For a long moment there was silence from both planes in response to the plan he proposed. Then both pilots WILCO’d —will comply.
Easter Island
Aspasia’s Shadow held the thummim in his hand, feeling the warmth that came out of the stone. The Grail was on a table in front of him, top end open. The end he had not yet partaken of.
He knew much of what Aspasia had known, but not everything. There were a few things his progenitor had withheld from the first incarnation of his Shadow via the ka. The knowledge of the ability of the Grail to grant immortality had not only been given him through the ka, but it was a well-known legend among the human priests on Atlantis. It had been part of the carrot Aspasia had dangled in front of humans to keep them in line.
But the other end of the artifact. There was nothing from the ka although the legend said the other end of the Grail granted knowledge. But knowledge of what? Aspasia’s Shadow wondered. He supposed Artad knew, but it wasn’t likely his ancient enemy would give him the answer.
Plus, the legends said that knowledge was also linked with the Ark, which he had left behind when he fled Mount Sinai. Aspasia’s Shadow held the thummim over the end of the Grail, tempted ever so much to place it inside and let the alien machine do whatever it had been designed to.
Airspace, Pacific
The F-14 pilot spotted the target aircraft visually, his radar turned off. He’d been flying on dead reckoning to the northeast. The Hawkeye had given him the speed and track of the bogey and the F-14’s navigator had plotted both, picking the interception point. They were almost due north of Hawaii and the bogey was the one farthest right on the search fan the Alien Fleet had deployed.
“Ready?” the pilot asked his navigator over the intercom. “Yes.”
Both men had families back in Hawaii and had no clue as to their fates. But they had known their own fates from the minute the senior officer on the Hawkeye had radioed his plan.
“Going in,” the pilot said. He kicked in afterburners and roared toward the bogey. He could tell it was also an F-14 with extra fuel tanks slung under the wings. The bogey must have picked them up, because it began to turn in their direction.
The F-14 pilot fired his 20mm nose cannon, deliberately aiming wide and to the right. He banked slightly left, racing past the alien plane. He recognized the insignia painted on the tail. He knew men who had been in that squadron. Keeping his afterburners firing, the pilot raced to the north. The alien plane followed. The F-14’s navigator could hear the alien plane reporting their presence back to the fleet. As expected. The Alien Fleet would most likely assume he was heading back to his carrier and would report his location and direction, sending them in the wrong direction.
“We’re good,” the navigator reported.
“Roger that.” The pilot pulled back hard on his stick and the F-14 did a loop and they were behind the alien plane. This time he didn’t miss as he riddled the slow-reacting craft. It broke apart, pieces tumbling to the ocean.
“Well?” the navigator asked as they leveled off.
“We don’t have enough fuel to get back to the fleet,” the pilot said, something he knew the navigator was aware of.
“And they’re probably tracking us now,” the navigator added.
“Yeah.” They continued to fly north for several moments in silence.
“Ah, hell,” the pilot finally said. “Let’s see what this sucker can do.”
The second F-14 was above and behind the scout plane heading directly toward Midway and the fleet. It didn’t miss as it made its first gun run, coming in out of the early-morning sun. The scout plane was blown to bits before it could radio a message.
Easter Island
Aspasia’s Shadow slowly lowered the thummim toward the Grail, his hand trembling slightly. He paused as he noted one of the Marines monitoring the satellite radio coming toward him.
“What?”
“One scout plane has reported making contact with an enemy plane that was fleeing to the north. It has since ceased transmitting. We have lost contact with another scout.”
Aspasia’s Shadow cursed as he put the thummim back in its wooden box. He went to the guardian to make direct access to the information. The northernmost scout plane had reported an intercept, then went off the air. Another had simply disappeared. It would be most logical to assume the American fleet was to the north. His fleet was already turning to the north in pursuit.
