Brainrush

by Richard Bard

  Juice returned fire. “They’re coming over the ridge to the southeast, at least a half dozen of them!”

  Tony peppered the ridge with his assault rifle. He felt Sarafina twitch with each burst of the weapon, each flinch tearing at Tony’s heart. He wished he hadn’t been forced to use the less accurate AK as part of his disguise. With no scope, in the dark, the best he could hope for was to keep the enemies’ heads down and draw their fire away from Maria.

  It worked, at least the part about drawing their fire. The boulder in front of him and Juice was hammered with lead, a couple of rounds whizzing inches from Tony’s head as he ducked down. Staying low while he struggled one-handedly to replace his magazine, Tony glanced toward Maria. She was crawling toward cover, just as the rest of the team showed up.

  She needed another second or two. Juice opened up his Grendel on full auto, sending a stream of heavy rounds at the ridgeline. Tony followed suit with his AK.

  The radio squawked. “We got her,” Papa yelled, as intense gunfire reverberated over his microphone. “But the rest of the tangos are through the clearing behind us. We’re going to be overrun any second.”

  Tony knew they were all about to die unless he could take out the squad pinning them down from the ridge above. He reached under his tunic to unclip Sarafina. Juice stayed his hand with a grip of steel that wouldn’t brook any argument.

  “I told you, holmes, I got this,” Juice said. He snapped in a new mag and cocked a grenade into his launcher. Taking a deep breath, he tensed like a sprinter at the starting blocks.

  “Wait!” Tony shouted. He grabbed a strap from Juice’s combat vest and pulled him back down. “Listen.”

  A faint whine behind them grew to a loud buzz as the NRI AutoCopter gunships popped up from over the cliff and spiraled above them like two angry hornets. The twin birds followed a twisting path toward the tangos on the ridge, mini-rockets flashing from their gun pods, ready to explode amidst the enemy soldiers. The muzzles of the full-auto shotguns on each of the birds unleashed a rain of BBs into the men on the ridge, shredding them to silence.

  “Way to go, Kenny!” Ripper shouted over the radio. He and Papa grabbed Maria under either arm and ran her to the packs by the cliff. Becker, Snake, and Azim walked backward behind them, their guns firing into the pass.

  Juice stood up and took over for them, his Grendel spraying lead. Tony opened up with his AK from behind the rock, staying low to shield Sarafina. “Get your gear on now!” he ordered.

  The gunships sped down the pass, the sound of their spitting guns opening up as soon as they rounded the first bend.

  While Kenny’s toys covered their exit, the team members donned their packs and followed Tony over the edge into the blackness. Everyone except Azim.

  Chapter 47

  Hindu Kush Mountains, Afghanistan

  AS SOON AS TONY AND FRANCESCA disappeared from view down the tunnel, Jake rushed back to the obelisk and placed his hands on two of the three symbols that Sarafina said didn’t belong. Once again he felt the surge of energy and the return of his abilities. The vibrations from the symbols filled the cavern.

  Thanks to Sarafina’s insight, the combination of shapes made sense now. Through the sounds that only she heard, Sarafina had determined that eight of the numbers fit together while three of them did not. That had been the clue Jake needed to solve the mathematical mystery of the eleven numbers. He did a quick mental calculation to confirm his suspicions. Yes! They were all prime numbers, but only eight of them were factorial prime numbers, where the mathematical product of all the integers less than or equal to the number was a prime.

  He focused his attention on the three symbols that didn’t belong, sliding his hands across them, skipping among different combinations, searching for the sequence that would unlock the obelisk’s secret. Although the vibrations from each of the three symbols were discordant with the remaining eight, they did resonate with each other. Jake tried to press all three symbols simultaneously, but his fingers couldn’t stretch far enough to encompass two of the symbols at once. He leaned forward, thinking he might be able to use his forehead to activate the third symbol.

  He jerked his head back up when Battista’s voice broke the silence behind him.

  “You never cease to amaze me, Mr. Bronson,” Battista said. “Now you seem to be praying to our most sacred relic.”

