Brainrush

by Richard Bard

  From his pack, Becker pulled out Little Smokey’s control unit, not much different than a video-game controller. He flipped down his monocular display and switched his point of view to the night-vision camera on top of the vehicle. The flat clearing stretched out before him on his screen, the dark opening of the cavern two hundred yards away.

  He pushed the joystick forward, and the battery-operated vehicle lurched ahead. The image jiggled. At this distance from the rocks surrounding the cavern entrance, there was little chance that Battista’s men would hear the crunch of gravel under the mini-ATV’s bulbous rubber tires as it zipped along. But for Becker’s plan to be effective, he needed to maneuver the vehicle as close as possible to the mouth of the cave without being detected. That would be tricky.

  Becker watched the lunar-like surface of the clearing whip past him through the jittering image on his HUD, steering the little vehicle around a scattering of rocks and swales. When Little Smokey was less than fifty yards from the cavern, Becker eased off on the speed.

  He knew the other members of the team had patched into the vehicle’s view on their HUDs. He could almost feel their tension mount as they readied their weapons for the critical moment.

  Becker whispered into his microphone. “On my mark, cover fire.”

  The growing image of the cave jumped and chattered as the ATV traversed a shallow culvert strewn with golf ball–size rocks. Becker brought the vehicle to a stop. The image steadied and Becker saw a figure pop his head around the corner of the cave, his weapon searching for a target.

  “Now!” Becker shouted. He shoved Little Smokey’s throttle full forward.

  Maria was the first to shoot, the deep crack of her Dragunov splitting the night. The jihadist’s head exploded like a ripe tomato hitting the pavement.

  The rest of the team opened up as well, pelting the entrance and the rocks surrounding it with a torrent of hot lead. White tracer rounds from Ripper’s LWRC arced across the clearing.

  Twenty yards in front of the cavern, Becker activated the smoke generator and skidded Little Smokey into a 180-degree turn. Its rear end fishtailed as it accelerated back toward its starting point in a series of S-turns. A dense white cloud billowed out of the six-inch-wide funnel protruding from the back of the ATV, looking like the exhaust from the tail cone of a shuttle launch.

  The initial surge of smoke expanded toward the entrance, hanging in the air like an early-morning fog. By the time Battista’s men realized what had happened, it was too late for them to do anything about it. Their vision into the clearing was obscured by the tenacious cloud as the ATV, now hidden from view as it zipped back and forth, filled the clearing with its precious cargo. A frustrated torrent of automatic fire from the tangos’ AKs filled the night as they fired blindly into the cloud.

  Becker knew that the cover was a double-edged sword. The team had to move out fast before it dawned on the jihadists that they could use the cover to their own benefit and rush the team.

  “Secondary positions now!” ordered Becker. He continued to steer the ATV on a winding route through the clearing. “Stay in front of Smokey.”

  Papa motioned to Azim. “What about him?”

  “I’ll deal with him,” Becker said, flashing Papa a grim face. “Get the team in position to cover me while I set the charges.”

  Papa nodded and took off after the team.

  Still huddled over the controller, Becker stopped the ATV in the center of the clearing. He entered a series of commands so that it would finish its pattern on its own utilizing its internal GPS system. He set it on a forty-second delay so that he’d have time to get ahead of it to plant the claymores.

  There was a shuffle of movement behind him.

  The butt of the AK-47 hit Becker on the cheekbone just below his helmet and knocked him into the dirt. The surprise attack dazed him, so the instinctual whip of his hand to the handle of the hunting knife strapped to his ankle was a fraction too slow. His fingers barely grazed the grip when the muzzle of the AK-47 appeared inches in front of his face. Becker froze. The first of the enemy had made it over the ridge sooner than expected.

  Even in the darkness, Becker saw the glint of the man’s teeth as he grinned. The soldier’s eyes narrowed into a determined expression that told Becker he was adding pressure to the trigger.

  There was a loud grunt, and two tethered feet swept across the dirt and cracked into the terrorist’s ankles with enough force to sweep him off his feet. The AK-47 discharged over Becker’s head, the crack from the round ringing in his ears.

