then help us find what we're after.'

  'There's nothing in the Gallery to take,' insisted Ethan, waving his arms to indicate the empty chambers. 'The season's artifacts are in the conservation hut. We've never found anything in the Gallery.'

  Gordon nodded at the laptop and then glanced meaningfully at Spader. Still packing equipment, Spader didn't see Gordon's motion. Gordon was trying to tell Ethan something without Spader noticing.

  'It won't hurt you to just take a look,' said Gordon. 'This is your only chance. The clock is ticking.'

  Ethan crossed to the laptop and studied the screen. He recognized the diagram instantly. He felt cheated. 'You've done a micro-seismology sounding. I wrote to you about this. This is what I wanted your help with!'

  Gordon rotated the laptop towards Ethan. 'Well, now you've got what you wanted. Take a closer look.'

  Ethan couldn't help himself. Why waste the opportunity? Gordon is the best person in the world at running these tests.

  Ethan examined the complex model, astounded by the details. Practically the entire eastern side of the Gallery was mapped.

  It appeared the network of corridors stretched right through the Gallery. The only variation lay in the middle. Ethan bent closer. Gordon's charges seemed to have run out of energy by that stage. The model looked hazy and out of focus. There appeared to be a cavity of some kind though. A room? Possibly. The model certainly showed something.

  'What do you think that is?' asked Gordon.

  Ethan struggled to tear his eyes away from the image. 'There must be a hundred theories about this place. Where do you want me to start?'

  'Forget all that,' said Gordon. 'All your theories are wrong. You're employing the wrong methods. Contextual explanations don't apply here.'

  ‘Contextual explanations are the basis of all archaeology,' said Ethan flatly. ‘They work.’

  'Not today they won't,' countered Gordon. 'Not here. You have nothing to compare this place to. It’s completely out of context. This is the first one you’ve found.'

  'First what? If you know the purpose of this place, stop being vague and tell me. You haven't said anything substantial yet. Maybe I was wrong about you, Gordon. Maybe it's good you didn't take up my offer. I think you would have been wasting my time, just like you're wasting it now.'

  That hit the mark. Gordon's face twitched angrily.

  Ethan saw an opportunity and drove the point home. 'You're supposed to be the expert. If you have a workable theory, then let's hear it.'

  'It's not his theory,' cut in Spader, zipping the last bag.

  Spader had clearly been following the conversation. 'It's your theory, Ethan. From eight years ago. You got it right almost a decade ago and you've been pissing around in circles ever since.'

  Ethan glanced to where Spader squatted beside the two black bags. 'You're talking nonsense. I've only been on this site three years.'

  Spader shook his head, and Gordon picked up the argument again. 'Stop labeling it an ancient structure. Try a modern angle. Compare its major observable features to equivalents in the modern world. The simplest answer is normally the correct one.'

  Ethan reflected. Eight years ago was about the time he hit on the idea of using satellite images to search for limestone formations. He remembered the papers, his theories...his eyes widened as his mind latched onto one. Gordon couldn't really mean...?

  Gordon smiled as Ethan grasped the answer. 'Yep. It was here all along. We're standing in the world's...largest...safe. And I need your help to find the combination.'

  #

  Fontana set a cracking pace through the ruins.

  That creepy spectacle back at the Gallery had freaked him out. He couldn't tell Randerson. One of them had to hold it together. Clearly that person wasn't Randy.

  The sooner they abandoned this smelly sandpit the better.

  Fontana's plan was to cut north-east to the Old Church. On the top tier, the Old Church provided excellent cover and a view of their plane. They'd sit tight. When Spader emerged, Merc and Dale would coordinate to get the payload back to the bird.

  Sounds easy.

  Fontana spotted his goal ahead. From above, the structure resembled the bombed foundations of a small church. Three internal walls were semi-intact, but the rest resembled a knee-high obstacle course.

  Fontana had noted its location on arrival. He didn't share Randerson's innate sense of direction. He needed obvious landmarks to navigate from. Preferably big things he could see from a distance to triangulate his position. For that reason, of the entire team, he’d probably made the biggest effort to learn the Plaza layout.