  Jake kept both his palms on the symbols but didn’t turn around. He heard the rustle of feet and the adjustment of weapons as several more men shifted into position behind him. Someone patted him down from behind, finding Carlo’s knife, the comm unit, and the frag grenade that Tony had slipped in his pocket—for luck.

  Battista’s detached voice was filled with malice. “You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble. That is now at an end. In some ways it is fitting that your life shall end here.”

  Jake’s shoulders slumped. He glanced down at the luminescent dial of his wristwatch. Twelve minutes before Tony’s charges went off. I’m not the only one whose life is going to end in these caverns tonight. If I can just buy enough time to allow Tony and the girls to get out with the team…

  Jake raised one hand in the air and turned around. He left one hand on the obelisk so he could draw on its energy to stay alert. Battista’s malignant eyes bored into him. Eight men stood in a semicircle around him, their weapons ready, their expressions lacking even a hint of humanity. Killing him would faze them no more than stepping on a spider.

  Playing to Battista’s ego, Jake cast an admiring glance around the room. He spoke in Dari. “This is quite a place you’ve got here. Have you solved the riddle?”

  “There is no riddle here,” Battista said, but a brief shadow of doubt in his eyes belied his words. “This chamber has been the source of our tribe’s power, the well of our faith, for a thousand years. For centuries our tribal leaders have meditated in this sacred room, absorbing the wisdom of the ages to guide us in the dictates of our faith.”

  Hoping to draw Battista into a debate, Jake pointed to the inscription on the wall, reading aloud the excerpt of a verse from the Koran: “He will grant you victory over them.” Jake gestured toward the ghastly murals beneath the inscription. “In other words, it’s payback time for the Crusades, is that it?”

  Battista’s eyes flared. He took two quick steps toward Jake and backhanded him across the face. “Do not dare to speak the words of our faith! You are an infidel, a nonbeliever, a soldier of the Great Satan who for centuries has disguised his greed and moral transgressions beneath the banner of a twisted religious doctrine.”

  Battista was agitated. The frustration of the last few days, if not his life, spewed out like a deluge through a broken dike. He stormed over to the wall mural and pointed to several of the gruesome depictions. “These are not speculative images drawn by a modern-day artist based on the flight of his imagination. These images were painted centuries ago by men who bore witness to each of these events, each of them permanently recorded so that we would never forget.”

  He moved to one of the larger scenes, which depicted scores of contorted Muslim bodies lying in piles within the walls of a great city. His finger stopped on a fierce medieval knight sitting high on his black warhorse, his bloody sword held high in triumph, his shield bearing images of three stylized lions. There was a gold crown on his head. “Have you ever heard the real story of your famed hero, Richard the Lionheart? In 1191, after capturing the island of Cyprus from the Byzantines, he landed in the Holy Land and laid siege to the city of Acre. He took twenty-seven hundred Muslim prisoners and held them as hostages against the terms of the surrender. The battered and hungry defenders believed the words of this king from the West, who made a sacred oath of leniency before Allah, may peace be upon him, for all to bear witness, promising that the lives of the prisoners would be spared if they surrendered.” Battista’s nostrils flared with distaste as he continued. “So the Muslims laid down their arms. And Richard the First, king of England, and central Chr
istian commander of the Third Crusade, had them all slaughtered. Every man, woman, and child.”

  Battista spat on the ground and stormed along the wall beneath the mural, his hands gesturing wildly at some of the more gruesome images. “This is the legacy of the West, a legacy of greed, conquest, betrayal, and terror that continues even to this day.” He walked over and stood opposite Jake on the other side of the obelisk. He slapped both hands on the surface and leaned forward, his eyes menacing, his voice booming. “We aren’t the terrorists in this story. You are! And the faithful will tolerate it no longer. We shall not rest until the one true religion reigns supreme. We fight in the name of Allah, and the war can only be won by striking at the very heart of the Great Satan!”

  Jake stole a glance at his watch. Nine minutes to go. With luck, his friends were out by now.

