The bow hit the bottom less than a hundred meters from shore. It made the Titanic hitting the iceberg seem like a fender bender. Steel sheared the coral off, splintering into the rock beneath even as the ship continued to close on shore, slowing only slightly.
As steel and rock fought, the island gradually won the battle. The Washington came to a halt, over two hundred meters of ship out of water and on the beach. Below the waterline, over 150 meters of the ship had been crushed, gouging out a twenty-meter-deep trench in the rock below leading up to the shore. The forward edge of the flight deck had crumpled from the destruction of the ship below.
With the last screech of tearing metal bouncing off the rim of Rano Kau, silence once again came to the island.
• • •
“Jesus!” The Springfield’s sonarman ripped off his headset and threw it down on the console. “The carrier’s hitting the island!”
Standing behind him, Captain Forster could hear the terrible sound of the Washington hitting Easter Island, relayed by the one thousand hydrophones arrayed in the sonar sphere in the front end of his submarine, echoing out the phones.
The sound grew louder to the point where every member of the crew could plainly hear it reverberating through the hull. Then silence.
The Springfield rested on the bottom, four hundred meters below the surface and just outside the shield. Two foo fighters hung in the water nearby, little golden orbs, three feet across, with the power to destroy the heavily armed submarine.
Even as he tried to imagine what could have happened to the Washington, Forster was looking at the displays on the screens in front of him. Able to use only their passive systems, he was working half blind. They had followed the sound of the carrier heading toward the island and now could pick up the other ships in the task force moving about.
“What’s that?” Forster pointed at one screen. It “painted” a map of the seafloor around them, leading up to the slightly curved line that indicated the shield surrounding Easter Island less than a mile away. There was now a small anomaly along a curved line, showing how the sound had partially reflected off the alien shield.
“I don’t know, sir,” the sonarman answered. “It wasn’t there before, but the shield went off for about thirty seconds as the carrier went through, then back on.”
“Overlay the bottom chart,” Forster added.
The computer screen cleared for a second, then the image was superimposed on a hydrographic chart of the sea bottom. A line between Forster’s eyes narrowed as he located the anomaly. It was where a very narrow and steep cut bisected the ocean bottom, where the Washington had dug a channel out of the rock. The shield had not snapped back into place there because the gap had not existed before. “I do believe we might have found a hole in the shield around the island.”
Area 51
D - 31 Hours, 40 Minutes
Major Quinn had the orbit of the talon plotted on the main board in the Cube with a thick blue line. It was moving slowly eastward over the United States, leaving behind the destruction it had caused in Montana. A thick red line represented the Stratzyda’s track, now over the North Pole and heading south across the Atlantic.
Quinn typed in a command and dotted lines, the same colors, shot out from each track. They intersected over the middle of the Atlantic.
“Hoping something changed?” Larry Kincaid stood behind Quinn’s command console.
”Someone could have made a mistake in projecting the paths,” Quinn said.
“No mistake,” Kincaid said. “It’s physics, pure and simple. They intersect in twenty-two hours. Let’s be glad that Lexina doesn’t have any maneuvering control and has to wait for the spin of the Earth and the drifting path of the talon to intersect with Stratzyda’s. Then wait again for both to drift over the center of the United States. They both have to drift east, across Asia, the Pacific, and then over target in thirty-one hours.”
“‘Over target,’” Quinn repeated. He tried to imagine what it would be like to have the warheads rain down over the United States. “We’d better find that damn key.”
Qian-Ling, China
D - 31 Hours, 30 Minutes
Che Lu stared at the notations in Nabinger’s notebook until they became blurry and she had to close her eyes and rest. She’d been poring over them, lacking anything else to do.
Leaning back against the rock wall, she felt a moment’s despair. All the exits were destroyed, the food and water the mercenaries had carried in wouldn’t last forever, and there seemed no resolution in sight to the current situation.
