01-01-00

by R. J. Pineiro

  Kuoshi staggered toward them, clutching his weapon. “Get away!” he told them. “Get out of here!”

  They both looked at him. “What are you talking ab—”

  “No time to explain! Get away!”

  The second guide, Porfirio, dropped his backpack and took off, rapidly losing himself in the jungle.

  “You too!” the corporate liaison shouted. “Get out of here!”

  Shadows moved in the jungle. Incoming soldiers, their silhouettes momentarily becoming alive against the backdrop of the triple-canopy jungle as they crossed a beam of sunlight filtering through the heavy vegetation. Dark olive fatigues and silenced Uzis turned to black phantoms cruising through the bush as they left the narrow shaft of light behind.

  Kuoshi leveled the pistol at the nearest shadow and fired twice, the reports echoing loudly, stabbing Ishiguro’s eardrums. The figure arched back from the impact.

  “There isn’t much time!” Kuoshi warned. “You must get out of here! Save the equipment! Save yourselves!”

  Ishiguro grabbed Jackie’s hand. “What about you?”

  “I’m doing my job!” he shouted. “I’m protecting you! Now get out of here and go do your job!”

  A bullet zoomed so close to Ishiguro’s head that the sound rang in his ears long after it had lodged itself in the tree with an explosion of bark.

  That was all the encouragement the scientists needed. They hurtled into the jungle, shoving moss and vines aside, jumping over a fallen log, through thick vegetation, around trees, increasing the gap.

  Kuoshi fired again, and again, buying them time.

  They had to get away … but where? Ishiguro thought. They were in the middle of the Petén. The closest place was many miles away.

  Jackie tripped on something and tumbled out of control across the leaf-covered terrain, also making Ishiguro fall, his torso burning from the impact against a clump of boulders.

  They struggled back up, eyes frantically searching for a path through the dense bush. They had to put some distance between them, get away from their pursuers, make it to—

  Kuoshi’s agonized outcry echoed in the jungle.

  “Oh, God!” Jackie said. “Kuoshi—”

  “He did … what he had to,” Ishiguro said, breathing heavily, shoving branches aside, reaching a large opening between the towering ceibas, the large backpack slowing him down, burning his—

  The earth dropped away.

  Ishiguro and Jackie tried to find a foothold, but there was none. Everything seemed to collapse around them. The trees disappeared as they fell into the ground, almost as if swallowed by it. They flapped their arms and legs in a desperate effort to reach for anything to break the fall as their senses filled with fear, as the smell of damp earth enveloped them before losing consciousness.

  5

  Joao Peixoto quickly covered the four-foot-wide hunting trap with a pair of palms and leaves, before hiding behind a rock as three soldiers approached the area.

  The men stopped ten feet from his trap, scanned the area with their automatic weapons, and turned around.

  6

  Wearing a set of jungle fatigues, Celina by his side, Antonio Strokk stood in the middle of the courtyard inspecting the damage his well-trained troops had inflicted on the unsuspecting platoon.

  The Venezuelan-Russian, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up to his elbows, slowly walked among the slain SEALs, wondering how he was going to get rid of them. In spite of all their preparations he had not thought of that one, and in this heat and humidity those corpses would start decomposing very soon.

  A muscular man with a crew cut approached them. “At least two got away. We lost track of them.”

  Celina sighed.

  “You said earlier that there was some equipment left behind?”

  “Two large backpacks. Looks like an assortment of personal gear, nonperishables, and a disassembled telescope. There is also some electronics equipment that I do not recognize.”

  “Keep looking,” he ordered. “And get those bodies out of here.”

  “What do we do with them, sir?”

  “Tie rocks around them and throw them in the water hole,” Celina said.

  Strokk glanced at his sister, her short brown hair contrasting sharply with her ghostly skin and dark eyes. He nodded approvingly.

  The stocky mercenary rushed off.

  “Now,” he said, “why don’t we go meet our new friends? After that I also need you to inspect the captured equipment in the backpacks for clues.”

  Strokk and Celina walked toward the temple while his men dragged the bodies of the SEAL team to the water hole, stripping them of weapons and ammunition before shoving rocks into their fatigues and kicking them over the edge.