  “Nice speech,” Jake said. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Have you solved the riddle?”

  Another shadow danced across Battista’s eyes. They shifted to his men standing behind Jake. When he looked back at Jake, he lowered his voice and switched to English. “There is no riddle here.”

  Sensing the lack of conviction in Battista’s words, Jake moved to English as well. “I saw the radiometric dating certificate. This object is over twenty-five thousand years old, and you know it. Your forefathers may have thought it was a gift from God. And they would have passed the legend from generation to generation to fuel the faith of their followers. But you suspected it was much more than that, didn’t you? I’ll bet you’ve had any number of experts look this over, wondering at its true secret.” Jake paused, and Battista’s silence told him he was right on the mark.

  Piercing Battista’s eyes with his own, Jake said, “It took me a while, but I’ve figured it out.”

  Battista’s eyes twitched.

  “Shall I go on?” Jake asked.

  Battista gave a slight nod.

  Jake pointed to the eleven images that wound around the perimeter of the surface. “The message here is clear. Each image is a depiction of man’s violent nature.” He pointed to the final image that included the three humanoid figures with a small black pyramidal object suspended above them, casting a dark light that brought anguish to the faces of the human warriors. “This image holds the first clue to the riddle. The apparent message is that violence shall beget more violence. But so what? What’s the link between all the images of violence and these colorful symbols here?” Jake pointed to the embossed figures in the center of the surface.

  Battista said nothing. Jake’s stall was working.

  “It’s all about numbers,” Jake said. “In each of the images, there are eight tribe members raining violence upon one another. Always eight. But in the final image, there are eleven—three humanoid figures using their little pyramid to lay waste to our eight ancestors. And although we only see the humanoids from behind, they are obviously different, as if they don’t belong. Do you follow?”

  A nod. Battista was mesmerized.

  “These colorful symbols in the middle all represent numbers. If you’ve had mathematical savants inspect the symbols, you’d already know that, right?”

  He didn’t deny it.

  “Okay, there are eleven numeric symbols in the center, eleven images around the perimeter, and eleven figures in the final image, three of which don’t belong. The key to solving the puzzle lies in figuring out which of the numbers in the center don’t belong with the others. And I know which three those are.”

  Battista’s brow furrowed.

  Jake pointed to the symbols he had been working on when Battista walked in.

  Battista looked up. “How does that solve the riddle?”

  Jake fidgeted. “I’m still working on that. I believe each of the three must be pressed and held in a certain sequence, like entries on a computer keyboard or touch screen. I think I know the order, but I have only two hands. This is the first one.” Jake slid one of his hands over the first symbol. He felt the tingle of its vibration in his fingertips. He then placed his other hand on the second symbol, and the twin vibrations filled the room. It appeared as though neither Battista nor his men felt or heard anything.

  Now for the grand finale, Jake thought. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but his gut told him it was going to be big. “Place your hand on the third symbol.”

  Battista hesitated, his hand inches over the surface. Several of the guards had worked their way around the table and were now behind their boss.

  Jake glanced at his watch, pleased that his tactics were working.

  Battista caught the look and smiled. He pulled his hand away. “You’re stalling for time. Let me guess, you’re hoping to give your friends a chance to escape, to get through my men and back to the V-22 you have parked beneath the cliff. Yes?”

  Jake hid his satisfaction. Tony and the girls had to be out by now. Battista was smug but only because he couldn’t know that the traitor Azim was likely dead and that his friends were safe from further treachery. Jake gave him his best I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about expression.

  Battista simply smiled. “My dear Mr. Bronson, are you really so arrogant as to think you are the only one with the ability to plan ahead? I knew you would follow me here, for the sake of the woman and the girl. That’s why I left Ahmed behind.”

  Ahmed?

  The truth hit Jake like a sledgehammer to the chest. Ahmed, part of Battista’s tribe, best friend to the chieftain’s son!

