Prime

by Jeremy Robinson

  For a moment, Tremblay stared at it uncomprehendingly, but then his eyes lit up as he deciphered the strange code printed on the label: .50 AE. “Oh, Santa,” he crooned. “Stan was a very good boy.”

  As if transported to heaven, the blond Delta operator sank into one of the jump seats, took out his Desert Eagle pistols, and began pushing rounds into the empty magazines.

  The normally quiet Shin watched him for a moment, and then with a grin said: “You’ll shoot your eye out.”

  Tremblay threw him a one-fingered salute.

  King indulged in the laughter that followed, but only for a few seconds. He wasn’t looking forward to his next task. “Danno, Casey…a word in private.”

  He could see in their faces that they’d already done the math; seven Delta shooters, but only five sets of gear. Bellows’s expression momentarily creased in disappointment, but then just as quickly transformed into a poorly disguised mixture of guilt and relief. Parker’s eyes however, flashed dark with rage. Keasling seemed to sense that an eruption was building and stepped over to join the men, but he did not speak; this was King’s show now.

  No point in sugar coating it, King thought. Just tear the band-aid off. “You guys are staying in the rear on this one.”

  Parker, who was incapable of concealing his emotional state, trembled visibly with the effort of holding back an explosion of anger. In a tight voice, the words scraping past the knot in his throat, he said, “May I ask why, sir?” The last utterance was filled with palpable contempt.

  King regarded his friend coolly for a moment, but then he turned to Bellows. “Casey…”

  “No need to spell it out boss. There’s always gonna be bad guys that need killin’ but I’ll only get this one chance to hug my kid.”

  He offered his hand, and King took it. “It was an honor serving with you, soldier. Now, make us all proud and do something really important: change some diapers, and shit like that.”

  The joke lightened the mood, but only until Bellows moved off to rejoin the others, who were now making a conspicuous effort to look busy by taking inventory of the new equipment. When he was gone, Parker wheeled on King. “What the fuck, Jack? You wouldn’t even have this lead if not for me...and now you’re leaving me behind?”

  “Danno, that’s exactly why I have to keep you back.”

  Parker blinked, uncomprehending.

  “There’s too much that we don’t know, like what Rainer plans to do with the manuscript once he’s decoded it. The only way to get a step ahead of him is to figure out a way to translate the manuscript first. That computer we recovered contains everything we know about the Voynich manuscript, how to read it and what it can be used for. And you’re the only person who can make any sense of it.”

  “Sasha can.” As soon as he said it, something seemed to click in Parker’s head. “God…you’re going to kill her, aren’t you? That’s why you won’t take me.”

  “At ease, soldier,” barked Keasling.

  Parker stiffened, but his ire was approaching full boil.

  King wasn’t sure what tone to take with his friend; he’d never seen the man so spun up before. Parker continued to glower at him, breathing rapidly. “You don’t need to leave me behind. In fact, you need me with you.”

  King shook his head. “No. If everything goes to hell—and lately, that seems to be happening a lot, I don’t want that computer falling into the wrong hands. I need it, and you, to stay somewhere safe.”

  “Someone else can—”

  “There is no one else. Just you.” He gripped Parker’s shoulder. “Dan, I’m going to do everything in my power to bring her back safe.”

  King could tell by the subtle shift in his friend’s demeanor that he had chosen the right pressure point. There was more to Parker’s outburst than his schoolboy crush on the stand-offish cryptanalyst, but it was certainly a factor. And that, perhaps more than anything else, was why King didn’t want his friend in the field on this mission.

  Because if it came down to it, and there was no other alternative, King absolutely would kill Sasha Therion.

  He let the matter drop, sensing that further discussion would only rub salt in the wound. Instead, he moved back to the others. They had almost completely pilfered the contents of the containers, and now they were all settling into their jump seats in preparation for take-off. King braced himself against a bulkhead as the aircraft lurched into motion, beginning its short taxi to the runway.

  “If I can get your attention please,” he said to the others. “We’re going to skip the standard pre-flight briefing—”

  “Good,” chortled Tremblay. “I think we all know that our seat cushions will do fuck-all in the event of a water landing.”

  King nodded, but kept talking. “I do have a couple of administrative announcements that might be of interest to you. As you know, in about ninety minutes, we’ll be invading a sovereign nation—one that would very much like to tangle with us, if only to show the rest of the world that they’ve got the balls for it. If all goes as planned, we’ll do what we need to do and beat feet out of there without anyone being the wiser. But you all know how quickly things can go FUBAR, so we need to be ready for anything.

  “Each of you should now have an AN-M14 TH3 incendiary grenade. You have this for one reason only. If you are killed in action, one of your teammates will use it to cremate your remains and completely destroy all your equipment. There can be no evidence whatsoever connecting us and what we are about to do, with the government of the United States of America. Is that clear?”

  There was a scattering of somber nods.

  “If you are about to be overrun or captured, you will use your incendiary device to ensure that no evidence remains. Do I need to repeat that?”

  He didn’t.

