“You’re right, let’s go.”
They followed the pathway in a northerly direction. It meandered around several Fairy Chimneys, changing its height by more than fifty feet and crossing the valley multiple times, through a series of small tunnels and caves.
Each time they thought they’d gotten away from their pursuers, a new barrage of shots would fire at them from the south. They took it in turns to fire back, doing so only when one of them spotted a clear shot. They were both down to the last few rounds of their magazines. Sam had one more magazine left, and Tom was completely out. They would only risk a shot if they knew they could hit someone.
Sam and Tom were extremely fit. They were also driven with the primal will to survive. Adrenaline surged through their bodies giving them additional strength and endurance. The reports from gunshots were getting further away.
It took twenty minutes to reach the top of the hill, where the Goreme Yolu road met the end of the Gereme National Park – and more importantly, the last of their protective cover. Sam was breathing hard. It had been a long time since he’d been forced to run so hard for so long. He studied the landscape. It became a mostly leveled plain, with minimal camouflage and even less protective cover. Across the road, and about three hundred feet away, some people were setting up a hot air balloon in a field.
A shot was fired somewhere behind them and its bullet went so wide they had no idea where it landed. The sound was all the encouragement Sam needed to keep moving. “Come on. Let’s see what we can find over there!”
He made it several steps on to Goreme Yolu and a taxi pulled out in front of them. Its tires screeched as the driver came to halt just beside them. The yellow taxi, a Karsan V-1, smelled heavily of brake fluid and burnt tires, as though its driver had been driving it hard. The driver was honking the horn madly. At the end of the path behind them two men started to shoot. Sam ran around the taxi and ducked down below the driver’s door.
The driver wound the window down. It was Sadik. “Get in!”
Sam and Tom didn’t need to be told twice. Sam opened the front door and slipped inside. Tom climbed into the back seat simultaneously.
“Drive!” Sam yelled.
Sadik shoved his foot on the pedal and the taxi accelerated hard. Sam emptied his rounds into his attackers, until the Glocks’s firing pin struck an empty chamber. Thirty seconds later, the taxi had disappeared out of their attacker’s reach and the shots finally went quiet.
Sam sat up and looked at Sadik and smiled. “You came back for us!”
Sadik nodded. “Against my better judgement.”
Sam loaded the last magazine into his Glock. “What happened to the taxi driver?”
“I told him to get out.”
“Much appreciated,” Tom said.
Sadik reached the T intersection of Kayseri and Nevsehir Yolu and stopped. “Where do you want to go?”
“Kayseri Airport,” Sam said. “I have someone waiting to pick us up.”
“Okay,” Sadik said, and sped off to the north.
Sam asked, “What made you come back for us?”
“You saved my life. I save yours. Now we’re even. Don’t come back. I don’t want to know what all this was about.”
They reached Kayseri airport forty-five minutes later. Sam shook Sadik’s hand. “Good luck with your family. I’ll let you know how I go.”
“No!” Sadik said. “Don’t come back. Leave me alone. I don’t want to know what this was about. I’m not interested. I just want to live my life.”
Chapter Seventeen – Mount Ararat, Turkey
Gianpietro Mioli stood on the crest of Greater Ararat, the higher of the two volcanic peaks, and studied the snow-covered landscape that surrounded him in his search of a hidden secret. A place last seen in 1840 when the mountain last erupted, melting away the snow and revealing a series of ancient lava tubes below. Since that time, thick snow had permanently covered the upper third of the sacred mountain until this year.
As a result of the hottest summer on record, the ubiquitous snow which capped the region all year round had reached its lowest depth since the volcanic eruption of 1840. This year he’d postponed his studies at Italy’s prestigious University of Bologna in order to search the sacred mountain. A mountain rich in mystery and Biblical history dating back to ancient searches for any remnant of Noah’s Ark which some believe to have come to rest on the mountain.
