The Medusa Stone pm-3

by Jack Du Brul

  The sniper had shouldered his long rifle and moved slowly, an Uzi rucked hard against his flank, the bulbous night-vision gear resting on the top of his head. His body was shrouded in a ghillie suit, a camouflage garment made of hundreds of sewn-together rags that from a distance of a few feet looked like an innocuous shrub. With the amount of rain that had soaked the suit, Habte estimated the soldier was carrying an additional thirty pounds, and his movements would be slowed by the encumbrance.

  A bolt of lightning cast a sizzling light across the sky, and the Israeli rolled to the ground, coming up against the camp building, covering his exposed right side with the machine pistol. Habte’s suspicions were confirmed; the man’s movements appeared lethargic. At this range, there was enough ambient light for Habte to watch the Israeli clip the goggles over his eyes for a moment to peer around the camp and into the building before slipping them off again. He’d studied the head gear for an instant but didn’t notice Habte.

  As predicted, the sniper seemed more interested in the mine shaft as the only other logical place for his quarry to hide and began crawling over for a better look. Habte estimated he had only a few seconds to wait before springing on the soldier.

  The sound was sharp enough to carry over the storm’s fury and so incongruous that Habte waited until it sounded again before reacting. The sat-phone was about to ring for a third time when Habte snatched at it, clumsily dislodging it from its resting place and knocking it from his perch. The Israeli was equally startled, but there was nothing clumsy about his movements. He rolled on his back, bringing his Uzi to his shoulder, and when the phone rang again, he adjusted his aim. His reactions were instinctive. He fired off a quarter of the magazine, a long tongue of fire leaping from the compact weapon as bullets pinged off the steel scaffold.

  His aim, however, was directed at the falling phone and not at the dark figure poised in the murk above. Habte leaped from the tower, propelling himself out into the night, landing yards short of where the Israeli lay on the muddy ground. The sniper scrambled to trigger the Uzi at the apparition rolling toward him. He took just a second too long, and while Habte’s lunge lacked force, it was enough to foul the weapon’s aim. A harmless spray of 9mm rounds streaked into the sky.

  The phone had survived the drop and hadn’t been hit by the opening fusillade so it rang again.

  With the Uzi clamped between the two struggling figures, Habte had the advantage. The Israeli grappled with him, but Habte’s wet skin gave him no handhold. The Eritrean grabbed a hank of the ghillie suit and started to shake the sniper vigorously, slamming his head into the mud. Even when the sniper tried to hook an ankle around Habte’s and roll them to gain the upper hand, his feet just slid up Habte’s bare leg. Yet Habte couldn’t get enough of a grip to force the writhing agent’s face into the ooze to drown him, so they continued in a macabre parody of lovemaking, both moving against each other, arms and legs entwined.

  The advantage shifted when the Israeli grasped the dangling bunch of Habte’s genitals and squeezed them with all of his strength. Habte howled, arching his body in an effort to break the grip, but the sniper held on with the tenacity of a remora. Managing to free one hand, Habte wrapped his fingers around the Israeli’s throat and angled the sniper for a vicious head butt that shattered teeth and forced blood to pool in the soldier’s mouth. Choking on his own blood and with his wind pipe almost crushed, the sniper started to die, his grip on Habte’s balls loosening.

  Habte maintained the pressure long after the sniper stopped struggling and only stood when he felt that all the life had been crushed from the body. He studied the face and recognized him as the driver of the car parked outside the Ambasoira Hotel when the Sudanese and the Israelis had clashed in Mercer’s room. Habte wished it was the Israeli team’s leader lying here covered in mud and soaked with his own blood, but that would have to wait.

  The phone’s ring shocked Habte, and he lifted himself painfully from the ground and found the small device half buried in the mud. It had landed about an inch from the lip of the mine shaft.

  Habte snapped it open and pressed the button to accept the call. His voice was a painful wheeze. “Hello, you have reached the phone of Philip Mercer. He’s been buried alive. May I help you? My name is Habte Makkonen.”