  Three heavily armed mercenaries, belts of ammunition slung across their chests bandoleer style, stood ominously over the captured scientists, who sat on the steps leading up to the temple. The Garnett woman resembled a model, tall, thin, like Celina, but with finer features, dark olive skin and catlike, almost Asian eyes. Slater, who’d appeared rugged from a distance, looked even rougher close up. Hard-edged features, piercing eyes as dark as his long hair, and very muscular, but lean.

  Slater began to stand, but one of the mercenaries, a man with a bull neck, grossly muscular arms and shoulders, and a green-dyed crew cut, shoved a gloved palm against his shoulder, forcing him back down.

  “Good morning,” Strokk said, standing in front of the couple, motioning his men to stand them up. “My name is Antonio Strokk, you are my prisoners, and you will do exactly as I say.”

  The same hand that had shoved Slater down now grabbed his vest and yanked him up. The archaeologist threw his arm back, forcing Greenhair’s hand off of him. In the same fluid motion, he also pushed the hand of a second mercenary as he reached down to grab Susan. “Get your hands off of her!” he warned. The hypermuscular mercenary was about to retaliate when Strokk raised a palm.

  “Enough.”

  The mercenaries backed off, reluctantly, Greenhair letting Slater know with his blue-eyed stare that this little episode was not over.

  “You have big cojones to act this way, cabron,” Celina said, measuring Slater. “Petroff could break your back just like that!” She snapped her bony fingers.

  The archaeologist gave the gaunt female terrorist a contemptuous glance before grabbing Susan’s hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “What do you want with us?”

  “The same thing that your government wants, Dr. Slater,” replied Strokk. “Information on the global virus.”

  “You want to know how to kill it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re the ones responsible for the deaths in Washington,” said Susan in an accusatory tone.

  Strokk shrugged. “People die, Miss Garnett.”

  “And I suppose you’re just going to kill us as well after you get what you need from us?”

  Celina walked up to Susan. “You have no idea what we could do to you, puta. How would you like for every guy here to fuck you in every position known to mankind until your skin turns as raw as those stone statues? You think you felt bad enough when Bloodaxe killed your pathetic family?”

  “Hey!” Slater snapped, getting in between the two women. The massive mercenaries stepped forward again, aiming their weapons at the archaeologist.

  “I said, ENOUGH!” barked Strokk, moving his sister aside. “This is how we’re going to do this. You two go back to your research. Celina, who is very technically capable, will oversee your work to make sure that you don’t try to warn your people in Washington. All information goes directly to me. I’ll decide what gets fed to Washington to keep them from getting suspicious. If you do as I say, you’ll live. If you don’t … you will wish you were never born. Do we understand each other?”

  “How do we know you’ll keep your end of this deal?”

  “You don’t, puto,” replied Celina.

  “Then what makes you think that we’ll—
” Slater began.

  Susan cut him off, squeezing his hand while firmly stating, “We will do as you say.”

  Strokk grinned. “I know you will.”

  7

  Susan spent the next hour making minor repairs to the computer equipment. In spite of the terrorists’ best efforts to spare the hardware, stray rounds had damaged one of the solar cells and a communications radio, breaking the satellite link to Washington. After a few patches, involving activating redundant gear, she had the system back on-line and now sat in front of the laptop in the middle of the stone courtyard, horseflies buzzing overhead. Cameron sat next to her. Two of the large mercenaries—one of them Cameron’s green-haired friend, Petroff—remained a dozen feet away, their large machine guns hanging from their shoulders, their Slavic features softened by camouflage cream. Celina stood right behind the scientists as the PC rebooted.

  Over two dozen men in camouflage gear had entered the site, many of them sat around with their pants down picking insects off their skin. Others walked around inspecting the dazzling display of pre-Columbian art. Some of them pointed at the precious metals and stones adorning edifices and stelae. One of the tick-picking brutes caught her gazing in his direction and promptly dropped his underwear while grabbing himself and yelling something in what sounded like Russian, drawing laughs and howls from his comrades-in-arms nearby. Susan just turned away and ignored it. She not only had plenty of reason to hate the crude terrorists for what they had done, and for what they were attempting to do, but she had a special contempt for the borderline anorexic woman who called herself Celina, standing behind them, her gaunt features and dirty hair adding a dimension of evil to her persona.