  “One last thing. We all kind of got thrown together without any preparation; it sucks, I know, but we’re all professionals. The only constant is change, and you either roll with it or get rolled over. Here’s the latest order.” He made a purposeful decision not to look at Parker. “We have a new team designation, and each of you will have a new operational callsign. Tremblay, you will be called ‘Rook.’ Shin, you are now ‘Knight.’ Somers, henceforth, you will be ‘Bishop.’ Baker, you’re ‘Queen.’ I will continue to use the callsign: ‘King.’ And just in case it’s not already clear—Tremblay, pay attention, this is for you—those are all chess pieces.

  “Kids, we are now the Chess Team.”

  INDIVISIBLE

  THIRTY-SIX

  Maragheh, Iran

  The Chess Team dropped from the sky like avenging angels descending from the heavens, but no one took note of their arrival. They were silent wraiths, moving through the darkness, like their namesake pieces on a game board, maneuvering for maximum strategic effect, preparing and pre-positioning for the battles that would surely come.

  Their LZ was just north of the bulbous white temporary structure that had been erected over the ruins of the Maragheh Observatory. Ironically, their ultimate destination also happened to be the best place to land their parachutes, well away from the orchards and vineyards that lined the outskirts of the city. While it was possible that they might have escaped notice in the agricultural fields, it was equally likely that they might spook a dog or do something else to wake up the occupants of the nearby farmhouses.

  Working quickly, they established two concealed over-watch positions, each about a hundred yards from the white dome. Dawn was lightening the sky as they finished this task, and they hastily retreated into the camouflaged dugout blinds. King crowded into one with Knight and Bishop, while Queen and Rook took the other.

  As the day passed, they studied the exterior of the observatory, following the movements of the archaeologists and researchers who came and went without ever suspecting that there were never less than two gun barrels trained on them at any given time. The observers took careful notes, assigning a number—and in some cases, a nickname—to each person they saw.


  King’s greatest fear was that Rainer would show up during the day, when the team didn’t dare move from concealment, but that did not happen. Most of the people who visited the site exhibited a familiarity that could only indicate that they were employed there.

  Dusk fell, and activity at the site dwindled to nothing, but the team remained where they were for two hours more. King would have preferred to wait until well after midnight, but time was a critical variable. He keyed his mic. “Queen, meet me at the door.”

  “Roger. Moving.”

  In the display of his night-vision device, he saw her, a bright human shape rising from the grass like some kind of spirit emerging from out of the ground, but in the near total darkness, she was virtually invisible to the unassisted eye. She stayed low to the ground, but hastened toward the dome.

  King also rose from hiding. “Bishop, you’re with me.”

  The big man didn’t say a word, but unfolded himself from the cramped burrow, and fell into step right behind him. They crossed the open ground in less than a minute and joined Queen at the large doorframe set into the west side of the dome, which provided the only access to its interior.

  Queen tried the door—locked—and then produced a set of lock-picking tools. King felt a momentary twinge at the sight; Parker had always been his go-to guy for opening doors, and watching someone else do the job was a reminder of the hard choice to leave his friend behind. He still believed it was the right decision, and he hoped Parker would eventually understand that.

  The door knob yielded to Queen’s efforts, and she eased it open a crack, watching and waiting for an alarm to sound. When that did not happen, she swung the door wide and moved inside.

  The interior of the dome looked little different than the surrounding terrain. There were few structures inside; all that remained of the Maragheh Observatory were the cut stone foundations and a few crumbling walls. The trio of intruders fanned out, familiarizing themselves with the ruin under the dome, identifying several places where the archaeological team had begun the two-fold task of excavation and restoration, and more importantly, verifying that the site was not being actively monitored with remote surveillance devices. After about ten minutes of reconnaissance, they regrouped at the first dig site and descended a cut stone staircase into a sub-chamber.

  A scattering of artifacts—strange devices and machines that had once been used to map the night sky—were arrayed on folding tables, but there was no indication that the room had once been a repository of documents. King photographed everything with a digital camera, then gestured for the others to follow him back out.

  The second site, another subterranean chamber, had been only partially excavated, but the artifacts that had been recovered were strictly utilitarian—cooking utensils and pots, plates and cups. They moved on.

  The next site was very different. The vast stone room had been completely excavated, revealing a maze of wooden shelves, the wood splintered and decaying, but nevertheless laden with ceramic tubes and leather chests. More interesting however, was a collection of tables with a dizzying array of modern laboratory equipment and hibernating computers.

  King swept the room with the beam of his flashlight, which had been equipped with a dark filter that emitted only infrared light—invisible to the naked eye. He saw paper tags, inscribed with elegant modern Persian script, affixed to the shelves.

  “Bishop. What do those tags say?”

  The big man scanned a few of them. “Numbers and letters.”

  “Some kind of filing system?” ventured Queen.

  King nodded and gestured to the tables at the center. “See if you can find the catalogue.”

  Bishop stared at him. “Me?”

  “You’re Iranian aren’t you?”

  “I grew up in Illinois.”

  Queen snorted in amusement.

  Behind his night-vision goggles, King rolled his eyes. “I read your file. It says you speak Farsi.”