  In one swift motion, Becker pulled his knife and thrust it deep under the man’s ribs and upward toward his heart. He twisted it once from side to side before yanking it back out, blood and bits of gore dripping from its serrated edge.

  Azim stared at him, prone on the ground next to the body, his eyes intense over his duct-taped mouth. He’d just saved Becker’s life.

  Becker ripped the tape from Azim’s mouth, and Azim stretched his lips from the adhesive strings still stuck to his skin. “As Allah is my witness, I did not betray you.”

  Becker didn’t say a word. He leaned forward, leading with his bloody knife.

  Azim flinched.

  Becker slid the heavy knife between Azim’s bound wrists and with a quick jerk cut through the plastic ties. He did the same with the ankle ties.

  Handing Azim the AK-47, Becker said, “I believe you, mate. Let’s go.”

  Becker picked up the heavy satchel at his feet and led the way. As they ran he spoke into the radio and explained what had happened. He didn’t want the team mistaking Azim for one of the bad guys.

  They darted through the large boulders, skirting the west side of the clearing with the leading edge of the expanding cloud on their heels. They angled in toward Little Smokey just as it jerked forward on its preprogrammed zigzag course, still spitting smoke out its rear funnel.

  Azim covered their retreat, panning the fog with the AK-47 in his good right hand.

  Taking care to avoid the predictable path of the ATV, Becker pulled the first of seven claymore antipersonnel mines and stabbed it into the ground, making sure to point the convex side—labeled this side toward enemy—in the direction of Battista’s soldiers. Since the infrared function of the claymore wouldn’t work within the graphite-embedded fog, he stretched the spring-loaded tripwire to its full extension and secured it. Running through the clearing, he repeated the process, staggering the placement of the mines as he moved toward the team. When tripped, the small three-and-a-half-pound mine would blast seven hundred tiny steel balls at four thousand feet per second in a fan-shaped pattern that would shred anything in its path.

  After setting the final charge, he and Azim joined the team in the rocks on either side of the pass that would take them back to the cliff. Becker huddled next to Papa. The two men surveyed the clearing from their perch.

  A shroud of oily clouds twenty feet deep filled the bowl with a ghostly pall. The sloping ridge walls held the fog in place like the waters of a man-made reservoir. Little Smokey had performed like a champ.

  A sharp concussive blast and a sudden flash illuminated the fog from within like lightning in a thundercloud. The first claymore had done its work. Muffled shouts drifted out of the fog. A second blast pierced the darkness. The screams and moans of injured men filled the vale. A shouted order signaled the tangos back to their cover.

  “That ought to discourage them for a while, at least until the fog lifts,” Becker said.

  As he settled into his position to wait, he felt the first rush of a breeze brush across his face.

  Chapter 45

  Hindu Kush Mountains, Afghanistan

  JAKE HELD THE CONFISCATED COMM UNIT to his ear, with the volume dialed low. Tony and Francesca crouched beside him, their breathing heavy from running through the maze of tunnels. Sarafina clung to Tony’s chest.

  Marshall’s panicked voice squawked over the comm unit. “Turn back! There’s another group waiting
in the main corridor up ahead.”

  “Turn around. Hurry!” whispered Jake. He ushered the group back the way they had come. This was the third time they’d had to switch directions to avoid the groups of guards roaming the tunnels to find them. For the moment, Marshall had taken control of Battista’s surveillance system, using it to guide Jake’s movements while scrambling the video images in Battista’s own control room. By remote command, Marshall had temporarily sealed the thick iron door to the security room, allowing him to maintain control of Battista’s security system for a few more precious minutes. But he reported that Battista’s men were at the door with an acetylene torch. They would be through in seconds, and then Marshall’s help would be gone for good.