  The truth was that he got lost easily. When he was lost, he felt out of control. It made him look stupid. He hated that feeling, so he always argued for the familiar route.

  Hence he suggested the Old Church, arguing Merc down. The Church was a feature that stuck in his head from the start. From the Church, he knew where everything else was.

  Without slowing, Fontana wove straight through the low outer obstacles towards a good slice of cover. He didn't want to give Randerson a chance to complain about the location before they were tucked in safely.

  Randerson was quick on his feet. Nimble like a rat. Apparently he’d spent a lot of time with them, crawling around in drains or something. He was just two steps behind Fontana when they both stopped with their backs up against the largest intact wall.

  'Why are we stopping here?' asked Randerson. 'There's no hard cover from the north or west. We should meet up with Merc and Dale.'

  'They won't be at the Dominoes any longer,' countered Fontana. 'They'll be cutting east.'

  Randerson keyed his radio to check with Dale and Merc. At that moment, a piercing whistle - an intense chemical hiss - cut through the air above them.

  It was a missile. Heading towards the silt lake. Both men spun, tracking the missile's trajectory.

  Fontana knew exactly where it was aimed.

  The missile struck perfectly. A fireball engulfed their plane.

  By some freak of physics, the plane's single propeller launched straight up into the air. It streaked upwards, hung in midair for a second, and then plunged down.

  Fontana and Randerson watched it hit the water.

  'Well, that's hardly polite,' remarked Fontana, looking at the burning wreckage.

  'They just destroyed our plane!' barked Randerson.

  'You have to admit that was a pretty good shot,' said Fontana, tracing the missile’s trajectory with his finger. 'I mean, from there, right across the site to there. That's a damn good shot. Those babies aren't guided for ground targets. That was pure marksmanship.'

  Randerson stared open-mouthed at Fontana. 'They just blew up our fucking plane. Don't you get it? That was our ride out of here. Now what are we going to do!'

  'We'll figure out something.' Fontana shrugged. 'We're not ready to leave yet anyway.'

  'We have to tell Spader,' blurted Randerson, glancing back the way they’d come.

  Merc came over both their radios.

  'I got some bad news, Gentlemen.'

  'We saw,' cut in Randerson. 'Kline just blew up our frigging plane!'

  'That's not the bad news. I can see Kline now. He's got another RPG. He's just climbed the Broken Staircase. Wait, I can't see him now....'

  Dale spoke up over the radio. 'OK, I can see him now. He looks like he's...wait...tell me you two aren't anywhere near the Old Church.'

  Randerson replied urgently, 'We are IN the Old Church. I repeat, we are inside the Old Church. What's goin
g - '

  Dale suddenly yelled over the radio. 'Get down! Get down! You got incoming!

  Fontana and Randerson dived for cover. The chemical hiss came again, but much louder this time. Both men covered their ears. The sound intensified until Fontana thought the missile might land in his lap.

  Maybe it went over us, he hoped, opening one eye.

  The explosion bent reality into a dimension of pure sound and violence. Even with his ears covered, the explosion drilled into his head with diamond-tipped malice. Masonry tumbled off his body armor. Stone chips blanketed both men. The entire structure bucked like a cardboard box kicked by a donkey. One stone wall completely collapsed, throwing up a rolling cloud of masonry dust.

  Randerson scrambled to his knees just seconds ahead of Fontana.

  Fontana heard Merc frantically calling over the radio. 'Fontana! Randerson! Give me an update on your position!'

  'We're still in the Old Fucking Church!' roared Fontana into his radio.

  'What's left of it,' radioed Randerson, squinting through the broiling masonry dust. 'We're in deep shit here, Merc.'

  'Oh, crap,' swore Merc. 'I can see most of Kline's team taking up position in the Dragon's teeth.'

  'Damn it,' spat Randerson. 'They’ve got us pined in here.'