Elek was systematically going through the containers in the large cavern and had made it clear he did not want the humans looking over his shoulders as he did so. Lo Fa had made the wry observation that he hoped the alien/human hybrid found some food soon in one of the containers.
Other than passing such remarks, Lo Fa spent most of his time sleeping. Storing up energy, he called it. It was a sign of the depression she felt that Che Lu didn’t even poke fun at her old friend for that. When he wasn’t sleeping, the old man wandered the tunnels of the complex they had access to, avoiding going down the central tunnel that led to the lowest level and was guarded by the holographic image of an Airlia and the deadly beam. As long as she had known him, the one trait of Lo Fa’s she’d admired was his desire to see new places, to travel to the edges of the maps he had, to—
Che Lu’s eyes flashed open. She thumbed through the leather-bound notebook until she found a certain page. Nabinger had written a series of runes down one side of the page along with some numbers next to them. The top rune-number set had the word “Earth” written next to it.
She’d assumed he was deciphering some mathematical formula and considered the page not particularly important. It was apparent he’d been working on it just before coming to China and entering the tomb. She stared at the numbers, comparing what he had translated to the runes. And saw where he had been wrong. Not because he didn’t understand the runes, but because he didn’t understand the Airlia. She remembered the image that appeared in the central corridor—the hands with six fingers instead of five.
The human number system was based on multiples of ten. It made sense that the Airlia system might be based on multiples of twelve. Which meant the numbers Nabinger had been trying to decipher would make no sense to him without that essential piece of information.
Che Lu began recalculating.
(Russian Area 51), Novaya Zemlya Island
D - 31 Hours, 20 Minutes
The bouncer slowly circled. “That is Stantsiya Chyort,” Yakov said pointing. “Or was Stantsiya Chyort,” Yakov corrected as they could see more clearly.
They were at the northernmost end of Novaya Zemlya, which was an island seven hundred miles long that separated the Barents from the Kara Sea. The base was located in a narrow strip of level land between a glacier on one side and mountains on the other two. The ocean completed the encirclement and isolation.
“Now we know why you lost radio contact,” Turcotte said. There was no mistaking the demolished walls and roofs of the surface buildings next to the runway.
“We know why,” Yakov agreed, “but we still don’t know for sure who is the cause of this.”
“We can make a damn good guess,” Turcotte said as the plane went into the glide path to land.
“You suspect The Ones Who Wait?”
“Or The Mission,” Turcotte said. “We can’t forget them.”
“No, we cannot,” Yakov agreed. “They might well have done this in retaliation for our shooting down the satellite that was brewing their Black Death. Or The Ones Who Wait to prevent us from getting to the sphere that controls the talon.” Yakov nodded at the compound. “Fortunately, most of the facility is underground, like your Cube. It might have escaped the wrath of whoever attacked. There was a failsafe device in case of attack. The only way into the underground base would be destroyed.”
“Burying the men there alive?” Turcotte asked as the
bouncer touched down on the concrete runway.
“Supposedly.”
Turcotte remembered the dead scientists at the Terra-Lei compound in Africa—killed when the compound was breached by the UNAOC forces. Everything related to the Airlia seemed to bring death.
“So we can’t get to it?”
“Not without major earthmoving equipment,” Yakov said.
“Then this trip is a waste,” Turcotte said.
“Do not count your chickens before the eggs break,” Yakov said. “I know of a secondary entrance to the lower level that only a few of us were briefed on. It was the emergency way out if the main elevator destruct was fired.”
Turcotte nodded. “Have you been here before?”
“Once, but it was a quick visit. My boss did not want me to be seen often at Stantsiya Chyort, because he felt it would compromise my effectiveness in the field. He was worried like you were at Area 51—eyes and ears everywhere.”
Turcotte opened a locker and pulled out two MP-5 submachine guns. He tossed one to Yakov, along with a couple of spare magazines.
“Excuse me, Major?” Katyenka held up her empty hands.