Mioli didn’t believe for an instant the Ark would be found – or any sort of historical treasure for that matter – what he was searching for was something altogether very different, and yet just as valuable. He wore a pair of dark snow goggles that hid his deep-set, gray eyes. He wore a thick mountaineering jacket, helmet and crampons, so that little could be seen of his appearance, except the broad crest of his smile. He felt his heart beat faster, and for a moment didn’t even realize he was holding his breath, as he discovered his first lead in two weeks on the mountain.
Through a pair of binoculars, he studied the snowdrift wander aimlessly along the northern plateau. It turned sharply, as though it had suddenly been given a purpose and sped along the flat snow. Like a mythical beast with a mind of its own, it fought its way against the oncoming wind caused by the natural updraft, before losing momentum and slowing to a stop. A split second later, it spun around and began to move again as though suddenly energized by a secret enthusiasm. This time, it was turning in a large spiral formation. It gained speed as it approached the center, spiraling faster and faster, until it disappeared into an imaginary crevasse.
Mioli grinned and marked the precise location on his topographical map. This was exactly what he was looking for. As an avid mountain climber, he’d spent previous summers climbing throughout Europe. In two weeks, it would all be over, and he would have to take up his placement at the University of Bologna to resume his studies. In previous years he’d successfully climbed the Eiger, Mount Blanc, and the Matterhorn. This time, he’d come here in search of something very different – virginal spelunking.
It had become a craze with cavers around the world. The concept was to discover a brand new cavern, never before entered, and then map it out before the place had a chance of being overrun by other cavers and tourists. One of the tricks was to search for areas where wind shows an abnormal movement. For example a sudden down draft where the wind should be stagnant or flowing upward, might reveal an opening where the cold air below leads to a decreased pressure gradient.
Mioli carefully walked along the plateau, stopping about twenty feet short of the place where he’d seen the strange snowdrift formation disappear inside an invisible crevasse and downdraft. He fixed a climbing pin deep into the snow and attached the sixty foot climbing rope to the end of it. The other side of the rope was tethered to his harness, which he tightened until he was confident the rope would stop his fall if the ground opened into a massive crevasse. He wrapped the remaining bulk of the rope over his shoulder, and then slowly loosened the tether as he approached the point where the snowdrift had disappeared.
He was able to walk right across the section he was certain he’d seen the snowdrift disappear into. The entire place was full of hardened snow. He marked the center of the search grid and then started to examine the area with ever increasing counter-clockwise sweeps. After twenty minutes he’d thoroughly examined the entire section.
Mioli stopped and stared at his topographical map and the search grid. Had he got his navigation wrong somehow? It seemed impossible to him, but then again, the entire area was covered in thick white snow so it would be easy to confuse individual landmarks. He loosened his tether all the way and then made another series of searches throughout the initial grid using his ice pick to feel for any loose snow.
Ten minutes later, his searched confirmed one of two things. He hadn’t seen snowdrift disappear down a crevasse or, he was looking in the completely wrong place. Mioli’s mouth was dry. He’d been breathing hard in anticipation of his discovery, and it was only now that the
adrenaline had worn off that he realized he hadn’t consumed any water for hours. He took off his backpack and withdrew a small thermos. He opened the lid and eagerly drank some of the lukewarm water inside.
He stared at the landscape again. What had he missed? He was certain he was at least close to the right place. A few minutes later, he stood up. There was a light wind in the area, and it was bringing with it an additional chill factor, now that he’d stopped moving and allowed his body to cool. He glanced at the sun, which was dipping over the horizon. It would be dark in a few hours. He contemplated making a note on his handheld GPS and returning tomorrow. The thought irked him like a gambler whose weekly numbers finally came up, only to discover he hadn’t got around to submitting them this week.
