Havoc - v4

by Jack Du Brul

  With no light to guide him, Mercer started up the long tunnel, keeping the HK over his head. After twenty feet he couldn’t hear the fighting at all, which meant Poli and Salibi didn’t know about the assault, preserving his element of surprise.

  He’d gone fifty yards when he tripped over a set of steps hidden under the water. As he climbed, he became aware of light ahead, a ghost’s glow as feeble as a guttering candle. His hands unconsciously tightened on his rifle.

  He left the water completely at the top of the stairs and saw that the tunnel turned ninety degrees. Mercer approached cautiously, peering around the corner with his cheek almost touching the floor.

  This had to have been as much wire as Poli had brought, because the powerful flood lamp sat in the middle of a vast chamber. The ceiling lofted thirty feet over Mercer’s head, supported by tight ranks of sandstone columns fashioned in the shape of palm trees. It was typical Ancient Egyptian architecture. They knew they didn’t need that many supports for the ceiling, but the design was to depict a dense and bountiful forest. The sides of the room were hidden in shadow but the parts close enough for Mercer to see were covered in hieroglyphs.

  Straining to hear anything, Mercer almost laughed aloud when he thought the immense space was as silent as a tomb.

  He slid into the chamber, keeping close to the walls. He had passed twenty columns when he spotted something glinting in the darkness. Mercer forgot himself for a moment as he stared at the object. It was a marble statue of a man holding a short sword in his right hand. In the other was a ball of rope that had been sliced in two. Mercer realized this was Alexander the Great after he had cut the impossible to untie Gordian Knot, fulfilling the prophecy that he would one day rule Asia.

  He continued on. On the opposite wall from where he’d entered was another open portal. Wavering light spilled from the next room of the tomb complex.

  The room was smaller than the first, the ceiling a bit lower, and there weren’t as many columns. Flames danced atop several low bronze braziers. The oil that Poli had poured from the earthen amphorae could still burn after twenty centuries. As stunned as Mercer had been by the statue, this room revealed something even more remarkable. He immediately thought of Chester Bowie and his crazy ideas.

  There were eight dioramas set up in the room, each one depicting a different monster from mythology. A towering, man-shaped giant had a rib cage made of some large animal, a horse or cow, but its head Mercer realized was the pelvic bone of a creature he wasn’t familiar with, a prehistoric cave bear or maybe some kind of giant sloth. He recognized the skeleton of a griffin, a fabled creature with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle. The body was that of a large extinct cat, but its eagle head was the armored frill of a triceratops. Beyond it Alexander’s artisans had created a three-headed snake. The heads were from some kind of dinosaur, like a raptor or another flesh eater. The teeth were four inches long.

  Everything was held together with bronze braces and wire, as expertly assembled as anything in a natural history museum today.

  Bowie had been right that the creatures out of mythology were the ancients’ way of making sense of the bones they’d discovered of animals that had long ago gone extinct. They didn’t know what parts fit with what so they made it up as they went along, producing fantastical creations and the stories to go along with them.

  Mercer wasn’t sure what impressed him more—the imagination it took to put together such marvelous creatures or the fact that an obscure professor from New Jersey had figured out the truth.

  There came a sudden jolt and bits of sand rained from the ceiling. Mercer shook his head to bring himself back to reality. Something massive had exploded on the surface and for a moment he was sure Cali had arrived, only to have the Riva blown out of the water by an RPG. But the explosion had been much closer, and for it to shake the ground it couldn’t have occurred on the water. He heard voices from the next chamber. He moved behind one of the dioramas, a massive skeleton with elephant tusks for ribs.

  Seconds later a terrorist with a thick beard hurried past carrying a flashlight, heading for the exit tunnel. Mercer waited in the shadows for him to return. He came back a minute later, sprinting through the gallery and into the next room, shouting incoherent Arabic as he ran.

  “In English!” Mercer heard Poli roar.

  Mercer could barely hear the words. “Someone has collapsed the tunnel. We are trapped.”

