“What the hell is going on?” Popeye muttered. During the mission briefing, they’d read the report about the people who had come to Easter Island on the Progressive trawler who had been taken over by some sort of black cloud. Popeye pulled the glasses away from his eyes and rubbed a hand across his forehead, smearing the camouflage paint.
Olivetti waited patiently. “The crater,” Popeye said.
Olivetti didn’t even nod, but hoisted his pack containing various gear and his tanks onto his back. They turned away from the airfield and headed farther up the slope of Rapa Karu.
• • •
Kelly Reynolds twitched. Consciousness seeped into her brain. She had no idea how long she had been out. For just the slightest of moments she was home in Nashville, snug in her bed, buried under a down comforter.
That image was ripped asunder as the flow of data through the guardian cascaded over her. She knew where she was, she just didn’t know what she was anymore. How long had she been here?
She paused her racing mind. What had woken her? The torrent of data was a river pouring past her, and it was like trying to find a slight disturbance in the flow.
She began searching.
• • •
Popeye McGraw and Olivetti went over the lip of the crater, their wet suits soaked with sweat, but their breathing almost normal. They’d done things in training that made the climb look like a weekend jaunt. Two hundred feet below, the surface of the lake filling the crater was totally smooth. They didn’t even pause, but began clambering down.
Within a couple of minutes they reached the water. Packs were dropped and cached under some rocks, tanks were put back on, and they slid into the water.
Working off the information they had been given in their mission preparation, they searched for the tunnel entrance at the bottom and found it relatively quickly.
They swam into it, navigating by feel through the darkness. Both men had been in dark water before, and they moved forward without fear.
• • •
Kelly Reynolds saw what the guardian had noted. A woman, one of the ones brought by the Southern Star, among the third wave infected by the nano-virus, had caught a glimpse of a light reflecting off glass high on the flanks of Rapa Karu. The woman, a former nurse from Australia, of course, had no idea of the import of what she had seen. She’s simply continued on her task of dragging food supplies for other humans from the UNAOC supply depot.
But the guardian, capable of two billion calculations per second, had reacted differently. Within three seconds, the event had worked its way through various layers to the forefront of the computer’s attention. None of the nanovirus slaves were on the slope. Neither were the mech-robots.
The conclusion—an unknown variable.
The guardian didn’t know what it was, so Kelly didn’t either. But the guardian began reacting.
• • •
The two SEALs headed toward a small dot of light. It grew brighter as they approached, and in a minute they surfaced inside a cavern. The light came from a glowing orb on the ceiling. They swam over to a lip of rock on one side and got out of the water. A tunnel was cut into the wall in front of them. They secured their weapons and headed into it. The ground sloped up slightly, then turned to the right. It was lit by thin strips of glowing material set into the ceiling.
They entered a cave, about a hundred meters wide and long. The walls were of rock, except for the far one, made of black metal with control panels built into it. Their eyes were focused on what was in the forefront. The body of a woman was splayed against a twenty-foot-high golden pyramid. Near it, a hole was cut in the floor of the cavern into and out of which a steady stream of small robots flowed.
Slung over Olivetti’s shoulder was a satchel containing explosives. He’d already prewired several different charges, and already mentally calculating what he would need to destroy this chamber and the pyramid.
Both men started, swinging the muzzles of their weapons about as something moved to their right. A young boy dressed in brown walked out of the shadows.
• • •
Kelly Reynolds saw the two SEALs through the guardian. She fought to open her eyes, to be able to control her lungs and mouth. To shout a warning.
• • •
“Are you all right?” Popeye McGraw asked the boy.
There was no answer as the boy came forward, now less than twenty feet away. He was pale and thin, a ghostly stick figure in the chamber’s glow.
“How did you get here?” Popeye asked, his finger still over the trigger, eyes shifting from the boy, to the pyramid/woman, to the unceasing line of robots.
“My parents,” the boy said in a cracked voice. “Please help me.” He held up his hands as he continued to walk toward them.
“Where are your parents?” Popeye asked.
“The machine,” the boy whispered as if the pyramid could hear. He reached out a hand and Olivetti instinctively lowered his weapon and reached forward with his left hand to the boy.
Flesh met flesh and Olivetti cursed, trying to jerk his hand back from the sharp burning sensation searing his palm. But the boy’s hand was like a vise as the nanovirus tore through the child’s flesh and bore in the SEAL’s palm, infiltrating his veins, racing for the brain.
“Get him off me!” Olivetti had let go of his weapon and was trying to peel the boy’s hand off with his free hand.
Popeye had the boy in his sights, his finger on the trigger.
“Get him off!” Olivetti spun about, the boy airborne but still keeping the grip.
The flesh in Olivetti’s arm crawled as the nanovirus swarmed up it, underneath the skin. The boy let go and turned toward Popeye, dead eyes reflected in the glow of the orb.
McGraw pulled the trigger, the rounds smashing the boy onto the floor. Along with the blood, a black stain poured out of the wound and headed across the floor toward McGraw—the nanovirus seeking a new host. Olivetti dropped to his knees, hands pressed against his temples.
“Run!” The voice was barely audible.
