“How’d you know?” King said.
“Been watching you walk back and forth with your head turned toward the ground for an hour now. Only two types of people do that. The clinically depressed and people in love with dirt. You ain’t depressed are you?”
King grinned. “Not yet.”
“You spend too much time out here and I promise you will be.” He gave a smile that revealed a set of nicotine-stained teeth. “Name’s Bowers. What can I do you for?”
“I need a ferryman,” King said.
“Going to the other side of the Euphrat is like crossing the River Styx,” Bowers said.
“How’s that?”
“Ain’t nobody over there to save you. You’ll be on your own.”
“Not quite,” King said with a grin. “You’re going to wait for me.”
Bowers stepped aboard the nearest boat. “Well shit, this will be the most I’ve done in weeks.”
King boarded the boat and they cast off. They crossed the river quickly, beaching the craft on the sandy bank. As King stepped out of the boat and onto shore, Bowers took note of the XM25. His mouth opened a little. “Geologist, my ass. What the hell are you looking for?”
“Just be ready for anything,” King said with a glance at the machine gun. “Anything.”
“You got it,” Bowers said and began loading the machine gun. “How will I know what to shoot?”
King looked back as he hiked up the sand toward the ruins and the small hill beyond. “Odds are it won’t be human.”
* * *
THE DIM LIGHT in the barracks-turned-storage shed was hardly enough to see by, so Bishop had propped open the door allowing the sun to light the room. Unfortunately, it also allowed gritty sand to swirl inside with every gust of hot wind. They did their best to ignore the air quality and focus on combing through boxes of archaeological data.
And there was enough to keep them occupied for days. Knight spent his time going over maps. Though he couldn’t read a word of Arabic, he could clearly see that there were no ancient ziggurats drawn on any maps. Bishop combed through the notebooks, skimming each entry for keywords. Thus far he’d found nothing.
Bishop and Knight were so intent on their work that neither noticed the men who entered the barracks until they closed the door. Knight turned as their light was cut in half. With his hand now on his rifle, Knight focused on the door where an Iraqi man dressed in brown pants and a white button-down shirt stood. General Fowler stood behind him.
“We tracked down one of the men involved in the pre-2003 excavations. He might be able to help make sense of all this,” Fowler said, motioning to the stacks of boxes. “Let me know when you’re finished with him and we’ll send an escort. Now if you’ll excuse me, my attention is needed elsewhere.”
Fowler left quickly, leaving a nervous-looking Iraqi standing in the middle of the room.
“What’s your name?” Knight asked.
“Rahim, sir. My English not so good.”
Without standing or turning around to greet the newcomer, Bishop said, in perfect Arabic, “You were a part of the Babylonian excavations, Rahim?”
Rahim replied in Arabic. “I was an assistant to one of the archaeologists. I was here for three years.”
“Do you know of the Tower of Babel?” Bishop asked.
“We searched for it for years,” the man said, growing excited.
“And?”
“It’s not here.”
Bishop stopped paging through the journal in his hands. He closed it, stood, and turned around. Rahim stumbled back away from Bishop, his eyes fearful. The military hardness of Bishop combined with his muscles and shaved head no doubt brought back memories of times when men like Bishop were to be feared.
“You’re Iraqi?” Rahim asked.
“I was born in Iran,” Bishop said.
This only deepened Rahim’s fear.
Bishop showed a relaxed smile. “But I was raised in America. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Rahim’s fear eased a little, but he didn’t take his eyes off Bishop for very long.
The conversation was interrupted by King’s voice in their ears. Rahim looked at them like they were insane as Bishop and Knight stopped everything and listened. Then Bishop turned to him. “You said the tower isn’t here?”
Rahim nodded. “We scoured the whole site with ground-penetrating radar. We found many exciting sites, but no ziggurats large enough to fit the profile of the Tower of Babel. But some of the team believed the tower lay elsewhere, outside of Babylon.”
“What is beneath the mound on the opposite side of the river?” Bishop asked.
The man’s head snapped up, his face excited. “We never got a chance to dig, but the archaeologists suspected it was the Hanging Gardens.”
“The Hanging Gardens,” Bishop said to Knight in English.
Knight relayed the information. “King, a man from the original dig is here. He’s saying that the Tower of Babel isn’t here, and that the site you’re checking out might be—”
A burst of static cut him off.
“King. King? Do you copy?” Knight looked at Bishop. The only reason King wouldn’t reply was if he couldn’t.
“Rahim, we need you to show us where this mound is,” Bishop said.
* * *
A HALF MILE away on the opposite side of the Euphrates River, atop a mound of sand, the only trace of King’s presence was a divot in the earth. With each passing moment, the wind filled the hole with fresh sand. Less than a minute after King was sucked into the earth, no trace of him remained—except for his XM25 assault rifle.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Severodvinsk, Russia
THE CITY OF Severodvinsk was not what Rook expected, not this far north. In some ways it reminded him of Portsmouth, New Hampshire—built on the coast, home to a submarine yard, featuring an old fishing culture still eking out a living—but Portsmouth’s population was closer to thirty thousand. Severodvinsk supported a population of nearly two hundred thousand.