  On shore about two hundred yards from the Al Qaida camp, Booker had cached the machine pistol given to him by a Janissary. He climbed out of the lake and found the weapon hidden in a tangle of dried grasses just as a searchlight on the houseboat snapped on. The beam turned the darkened shore into daylight just a few feet from him. A second gunman kept his weapon trained on the ground illuminated by the light.

  There was nothing Book could do about the wet trail he’d left on the beach, so he waited, more exposed than he’d have liked. The beam brushed past the wet sand, paused, and returned. The two men on the bow of the houseboat jabbered excitedly, pointing. A third man emerged from a door that led to the pilothouse. All three raised their weapons.

  Book fired first. The range was long for the stubby machine pistol and rounds just sprayed the boat randomly. Their return fire was much more accurate. He dove to his right to get away from where his fire had attracted their aim. Bullets peppered the ground all around him as he combat rolled a dozen times, never losing his bearings. His movements kept giving away his location on the open beach, and the firing intensified.

  Sykes knew he didn’t have a prayer.

  A streak of light shot from the hill above the camp, followed by a sharp whistle. The rocket-propelled grenade fell a little short of the houseboat, hitting the lake at its side in an eruption of water that doused the three fighters. Book used the distraction to lunge to his feet and start running.

  The terrorist he’d seen manning the light saw him dash into the darkness and opened fire again, walking his bullets up Booker’s trail. He felt a bullet pass between his legs, knew the next one was coming for his spine, and threw himself to the left. He hit the rocky earth, rolled once, and was back on his feet in an instant, but the torn muscles in his back sent searing lances of pain radiating in all directions. His attempt to sprint away from the lake was little more than a drunken hobble and he came under fire almost immediately.

  A second RPG slashed though the night, flying in a flat trajectory that sent it into the houseboat just aft of the bridge. It exploded and the houseboat disintegrated. The superstructure was peeled apart like an orange, fire erupting from the jagged seams as chunks of wood and metal rained down across the lake. Two of the gunmen were killed instantly, their backs flayed open by shrapnel. The third was blown off the boat and could have survived had there not been thirty pounds of rusted chain lodged in his abdomen. He hit the water and sank like a stone.

  Booker turned and started limping back toward the compound. The battle was the most intense he’d ever seen. The two sides were exchanging fire at a staggering pace. He ultimately knew it was unsustainable. The Janissaries had only brought what they could carry—at most a couple hundred rounds each. Poli’s men had arrived with a near limitless supply. The simple truth was the Janissaries would be out of ammunition long before the Qaida forces.

  He paused behind some cover to study the killing field. There were still twenty men firing up into the hills and he could see an officer organizing a patrol of another ten men to try to outflank the Janissaries. Of Ahmad’s troop of six he was only sure that three were still in the fight. Then he spotted a fourth. It was Ibriham himself. Somehow he’d found a gap in the Qaida perimeter and was crawling toward the excavated section of tunnel. From the Turk’s perspective he couldn’t see that there were two new men guarding the hole. He’d stumble right into them blindly.

  Behind Booker was a twenty-foot sandstone cliff. He slung the machine pistol over his shoulder, reached for a handhold, and hauled himself off the beach. The ag
ony in his back was like a hot coal lodged in his spine. He gritted his teeth against it, lifting himself another eighteen inches on stubbornness alone. Sheets of sweat bathed his body and he could feel tears rolling down his cheeks.

  He found another toehold, braced himself for the pain, and lifted himself higher up the sandstone face. Nauseous saliva flooded his mouth and a whimper escaped his lips. Fearing he was doing permanent damage to his body, Booker thrust aside concerns for himself and fought on. It took him five minutes to scale the cliff and when he rolled over the top he wanted to lie there and let the pain wash over him.

  Instead he got to his feet and surveyed the battle from his elevated perch. A pile of dirt was all that separated Ahmad from the men guarding the pit and still he hadn’t seen them. The range was nearly three hundred and fifty yards. Booker’s massive chest heaved and his heart was racing. He raised the machine pistol but his hands shook so badly he couldn’t get a sight picture.

