Queen stood and walked over to a black metal weapons cabinet bolted to the wall of the crew room. It was empty except for a small black plastic case at the bottom. She returned to her chair and flipped open the case. Rook leaned over to see the contents.
The case held four small inch-long vials of nuclear green liquid and four spring-loaded auto-injector syringes.
“So we just stab one of these into Ridley?” Queen asked.
“Yes. It should work in seconds. If you can inject him covertly, he might not even know what’s happened. But be warned, Ridley will still have the mother tongue, and as long as he can speak, he’ll be able to heal from grievous injury.”
“Or turn us into paste,” Rook added.
“And that’s only if we take the clones at their word,” Deep Blue said, “which we shouldn’t do. They each might possess the mother tongue, but I doubt it.”
“What makes you doubt it?” Bishop asked, with his eyes closed. Queen had thought he was asleep and that she was going to need to fill him in later.
Deep Blue’s voice was absent from their earpieces for just a second, and then he came back. “If they could speak the mother tongue, they could literally move Heaven and Earth to get Ridley back. That the duplicates came to us and requested our help, means they really need it to free Ridley. If Seth and the others actually had the mother tongue, then they would each be unstoppable—and they would have freed Ridley from Alexander’s captivity long ago.”
“What do you suppose happens to the duplicates if Ridley were to die?” Queen asked. “Will they really just fall apart?”
“Theoretically, I suppose it could be true. In the original golem story, the rabbi that created it could later unmake it by destroying the word that gave it life. If the sacred word was written on a piece of paper, it could be removed from the golem’s mouth. If the text was inscribed on the golem’s body, it could simply be altered.”
“Emet to met,” Bishop said, recalling what they’d learned about golems while dealing with the threat.
“Exactly,” Deep Blue said. “Seeing as how Ridley spoke life into the duplicates, he could be the word himself.”
Rook shook his head. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
Deep Blue fell silent. The three other members of the team turned toward Rook. He noticed their collective gaze after a moment. “What? It’s from the Bible. Am I the only one that’s been to church?”
Deep Blue cleared his throat. “We have to also consider the possibility that Ridley was able to grant them real life. Under their skin might be blood and organs and minds that will continue to live after Ridley dies. It’s not what we saw with his other duplicates, but we can’t rule it out. And neither can they. I suspect it’s part of why they want to find him.”
“Pinocchio wants to become a real boy,” Knight said.
“That creates two wildly different motives, doesn’t it?” Queen asked.
Rook shook his head. “I’m not following. If Ridley dies and they die too, that gives them the motivation to keep him alive, right? That’s just based on survival. But if his life isn’t tied to theirs, they still want him freed, because he’s their what? Some kind of messiah, right? A god?”
“If they can live independently of him, they might simply want the mother tongue for themselves. It is a learned language. And never forget—each duplicate has the same crazed hunger for power. They are each as dangerous as the original—if not more so, because they see an unlimited potential for power within their grasps.”
“I got a question,” Bishop sat up in his chair and opened his eyes. “We know where Ridley is being held, and we know who has him. We know the danger he presents. And we have three more of him in the cargo hold, who, you just said, are possibly even more dangerous than the original…” Bishop paused, and the others present in the room turned to listen. “Why shouldn’t we just shoot these three in the head and drop a bomb on the secret base they’re taking us to?”
The room was quiet. Deep Blue did not comment.
“That would have been so much cooler if you’d quoted Bishop from Aliens,” Rook said. “‘It’s the only way to be sure.’”
No one smiled. Bishop had presented them with brutal, but clear logic that would end all their problems at once. Even Rook’s comparison to the Aliens movie fit. Why should they engage a proven and deadly enemy up-close and personal when they could end the fight from a safe distance?
When Deep Blue spoke again, he stopped the violent line of thinking. “We can’t drop a bomb; first because it’s a mosque and we don’t want to start World War III, and second... King is already on site.”
FIFTEEN
Omega Facility, Carthage, Tunisia
King raised the LED flashlight to his face and screamed as loudly as he could. He waved the rifle and rushed at the approaching horde of wraiths. The reaction was instantaneous. The wraiths—all of them, including those scrabbling with claws along the ceiling—turned and fled to the far end of the massive parking garage-like space.
A moment later, as King looked on bewildered, he saw a dim light at the end of the space, as the hatch he and Asya had entered through was opened. The hundreds of Forgotten poured out into the night.
King turned to his sister in the dark, the flashlight now pointed at the floor. “Did I forget to brush my teeth?”
“Whatever the reason, they are frightened of you. We should count ourselves lucky—and find a doorway that is not bricked up.”
King turned back to the bricked up door and began to run along the wall to the right. Asya followed him. After about a hundred yards, they came to another door, identical to the first. King opened it, the AK-47 at the ready. This door revealed a long dark corridor that sloped down at an angle.
“Jackpot. Let’s go,” King slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled out the Sig handgun. He raised the LED light, then sprinted down the darkened hallway.
“Shouldn’t we go slow? Look for booby-traps?” Asya asked, huffing behind him in the dark.
“If you had an army of those things would you need booby traps?”
“This is true.”