  'Merc, listen to me,' yelled Fontana into his radio. 'We're mincemeat if Kline fires another of those crowd-pleasers our way. You need to buy us some breathing room. Just long enough to get out of here.'

  'It better be soon,' radioed Dale. 'They just passed Kline another RPG. It looks like he's got a full box of those bad boys.'

  'You ready to do some damage?' Merc asked Dale over the radio.

  'Watch this,' radioed Dale, and suddenly Fontana heard gunfire from the south-west. A flurry of return fire sounded from the Dragon’s Teeth.

  Dale must have been creeping into position the entire time, planning to distract the guards from Fontana and Randerson. A second later they heard Merc's gunfire join the skirmish. It sounded like the two men had separated to launch a surprise rear attack on Kline’s team.

  It wasn't soon enough though.

  Dale's voice hollered over the radio through the bedlam, 'Incoming! Incoming on the Old Church!'

  Fontana and Randerson heard the chemical hiss at the same time. They couldn't see the missile. It was blocked from view by the wall they were sheltering behind. The wall was Kline's target.

  'Run!' yelled Randerson, but Fontana was already sprinting from the wall at full tilt. Randerson was right beside him, and they drew even, neck and neck as the missile hit the wall behind them.

  The explosion was closer this time. The wall took half the weapon's brunt, but the remaining force sent both men swimming through the air in full flight. A fireball rolled after their heels, filling the ruins in their wake.

  The force threw both men clear of the collapsing ruins. Fontana slid to a stop on his stomach while Randerson rolled another ten feet away.

  When Randerson stopped rolling, Fontana asked, 'You alive?’

  By answer, Randerson pointed past where Fontana was lying.

  An off-road motorbike lay toppled just meters away.

  Fontana scanned for the bike's rider. The security guards had bikes for riding patrols. A guard must have hidden the bike behind the Old Church while laying their trap for Spader's team earlier.

  Fontana scrambled towards the bike. He’s almost reached it when Randerson shouted a warning and pointed.

  They were being stalked. Stealthy shapes approached from three different directions. They were the same shapes they’d seen around the Gallery entrance. Now Fontana spotted four of them gliding over the ruins. They were big. Long. Moving with unchecked malice. The closest was just thirty feet away.

  Fontana lifted the bike and swung his leg over. Please start.

  He kicked over the engine and felt it roar to life. Randerson leapt onto the back, finding the foot pegs and yelling, 'Go, go, go!’

  Fontana gunned the throttle and accelerated straight towards the Gallery, for no other reason than that the bike was already pointing that way.

  #

  Dale wove through the ruins, firing over his shoulder, racing to join back up with Merc.

  'Merc, I'm just coming around the Taj Mahal,' he radioed. Fontana had labeled this place the Taj Mahal. It looked nothing like it. At the time, Dale suspected Fontana couldn't think of anything better, so he just used the first name that popped into his thick head

  I bet he doesn't even know what the real Taj Mahal looks like.

  'Keep coming, boy,' Merc replied. 'I'm just west of you. You should see me soon.'

  The Taj Mahal was a solid raised platform, about thirty feet across, surrounded by eight sets of steps. Dale wanted to call it the Squashed Spider, which it closely resembled from the air, but Fontana had gotten cranky about changing the name.

  Dodging around the second set of steps, Dale suddenly came up short.

  The corner where the steps met the main structure was a mess of human gore.

  Dale felt something pliable under his boot. He'd stood on somebody's hand. Two glistening bones stuck from the dismembered wrist under his boot.

  What has Merc done to this guy?

  Scraps of uniform identified the remains of a security guard. Had something been eating him? Pieces of flesh lay scattered all over the place. Entrails stretched from the ruptured torso up the steps. The guard’s head lay raggedly cracked open like a half-peeled coconut. The blood looked just minutes old.

  Merc couldn't have done this, could he?

  Dale backed from the grisly spectacle and dashed off. He found Merc thirty meters away, crouching behind a pyramid-shaped section of wall.

  'What took you so long?' demanded Merc.