Aspasia’s Shadow had fought many battles and matched wits with the brightest mankind had to offer. He ordered his fleet to the northwest in the direction of Midway. He also noted that Artad had sent a message to Mars. There was no time to experiment with the Grail—he needed to ensure he won first.
Mount Everest
Turcotte was happy simply to have his feet underneath him, even though the top of the ridge was extremely narrow, less than a foot wide in places. He was bent over, breathing hard, trying to catch his breath, knowing from his experience climbing the side of the ridge that it was a futile effort. He reached down and extended a hand, helping Mualama up over the edge.
“Someone’s ahead of us,” Morris said.
Turcotte finally noticed the path dug into the snow.
“It’s very recent,” Morris said. “The wind yesterday would have wiped this out, so it happened during the night.”
Turcotte looked up. There was a slight hint of dawn in the air and he could barely make out the silhouette of the bulk of the mountain above them. There were no lights to indicate another party in sight. Morris checked the rope that connected all of them, making sure it was secure to each man’s harness.
“I don’t suppose it could be a party of civilian climbers,” Turcotte said.
“No.” Morris was checking Mualama’s oxygen mask. “They’d have to be insane to be climbing this time of year.”
“That makes me feel better,” Turcotte muttered. He knelt and checked the snow. A couple of people, not many. He stood and slipped the MP-5 around so that it hung across his chest. He’d removed the trigger guard so he could fire it with his gloves, but as a precaution against accidents while climbing, there was no round in the chamber. He corrected that by pulling the bolt back.
He held the MP-5 in one hand, his climbing ax in the other. “Let’s go.”
Morris moved past him and took the lead. He began climbing up the ridgeline. The incline was slightly over forty-five degrees and Turcotte found it was all he could do to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and trying to breathe. He didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder and check on Mualama—he assumed that if the line around his waist didn’t pull him back, then the African archaeologist was keeping pace.
He bumped into Morris’s back. “What’s the matter?”
Morris simply pointed at the spot his headlamp illuminated. Two men lay dead, their faces frozen in silent agony. Both had packs on their backs with climbing gear and ropes attached.
“Who are they?” Turcotte asked, simply glad to halt and try to catch his breath.
“There are a lot of bodies on the mountain,” Morris said. “Over a hundred. I don’t know who these two are.” He knelt and scraped some more snow away. “They’ve been here a couple of years.” Morris stood and stepped over them. “Let’s go.”
Turcotte looked down at the faces as he went over them. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would come here unless they absolutely had to. These two men had died simply for the glory of climbing Everest. Glory was something that had lost its luster for Turcotte early in his army career. Without realizing it, Turcotte was lost in his thoughts, going slower and slower, more rope paying out between him and Morris in the lead until the medic was thirty feet ahead and twenty feet above.
The crack of the claymore going off shocked Turcotte out of his reverie, as did Morris’s body slamming into him and knocking him backward into Mualama. The three men ended up in a pile on the ridgeline. Turcotte felt the body on top of him, not moving, even as Mualama was pus
hing to get free.
“Morris?” Turcotte slowly rolled the body to the side. The medic had been peppered by the steel balls the claymore sprayed out and Turcotte knew he was dead even before he checked for a pulse. “Son of a bitch,” Turcotte muttered as he pulled his glove off and slipped it under Morris’s mask. Nothing. No pulse, no breathing. Just blood, that was already freezing solid.
“What happened?” Mualama asked.
Turcotte had recognized the sound as soon as he heard it, but failed to react. “Booby trap,” Turcotte said. “Claymore mine.” He leaned his head down until his chin was just above Morris’s face. His heart was racing, whether from the constant attempt to pump blood to his oxygen-starved body or from the brush with death.
“We need to keep moving,” Mualama said.