  Battista leered at Jake’s stunned expression. “Yes, Ahmed—our first successful implant subject. I left him in Venice to keep an eye on you and report on your progress. He’s done quite well, don’t you think?” Battista’s eyes glazed over. “For most of his short life, he has felt shame. His severe autism rendered him a babbling pariah amongst the village children. Only my son saw his potential. Through my son’s eyes, I saw it too. The implant worked wonders on him. You must agree; he’s become an amazing young man. My son would be proud of him. Now, in his righteous death, he shall fulfill Allah’s will.”

  “His death?” Jake asked, his mind reeling over what he was hearing.

  “He has already prepared the charges,” Battista said. “One minute after takeoff, he will blow up the plane—and your friends. He will martyr himself in the name of our faith. Nothing can stop him.”

  Jake was stunned, his hands glued to the symbols.

  Battista smiled. “Now why don’t we see if your theory is correct? We have all the time in the world.” He motioned one of his men over and told him to place his hand on the third symbol.

  The guard stepped forward, his palm hesitating.

  “Do it!” Battista ordered.

  As soon as the guard’s hand made contact with the embossed surface, his face contorted in pain, and his mouth opened wide in a piercing scream. His body shook uncontrollably, and his hand stuck to the symbol as if it were trapped by an electrical current. A sickly hiss and foul-smelling smoke billowed up from around his hand. With a violent jerk of his shoulder, he ripped his hand away and fell backward to the floor. All of the tissue on the underside of his hand was gone, the bones of his fingers and palm exposed as if he had dipped it in a vat of acid.

  The horrific sight galvanized the rest of the men. They raised their weapons at Jake.

  Time slowed for Jake as his brain raced into action. His first thought was to use his mind to flip on the safeties of the guards’ weapons and buy himself a second or two. But what about the men behind him? If he let go of the obelisk and turned to face them, the drug would once again take control. He’d be riddled with bullets.

  Jake did the only thing he could think of doing. A detached part of him wondered why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Keeping his hands pressed on the first two symbols, he focused his thoughts on the third, pushing it down with his mind.

  A deep vibration filled the chamber, feeling much like an earthquake. Tiny pebbles danced and bounced along the floor. A couple of Battista’s men st
umbled while the rest shifted on their feet, their arms spread to the side to help maintain their balance. One of the men braced himself against the wall and brought his rifle to bear on Jake’s back.

  “Hold your fire!” Battista commanded, his voice rattling with the quake. He apparently saw that Jake had been right, that he had used his telekinetic abilities to move the symbol and activate something within the obelisk. Battista’s need to solve the most ancient mystery of his tribe overcame his desire to see Jake dead, though he watched Jake with the predatory patience of a king cobra in a terrarium, biding his time to strike at the mouse that shivered nearby.

  Jake felt a pulse coming from deep within the obelisk, like the idling hum of an immense turbine. He tried to pull his hands away, but they wouldn’t budge. They were stuck to the surface, captive to whatever he had triggered.

  The obelisk warmed to his touch, and one by one each of the etched images and embossed symbols on its surface vanished, sucked into its inky blackness as if they had never existed. The small, three-inch square etched in its center was the only remaining blemish in the polished black finish.

  The square shifted upward, protruding from the surface a fraction. He leaned forward for a closer look. A three-dimensional object rose upward, revealing itself to be another upside-down pyramid, as if the obelisk was giving birth to a mini copy of itself. It continued to rise until it was several inches above the table, hovering at eye level as if it were suspended on invisible strings.

  Gasps from the men around Jake filled the room. Several of them stepped backward. But Battista held his ground. His eyes were filled with wonder.

  The tiny pyramid righted itself, floating to a position in front of Jake. It spun slowly on its axis. He caught faint glimpses of geometric symbols and numbers appearing randomly across its surface, only to fade away with each spin. It reminded Jake of the Magic 8 Ball he had when he was a kid.

  The mini pyramid spun faster, its edges blurring like a hypnotist’s charm. Jake couldn’t peel his eyes from it. His scalp started to tingle, and his hair lifted from static electricity. In a rush, a dark beam of light shot from the tip of the pyramid into Jake’s forehead.