McGraw turned, surprised. It came again—from the woman on the pyramid. “Run!”
Popeye turned and dashed back down the corridor he had come in.
Qian-Ling
The huge doors were wide open, but the light from the chamber could not penetrate the blackness behind the doors. It was not solid, but rather as if the air itself had lost all ability to allow light to travel through it. A straight wall of darkness.
“What is this?” Gergor asked.
Lexina was puzzled. “I don’t know.”
Gergor stepped forward and reached out with his hand toward the darkness. “Don’t do that!” Lexina ordered, but Gergor ignored her. His fingertips touched and he turned to look at her. “It’s not solid. It’s warm. There’s—” A look of surprise passed over his face, which quickly changed to one of terror as the black around his arm turned bright red, spread down the arm, and enveloped him in less than a second. He screamed as skin disintegrated.
Within another two seconds there was nothing left of Gergor but his clothes in a small pile just in front of the once more smooth black wall.
Carefully Lexina knelt and felt the cloth, searching. She found Gergor’s ka.
CHAPTER 11
Area 51
Equipment check was an integral part of any special forces isolation, and in this instance, it was essential due to the radical nature of the equipment being used. Turcotte and the members of Graves’s team were in the isolation area. Turcotte was toweling off, having just finished his fitting for his TASC-suit.
The suits were in the back of the isolation area getting last-minute updates from the Space Command techs. Each was black, the external material a ceramic polymer that provided protection against small arms up to 7.62 mm. Under the armor, the suit was complex. Battery-powered strips of IPMCs—ionic polymer metal composites—added power, magnifying the wearer’s own strength.
The inner layer was airtight,
fitting against the wearer’s clothing and skin. The suit was designed to be used in space. A backpack contained both the computer that operated the various systems and a sophisticated re-breather that could sustain oxygen for over twelve hours. If operating in a safe environment, a valve in the back of the helmet could be opened to allow outside air in.
The helmet was the most advanced part. It was solid, with no visor to the outside world. Flat screens on the inner front portrayed whatever the wearer directed. Numerous mini-cams were on the external armor, from the two where the eyes would be pointing forward to give a normal front view with depth, to ones pointing straight up, down, and back. They were necessary because the helmet fit onto the body of the suit tightly, allowing no movement.
While Turcotte had his doubts about where some of the technology used in the TASC-suit came from, the Space Command people claimed the helmet and control system came out of two Air Force programs. DVI—Direct Voice Input—allowed the wearer to give commands verbally to the computer. This considerably streamlined any process and made use of the suit much easier. The second program was VCASS—visually coupled airborne systems simulator. The helmet screens not only relayed the picture from whichever external cameras were voice-activated, but could also relay information from the computer such as its occupant’s location when in contact with ground positioning satellites. “Scary, isn’t it?” Graves asked.
The immersion in the black tank, then having foam pumped all around his body to get a mold, had been unnerving. The worst part was being unable to move for the period of time it took them to confirm the sizing.
“What about weapons?” Turcotte asked.
Graves led Turcotte over to a table. “We’ve got some kick-ass stuff. This is the Mark 98. It fires a depleted uranium round for kinetic energy impact.”
It was three feet long, a thick cylindrical shape that tapered to the end where the tube was about an inch in diameter. At the other end, there were two pistol grips: one about six inches from the flat base, the other eighteen inches in with a trigger in front of it. The non-firing end ended in a flat plate. The entire thing was painted a flat black.
“You can fire it either attached to the suit arm or detached.” Graves grabbed the two-foot-long cylinder and loaded it into the top of the gun. “Want to give it a try?”
Turcotte picked up the heavy gun and aimed out the hangar doors into the desert.
“You have a laser aiming sight,” Graves said, “that is turned on when you activate the gun’s main power—the switch is there. When you’re wearing the suit, you’ll get an aiming point on your screen that’s one hundred percent accurate.”
Turcotte turned the gun on and aimed at a small boulder on the edge of the runway. He pulled the trigger. There was no report as it fired, but a loud pinging sound. The rock disintegrated as the round smashed into it.
“It’ll go through any body armor made,” Graves said. “High tension, pre-loaded, ten rounds per cylinder. Pulling the trigger releases the spring. The barrel is electromagnetically balanced so that the round goes right down the center, never touching the walls and thus not losing any velocity and staying true to target. That’s why you have to turn the gun on—to charge the barrel and to rotate the cylinder. It fires the rounds as quickly as you pull the trigger, which unfortunately is not as fast as you can pull the trigger. It’s as fast as the weapon will allow. The trigger locks up until the barrel is set. The cylinder also rotates, aligning a new round. You can fire once every second. When the system is attached to the firing arm of the TASC-suit, the suit’s power system will allow you to handle it with more ease than you can here.
“We also have the Mark 99.” He tapped another gun that looked just like the Mark 98. “The only difference with this one is that it can fire a high-explosive round. Better than the M-203 grenade launcher and more accurate. Combine that with the fact the suit can take hits from small arms up to and including 7.62mm machine gun fire, we’ve got a big advantage over the bad guys.”
Turcotte was pleased with that. “Communications?”
