by Brad Taylor
“Knuckles, Hedgehog’s across. He’s about five minutes out. I’m headed to my car.”
“Roger all. We’re set. If he takes this route, we have him.”
“Roger. Once you have him, revert back to the original plan. Link up with me at my car and I’ll run interference back to base.”
“Got it. Next call will be jackpot or dry hole.”
12
Knuckles sat in his van, his mind working at warp speed. He was parked on the zigzag road just to the east of the kindergarten street, facing the kill zone, the three-man assault team in position, but the plan was now going to shit. He had picked the zigzag road as the perfect kill zone based on Pike’s following Azzam and triggering the assault as the team leader, something that was crucial to prevent the team from taking out the wrong person. They wouldn’t have the time to identify Azzam before assaulting. They needed to positively know that the next man in the kill zone was the target, and Knuckles was now the man who would have to make that call.
Unfortunately, the zigzag road worked for the actual hit but caused problems with the trigger. From where he was parked, Knuckles couldn’t see through the kill zone to the school street to alert the team, hidden in the shadows. The first he would see of anyone was when they were through it and in front of the van. He cursed silently. Fucking Pike. Always winging shit. He could abort, but the thought never crossed his mind. He turned to the teammate driving the van.
“Where’s the Remington ball? We’re going to have to trigger with remote video.”
“In the small Pelican case right behind my seat.”
Knuckles reached behind the driver’s seat and found the box. Opening it, he pulled out what looked like a black, rubberized baseball. They called it a “Remington ball” because it was sold by the Remington Arms Company, the same people who make firearms. Invented and built in Israel, it was basically a hardened camera that could be rolled, dropped, or thrown. Knuckles had absolute faith in it, mainly because he had tried very hard to break it in the past. No matter how roughly he had treated it, the ball faithfully transmitted video to a handheld screen up to one hundred and twenty-five meters away — farther than he could throw it. What he found really unique — in fact a little creepy — was that the ball would right itself after it stopped rolling, putting the camera into operation as if it had a mind of its own. Once it did that, Knuckles could make the camera rotate a full three hundred and sixty degrees, seeing anything in the vicinity by remote control. In this case, they would only need to see down the street Azzam was walking up, allowing him to trigger the assault team when Azzam turned the corner.
But they’d need to get the ball into position. They drove as fast as they dared, hitting the street and doing a U-turn. Knuckles dropped the ball against the curb as the driver headed back to their original spot. Before Knuckles could orient the camera, Pike called and said Azzam was across the road and five minutes out. Knuckles cursed Pike again, taking a deep breath. Success or failure now depended on his actions alone. He didn’t dwell on it. He confirmed the linkup plan with Pike and banished any fears, mentally preparing for the assault. He got the camera under control and began peering at the video screen, patiently waiting. Eventually he saw a fuzzy figure advancing on the camera ball.
“Two minutes out.”
“Roger.”
He watched the man get closer and closer, until he took up the entire display. The picture was clear enough for him to recognize Azzam. Knuckles rotated the ball as he passed, now watching the target’s back moving into the first hitch.
“Thirty seconds.”
“Roger.”
Knuckles nodded to the driver, who started the van, pulling into the street at a slow pace. He rounded the first hitch in the road and saw Azzam bathed in the glow of the headlights. They were late. The driver inched the gas pedal forward just as the assault team deployed.
Knuckles saw one man move to Azzam’s front, while the other two advanced from the rear. One held a Taser X26 stun device. He pulled the trigger from a distance of five feet. Firing two projectiles attached to wires, the Taser caused Azzam to instantly lose neuromuscular control. He fell to the ground with only a sharp exhale of breath, quivering, unable to move. The other men from the assault element fell on him, flex-tying both his hands and legs with zip ties much like those used on garbage bags, only much, much thicker.