“My apologies,” Turcotte said. He drew another MP-5 out and gave it to her. Then he climbed up and opened the top hatch. Once on the ground, Yakov led the way. Turcotte caught glimpses of frozen bodies among the ruins.
“Here.” Yakov walked up to the concrete bunker. The steel doors had been blown asunder, their twisted remains on either side of a dark opening, like a mouth waiting for its next feast.
Yakov pulled a powerful flashlight out of his pack and shined it in. “Come on.”
Turcotte followed, Katyenka right behind him. They went down a corridor until they came to another set of steel doors. Yakov pulled open a panel next to them. He threw a switch, and the doors opened with a hum. A large freight elevator was inside.
“Emergency power is still functioning,” Yakov said.
“What kind of emergency power?” Turcotte asked.
Yakov’s teeth showed. “Nuclear, of course. It is not like Novaya Zemlaya could get any ‘dirtier’ from one more bit of radioactivity.”
“Who is taking care of the reactor if everyone is dead?”
Yakov was in the elevator, looking around. “It is automated. Can run for months without a human looking at it.”
“Right.” Turcotte’s tone indicated what he thought of that.
Yakov pulled a floor plate up and shined his light down. “The failsafe seems to have failed. Or was made to fail. The shaft is clear.”
“One piece of luck,” Turcotte said.
“We will not need to use the secondary entrance—it would require many stairs.” He gestured for them to enter the elevator. After Turcotte and Katyenka got on board, Yakov closed the doors and the elevator descended.
“How deep?” Turcotte asked after a minute.
“A half mile.”
After descending for five minutes the elevator halted with a slight bump. Yakov gently pushed Katyenka to the rear as he put his weapon at the ready. “This is no time for male chauvinism,” Katyenka said.
“It is not chauvinism,” Yakov said. “Even with you in front of me, I would still be a target. At least with you behind there is only one target.”
Katyenka pushed her way next to Turcotte and Yakov, her MP-5 tight against her shoulder, finger on the trigger.
Yakov shrugged and pushed the button.
The doors slid open.
The bodies were strewn about, fallen where they had been caught by whatever had killed them.
“Is it safe?” Turcotte asked.
“Too late for that.” Yakov strode into a large central chamber. He knelt down next to the closest body and turned it faceup. “I would say some sort of nerve gas. If it was still active, we’d be dead. It’s dissipated.”
The room they were in was circular, with several tunnels going off in various directions.
Yakov had stood up and was slowly turning in a circle, taking in all the bodies. “Everyone,” he whispered. “Everyone.”
“I am sorry,” Turcotte said. He thought of Area 51 wiped out, all the people who worked there killed. He realized it was as vulnerable to attack as Section Four had been—even more vulnerable, as it was more accessible.
“This is most of Section Four,” Yakov said. He walked over to a man wearing a uniform, collapsed in front of a red switch. “General Trofimoff, my commander.”
Yakov checked the switch. “He threw the destruct, but it must have malfunctioned.”
“Or been sabotaged,” Turcotte said. “Do you think The Ones Who Wait or The Mission did this?”
Yakov pulled his long coat in tighter around himself, even though it was warm in the base. “The Ones Who Wait, most likely,” he said. “We captured one of their operatives several years ago and brought him—it—here. They have finally paid us back.”
“I think there is more to this than simple revenge,” Turcotte said. “Where would this device be?”
Yakov ticked off tunnels, reading the sign over each. “Scientific staff lodging. Mess hall. Communications. Research. Engineering. Power. Storage.” He headed for the last one, Turcotte and Katyenka following.
They walked fifty meters down a stone corridor. It ended in a vault door that was standing wide open, the body of a guard draped across the threshold.
They went through the entrance. The chamber beyond was over eight hundred meters long, with alcoves cut into either side every ten meters or so, depending on what was inside. The alcoves ranged in size from a few meters wide and high to several that were over a hundred meters deep by fifty high.