“Integrated secure SATCOM.”
Turcotte considered that. Not much help underwater or underground. “What about among team members?”
“FM capability.”
That would restrict them to line of sight. Better than nothing, Turcotte allowed.
“Let’s run you through your suit orientation,” Graves said.
• • •
Down below in the Cube’s main room, Larry Kincaid was staring at a computer screen feeding him live images from the Hubble of the surface of Mars. Quinn had managed to wheedle more live time off of the scope, but Kincaid had a feeling he was going to get shut down soon.
The mech-robots directed by the guardian on Mars had uncovered something, of that there was no doubt. Something that had been destroyed long ago and covered with rubble. There were still mechs at the site, but only a fraction of those had cleared away the rubble. The imagery wasn’t detailed enough to know exactly what the object was or what they were doing. All he could make out was a network of black metal. And it was moving.
Kincaid stared at the imagery for several moments. Where the hell were they going now? He typed in commands to be relayed to those controlling Hubble. As long as he could, he wanted to keep an eye on what was developing.
Kincaid picked through the many papers on his desk until he found the translation that Mualama had done of Burton’s manuscript so far. The account of Ngorongoro intrigued him—most particularly the part about the black network of metal that had been constructed on the side of the mountain and destroyed.
He pulled out a photo from the “face” at Cydonia and looked at what had been uncovered. It appeared to be the remnants of a black network of metal.
Qian-Ling, China
“It’s moving.” Elek’s observation didn’t register with Lexina for several seconds.
“What is moving?” she asked.
“The wall.” Elek pointed at Gergor’s clothes.
Lexina wasn’t sure what he was indicating until she realized that the gap between the clothes and the wall was larger than it had been before.
“It’s going back, very slowly, but it is going back,” Elek said.
Lexina felt a tremble of excitement. They’d simply been in too much of a rush. It was working after all. She looked up at the shimmering black surface. Soon what they desired would be revealed.
Easter Island
Another flight was taxiing down a runway on the opposite side of the world. An F-14 Tomcat reached the end of the Easter Island International Airport and slowly turned to face the long expanse of concrete. A man sat in the cockpit, but he was not a pilot. He had been chosen at random from among the thousands of humans who had survived the nanovirus experiments. He was there to throw the right switches when ordered to by the guardian. The alien computer was going to fly the plane.
With a jerk, the brakes were released and the F-14 accelerated down the runway. Using information culled directly from the Naval Flight Center master computer, the guardian followed correct procedure and the plane’s wheels lifted off the runway a half mile short of the end. It arced upward, afterburners kicking in. It headed directly for the inner curve of the black sphere when the guardian began a hard right bank over edge of the island.
Too hard. The wings lost their grip on the air and the plane slid sideways. The guardian tried to compensate and almost pulled it out, but the engine stalled and the F-14 dropped like a stone. The man in the cockpit watched with dead eyes as the ground rapidly approached, his hands at his sides, no attempt to pull the eject lever.
The F-14 hit the western slope of Rapa Karu crater in blossom of explosion. Within minutes, a cluster of mech-robots were gathered around the flames, waiting. As soon as the wreckage cooled they would go in, retrieve all the pieces, and bring them back to the nanorobots at the edge of the runway. The nanorobots would then rebuild the plane. The man was a loss, but humans were more easily replaced than
machines for the guardian.
The data from the flight was analyzed, flight tolerances adjusted. On the runway, another F-14 moved into position.
• • •
Two hundred miles to the north, Captain Robinette, the commander of Task Force 79 by default, was looking at satellite imagery forward from fleet command at Pearl Harbor. There was no missing the huge ship and the broad wake that spread out from its blunt bow.
“ID?” He asked his operations officer, Command Lesky.
Lesky had an identification book open. “The Jahre Viking. 564,763 deadweight tons.”
Robinette whistled. “What’s the plot on this?”
“One hundred and eighty miles west of Easter Island, bearing directly down on the island at eighteen knots.” Lesky waited a moment. “Should we prepare a strike to interdict?”
“If that thing’s loaded with crude, do you know what kind of ecological disaster that would make?” Robinette said. “Besides, you know what it would take to sink that thing? We’d have to breach every hold or else the oil would keep it afloat.”
Robinette picked up a tighter shot of the tanker’s deck. There was a cluster of small objects. The next shot was more focused. Groups of people. Hatches were open. “It’s not carrying crude. It’s carrying people.” Robinette looked up. “Contact Pearl and ask them what they want me to do about this.”
“Yes, sir.” Lesky relayed the order. “What about the SEALs?”
“Nothing yet, sir.”
• • •
Popeye McGraw was in the center of the lake that filled Rapa Karu’s crater, treading water. He had surfaced a half hour ago and could have been over the rim and down to the shore by now if he had tried. But what he saw when he broke the surface had stopped him. The rim was lined with people. Hundreds of them. All staring down at him with lifeless eyes. He knew what would happen if he tried to climb up. He didn’t have enough ammunition in his weapon to kill all of them. Plus, a SEAL never abandoned a buddy.
He knew what would happen next, and he waited.
Area 51_The Grail Page 14