  * * *

  The men working to clear the mine entrance heard and felt another explosion deep within the earth, a jolt that shook the ground. In the pause that followed, Gianelli asked Joppi Hofmyer if he knew the origin of the subterranean detonation. The South African had no answer, and rather than speculate, as Gianelli seemed to want, Hofmyer put the crews back to work. It took another forty minutes to clear the entrance enough for a man to slip inside.

  Hofmyer went first, a powerful flashlight supplementing the lamp on his miner’s helmet. Gianelli scrambled after him, and the two started down the near-black tunnel. Hofmyer kept his eyes on the walls and ceiling, looking for new cracks in the rock. Every few feet he would tap the stone with a hammer, listening for a dull thud that would indicate a rotten place. In contrast, Gianelli stared into the gloom ahead of them, his mind focused on recovering his diamonds.

  “They must have tried to blow open the safe. That’s what we heard,” he told an uninterested Hofmyer. “Mercer warned about using explosives under the dome without blast mats, so it couldn’t be anything else.”

  The lights cut just a few feet into the choking veil of dust that mingled with the chemical stench of explosives. So far the path into the mountain was clear. Nothing seemed out of place amid the dressed stones that lined the walls and ceiling.

  Hofmyer was the first to see a new plug in the tunnel, when he estimated they were only about two hundred feet from the pit. Rubble blocked the drive from floor to ceiling, but this avalanche wasn’t as tightly packed as the first one. The rock was loose and shifted with just a tap of his foot, and when he levered a few pieces out of the pile, nothing new fell from above.

  “What’s this all about?” Gianelli asked.

  “No idea, but if Mercer thinks this’ll stop us for long, he’s out of his bloody head,” Hofmyer sneered. “It’ll take nothing to move this out of the way and get to the pit.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, the ceiling seems stable, but just to be safe, we’ll shore this lot up as we clear the muck outa the way.” Hofmyer finished his examination of the pile of debris and turned to his employer. Gianelli had promised him a bonus commensurate with the speed in which the diamonds were recovered, so he had a newfound desire to get into the mine. “I told ya I heard of this Mercer before from some of the trade magazines and from mates back in South Africa, and I expected a hell of a lot more from him. Blocking the tunnel like this is child’s play. I don’t know what he’s playing at, but this is starting to piss me off.”

  “When we get our hands on him, he’ll wish he had died in the avalanche.”

  Once the entrance to the main tunnel was completely cleared, Hofmyer ordered the Eritreans to remove the debris from Mercer’s drop mat. The explosives had rendered the waste into easily maneuvered chunks, and a human chain was quickly established to transfer the debris outside. It still took nearly two hours because of the distance to the surface and because Hofmyer used specially designed screw jacks to prop up the hanging wall.

  Gianelli was standing next to the South African when they broke through to the pit. Hofmyer poked his head into the chamber, a pistol held in his fist, just in case. He was silent for a long moment.

  “Well?” Gianelli panted.

  Hofmyer didn’t answer. He directed a couple of workers to clear away the last of the rubble and crawled into the domed chamber. Emboldened by Hofmyer’s actions, Gianelli dogged his heels. They found themselves standing on the ledge above the ancient mine floor. Lights still blazed brightly, running on internal battery power because the generators were silent. In fact, they had been destroyed, their mechanical guts spread around them in pools of oil. The drills were lined up next to the
generators, and they, too, had been wrecked, the couplings for the air hoses smashed beyond repair.

  Apart from the equipment, the chamber was empty.

  “Gone,” Gianelli said, not believing his eyes. “They are all gone.”

  Hofmyer stood next to him, slack-jawed incredulity on his face. There was no sign of Mercer or the Eritrean miners or the Sudanese guards. Mercer had made the entire group vanish.

  On the far wall of the pit, written with neon yellow paint in letters five feet tall was a simple six-word message composed, no doubt, by Philip Mercer. It sent a deep chill through Hofmyer and especially Gianelli. They both felt that somehow it was true.