Mioli untied the end of his rope from the tethered pin in the snow. There was no point using it if he was in the wrong place. Instead, he would need to start again. This time he reached into his bag and withdrew a forty foot piece of string with small pieces of yarn attached on each side every few feet. Like tell-tales on a sailing yacht, which indicated the tiny changes in air pressure to either side of a sail canvas, Mioli’s device could pick up any downdraft or sudden updraft.
He carefully unraveled the tell-tale while moving backward until its yarn finally caught a light draft and began to flap lightly in the wind. He began to unravel the string from its reel, like a person trying to fly a kite. It pulled capriciously to the left and then the right, constantly moving slightly to the north. Mioli watched, gently loosening the string to give the tell-tale more freedom to move. After about three minutes the wind died off and the string and yarn settled gently on the snow.
Mioli breathed heavily and waited for a moment. He wound it in slightly and stopped. The tell-tale perked up, as though suddenly drawn upward by some mysterious power, and it shifted about a foot into the air and then due east. The reel felt firm in Mioli’s hand. He held it tight, fighting the pull and then, like he was fishing, he quickly released more yarn to allow the tell-tale the freedom to follow its new desire.
He grinned. Was it going to be a shared desire? The string went taut, and Mioli instantly placed his second hand on the reel to keep from losing it altogether. The little pieces of yarn flapped vigorously and he started to follow the tell-tale. Whatever had caught its attention was powerful, despite there only being a light breeze on the plateau. His heart raced. Could this be what he was searching for? He’d heard a story from a climber three weeks ago, who said that a strange downdraft hit him like a hammer, nearly knocking him off his feet in the process, as he reached the summit.
The tension slackened for a moment and he released pressure on the string. Had he lost it? The tell-tale fell to the ground and he swore. Mioli slowly curled the string around the wheel as he moved to where the end of the tell-tale had fallen into the snow.
Mioli bent down, about to pick the end of it up, when it yanked to the side. He gripped the reel with both hands again. The mysterious downdraft seemed to be teasing him. Intermittently pulling hard and then releasing its prey. Now the string felt taut and he struggled to hold on. A moment later, despite Mioli trying to stop it, the tell-tale pulled away and unraveled the rest of the spool, and then disappeared into a small hole in the snow.
This was it – an opening to the hidden world he was looking for…
His breath felt light with anticipation as he bent down to examine the tiny opening. He was breathing hard and his heart raced from the effort of fighting with the tell-tale as much as with excitement. The opening was too small for him to climb through, but it wouldn’t take much to widen it and he was certain it was only the tip of a large lava tube. Nothing smaller would have such a powerful downdraft.
Mioli sat down and started the process of winding up the spool. The string was still taut, as though something or someone was pulling it downward. It made him smile how hard it fought. Then it became too hard to keep hold of.
He dug both feet in and his crampons gripped the snow. For a moment he thought it was going to hold. He should have reacted faster. Maybe if he had, there was a chance he would have made it. Instead, he heard the crack of ice breaking beneath him. A moment later the string tugged hard, and the ground beneath him gave way.
His mind was still in the process of registering what had happened to the solid ground below him when his back struck the first piece of solid ice. It was heavily sloped downward and his general momentum kept going, which reduced the impact. He let go of the string and fumbled to grab the icepick, while at the same time trying to position himself so he was no longer sliding headfirst.
His right hand finally latched onto the hilt of the icepick. He swung it into the ice, but without any force, and the blade didn’t even begin to take grip. Mioli swung again and this time the pick dug heavily into the ice. The same instant he felt elation that his icepick had taken hold, his momentum ripped it clear from his hand and kept sliding.
Only he’d stopped sliding – because there was no longer ground beneath him.
Chapter Eighteen
Mioli must have fallen twenty to thirty feet. Maybe more. He didn’t know. At some point his rope must have caught hold on something because he felt it go taut over his shoulder and break part of his fall, before a moment later, being ripped away from whatever it had taken perch on above. He continued falling and struck the ground a split second later.
His back struck first.