  The display came alive. A message on the screen informed her that reidt@fbi.gov wanted to start an Internet chat with her.

  “Go ahead,” replied Celina, pulling out a huge pistol, which look ridiculously large at the end of her pencil-thin arm, but which Susan felt the gaunt terrorist could use with expert marksmanship. She pointed the gun at Cameron’s groin.

  The archaeologist frowned.

  “Remember, puta,” Celina added in an accent that could have been Slavic or Hispanic, or both, “if you try anything funny—including trying to attach any hidden files to your transmission—your boyfriend here loses his ability to fuck you. And from the looks of it, I’d say that’d be quite a loss.”

  Susan clenched her teeth at her crudeness, but chose to ignore her as she had ignored the tick-picking jerk. She also chose to play it straight for now. The female terrorist seemed to be computer literate.

  Cameron patted Susan’s forearm. “Stay calm.”

  “Don’t worry,” she replied, eyes on her screen, his touch as reassuring as her PPK, still shoved in her shorts, by her spine, covered by the T-shirt and the gear vest.

  REIDT@FBI.GOV:

  WHAT HAPPENED? THE CONNECTION WENT DOWN.

  SG@RLOGIN.NET:

  JUST A GLITCH. WE’RE BACK ON-LINE.

  REIDT@FBI.GOV:

  ANYWAY … TOO MANY MATCHES AT EIGHTY PERCENT.

  SG@RLOGIN.NET:

  HOW MANY?

  REIDT@GBI.GOV:

  ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-TWO, AND NONE OF THEM MAKES ANY SENSE. THEY ALL SMELL LIKE DEAD ENDS. I’VE ALREADY KICKED OFF A CHECK AGAINST THE ENTIRE WORLD. I’VE GOT ALL OF THE BUREAU’S MACHINES, PLUS WE’VE PATCHED IN THE TREASURY DEPARTMENT AND ALSO LANGLEY. IT’LL STILL TAKE AN HOUR OR TWO. WILL LET YOU KNOW.

  Susan explained to Reid her theory about narrowing the frequency range to increase the resolution of the acquired EMI activity to get a cleaner baseline.

  “So many matches,” said Celina, her large pistol still aimed at Cameron. “Intriguing … but what does that mean?”

  “Too early to tell,” said Cameron.

  “You keep that up and you won’t be able to get it up ever again. Your girlfriend here will have to get satisfaction somewhere else, perhaps with Petroff. He has quite the reputation back in Kiev.” She pointed at the steroid-fed Ukrainian, clutching the largest machine gun Cameron had ever seen. The green-haired mercenary regarded the archaeologist with contempt. “I suggest you try to answer my question one more time.”

  Cameron sighed, looking at Susan, realizing that the terrorists would not only be using him to force Susan to cooperate, but also using Susan to get him to obey, capitalizing on their affection for one another. “All right,” he finally said in a resigned tone. “Last night’s transmission did provide us with a Mayan date corresponding to zero one, zero one, zero zero at the bottom of what we suspect is a binary landscape. This leads me to believe that a major event will take place there at the end of the millennium. That’s all I know at this point. You have seen Susan’s theory about improving the resolution, but for that we need to wait until tonight’s event. In addition, the FBI’s going to extend the search area to the entire world.”

  “Much better,” Celina said. “Ask Reid what is the FBI doing next.”

  At Susan’s hesitation, the terrorist pressed the gun against his groin. Susan watched Cameron gazing down at the huge muzzle shoved in between his legs and opted to comply, reading her superior’s reply a moment later.

  REIDT@FBI.GOV:

  WE’VE ALREADY CONTACTED THE WHITE HOUSE TO BRING THEM UP-TO-DATE. I’LL LET YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE’LL KEEP ON SEARCHING FOR A MATCH WITH WHAT WE’VE GOT. YOU JUST GET READY FOR TONIGHT’S EVENT.

  SG@RLOGIN.NET:

  WE’RE READY.

  REIDT@FBI.GOV:

  LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED ANYTHING ELSE. THE SEALS BEHAVING THEMSELVES?