With great effort, Turcotte lifted his head and looked at the African, whose face was hidden by the goggles and oxygen mask. Slowly Turcotte unclipped Morris from the rope. “Whoever’s ahead of us doesn’t want us following.” He knew if he’d been closer he’d be dead too. Morris’s taking the bulk of the blast and his being below were the only things that had saved him. Turcotte stood up, trying to focus his mind. Without Morris—could they make it? He looked up. The first rays of dawn were cutting across the mountain. He had a ground-positioning receiver. And a map with the location. He knew he could find the spot, but could he get to it? Morris had said—what had he said? The last part would be technical climbing. Across the top of the Kanshung Face.
Could he and Mualama do it? Turcotte took several deep breaths, but he still felt light-headed. There was no choice. He stepped over the medic’s body. “Come on,” he said to Mualama.
Mount Ararat
One of the Chinese transport planes had been shot down by a Turkish jet after crossing the border. The other three had pressed on, flying low, trying to stay under the Turkish radar. Unfortunately, the Chinese did not have anything approaching the mapping and navigational tools the American MC-130 had. As the three approached Mount Ararat and the commandos inside prepared to jump, one of the craft clipped the side of the mountain and exploded in a fireball. The other two made it into the Ahara Gorge and men began jumping out the doors in the rear of both craft, parachutes blossoming.
“More visitors,” Kakel said, watching the paratroopers descending. They were standing in the mouth of the cave, drawn out by the sound of the low-flying aircraft.
“Chinese,” Yakov noted, seeing the insignia on the tail of one of the planes as it roared up the gorge, jumpers tumbling from the doors. “Mainland forces.” He had no doubt why they were here. “Sent by Artad. This is his mothership and I suppose he wants it back.”
Kakel cursed. “Things have changed, haven’t they?”
“You can’t keep the mothership hidden away anymore,” Yakov said. “The world is at war and this is one of the pieces that is being fought over.” He had a set of binoculars out and was watching the descending troops.
“Ah!” Yakov exclaimed. He extended the glasses to Kakel. “Look,” he said, pointing.
Kakel peered up at the figure Yakov had indicated. “Who—or what—is that?”
“An Airlia. From Qian-Ling. It must be one of Artad’s people.” Even with just his eyes he spotted another dangling below a parachute, the long black, helmeted form easy to spot among the shorter Chinese commandos. “There are several of them.”
“Come.” Kakel slipped into the chamber, Yakov and the rest of the Delta commandos following. They went past the other Kurds who made their home there, toward the rear.
“We call this the back door,” Kakel said. “I don’t know why. It is the name that has been passed down. I have never seen a front door, if there is one.”
Yakov assumed that if the mothership lay ahead, there had to be another entrance, a large one capable of allowing the vessel to exit. Kakel went into a narrow tunnel and Yakov and the others followed. The floor of the tunnel sloped down and Yakov noted that the stone was cut smoothly, as he had seen at other Airlia sites. He had seen photos of the mothership at Area 51, so he knew what to expect, but still, his heart was beating rapidly as they descended into Ararat.
“Why have your people kept this secret?” he asked Kakel.
“The legend is that this is the path through which those saved on the ark came out into the world,” Kakel said over his shoulder. “We believe we would be the chosen ones to go back down this path and be saved if the ark ever were needed again. Why would we tell others about it?”
Yakov had traveled much of the world while working for Section IV, the Russian version of Area 51. He’d seen how many ancient societies had built much of their religion and their belief system around Airlia artifacts or legends. He could understand how the Kurds had kept the secret of the mothership for generations.
The tunnel came to an end, a solid rock wall blocking the way. Kakel didn’t hesitate, walking up to it while reaching inside his shirt. He brought out a medallion with an eye inscribed on it and placed it in the center. An outline of a door appeared and it slid up, revealing an opening.
Kakel went through. Yakov ducked his head and passed through the opening. He came to an abrupt stop as he took in his new surroundings. He was in a massive cavern, over a mile long and a half mile wide, barely enough to contain the huge black ship resting in a metal cradle in front of him.