Then his head and pelvis, and his entire body filled with a pain so intense he didn’t know where his injuries were because everything hurt equally. Next to him he heard the deep resonant thud of rope falling to the hard icy floor, followed by a clanging sound as his icepick fell less than a foot from his head. The fall took the wind out of his chest and he was certain he’d broken his lower back, and possibly even his legs.
But he was alive.
Mioli realized he was unintentionally holding his breath. He forced himself to take a couple shallow breaths. They hurt his ribs like hell, but he was able to breathe at least. He made a small fist with each hand. The fingers worked, and like the rest of his body they were sending his brain millions of tiny impulses registering pain. He wiggled his toes next. The sensation made him want to cry. He could still move his arms and legs. That meant there might just be hope that he would still survive.
He fumbled in the total darkness for his helmet light and switched it on without moving from where he fell. He was inside a large tunnel. The walls were jet black and glassy. He grinned despite the pain – because he’d found his lava tube.
Mioli turned his head to the left. On the wall were a series of old cave-paintings. One of them depicted a man wearing nothing but a loin-cloth riding a woolly mammoth. Next to that painting was one of a similarly drawn primitive man fighting off a beast. It took Mioli a moment to realize the creature was a sabertooth tiger. He racked his brain trying to recall what his teacher had said about the two creatures in his ancient history class as a kid. They were both extinct – that much he knew for sure – but when had they died out?
His eyes darted to the top of the large tunnel where he’d fallen. It was made of ice and was at least thirty feet above him. He glanced back at the cave paintings. Only there was something different about them... There were no handprints. They were unlike any other Neolithic drawings he’d ever seen in previous ancient caverns he’d explored. He looked at a third drawing. It was of a young woman’s face. She had intense eyes and strong facial features. She wore something golden around her neck, like a pendant, but the lower part of it had been worn off over time. There was no doubt she would have been splendid in whatever time period she’d lived.
The thought about time jogged his memory. He was twelve years old, sitting in an ancient history class in Scuola Giapponese di Roma. His teacher was telling him about mythical beasts. Only they weren’t mythical, they were merely extinct. The sabertooth tiger and woolly mammoths became extinct around ten thousand years ago.
The thought jarred at his conc
ussed mind – the images were at least ten thousand years old! He turned his head to the right. He took a deep breath in and held it. No longer concerned with the pain he slowly sat without taking his eyes off the image painted on the wall. He felt okay. He still had pain. That’s for sure, but somehow he could get past it. Somehow, he had to, didn’t he? He slowly breathed out. It was going to be okay. He would be all right. He would work out a way to climb out. He knew it with certainty. Everything was going to be all right from here. It had to be. He needed to survive so that he could tell someone what he’d seen.
He’d have to. The world had a right to know, no matter what the consequences. There in front of him – on the jet black wall of obsidian, in a cavern not seen by humans since the age when the wooly mammoths and sabertooth tigers roamed the earth, was a rendering of a human being. A perfect depiction of Jesus Christ nailed to the crucifix.
Chapter Nineteen
The Gulfstream G650 flew smoothly in a westerly direction at a comfortable 48,000 feet and well above the raging storm below. It flew toward Malta where the Maria Helena was having minor repairs and maintenance completed while her crew was taking vacation leave. Sam sat at his desk flicking through the digital photographs taken from the hidden chamber inside Derinkuyu. Opposite him, Tom searched the internet for any evidence of a pyramid ever being found anywhere near the Namibian desert.
Sam looked up from his screen. “You having any luck locating that pyramid?”
Tom closed his laptop. “If it did exist, any record of it has long since been destroyed. There’s nothing on the internet.”
“What about the Emerald Star?”
“There’s been a few hits, but nothing that matches that time period.”
“So we’re at a dead end?”
“Yeah,” Tom said.
Sam picked up the phone at the end of the table and dialed a number from memory. The phone rang four times before being picked up by its owner.
The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 3 Page 14