  One of the guards spotted Ibriham. He pointed and was going for his weapon.

  “Dear Jesus, don’t fail me now.” Book tensed every muscle in his body for a second, drew down again, and opened fire, letting instinct guide his aim.

  The first two rounds went wide. The third drilled the guard though the thigh, spinning him in place and dropping him. The fourth and fifth hit the second guard center mass, the bullets slowed enough that they ricocheted through his body, shredding his internal organs. Book put the sixth through the wounded guard’s head just as Ahmad rolled over the pile of excavated earth.

  He didn’t acknowledge his guardian angel. He fumbled with a knapsack he’d carried to the pit and disappeared down the hole, leaving the bag behind.

  Booker knew that Cali should be arriving any second, and even as he thought it he looked up the dark bay and could see the white of the Riva’s upper hull. She had idled the boat far enough out so she could react to a speedboat coming from the encampment, but not too close to draw attention. As much as he knew she wanted to be in the fight, she knew how to take orders and do her job.

  He had turned back to study the battle and see where he needed to help the attack, when the knapsack Ahmad had left near the tunnel entrance exploded. The bag had to have contained thirty pounds of plastic explosives because the blast was massive. The fireball lit the head of the bay like a second sun as it climbed into the night. Fighters within fifty feet of the explosion were killed by the concussion scrambling their insides. Others a little farther were scythed down by debris, their bodies lying as limp as rag dolls.

  In the fading light of the diminishing fireball Booker could see that the tunnel entrance had been obliterated. Ahmad had sealed the tomb to prevent Poli’s escape.

  Poli and Salibi emerged from the farthest reaches of the tomb complex to see for themselves. The two guards followed in their wake. Mercer couldn’t guarantee taking them all so he let them go. As soon as they retreated to the first room, he dashed into the space where they’d been.

  The oil lamps burning all around the chamber revealed it to be smaller still. And unlike the others, there were just a few columns. Instead the room was filled with the possessions Alexander would need in the afterlife. There were boats made of wood and reeds, tents, and furniture. There were several chariots and countless chests that would contain such household items as bowls and utensils. Unlike Tutankhamen’s tomb, there was very little gold, for Alexander hadn’t been a man bent on material wealth. Instead his tomb was filled with all manner of weapons—swords by the hundreds, javelins and lances, shields and helmets as well as bows and slings. Alexander’s generals had provided him everything he would require to outfit the army he would need for his military conquest of heaven.

  Mercer wouldn’t let his attention focus on the golden sarcophagus sitting on a raised dais at the front of the room, with its panels of rock crystal shaved so fine they were as transparent as glass, or the mummified body within. Instead he looked at the large bronze drum that had been taken down from a niche in the wall. Its surface was dented and pitted from having been dragged all over the ancient world and later used in battles in Europe.

  The Alembic of Skenderbeg was about six feet tall and four wide and was covered in Ancient Greek script. The two chambers were separated by a complicated mechanism that prevented the active plutonium from coalescing. There was something ominous about the device that went beyond Mercer’s knowledge of what it did. He sensed the alembic as a presence in the room with him, not alive exactly but aware. He could tell that it wanted to be found, that it wanted to be taken from this place so it could unleash its deadly radiation on a new world. The hairs on Mercer’s arms stood erect when he realized he was in the presence of pure evil.

  The sound of gunfire echoed through the tomb. Mercer whirled as one of the guards burst into the burial chamber. Mercer was a fraction of a second slow reaching for his assault carbine. The guard fired a snap burst from his AK-47. The rounds stitched Alexander’s sarcophagus, shattering the delicate panes of crystal and powdering the mummified remains.

  Mercer dove as the string of bullets cut through the air toward him, and came up hard against the wheels of a chariot. He slithered under the ornate vehicle as the terrorist started taking better aim. The filigreed wood splintered as it was savaged by the assault. Mercer got to his knees and fired through the spoked wheel, catching the gunman in the legs. The guard kept his finger on the trigger as he fell. The wild spray tore apart more of the chariot and sparked off the stone floor where Mercer knelt. His HK virtually exploded in his hands when a lucky bullet slammed into the receiver. The AK-47 fell silent when the bolt came down on an empty chamber. The terrorist had fired through the entire magazine.