  I’M WAITING FOR YOU IN HELL

  The Mine

  An hour before Gianelli broke through the first avalanche and encountered the drop mat, the working floor of the mine had been far different. Machinery thrummed and ratcheted, echoing off the arched roof and drowning the shouts and oaths of the Eritrean workers. The activity was frantic as they strove to reach Mercer’s nearly impossible deadline. They tore into the deep shaft like madmen, jack-hammering out chunks of stone that had to be muscled from the pit. They had bored a man-sized hole a further fifteen feet into the soft stone, deflected at an angle from the main shaft in strict accordance to Mercer’s instructions.

  In the entry tunnel, the scene was less hectic but just as noisy, the crew continuing to drill ten-foot-deep holes into the hanging wall. Mercer had left the work in the pit and joined this crew, following behind them with bundles of explosives. He placed each charge carefully, not letting the pressure of time rush the delicate process. Selome worked with him, handing him the cylinders of plastique from a cart they had dragged into the tunnel. The drillers were far enough ahead so they could hold a shouted conversation.

  “Are you finally going to explain what we’re doing?” she asked.

  Mercer didn’t look up from the charge he was wiring. “Yeah. This drop mat is going to buy us a few more hours before Gianelli reaches us.”

  “You already told me that,” Selome replied. “And you said you’re going to make us all disappear, but what do you mean?”

  Mercer answered her question with one of his own. “Did you notice something incongruous between the mine that Brother Ephraim described and this tunnel here?” Selome shook her head. “He said that Solomon’s mine was excavated by children working in slave conditions, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then explain to me why the children needed to dig this tunnel so wide and so tall. Also, how could they have dug it straight to the kimberlite deposit? The odds against that are about one in a trillion.”

  “I have no idea.” It was obvious that she hadn’t considered either of these points.

  “This tunnel was built after the kimberlite had been discovered in order to make extracting the ore more efficient. It was sized for adults, not children, dug so that two men carrying baskets of ore in their hands could pass each other comfortably. The kimberlite had already been located through another set of tunnels that run beneath this one, and that’s the mine that The Shame of Kings describes.”

  “Oh, my God,” Selome breathed. “It was staring in front of me all along and I never saw it.”

  “Hey, I do this for a living,” Mercer said. “This one was dug when the mine’s high assay value made it economical to drive a tunnel directly to the ore body rather than haul it out through the smaller, children’s tunnels below us.”

  “So the other team is digging where you think the two mines intersect? You found the location from the satellite photographs?”

  “Yes.” Mercer finished with the charge he’d been wiring and inserted it into the hole over his head, tamping it gently to seat it properly. “Those Medusa pictures finally had some value after all. When I first saw them in Washington, I noticed that white lines covered some of them and assumed they were either distortions or veins of a dense mineral giving back a strong echo to the positron receiver. What I figured out since coming here is that they represent hollows in the earth, tunnels like this one.”

  “And you found a way back to the surface?”

  Mercer looked a little sheepish. “Well, not exactly. Remember, the resolution on those pictures was terrible. It’s not quite guesswork on my part, but damn close. Still, I think where those men are drilling will lead to the older tunnels, the ones Ephraim told us about.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but what if it doesn’t?”

  “Then Gianelli’s going to break into this mine and gun down everyone he sees.” Mercer shrugged. “I’ve gotten us this far, haven’t I? Maybe our luck will hold.”

  They blasted the drop mat as soon as Mercer had rigged the last charge, everyone having taken an impromptu vote to either surrender to Gianelli or try to find a way out on their own. Mercer felt he owed them that. He explained the pitfalls and the danger, but the vote was unanimous to seal off the mine again.

  When the crew had finished blocking the tunnel, Mercer shifted them to the pit. They drilled for another hour, the men working with machine-like efficiency, Mercer in the thick of it. He was operating one of the drills when the bit struck a void in the rock and the entire rig sank up to its couplings. Not wanting to hope too much, but feeling a building excitement, he hauled the drill back up, aligned it a few inches away, and fired in another hole. A section of floor collapsed and he found himself standing above a black hollow that hadn’t seen light in three thousand years. His triumphant whoop alerted the other men, and they crowded around, recoiling at the fetid, decaying odor that belched from the depths.