  Dale couldn't get the dead guard’s image from his head. 'What did you do to that guard back there?'

  Merc looked surprised. 'I don't think I'd even hit one yet. Lucky shot, I guess.'

  Dale scanned Merc. There wasn't any blood on him. He obviously hadn't been party to what happened back there. So what was it?

  Dale jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 'He wasn't shot. Something tore him apart. You have to see this.'

  'We have bigger problems,' said Merc. 'I can't raise Fontana or Randerson on the radio. Maybe that last missile took them out.'

  Dale insisted, 'No, you gotta see this. This isn't normal. Something just tore him apart a minute ago. It must be close. It's a wild animal or something.'

  'Shut up,' hissed Merc.

  'Listen. I'm telling you - '

  'Shut up,' Merc repeated, holding up one finger, 'Listen.'

  Now Dale heard it. A motor bike, revving hard along the top tier. 'That could be them.'

  'Quick.' Merc dashed north across the tier. Within seconds they reached where the edge dropped to the middle tier. Both men crouched in cover. The angle provided a good view of the east bunker and the Gallery steps below.

  More importantly, they spotted four guards racing to intercept two men hurtling along on a motorbike. One of the guards was Kline. The two men on the bike were Fontana and Randerson.

  Fontana gunned the bike like a madman.

  He slid the bike through a huge fishtail and accelerated hard along the tier's edge. Behind them, three security guards fired on the run. Kline dashed into the bike's path.

  Merc yelled into his radio. 'Keep riding around the tier! We're north-west of the Taj Mahal! Keep coming!'

  But Dale saw it was impossible. A huge obstacle lay in Fontana's path.

  An obstacle named Kline.

  Kline knelt and sighted down his rocket propelled grenade.

  Fontana hit the brakes and slewed the bike straight down the stairs towards the Gallery. Kline lowered his weapon. The bike had dropped under his aiming horizon. Dale could still see the riders though.

  Reaching the bottom, Fontana accelerated hard across the middle tier.

  'He's going for the Gallery,' said Dale. The Gallery lay one tier down. O
ne more flight of stairs. But Fontana was riding too fast. The bike would never take the stairs at that speed.

  Kline saw it too. He trained the RPG just ahead of the speeding bike. The weapon bucked on his shoulder and spat it hissing payload straight into the motorbike's path. The missile curved a perfect intercept trajectory towards the riders.

  They're not going to make it, realized Dale.

  As the missile flew, Fontana gunned the bike full throttle. He had nothing to lose. The bike launched off the middle tier. It flew right over the steps totally airborne. When it hit the bottom tier, it bounced.

  Fontana and Randerson bounced as well. Right off the bike.

  The missile, the bike and its two airborne passengers all reached the Gallery simultaneously. Less than a fraction of a second separated them.

  The small warhead detonated, and Dale saw no more as a fireball engulfed the Gallery entrance and shook the stones under his feet.

  Chapter 11

  Kline smiled as the fireball engulfed the Gallery entrance.

  'Yee-har!' he hollered.

  Nice shooting.

  Grinning, he tossed aside the expended RPG. He trotted down the stairs to check the bodies. His men took position to cover his approach.

  Kline's steps faltered as he drew closer to the Gallery entrance. His handiwork with the RPG wasn't quite what he’d expected. In fact, it was far from it.

  Where were the two smoldering corpses? Where was the bike? As he reached the Gallery entrance, or what used to be the Gallery entrance, the two men on the bike were forgotten. They didn't matter anymore.

  The entrance was shut. A smooth stone slab blocked the archway.

  ‘What is this doing here?’ Did the ceiling just collapse? No. The slab blocked the entrance like a cork in a bottle. A perfect fit.

  Kline bent and tugged the cables that fed power to the Gallery’s navigation lights. The cables flipped back towards him, sparking, cleanly severed.

  The slab must have dropped like a guillotine.

  Kline pushed against the stone slab. Nothing. He braced himself and pushed with all his strength. Still nothing.