  Mercer jumped to his feet before the guard could reload. He snatched a short sword from the pile nearby and vaulted over the chariot. For a moment he didn’t understand what the wounded guard was doing. The object in his hands wasn’t the distinctive curve of a Kalashnikov magazine. It was round. Then he saw the beatific smile. The guard yanked the pin of the grenade and held it to his chest.

  Mercer had five seconds and knew it wouldn’t be enough to get clear of the blast radius. He rushed forward and without pause swung the sword down onto the prone figure. The ancient weapon held a keen edge and the terrorist’s head jumped free in an eruption of blood and escaping air.

  Mercer scooped the grenade from his lifeless fingers and with an underhanded toss flipped it over the sarcophagus. The explosion destroyed the rest of the priceless casket and sent Alexander’s remains into the air like so much dust, but the blast wave passed harmlessly over Mercer where he lay with his head cradled in his arms.

  He got up and blinked, the gunfire in the next room sounding distant to his tortured hearing. He shot a concerned look at the alembic and breathed a sigh when he saw it hadn’t been hit by the fragmentation grenade. He grabbed the fallen Kalashnikov and searched the corpse for more magazines, cursing when he realized the man hadn’t been carrying any.

  Alexander’s burial chamber was a storehouse of state-of-the-art weapons for their day but they were worthless against automatic rifles. Mercer could only hope that however many Janissaries followed him into the tunnel could take care of the remaining three killers. Then he saw the bows.

  One in particular caught his eye; the wood was glossy smooth and it had a handle of inlaid ivory. It was a magnificent weapon, surely Alexander’s own. Hanging from its tip was a bowstring of tightly wound wire. Mercer took up the ancient weapon, reversed it, and tried to bend it to hook the string on the top notch. He could barely cause it to flex. He repositioned himself and pressed with all his strength, throwing his weight on the bow and digging in with his feet. The tough wood dug into his chest as it bent ever so slightly. Mercer ignored the pain and redoubled his efforts.

  Slowly the weapon bent, curling downward so the loop on the string was tantalizingly close to the notch, but Mercer couldn’t get it that last half inch. He felt his body weakening and the half inch gap grew to an i
nch, then two. He wasn’t up to the challenge. Only Alexander himself had ever managed to string the mighty bow. What made him think he could handle the weapon of a god? Yet Mercer refused to give up. He pressed all the harder, closing the gap once again. He drew a deep breath, strained with everything he had, and the loop touched the top of the bow and then slid over the notch. Mercer relaxed and the wire held.

  He marveled at the weapon’s balance and how the handle fit perfectly in his hand. The quiver for the arrows was a bronze tube. Its strap had rotted away eons ago so he improvised one with the sling of the AK.

  He nocked an arrow and tried to draw the string back, the muscles in his chest and shoulders taking the strain. No matter how hard he pulled he could only get the bow to about half cock.

  Not wanting to become trapped in the dead end burial chamber, Mercer made his way to the exit. In the diorama room he could see tongues of flame shooting out from the darkness as Poli and his men fired at the unseen Janissaries.

  He padded silently around the perimeter of the chamber, keeping to the shadows away from the burning braziers as he sought a target. A long burst of autofire to his left caught his attention. He could just make out a man on the other side of three of the skeleton tableaus, firing at someone farther down the arcade of columns. Mercer drew the bow and paused, not sure of who he was aiming at. It could be Booker or one of Ahmad’s men.

  The gunman moved just enough for light to flit across his face for a second. Mercer recognized Mohammad bin Al-Salibi and his hatred flared.

  Between Mercer and Al-Salibi the three rearing monsters out of mythology made the shot next to impossible. Mercer would have to thread the arrow though the gaps in their skeletons if he wanted to hit the terrorist leader, and he hadn’t fired a bow since summer camp when he was thirteen.