The driver pulled the van up parallel to the downed terrorist, while Knuckles threw open the sliding side door. Two men outside heaved the terrorist into the van while the third kept the voltage going, preventing Azzam from doing anything but twitch. They climbed in behind him, sliding the door shut. Knuckles breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the clammy sweat on his body for the first time. They’d been working toward this moment for what seemed like years, but the entire operation had taken less than the planned five seconds. The van sped out of the area, only stopping momentarily to allow Knuckles to recover the Remington ball.
* * *
It had been almost seven minutes, and I was growing a little antsy. Maybe I should have had Knuckles confirm his plan. I was itching to break radio silence but wouldn’t, mainly because I’d never hear the end of it from Knuckles. I knew better than to bug the team. He would do the right thing. I hoped. Finally, I got the call.
“Pike, Pike… this is Knuckles… Jackpot. I say again, Jackpot.” Knuckles spoke in a calm monotone, as if he had just awakened from a nap.
I knew this was an act. He was probably hyperventilating when he put the handset down. I matched his cadence, because that’s what cool commandos do, and replied, “I copy Jackpot. What’s your ETA to my location?”
“Two minutes.”
“Roger. Standing by.”
I cranked the car and waited. Two minutes and fourteen seconds later they pulled up, not that I was looking at my watch. Knuckles was grinning like a teenager who had just egged the principal’s house. He gave me a thumbs-up, and we pulled out of the parking lot with me in the lead. My car would now be a buffer vehicle for any contingencies that might happen en route.
Within minutes we were out of Tbilisi proper and headed toward a warehouse the support team had rented, not a single bit of evidence left that anything at all had occurred.
I called in the mission, alerting the reception team we were en route. Twenty minutes later, the car and van pulled into a vacant warehouse, the rolling door closing behind us.
I left the packaging of the terrorist to the support team, knowing he wasn’t being flown out until tomorrow. In the meantime, he would be given a complete physical to make sure he wasn’t on the verge of a heart attack, then sedated for the trip. My part of the mission, the fun part, was over. I grinned when I saw Blaine Alexander come out of the small office we were using for a tactical operations center.
“Another good one. No issues whatsoever.”
I noticed that Blaine’s face was grim.
“What’s up? Did something go bad on the Chechen hit?”
“No. It’s personal. Can I see you alone?”
My first thought was that he was pissed that I had altered the plan and taken Azzam without talking to him. I followed him into the office. “Yeah. Sure. What’s up?”
Blaine closed the door. “Pike, I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s about your family.”
After the first sentence I could no longer hear him. All I could hear was my daughter saying I kept the bad men away.
PART TWO
13
Guatemala
Nine Months Later
Professor John Cahill gave an exasperated sigh and sat down, sinking into the fetid jungle soil. Sometimes he felt like he was trying to run a race in knee-deep mud. He was deep within Guatemala’s Reserva de la Biosfera Maya — the Maya Biosphere Reserve — in the northeastern department of El Petén, and for some reason his workforce had decided to quit. He had been doing this sort of excursion into the heart of the Yucatán going on thirteen years now, all in a quest for his mythical
Temple of Priests. He had been robbed by bandits, contracted malaria, and almost killed by an asp, but never had his workforce refused to continue.
Once a rising star in the Latin America department of the University of North Carolina, he was now teaching undergrads basic anthropology theory at the College of Charleston, his fall from grace complete. The school itself was a pretty good liberal arts college, but it didn’t have a major in archaeology and didn’t give a rat’s ass about his theories of the Mayan demise, forcing him to fund these expeditions out of his own pocket.
As always, he had hired local Mayan laborers without going through the required steps with the Guatemalan government. Nobody had cared before, and surely nobody would now, but an unhappy labor force could bring unwanted scrutiny. The Biosphere, one of the last remaining uncharted rain forests on earth, was dotted with Mayan archaeological treasures. Because of this, his activities would not be looked upon as a prank. Disgusted, he called over the native leadership, determined to find out what on earth could cause his hires to give up a new set of thirty-cent rubber sandals.