CHAPTER 16: THE PRESENT
Mount Everest
McGraw and Olivetti had heard the claymore go off, the sound echoing up the mountain. They felt no sense of elation or relief that whoever was following them was dead. They simply kept climbing according to the demands of their programming and the nanovirus. Even with the augmentation they had been given by the guardian, their bodies were beginning to break down as they climbed through the “death zone.”
A hundred-foot-high, almost sheer wall appeared in front of them. The Second Step. McGraw pulled a piton off his rack, reached up, and hammered it in. Then he attached the rope and climbed up. He continued up the step, putting in protection all the way to the top. He secured himself and turned to belay Olivetti. The second SEAL came up the step quickly, simply unsnapping from the protection, not bothering to pull it out.
He reached the top of the step and they both looked up. They could see the top of Everest now, about five hundred feet above them. The Kanshung Face was off to their left. McGraw squinted, peering in the distance, then pulled a set of binoculars out of his pack. A small series of dots along the northeast ridge zoomed into focus. Climbers. A large party. They were at about the same altitude.
McGraw shifted the binoculars, taking in what he could see of the Face. The ridge he and Olivetti were on would take them within a hundred meters of the spot they were headed toward, then they would have to climb out onto the Face. He checked the other party once more. It was moving at a good pace. He calculated it would reach the Face about the same time as he and Olivetti, but they had the longer traverse. He put the binoculars back in his pack and resumed the climb.
United Nations
The Chinese delegate stormed out.
That was expected. What wasn’t expected was the number of delegates who indicated their country wanted to assume a neutral stance with regard to both Artad’s and Aspasia’s Shadow’s ultimatums.
The Secretary General sat at the front of the General Assembly listening to the bedlam of arguments, while shuffling the various intelligence reports, some of which, frankly, he didn’t believe. The UN had always suffered from reliance on member countries reporting to it and now many of those countries were either withholding information or deliberately lying. He picked up a piece of paper, which the header indicated had originated from Israel. It reported that Arab extremists had attempted to destroy the Ark of the Covenant. That was in direct conflict with an American intelligence report, which said the attack had been the act of a Jewish extremist.
The Secretary General knew the clock was ticking. Reports of biological and chemical warfare in South Korea were bei
ng overshadowed by reports American forces had detonated nuclear weapons. The American delegate was not only not commenting on these reports, he also would not say anything about the rumors that Hawaii had been overrun by alien forces and all American sea power in the Pacific had been assimilated, leaving the West Coast of the United States open to attack. The isolationists in many countries were very powerful and there were indications that Guides working under orders from Aspasia’s Shadow were behind many of the groups as well as some of the progressives who were urging their governments to join forces with Aspasia’s Shadow.
Shoving the reports aside, the Secretary General stood and began pounding on the podium with a gavel. He continued for over a minute until the noise in the General Assembly gradually subsided.
“Enough.” The single word echoed though the hall. He held up a single finger. “We will vote in one hour.”
Pacific Ocean, Southeast Of Midway
The USS Seawolf was Admiral Kenzie’s second trip wire and the only one remaining as he pulled in his air cover, hoping that he had diverted the Alien Fleet to the north. Located eighty-seven nautical miles southeast of Midway, the Seawolf was the most advanced submarine in the world, designed from the first concept with only one mission in mind: kill other submarines.
There were several key elements designed into the submarine to allow it to do that task efficiently and with minimum risk. The first was the emphasis on quiet. From the specially shaped propellers, to the rubber coating covering the entire ship that minimized water disturbance when moving, to the shape of the craft itself, everything about Seawolf was focused on making as little noise as possible.
It was also capable of diving deep. The exact depth was classified, and even the crew didn’t know how far down they could go. On trials the captain had taken the sub down below three thousand feet with no problems. Beyond that, safety constraints limited their testing but it was felt the modular hull might even be able to go down to five thousand feet, far beyond any other submarine’s range.
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