  Knowing they’d be cut off soon, Marshall issued final instructions. “There’s a narrow, unlit tunnel coming up on the left. It looks small, so you may not have noticed it when you passed it earlier. It leads to a small cavern with another exit on the opposite side. According to the schematics, there’s no electrical power or surveillance in that area, so it’s likely seldom traveled. I want you to hole up in there for three minutes while I set off a decoy alarm at the far end of the complex. That will lead the search groups away from your position and clear your path. After that, hightail it out of there. Avoid the primary corridors. Use the service tunnel. It’ll take you to the main entrance. Got it?”

  “Understood. But won’t they be able to track us once they regain control of the system?”

  “No way, dude. Not after the virus I’m going to unleash as soon as they break through the door.”

  “We’re moving into the small tunnel now,” Jake said.

  “Remember,” Marshall said, “three minutes exactly. Then move your asses!” There was a brief pause before Marshall shouted, “Shit. They’re through. Gotta go!”

  Jake felt a heavy sense of foreboding as they broached this deepest recess of the mountain. The beams from their flashlights danced across the jagged walls of the narrow tunnel, casting ominous shadows beyond the protruding rock formations. Stone outcrops that could have been easily smoothed had been left untouched. It wasn’t because the tunnel had never been used. The floor was so smooth that it reminded Jake of the marble sepulchers in the floors of European cathedrals, the sharp edges of the relief smoothed flat by the shuffling feet of hundreds of years of countless worshippers and pilgrims. There was something special about this space, something that Battista’s ancient tribe must have revered. Or feared.

  Jake led the way, holding Francesca’s hand behind him. Whenever they paused, Francesca pressed her body against his, as though she was afraid of losing contact with him again.

  Tony followed behind them, Sarafina strapped to his chest. He had rigged a quick harness for her from the straps of his combat vest, freeing his hands for his flashlight and the AK-47.

  After a sharp turn, the passageway opened to an incredible cavern that stopped them all where they stood. The space was about the size of a small country schoolhouse. Its shape resembled the interior of a pyramid, with four equal-length granite walls that sloped to a point twenty-five feet above the center of the chamber. It was bathed in a luminescent glow emanating from a swirling constellation of tiny crystals that spiraled to a point in the center of the ceiling. Jake flicked off his flashlight in the well-lit chamber.

  The bottom third of the slanting walls had been ground to a smooth finish, creating a canvas that was covered with hundreds of artful but horrific scenes taken from the pages of man’s violent history in the past thousand years. There were images of fierce battles between invading armies of cross-bearing European knights overwhelming hordes of Muslim tribes during the Crusades, of mass executions of Muslims and Jews, their severed heads being thrown over besieged city walls, of the mutilation of naked cadavers and mountains of dead women and children piled high in city streets, and of cannibalism. The scenes combined to create a grim depiction of man succumbing to his natural warlike instincts, unleashing violence upon one another, and in particular of Western Christians committing savage atrocities on Muslims, all in the name of God.

  There was a Dari inscription centered over the mural on the wall. It read: he will grant you victory over them.

  Except for the haunting mural, the chamber itself showed no indications that it had been created by the hand of man. There was something unnatural about it. It was too symmetrical, as though the mountain had been forced to grow around a dense pyramid that had since vanished, leaving this fossilized void in its place. And unlike the other caverns they had passed through, there were no stalactites or stalagmites protruding from the ceiling or floor. Even the glow from the crystals in the ceiling had an unusual blue hue to them that reminded Jake more of the fluorescent light in a science lab than the bioluminescence normally found in nature’s offspring.

  But it wasn’t the glow that stunned him or the shape of the room or even the wild-eyed faces of despair and savagery on the mural. What captured Jake’s attention and froze him in place was the black, smooth-as-glass obelisk that sat in the center of the room like an altar to the heavens.

  Like the space that surrounded it, the object was pyramidal, but it was turned upside down. Its point was embedded deep into the rock floor so that only the top two-thirds were visible. It stood chest high; its square top measured about four feet across. The photos from Battista’s office didn’t do it justice. It was unlike anything any of them had ever seen. The feel of the room itself, its symmetry, the lighting, the obelisk—it all seemed…alien.