At the end of another few hundred yards, the corridor ended with an open stairwell. They descended what felt like three hundred more yards before the stairs ended at another corridor, this one moving in a right angle to the first. King guessed it would take them back toward the ruins of the Amphitheater, behind the giant mosque. Well, under the amphitheater, he thought.
Shortly they came to another stairwell leading up, and the corridor turned at another right angle, this time to their right.
King stopped to look at both possibilities.
“Up or right?” Asya asked. King noticed he was breathing harder than she was.
The stairs were metal and fairly new, with rust in only a few small spots. King took a few steps down the side corridor, then called to Asya. “This way. Look at the walls.”
Asya stepped closer until she could see what King had pointed at, in the light. The walls were concrete at the mouth of the tunnel, but after a few feet, the surface switched to ancient pitted stone.
“This is part of the ruins,” Asya said.
“That would be my guess. And if I’ve kept track of where we are accurately, this tunnel runs from beneath amphitheater to the Antonine Baths.”
“What about the staircase?” she asked.
“Maybe another entrance?” King shrugged. “Let’s see if this tunnel takes us to more ruins first. Ridley and Alexander are both fans of antiquity. My money is on the Baths.”
The stone corridor got smaller as they moved forward, and it began to slope sharply after two hundred yards. Then they came to a metal door, with a security keypad next to it.
King checked for security cameras and tripwires, then examined the keypad. It was a pretty simple pad, with just numbers and an enter button. He didn’t have any technological tools with him, and even if he did, he wasn’t very
good at picking locks.
Asya reached for the doorknob on the door and pulled. The door gave about a half inch, then hit its stop. She titled her head to the side, to look at the gap the door made. She looked at King and raised her eyebrows at him. Then she pulled a curved plastic hairclip from her head, and slipped it around the edge of the door and into the gap. In less than ten seconds, King heard a click. The hairclip broke, but the door came open in Asya’s hand.
“Nice,” he told her.
“We do things low-tech in Russia,” she smiled.
“Yeah, I’ve heard the gag about the cosmonauts using a pencil.” King stepped in through the door to behold a large janitorial closet. The inside of the door held a large triangular plaque with a lightning bolt and a sign reading Electrical Breakers. He tapped the sign for Asya’s benefit.
“Camouflage. Effective,” she said.
“A secret escape tunnel for Ridley. The rest of his employees most likely didn’t know about it.” King moved across the closet to the opposing door, raised his Sig, and slowly cracked the door open.
They were in a well lit laboratory, with blinding white walls, stainless steel counters and cabinets, with bank after bank of fluorescent lamps lining the ceilings. The counters were filled with computers, microscopes and equipment King had only seen a few times before—in Manifold labs. He understood some of the basic principles of genetic science after studying up on the field when they had first run afoul of Ridley, but he really didn’t have a desire to press deeply into the subject. Viruses and DNA strands all felt like a tiny invisible world to him. Sara felt at home in that microscopic, unseen realm, but he would rather live in the world he could see, where there were threats he could shoot.
His thoughts drifted to his new fiancée for a moment. He’d left her in a hurry once again, and he couldn’t help but feel bad about it. She’d just finished pointing out the chaos of their lives and how hard it was going to be for them to have anything resembling a traditional marriage. She’d said yes, but he wondered if she was now second guessing that decision. Because really, who asks a girl to marry him and then flies halfway around the world to fight wraiths and Hercules? Of course, when he got home, she might already be flying off to some other corner of the world, fighting a breakout of some civilization-ending bird flu.
“What is all this stuff?” Asya asked, pointing to one of the few devices King recognized. It was a white plastic box that looked something like a futuristic cash register—as imagined by Stanley Kubrick for a 1960s sci-fi film.
“A PCR. It performs a timed-thermal cycle so you can get an amplification of a polymerase chain reaction.”
“Huh,” she grunted.
King smirked to himself. If she asked about a dozen other objects in the room he would have been clueless.
At the far side of the lab, were two black doors. King had seen similar doors in Endgame’s headquarters. He knew they would seal with rubber airtight stoppers the second any kind of biological contaminant was released in the room. He didn’t see any other exits, so he made his way to the bio doors and opened the first.
He peered into a long white hallway that stretched to his right. It had shiny white linoleum floors. Black doors lined the walls, leading to what he presumed were more labs. Directly opposite from his doors were another set labeled Cold Lab. King glanced behind him for the sign on his doors. Microbiology Lab.
To his left was an unmarked single door with a tiny window. The glass was reinforced with wire. “This way,” he whispered. Leading with his handgun, he slowly opened the single door and found what he was hoping for. More stairs. They had been painted a nightmare shade of institutional blue and the stairwell walls were a dull and lifeless gray. The steps led down.
Asya crept down the stairs behind him. “The floor above?” she whispered.
“Probably all labs. I’ve been in a few of Ridley’s places. They all have the same general segregation of living quarters from labs. What we want will be in the offices.”
At the bottom of the first set of stairs they came to a landing with a red fire extinguisher and another single black door. A plate above the door read Sub Level 2. King passed it and followed the steps deeper into the bowels of the facility. Asya asked no questions this time.