Not that he minded the crowded streets. It made hiding in the open that much easier. Being a major naval hub, the city was full of military men, some in uniform, more in plainclothes. Despite wanting a stiff drink, Rook avoided the pubs and stuck to coffee shops, all the while searching for the one man who might be able to help him: Maksim Dashkov.
After leaving Galya’s cabin, he had hiked five miles before making it to a main route. Heading north, he caught a ride with a truck driver with a shipment destined for the sub yard. He’d been dropped off in the center of town an hour ago.
The coffee shop bell jangled as Rook entered. He smiled at the heavyset woman behind the counter and ordered a coffee. Black. He paid with money taken from Galya’s cabin and headed for a table. Halfway to the table, as though an afterthought, he asked, “Do you have a phone directory I could borrow?”
The woman nodded, bent down behind the counter, and reemerged with a directory.
Rook reached for it with a smile. “Thanks.”
But when he tried to take it from the woman, she held on tight. “One hundred fifty.”
One hundred fifty rubles was just a little over five dollars U.S., but it was still a lot for using the phone book. When Rook gave her a questioning look, she added, “Times are hard. People drink more vodka than coffee.”
Rook paid her and smiled. “I should have got cream and sugar.”
“Those are extra, too,” the woman said as he sat down with the phone directory. Thirty seconds later he had a phone number and address for Maksim Dashkov.
Rook stood to leave, but saw three men in uniform standing outside the shop. It was doubtful he’d be recognized, but on the off chance he was, he was in no condition to fight his way past two hundred thousand Russians.
He gave the woman at the counter his most winning smile and said, “How much for a phone call?”
The woman picked up the phone and placed it on the counter. “Five more.”
Rook ga
ve her the last of his money, picked up the phone, and dialed. It was answered on the third ring by a man with a rough voice.
“Maksim Dashkov?” Rook said.
Suspicion filled the man’s voice. “Yes, who is this?”
“A friend of Galya’s.”
“Galya,” the man said in a whisper. “I haven’t heard from her in two years. How is she?”
Rook wasn’t sure how the man would respond, but he deserved the truth. “She’s dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“I can’t tell you that now,” Rook said, looking out the window at the three sailors. “But her dying wish was for you to help me.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then the man spoke. “Where are you?”
SIXTY-EIGHT
Babylon, Iraq
THE LAST THING King remembered was looking down at his feet and seeing them disappear beneath the sand. He dropped his weapon as he reached out for some nearby brush, but was unable to reach it. Then he was in the earth, swallowed down and shat out. After falling ten feet, he struck his head on something solid and lost consciousness.
He awoke with a throbbing pain on the side of his head and a scratching thirst in his throat. Other than the colors dancing in his vision, he could see nothing. The pain grew worse when he remembered the last words he’d heard from Knight.
The Tower of Babel isn’t here.
If this isn’t the tower, King thought, then where am I?
In the darkness he found his small Maglite flashlight and turned it on, keeping its beam close to the stone floor. In the dim light he touched his hand to the raw spot of his head. He felt a sharp sting as the salt from his hand made contact with the wound. But there was very little blood on his hand, which meant the wound wasn’t bad.
He turned the flashlight on the wall and found a solid brown surface. Columns built into the stone rose from floor to ceiling every few feet, but appeared more decorative than supportive as they were hewn from the stone that made the wall. King aimed his flashlight up at the ceiling. It, too, was solid brown stone, but there was a sand- and stone-filled gap above him. More sand surrounded his body on the floor.
Standing over the weak spot, King had provided just enough pressure to loosen the sand. He’d been sucked down into the tunnel before it sealed above him again.
He stood with the flashlight in hand and looked for his rifle. Not seeing it, he remembered its fate. Damnit, he thought, and then drew his Sig Sauer handgun.
Leading with the light and gun, King walked down the tunnel. He wanted, more than anything, to find a way out and continue the search for Fiona, but what if Knight had been wrong? What if this was the Tower of Babel? He had to be sure.
He slowed as his flashlight revealed a large opening on the left side of the tunnel. He stopped at the corner and listened. He heard nothing, but the air smelled of stone, and something else.
Something fresh.
Something dead.
He chanced a glance with his flashlight and found a large open chamber. A clamshell staircase descended into a large atrium. A dried up tile pool sat at the center of the space. Large stone boxes descended on both sides of the staircase, filled with ancient soil. It was clear to King that they once held large plants or trees, and as he looked around the space, he tried to imagine it in its former glory. Flowers and trees surrounded the atrium. Water flowed from the lion’s head, into the pool. Sun shown down from above, warming the stone.
He looked up at the stone ceiling. It was smooth and unnatural. Then he realized this whole space should be full of sand. The desert had claimed the structure long ago, but someone had hollowed out the insides and fortified the ceiling somehow.
Not someone, King thought, Ridley.
He took the stairs to the atrium floor, which held a mural of a naked, bearded man; his arms wrapped around two bulls standing on their hind legs, whose faces and beards matched the man’s. Several marble statues stood around the outer perimeter of the space. They were tall and straight, hands clasped together beneath rigid beards. Their oversized eyes were inlaid with deep blue lapis lazuli.