The natives themselves couldn’t articulate to the professor exactly what it was they feared, only that they wouldn’t go any farther on this specific route. In the end, they were torn between their instinct and the bounty the professor represented. They weren’t stupid. They still wanted a new set of rubber sandals. They just didn’t want to pay for it with their lives.
* * *
While the professor argued with the leadership, Eduardo and Olmec, two of the younger members of the expedition, were having their own parley. Eduardo, a spindly nineteen-year-old, was sure this halt was an opportunity not to be missed. All he had to do was convince his partner.
“Olmec, now’s our chance! The Elders still believe in the old ways too much. We can find this temple, take something of value, then get back here before dark. Tomorrow, at least we’ll have something to show for it besides the professor’s quetzals.”
Olmec, one year younger than Eduardo, but rooted in a much earlier time, responded, “We don’t even know where it is. Only the professor knows. He never tells anyone more than the next hundred meters. There’s no way we’re going to find that temple by ourselves. If we could, why has our village signed on for these trips every year? We’d have done it by ourselves a long time ago. I’ll tell you why — because there is no temple. There’s only the curse.”
Unlike Olmec, Eduardo had lost all semblance of Mayan instinctual heritage and saw such hesitation as complete idiocy. He was one of the few from his village who had made the trek as a migrant worker to the fabled United States. Some said that he did more than simply make the trek, but was in reality tied in to the illegal transport of workers into the United States.
“There is no curse. It’s just an old wives’ tale used to keep kids from wandering away in the jungle. Have you ever heard of anyone dying from some strange ailment out here or disappearing completely? Anyone at all?”
Olmec didn’t say anything, prompting Eduardo to continue. “I saw the map on the professor’s computer with the markings showing where the temple is. You could read the map and lead us to it.”
Two years ago, while Eduardo was away, working in the U.S., a Presbyterian church from Santa Fe, New Mexico, had sent a “mission” to their village, spending a month building houses, wells, and sewage. One of the gringos was a scoutmaster. He loved his scouting job, and spent his evenings teaching the village boys scouting skills such as using a map, compass, and GPS. Olmec had paid attention.
Eduardo knew he was close to hooking his superstitious friend. All he needed to do now was convince him of the simplicity of the idea.
“I’ve been watching where the professor puts his GPS. I’ll go take it. He won’t miss it now, since we aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. The maps too. He doesn’t keep a good watch on either, because he thinks nobody knows how to use them.”
Olmec sighed, then said, “If you get the equipment, I’ll lead the way.”
Eduardo slipped off, returning in minutes with a map, compass, and GPS.
Olmec reluctantly turned on the GPS and took a little time orienting the map.
“According to this, we’re only five hundred meters from the temple, basically due north.”
Eduardo said, “Let’s get going. We’ve got about an hour of daylight left.”
With Olmec leading, the young men slipped into the jungle. After thirty minutes of fighting through the foliage, Olmec called a halt. He had been diligently keeping his pace count, a method to measure distance by counting the number of times his left or right foot hit the ground, and had hit four hundred meters.
“We’re pretty close to the professor’s spot on the map,” Olmec said. “Keep your eyes open from here on in. If the temple’s here, we could walk right over it and never know.”
They continued for no more than five minutes when Olmec hissed at his friend. He saw something in the jungle. A hump that didn’t fit. A tangle of vines and shrubs that didn’t seem natural. The gathering gloom was making him jumpy, like a child in bed at night who imagines the towel on the rack is a burglar. He was ready to return to the camp.
“We’ve gone far enough,” he said. “Let’s go back.”
Eduardo nodded in agreement. “Okay. Let’s just fan out a little and see if we can find anything.”
Olmec had walked less than ten feet when he heard Eduardo trip and fall. He saw him sitting down next to a rectangular stone.