  Mercer shut down the drill and signaled to a man above to silence the generators. In moments the shaft was filled with excited voices as those workers not otherwise engaged clambered to look into the darkness.

  “You did it,” Selome shrieked, and threw her arms around Mercer’s shoulders. Her passionate kiss brought a round of cheering from the workers and a delighted smile to Mercer.

  “Little early for the champagne,” he warned. “There’s something I forgot, and it may already be too late. Cave disease.”

  “Cave disease, what’s that?”

  “Cryptococcus. It’s a fungus that lives in undisturbed areas like caves and abandoned mines. Once inhaled, it germinates in the lungs and can cause fatal meningitis if not treated quickly. The main tunnel was safe because Hofmyer vented it before sending in workers, but this other mine may be rife with the stuff.” Mercer paused, assessing the odds. “We’ve already breathed the air blowing out of the hole, and we don’t have a choice but to continue.”

  “Is there a cure?”

  “Yeah, um, amphotericin and flourocytosine, I think. But we don’t have time to worry about that now. Gianelli should be working on the blast mat, and we have to get everyone into the original mine and hide every trace that we were ever here.” Mercer then added with a fiendish grin, “And that includes the safe full of diamonds.”

  Another twenty minutes and they were ready to abandon the chamber. Mercer had rigged a coffer dam above the pit that led to the old mine and loaded it with tons of rubble. He configured it so its contents could be dumped into the shaft after they had escaped through the hole in its bottom. He also ordered the destruction of the remaining mining equipment and scrawled a personal greeting to Gianelli and Hofmyer for their arrival. Dropping the safe into the hole widened it enough for the men to begin lowering themselves into the cramped tunnels below.

  Mercer considered leaving du Toit and the Sudanese behind, but they would give away the escape route the instant Gianelli reached the chamber. He couldn’t bring himself to murder them. They were prisoners and deserved some sort of fair treatment. He made sure they were securely bound and well guarded before allowing them into the tunnel.

  He was the last one to descend into the children’s mine, dragging the lanyard that would breach the coffer dam behind him. Once in the cramped tunnel, he moved away from the hole connecting the two mines. When he judged he w
as far enough, he yanked the line and held his breath as debris filled the pit above them. Unless Hofmyer possessed a photographic memory, he would never know the pit had been filled or how Mercer had taken his people out of the main chamber.

  It was only after the last of the rubble settled that he took a moment to investigate their surroundings. In the beam of his flashlight, the tunnel was only three feet tall and maybe as wide, circular rather than squared. All the surfaces were rough, showing the marks where they had been worked by primitive stone tools. The air was just rich enough to breathe, but it was a struggle. In the few moments since the tunnel had been sealed, the air was starting to foul. Mercer realized he had to string out the forty men with him if he was to avoid depleting the oxygen in one section, yet he couldn’t have them too far apart for fear of losing someone.

  From where he sat, he could see three branch tunnels meandering off, one to left, one to right, and one rising up and over this one. The claustrophobic tunnels reminded him of pictures he’d seen of the myriad branches in a human lung or the den of some burrowing rodent. A man could become hopelessly lost after only a few feet. He crawled over the supine men until he had reached the front of the group, passing the Sudanese guards, oblivious to their wrathful stares. Selome waited for him with her own flashlight. They had only two others, but these lights were powered by hand crank mechanisms that required no batteries so there wasn’t any danger of them dying. Still, the tunnel was so dim that it was impossible to see beyond just a couple of yards.

  “What now, fearless leader?” Selome asked, her pride in Mercer evident in her eyes and smile.

  Mercer’s kit bag bulged with items he thought he might need for the ordeal to come. He dug out one of the lighters. He sparked the wheel and watched the flame until the metal top was too hot to touch. The flame remained in a solid column, not flickering in the slightest. “No air movement, but that doesn’t mean we won’t find some. It just means we are too far back to feel it. What I want to do is find a place to leave everyone behind, a chamber like the children would have used as a dormitory. Chances are it will be situated near a natural air vent.”