  Tony spotted an exit on the far side of the chamber and headed for it. Jake checked his watch. Marshall had insisted they remain here for exactly three minutes. They couldn’t leave yet.

  Jake let go of Francesca’s hand and approached the obelisk.

  The photos from Battista’s office had been taken here. Jake had mulled them over in the back of his mind for the past several days, trying to unlock their secret. A series of eight amazingly realistic grayscale images ran along the outside perimeter of the obelisk’s square surface. Each of the rectangular images was finely etched, resembling a tooled printing plate. The detail was incredible, reminding Jake of laser-etched photos on metal that he’d seen in kiosks at the mall. But these exquisitely engraved images could not have been converted photos from somebody’s attic collection. They depicted early man—fur-clothed, bearded Homo sapiens in various stages of horrific battle against one another, using rudimentary weapons made of stone, bone, and wood. Each of the scenes was more violent than the last, providing a haunting view of the bloodthirstiness of man’s ancestors.

  The final image in the sequence was different. It depicted three slender, hairless humanoid figures, their backs turned, standing on a rock ledge and looking down on a tribe of our ancient ancestors. One of the three humanoids had his hands held out before him, as though he was awaiting a gift from heaven. Hovering in the air in front of his hands was a small black pyramid. Lances of black light shot from its peak and pierced the heads of the men and women below. Their hands were pressed to their temples, their wild-eyed faces frozen in agony.

  Jake found the realism of the scenes astonishing. His gut twisted at the barbarity. He recalled the radio-dating report in Battista’s office. This object was supposedly twenty-five thousand years old. Could it be true?

  The perimeter images framed a twenty-four-inch square section in the center of the black tabletop. A smaller square—about three inches wide—was etched into the center of the object. The space between this small, untouched square and the larger one that surrounded it was divided into eleven trapezoidal sections, each containing odd shapes and patterns. Unlike the etched perimeter images, these shapes were embossed with various textures and vivid colors. To most people, the shapes would look nonsensical, like a child’s renderings of clouds or snowmen or a seemingly random scatter of raised dots and smooth indentations. But to Jake’s synesthetic brain, the texture, color, and shape of each pattern represented a distinct number.
A couple of the numbers were just a few digits, but some were very large, and all of them were prime numbers. He’d figured that out shortly after he’d seen the photos in Battista’s office. What he had been unable to resolve, however, in spite of his advanced mental abilities, was the riddle behind the numbers, the pattern that would solve the puzzle.

  There was a puzzle here. He was certain of it.

  The seam around the three-inch square in the center of the object was relatively deep, as though it was inset. It contained no etchings. When he leaned over it, Jake could see his reflection in its polished surface.

  He felt compelled to solve the riddle of the numbers, but seeing them in person didn’t seem to help, especially with his mind in a fog.

  Tony’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Jake, one minute to go.”

  Jake nodded, absently brushing his hand along one of the colorful shapes.

  A surge of energy ran into his hand the instant he touched it. The sensation was overwhelming, captivating. Instead of jerking his hand away, he pressed his palm into the surface to increase the contact. His abilities rushed back with a clarity and strength beyond what he had experienced before, as though the obelisk supplied him with a surge of pure life force. He could once again feel the familiar thrumming vibration.

  With his senses on full alert, he leaned over and laid his other hand on the cool surface. A second, more rapid vibration joined the first, creating a resonance that bounced off the walls of the chamber.

  Jake smiled like a schoolboy at recess. He looked up at his friends, expecting them to share in the awe of the moment. All he got back was confused looks.

  “Can’t you feel that?” Jake asked.

  “What’re you talking about?” Tony walked over next to Jake, Sarafina still strapped to his chest. “I don’t feel a thing,” he said.

  Francesca likewise shook her head.

  “The vibrations, bouncing off the walls—can’t you feel it?” Jake said.

  Both of them shook their heads.

  But Sarafina’s eyes were glued to Jake’s hands, her head cocked to the side. She said, “It sounds pretty.”

  Excited, Jake said, “What do you hear, honey?”