  SG@RLOGIN.NET:

  NO PROBLEMS ON THAT FRONT. WE HAVE EVERYTHING WE NEED.

  REIDT@FBI.GOV:

  ALL RIGHT. WE’RE STILL INVESTIGATING THE MURDERS. NOTHING YET. WILL KEEP YOU POSTED. BYE NOW.

  SG@RLOGIN.NET:

  BYE, SIR.

  Susan frowned and broke the connection. “Now we wait,” she said. “Until tonight at seven, for the next event.”

  “Well done.” Celina lifted the gun, brushing it gently against Cameron’s left cheek. “I’ll be checking on you later.”

  Susan didn’t like the sound of that.

  “If it’s all right, I’d like to continue my study of the glyphs. They’re a good source of clues.”

  The female terrorist, wrapped in incredibly tight black jeans and a black T-shirt, nodded. “Petroff has been ordered to never leave your sight. You are free to go about the area. But don’t even think about going into the jungle. You’ll never make it past the first dozen feet. And you’re not allowed to connect to the satellite link unless I’m present.”

  Susan watched her give Cameron a slow female wink before leaving.

  “Skinny-ass bitch,” she mumbled, a strange feeling of possessiveness clouding her judgment.

  “Now, now,” said Cameron, leaning against her, rubbing shoulders. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say that you are jealous.”

  “Don’t you have work to do?” she snapped.

  Cameron’s grin broadened.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Come,” he said, standing. “Why don’t you give me a hand with those.” He pointed at a small knapsack next to the few books on glyphs that he had brought along. “There’s some of my tools in there. Let’s go do some more—” His gaze shifted to Petroff. The mercenary was using a hunting knife to dislodge a large piece of jade adorning the headdress of one of the ball players carved on the stelae at the edge of the courtyard. “Hey!” Cameron shouted. “Don’t touch that!”

  Petroff, rocking the tip of the knife between the limestone and the jade, waved him off and continued his work.

  Cameron’s features tightened into a mask of rage as he sprung with the ferocity of a jungle cat, pushing the mercenary back. “I said, don’t touch them, you imbecile!”

  Just as Susan stood, Petroff smacked the stock of his machine gun across Cameron’s head, dropping him cold on the stone floor. He then swung his leg back to ki
ck the unconscious archeologist, but Susan shoved herself in the way, shielding Cameron. “NO! Stop! You animal!”

  Petroff hesitated, breathing heavily, not certain what to do. He took a step back as Strokk and Celina rushed toward them, shouting in Russian. Petroff replied angrily in the same language, pointing at Cameron and then at himself.

  Strokk knelt by Susan’s side, inspecting Cameron’s head wound, checking for a pulse. “Petroff says that Slater attacked him.” He spoke more Russian and Petroff handed him the canteen strapped to his belt.

  “The animal was desecrating the stelae! Cameron tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen!” Susan shouted, gently placing Cameron’s head on her lap after crossing her legs and sitting by him. She softly ran her fingers over a patch of red skin between his left eye and temple.

  “Fool,” commented Celina, watching with indifference.

  Susan locked eyes with the female terrorist, burning Celina with her stare, before returning her attention to Cameron.

  Strokk poured some water on the wound. Susan rubbed the water on the archaeologist’s face and neck. “These men are trained killers, Miss Garnett,” said Strokk. “Their reactions are deadly. Slater’s lucky that Petroff didn’t shoot him … he’s coming around.”

  Cameron moaned and stirred, Susan held his head in place, looking into his eyes as he blinked, his face twisting into a mask of pain.

  “My … head…”

  “Easy,” she said, rubbing his face, cupping water in her hand and wetting his cheeks, his wound. “Don’t talk.”

  Strokk stood. “He’ll be all right. Keep him awake. And by all means, keep him from taunting any of my men. I can’t be responsible for his foolish acts.”

  “The statues…” Cameron began, inhaling and exhaling, bringing a finger to his temple and rubbing. “Don’t touch the—”

  “Dr. Slater,” Strokk said. “I suggest you stay out of my team’s way. If my men wish to take some souvenirs with them, they should be allowed to do so. I’m certainly not going to stop them if it helps their morale, as long as they stick to the main objectives of this mission. Is that understood?”