Yakov was reading the placards above each. He began heading down the central corridor, looking left and right. Turcotte followed. Yakov stopped at one of the smaller alcoves farther on the left. “It was here.”
He was pointing at a table that held an empty frame.
“So that’s how Lexina got control of the talon and that’s why they attacked here,” Turcotte said. “Her people took the artifact you had. We’ve failed. I hope Duncan is having better luck than we are. We need that key now.” Turcotte had continued past and paused at one of the small alcoves. It was blocked off by a dark glass wall.
“What’s in there?”
Yakov looked at the plaque. “All it says is: ‘Recovered from subcellar, Reich Research, Aviation Ministry, Berlin, 30 April 1945.’” He touched the glass. “It’s warm.” He looked around and saw a switch. “Here, let’s see.”
The tank was backlit, rays of light streaming through the greenish liquid that filled the tank. And floating inside were a half-dozen objects.
Turcotte stepped back involuntarily. “What is that?”
Five of the objects were six feet long by about twelve inches thick at one end, tapering to what looked like three six-inch-long-by-inch-thick projections that formed a strange tripod at the other end. These were grayish blue in color. The sixth object was a ball, yellowish, about three feet in diameter. On the side that Turcotte could see there were, evenly spaced about six inches apart, slits about four inches long. There was also a bump, about four inches high here and there on the ball, with a fold of the yellow material on the bump. The ball—and the other objects—was floating in the green liquid, which seemed to be circulating very slowly, moving them ever so slightly.
“Oh my God!” Turcotte exclaimed as the ball rolled and one of the slits appeared—this one open. A dark black eye peered at the glass.
CHAPTER 15
Area 51
D - 27 Hours, 30 Minutes
Larry Kincaid had worked around scientists all his life and was a scientist himself, but he had little patience for the intellectual type whose specialty was so narrow they couldn’t program their VCR. The scientist in front of him was one of those, and Kincaid had to force himself to try to figure out what the man was trying to say as he babbled at the mouth.
Joe Forrester was a NASA specialist and the head of the Hubble Te
lescope division. Forrester fit the NASA geek stereotype to a T, even to the extent of the pocket protector holding his pens and the sophisticated calculator behind the protector. His wire-rimmed glasses held thick lenses, and Kincaid found himself disoriented every time he tried to look the man in the eyes.
Kincaid was one of the few left at JPL and NASA from the early, exciting days of the space program. He wasn’t a specialist, but a jack-of-all-trades. He had been mission head for all Mars launches, a job that had thrust him into the spotlight when the Airlia base on Mars had been uncovered in the Cydonia region. He’d brought Forrester to Area 51 to coordinate surveillance on the Airlia base on Mars.
“Hubble is capable of tracking moving targets with the same precision as for fixed targets.” Forrester spoke as he typed into his laptop, which was hooked into the secure Department of Defense Interlink. “The images you had of Mars before were just snapshots taken by the Hubble’s FOC—faint object camera.”
Kincaid had dealt with men like this for decades, so he knew enough to just let Forrester talk as he worked.
“To track a moving object in our solar system we maintain a FGS—fine guidance sensor—fine lock on guide stars, and drive the FGS star sensors in the appropriate path, thus moving Hubble to track the target. Tracking under FGS control is technically possible for apparent target motions up to five arcsec.” Forrester looked up. “That is how we were initially able to follow the talon fleet as it came toward Earth.
“However, as happened in that case, this technique becomes unfeasible for targets moving more than a few tenths of an arcsec. What we do then is begin observations under FGS control and then switch over to gyros when the guide stars have moved out of the FGS field of view. If sufficient guide stars are available, it is possible to hand off from one pair to another, but this will typically incur an additional pointing error.”
With great difficulty, Kincaid still said nothing.
“Targets moving too fast for FGS control, but slower than seven point eight arcsec, can be observed under gyro control, with a loss in precision that depends on the length of the observation.”
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