“Look!” Eduardo said. “This is man-made. The temple is here!”
Olmec, once reluctant to continue, became infected with the thought of discovery. He quickened his pace toward the hump he had seen. It was about eight feet tall and appeared to be a solid mass of earth. As he got closer, he saw that draping vines gave an illusion of mass, but that it was actually some sort of cave. Setting down the GPS and map, he moved the vines aside. A few meters inside the opening, just at the edge of light, was a gallon-sized sack made of woven grass encased in stucco.
“Eduardo! Get over here! I think we’ve found what we were looking for!”
“What is it? Is it gold? Jade? What?”
Olmec moved toward the sack, sure that it contained something of wealth.
14
The professor grew tired of the back-and-forth discussion among the men in the local Mayan dialect.
He addressed the shaman, who acted as the villager’s spiritual leader. “Speak in Spanish. What’s the problem?”
“There is no problem. We simply will not go any farther. The area you’re leading us into is full of blackness and death.”
This was the third time the shaman had made such a statement, without any elucidation of what he meant. The professor was about to explode into a tirade when it struck him that this could be proof of the temple’s existence. He wished he had asked thirteen years ago where they didn’t want to go.
He had always been fascinated by the Mayan civilization, and was convinced that all theories of their demise were incorrect. The Maya had reached their height at about 900 A.D., and had a civilization that rivaled any in Europe, the Middle or Far East. For reasons known only to Maya ghosts, they had simply ceased to exist. It was one of the enduring mysteries of human existence, and many theories attempted to explain their downfall, ranging from outlandish alien invasions to the more mundane. The professor thought that everyone was looking at the problem backward. In his mind, it wasn’t outside influences that had caused the people to disappear, but something in the cities themselves that caused them to leave.
The professor’s theory revolved around his interpretation of a fairly new Maya codex called the Grolier Codex. The last of four known Maya codices, it was found under suspicious circumstances in 1965 and was considered by many to be a fake. Others had determined it to be authentic and maintained that it detailed the Maya calendar as it related to the planet Venus.
The professor had reached an altogether different conclusion. At the time of the Mayan decline the
re were two ruling elites in competition with each other: the political royalty and the religious shamans. Both continually fought for control of the population of the Mayan city-states, and both were equally bloodthirsty. He believed the shamans had developed a weapon, mystical in the eyes of the average Mayan, which was used to seize power. He extrapolated that this weapon had somehow gotten out of control and had caused one or two dramatic wipeouts of various cities, which in turn led to an evacuation of other cities in a superstitious panic, and a wholesale destruction of the civilization.
He was convinced that the Grolier Codex detailed the location of a temple, restricted to shamans alone, that housed this weapon. He had no idea what the weapon could have been, and cared only about finding the temple. He dealt in a world of history, of dangers long since dead. It never entered Professor Cahill’s mind that, if his theory were true, he was trying to find a weapon that the world was ill prepared to deal with.
* * *
Eduardo reached the entrance of the cave in time to see Olmec pick up the sack. A fine cloud, not unlike flour, puffed out, encircling Olmec.
“This isn’t worth anything,” Olmec said. “It’s a bag of dirt.”
Eduardo began to dig through some scattered pottery, looking for something else of value, when he heard Olmec trip and fall. He was about to ask if Olmec was all right when what he saw caused him to stumble back and fall himself. Olmec had dropped the sack and was thrashing around as if hooked to an electrical generator. His head was growing lumpy and distorted and his breathing sounded as if he were drawing air through a swizzle stick. As his metamorphosis continued, he began to froth at the mouth, gasping for air. All of his exposed skin appeared to be rippling, as if a band of cockroaches were running through his veins. Before Eduardo could recover from his initial shock, Olmec’s eyes bulged obscenely, his mouth cranked open farther than any human’s should, and he ceased to move. Eduardo screamed, finding that deep in his soul he was still a Mayan, and ran out of the temple.