Staring into those blue eyes, King felt a chill. Someone was in the room with him. Watching him. He could feel it. He scanned every corner, lit every shadow, but saw no one. His senses told him he was alone, but something else, perhaps a sixth sense, shouted otherwise.
Three arched doorways led out of the atrium, one to the left, one to the right, and one straight ahead. Each was girded by ancient carvings depicting goats, lions, giant eagles with outstretched wings, and large lizards. After a quick check of the three exits, King hurried through the center tunnel, eager to leave the atrium and its sinister feel behind. The central branch led to a second staircase that descended deeper into the buried structure.
As he reached the bottom of the long staircase, King came to a large mural. It was faded horribly, but he could make out a glowing building covered with arches, staircases, and hanging plants and trees. Then he recognized the central atrium as the one he’d passed through. He took a deep breath through his nose as he realized he was standing inside the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.
That same sniff also detected a foul odor. It smelled similarly to what he’d caught traces of in the atrium, but was much stronger. King rounded the corner in the next chamber slowly. The room was circular, surrounded by columns and tall statues similar to those in the atrium.
Detecting no movement or sound within the room, King moved inside. At the center of the room were several wooden tables. They looked old, but far from ancient. The dirty floor was covered in scuff marks. A glint of something shiny caught his attention. He squatted down and picked the object up.
Broken glass.
Modern glass.
Then he saw more. Food wrappers. Discarded water bottles. A pile of discarded tea. Definitely Ridley. The man loved fresh tea. King knelt by the tea. It looked wet, but a quick touch revealed it was a dry and flaky mass. King kicked the tea, breaking it open and felt the core. Bone dry. Ridley had been gone for some time.
“Damnit,” King whispered.
A larger piece of paper caught his attention. It looked like it had fallen out of a notebook and slid beneath one of the tables, perhaps forgotten in a rush to leave. He picked it up and turned it over. The page had handwritten notes. King recognized Ridley’s handwriting. At the top of the page was written, WHO IS HE???
Below that was a series of quick chicken scratch notes. He was able to pick out a word here and there: ancient, god, historical figures, human (?), lost, the bell, dimension, Hercules(?).
King paused. Ridley was trying to identify Alexander. With the name Hercules on this page, he seemed to be doing a fairly good job. Part of King wished more was revealed on the page, and another part didn’t want the answers. King folded the piece of paper and placed it in his pocket. After someone deciphered Ridley’s handwriting he might glean more from the page.
He stood and looked down at the tabletop. What he saw twisted his stomach and locked his feet to the ground. Part of him was thrilled because it meant he was on the right track. But the shattered remains of Fiona’s insulin pump also filled him with dread. When did it break? If it happened days ago she could already be close to death. How did it break? The thing looked smashed. If she had been wearing it when this happened, she could be seriously injured and hyperglycemic. King picked up the fractured device and squeezed it, turning his knuckles white. He was so close.
An echoed sound rolled into the chamber. Distant and organic. A high-pitched whine. Had something heard him? And if so, what was it? The sound came again. King strained to hear it clearly.
It sounded like a girl.
Hoping Fiona had been left behind, or had escaped, King pocketed the ruined pump and headed for the tunnel at the opposite side of the chamber. The hallway sloped downward. The walls held murals and carvings, but none captured his attention. He kept his light and weapon aimed forward and moved as quickly as he could without making noise.<
br />
As he reached the bottom of the tunnel where it opened up into a larger space, a second cry sounded. This one was very close and decidedly not human. King tensed and covered his flashlight with his fingers to dim the beam. He peeked around the corner.
It took all his strength to not react.
A body lay on the floor, bloody and torn apart.
Standing around it were several large sandfish. Their tails snapped back and forth as they fought for position around the body. Intent on their meal, none of them noticed him. He rolled back into the tunnel. Ridley had gone, but he’d left behind some pets.
And a snack for them.
Needing to know if the body was Fiona’s, King rolled out again and peered toward the scene, trying his best to make out features in the low light. He got his answer when one of the large sandfish nipped at the smallest. It leaped away, revealing the victim’s head.
It was another sandfish.
With no other food around, they were cannibalizing each other.
But King’s relief was quickly replaced by dread. When the small lizard jumped away, it gave the sandfish on the other side a clear view of King. It stared at him indifferently, chewing on a chunk of flesh. Then, without any show of emotion, it charged.
As it tore over its brothers and sisters, the sandfish took their attention away from their meal. They turned and saw King as well. Seeing a fresh source of food, the pack discarded their slain brother and joined the charge. Nine eight-foot-long sandfish, each with razor-sharp teeth, the ability to taste the air and swim through sand, were now hunting King. Only the smallest of the group remained behind, enjoying an unusually easy meal.
As the wall of running lizards approached, King’s mind rifled through his choices. With three grenades on hand, he could drop a few and run. But without knowing how well supported these ruins were he risked bringing them all down on his head. He could try shooting each of the monsters in the head—he had enough rounds—but had no idea if a bullet to the brain could stop them. In the end, his instincts formed a simple three-word plan for him.
Threshold Page 30