The steps ended at another door, labeled Sub Level 3. King gently opened this door, and peered down yet another long corridor, although this one was carpeted in soft gray, and the walls, while painted white, did not glare. The lighting in this hallway was recessed in the ceiling, casting a soft orange glow. The hall held doors only on the right. The first set, were double doors, and looked to be made of cherry wood. King spotted no sign of bio seals around the door’s edges. This one will be an office, he thought.
He was surprised by the room’s contents. It was not an office. Instead, it was a massive natural cave, and along the walls, strange technology lined every inch of the curved stone from floor to ceiling.
But it was the room’s occupant that really got King’s blood boiling. Standing at the far side of the cavern stood a man with dark curly hair and tanned skin. His chest and arms rippled with muscles, just barely contained beneath his business suit.
Alexander Diotrephes.
He turned just in time to see King rushing into the room and about to tackle him.
SIXTEEN
Amphithéâtre de Carthage, Tunisia
Daryl Trajan, known by his operational callsign of ‘Trigger’ to most, stayed perfectly still in his tree, on the northern edge of the ruins of the amphitheater. The sun was down, and there was no one around to see him, but he didn’t want to chance that the enemy’s sniper might be scoping his way. The man was said to be formidable with a long-range weapon—any long-range weapon.
Trigger had been on lookout at the amphitheater for hours, just like he had been the last two days, but today the boredom had cracked in half and blown away on the ocean breeze. First, he had spotted the slim guy in the Elvis t-shirt and some woman making for the fountain entrance of the Omega facility. Then he had witnessed the mass exodus of cloaked figures. The “cloaks”, as he’d dubbed them, gave him the willies, what with their shriveled gray skin and their herky-jerky movements, but he felt pretty sure he would have no problem mowing them down with his HK416. The assault rifle looked like an AR-15—black and sexy—but with a wicked scope and a vertical fore-grip. Even though he mostly made his bones as a mercenary by shooting things, for this job, so far all they had done is surveillance.
Trigger keyed his tactical microphone and called in the new development.
“Trigger to Carpenter, I’ve got eyes on the flying wing. Team is landing in the field north of the mosque.”
“Trigger, this is Eagle. I want a complete account of who emerges from that transport.” The unexpected voice was deep and gravelly.
Crap, Trigger thought. He had been expecting his fellow mercenary and friend, Carpenter, to answer the call. But apparently the Big Boss was here now. The man was ugly as sin, with a huge bald head criss-crossed with scars and a jagged hole where an ear should have been. He had chosen the name Eagle for himself, but behind his back, most of the mercs referred to him as Beak, because of the man’s immense nose.
“Tell me about the cloaks you saw too,” Eagle said over Trigger’s earpiece.
“Well, sir, like I told Carpenter, shortly after Elvis and the woman went in the fountain entrance, the cloaks started streaming out of it. They headed southwest into the trees on the other side of the parking lot.”
“We’ve seen the cloaks make for those trees before,” Eagle said, his voice grating like metal scraped on concrete. “Why was this different?”
“This wasn’t just a small pack of them. This looked like all of them. Hundreds. Maybe a thousand. And they were moving fast. They were in a damn hurry.”
“No sign of them since?”
“None, sir. I’ve got eyes now on the sniper and the big one, exiting the craft. The one with the hand cannons is leading three bald
men as prisoners,” Trigger described each occupant of the strange stealth craft, as they exited and took to the field. He looked on through the scope of his rifle as the short sniper and the big guy moved directly toward him, but neither seemed on guard yet. They were just hustling to get out of the open. “I have a shot on the sniper and the big one.”
“Negative. I repeat, do not fire. We want all of them, and we want them inside the facility. What about the blonde woman?”
“Not yet, I—wait a minute. I’ve got her on the ground behind Hand Cannons. Transport is dusting off and they are all making for my position. I need to bug out soon.” Trigger was frustrated that he couldn’t just snipe the targets now. If he took out the sniper first, they’d all be sitting ducks. Still, if Eagle was paying the bills, then Trigger would do as he was told.
“Pack up and head out, Trigger. They’re probably heading for the amphitheater entrance anyway. Remember, we want them all inside the facility—and the blonde bitch is mine. Acknowledge.” Eagle’s voice sounded plenty angry over the radio. Trigger wasted no time replying.
“Acknowledged. The blonde is all yours. Making for the fountain entrance. Trigger out.”
He climbed down out of his tree as quickly as he could, without disturbing the branches and leaves. Even without a scope, the sniper might have really good eyes. No point taking a chance.
Trigger hit the ground and started moving west. He crossed a small field, and seconds later was hidden from the incoming targets, the giant mosque blocking their line of sight. He made his way across the boulevard and rendezvoused with four more mercs at the fountain entrance—all the while keeping an eye on the woods, in case the spooky cloaks came back. But Trigger figured them for gone. The way they had left made it seem like they were bailing for good. But the rest of Trigger’s team had eyes on the only other entrance. So there was no way the Greek had escaped. He was inside still. So were Elvis and the woman. Now the rest of the team would be inside soon too, with the three bald men.
Omega: A Jack Sigler Thriller Page 8