  “I took a couple of classes. I know how to order coffee and ask for the restroom.” Bishop heaved a sigh. “I’ll do my best.”

  As Bishop began flipping through notepads and ring-binders, perusing their contents with no evident confusion, King decided that his teammate was either selling himself short or he had picked up more in those classes than even he realized.

  “I’m looking for anything written by al-Tusi, right?” the big man said after a few minutes. “There’s a lot here. Is there any way to narrow it down?”

  Before King could initiate a call to Parker, his earpiece crackled with an incoming transmission. It was Rook. “King, there’s a vehicle approaching. You’re about to have company.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Incirlik Air Base, Turkey

  The passage of time did not cool Daniel Parker’s ire. Instead, the longer he sat, alone with his thoughts, chewing the gristle of his bitterness, the more convinced he became that his old friend had forsaken him. Why exactly, he could not say. Maybe King was enamored with his new teammates…maybe just having me around reminds him how badly he bungled the last mission…

  Yes, that had to be it.

  Maybe he’s trying to cover his ass, put the blame for the screw-up in Myanmar onto me, somehow.

  Damn him.

  He didn’t buy for a second King’s story about needing him to decode the Voynich manuscript. King didn’t really believe there was anything worthwhile in the mysterious old book; its only value to him was the fact that Kevin Rainer seemed to care about it.

  That thought gave Parker pause. Maybe King wasn’t a believer, but Sasha definitely thought the book was important, and that was reason enough to take it seriously.

  After the team exited the plane 30,000 feet above northwestern Iran, the stealth transport had headed for Incirlik Air Force Base in Turkey. The plane was refueled and refitted for the eventual extraction of the team. Parker found an unused office near the airstrip, and as he listened in on the team’s radio transmissions, he went to work on the riddle of the Voynich manuscript.

  He reviewed Sasha’s notes more thoroughly, and he discovered that his initial perusal had only scratched the surface. Sasha Therion had been thinking about the Voynich problem for a long time, and she had recorded her musings in a personal journal. Parker scrolled through the entries, going back to the day that she had been contacted by Scott Klein and told of Cipher element’s discovery in Ramadi:

  There is a new lead on the Voynich manuscript. A page has been found among documents captured from an insurgent cell in Iraq, and preliminary findings indicate a connection between the manuscript and plague research. While it is a tenuous connection, it supports my hypothesis that VM contains information that might offer insight into the origin of life.

  Parker couldn’t recall Sasha mentioning any such hypothesis. He did a search of the journal, and found an entry from nearly two years earlier.

  I am so weary of them all. Just when I think I have figured out the secret of what makes them tick, they do something completely unexpected. The human variable confounds me. I don’t even want to leave home anymore.

  I am going to take that government job. Now that I think about it, I don’t even know why I hesitated. It’s perfect. The Voynich manuscript. It’s always fascinated me, but I never would have imagined that I could actually get paid to solve it.

  He was surprised to learn that her CIA contract had been primarily for the purpose of cracking the Voynich code. He had always assumed that it was just one of many projects she consulted on. Based on that new information, he realized that deciphering the Voynich manuscript had become Sasha’s entire reason for living. He skimmed through the subsequent entries until he found something more substantial.

  The pictures must be the key to understanding VM. It cannot simply be, as many think, a book of herbal lore. The paintings show plants that do not exist, or rather, plants that we have never seen before. Those plants must have existed when the book was written; how else can the level of precision and detail be ex
plained?

  I am convinced that Bacon is the author of the book, though perhaps he did not work alone. I’m also convinced that the VM contains a record of his experiments. What kind of experiments? Did he conduct some kind of primitive genetic manipulations? That would account for the mysterious plants. Perhaps he created them in his laboratory.

  “Bacon” had to be Roger Bacon, a 13th century Franciscan friar who was often credited as the father of scientific investigations. His published writings included detailed reports of his experiments with lenses, acoustics, botany and even a primitive form of gunpowder. One popular theory held that Bacon was the author of the Voynich manuscript, and indeed many of the illustrations in the manuscript were similar to known examples of his work.

  Yet, I have to believe there is more to it than that. Methods of cross-pollinating and plant grafting were widely known in his day. He would not have felt the need to hide his research using such a complex cipher if that was all it was. No, I believe he must have uncovered something even more profound, something that could have made him liable for a charge of heresy.

  What could that possibly be? I can think of only one thing. If the plants shown in the VM are not the result of genetic manipulation, and they do not exist in the natural world, I see only one logical conclusion: they were created. Bacon discovered the alchemists’ secret, the Elixir, the Philosopher’s Stone. Nothing short of the discovery of the secret of creating life from inorganic matter could account for his compulsion to conceal the knowledge in a code that seems, quite literally, unbreakable.

  The Elixir of Life? Parker had missed that reference during his earlier reading. It was difficult to believe that the ever-pragmatic cryptanalyst’s quest to decode the Voynich manuscript was anything but an academic exercise; this idea seemed so fanciful, and yet, he could not disagree with her simple logic. The complexity of the Voynich code demanded that its contents be of exceptional value.