The Devil Colony

by James Rollins

  Jun’s chest tightened. “There’s going to be another explosion . . . ?”

  “Only this time a hundredfold larger,” Tanaka added.

  “When?”

  “I’ve performed my calculations over and over, extrapolating the time when the paired emissions will align.”

  “Just tell me when?” Jun pressed.

  Dr. Cooper answered. “Within the hour.”

  Tanaka clarified, demonstrating his usual distaste for generalities. “To be precise, fifty-two minutes.”

  2:32 P.M.

  Ellirey Island

  Seichan stood guard by a window. She kept out of direct sight, fearful of the telescopic scopes on the enemies’ rifles. Their adversaries had the look of mercenary soldiers, definitely military trained. The eight men had set up a perimeter across the front of the lodge, staying sheltered behind rocky outcroppings. She guessed they were awaiting orders as their superiors tried to identify the newcomers to the island. Someone must be trying to decide whether to kill or capture them.

  Not that Gray’s team had much say in the matter.

  She clutched a pistol in both hands, holding the weapon at her knees, ready to shatter the window and defend their base. But she was under no illusions. They were outmanned, outgunned, and outpositioned. With the cadre of soldiers guarding the front of the lodge, the only safe exit was out the back. Then what? They would be exposed if they made a run for the cliff’s edge. Even if they reached it, all that would earn them was a swift death on the rocks below the cliffs.

  They were trapped.

  Gray took up a position on the far side of the door by another window. He clutched a black SIG Sauer in one hand and held a cell phone to his ear in the other. He had managed to reach Sigma command, but the island was too remote for an immediate rescue. They were on their own until help arrived. Seichan could feel acid burning in her stomach, not so much at their predicament, but at Gray’s reaction a moment ago when he’d realized they’d been ambushed. She had seen the flash of suspicion. He tried his best to quell it, to damp it down, but it had still been there.

  She stared out the window. What did she have to do to prove herself to him? Dying might do it. Then again, maybe not.

  She heard Monk talking in low whispers to the caretaker. He’d used smelling salts to revive the man enough to get him on his feet. Once free of the chair, the tough old codger rallied. Swearing a litany that came close to making her blush, he pulled a shotgun down from above the fireplace, ready to exact some revenge.

  Gray’s voice grew sharper as he spoke on the phone to Sigma command. “Forty minutes? That’s how long we have to get clear of the island?”

  Frowning, she stared out the window. What was that about? Any answer would have to wait. She watched the soldiers begin to move, shifting out of hiding. They must have received their orders. Whatever fate awaited them—capture or death—it had been decided.

  Seichan lifted her pistol. “Here they come!”

  Chapter 19

  May 31, 8:34 A.M.

  San Rafael Swell

  Utah

  Kai crept into the small guest bedroom at the rear of the pueblo. She found Hank Kanosh crouched over an open laptop, but he wasn’t staring at the screen. He sat with his palms over his face, his posture one of grief. She felt horrible for intruding, considered stepping back out, but her uncle had sent her here.

  “Professor Kanosh . . .”

  He jerked in the seat, startled, and quickly lowered his hands. He stared at his palms as if he was surprised to find them there.

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said.

  He reached and closed the laptop. She caught a glimpse of an open e-mail, something with strange writing inscribed in the body of the text, very much like the script she had seen on the gold tablets. He had obviously been trying to work, to keep himself busy.

  Painter had allowed them access to the Internet, scrambled over an encrypted satellite feed. They could check their e-mail, peruse the news, but they were forbidden to reach out. No sending e-mail, no Facebooking. Though the prohibition on the latter of those two was directed more at her than the professor.

  Kanosh took a deep, shuddering breath, collecting himself. “What is it, Kai?”

  “Uncle Crowe asked if you’d join him in the main room. There’s something he wanted to talk to you about before the others arrived.”

  He nodded and stood. “It’s always something with your uncle, isn’t it?”

  She offered him a small smile. He squeezed her shoulder as he passed. She flinched from his touch, betraying her nervousness.

  “I’ll stay here,” Kai said. “Uncle Crowe wanted to speak to you alone.”

  “Then I’d best not keep him waiting.”

  Once he was gone, she quietly closed the door. She eyed the computer. She’d been reluctant to check her e-mail, afraid of what she’d find. But a gloomy curiosity drew her to the laptop. She couldn’t turn her back forever on the havoc she’d caused. She’d have to deal with the consequences eventually—but for now, exposing herself to the world in this small way was enough.

  Slipping into the seat that was still warm from the professor, she opened the laptop and stared at the glowing screen. It was now or never. She reached out a hand, opened a browser, and called up her Gmail account.

  As she waited for the connection to be made, she held her breath. She had to sit on her hands to keep from reaching out and slamming the laptop closed. What would it hurt to shut out the world for a little bit longer? But before she could act on that thought, the screen filled with lines of unread e-mails. She scanned the list, reading the subject lines. There were a few bits of spam and a few notes dated from before the explosion, but near the top, one message caught her eye.

  She went cold all over, her skin prickling, and blindly reached to the laptop, ready to close it, regretting even attempting this. The e-mail address was jh_wahya@cloudbridge.com. She recognized the personal e-mail address for WAHYA’s founder, John Hawkes. She didn’t even have to open the note to know its contents. The subject line made that clear enough. It was only three letters: WTF.

  Knowing there was no avoiding it, she tentatively clicked on the message and opened it. As she read the note, a heavy stone settled in her gut. Her friends and compatriots at WAHYA were her entire world. They’d taken her in when she’d aged out of the foster care system and was left to fend for herself. They supported her both financially and emotionally, offering a bond of family that had been sorely missing since the death of her father.

  It made the bitterness in the letter so hard to read.

  From: jh_wahya@cloudbridge.com

  Subject: WTF

  To: Kai Quocheets

  What have you done? All of WAHYA placed so much at stake in your honorable and peaceful mission, only to see it come to ruin, bloodshed, and shame. Your face is splashed across all the national news media, labeled as a terrorist and a murderer. It will not be long until your shame becomes ours. Yet, still we have no word from you, only a resounding silence. Were you paid by the U.S. government to betray us, to frame us? That is what is being whispered about you here.

  I’ve done my best to urge patience, to discourage rash judgments, but without some explanation, some proof of your loyalty to our continuing cause, I cannot hold back the wolves from the door much longer. They demand blood, while I only ask for answers.

  The WAHYA council has met this past hour. Unless you can clear your name in our eyes, we have no choice but to deny you, to denounce your actions as a rogue agent, to expose you as a true terrorist who subverted our good cause. You have until noon today to respond before we call a press conference.

  JH

  Kai closed the e-mail. Tears rose from deep inside. She pictured all of her friends, smiling, hugging her before she left for the mountains. She remembered lingering in the embrace of Chayton Shaw, one of the fiercest advocates in the youthful organization. Chay’s name meant “falcon” in
Sioux, a fitting name given his long black hair, loose to his shoulders, always seeming to lift with even the softest breeze. Two days ago—which seemed an eternity now—they had talked in the quiet of the night of becoming more than just friends.

  She thought of him now, picturing him turning his back on her, shunning her. With a soft sob, she covered her face with her palms, hiding both her shame and her tears.

  What am I going to do?

  8:35 A.M.

  Hank Kanosh sat at the table with his back to the hearth, appreciating the warmth of the last embers. Painter took a seat on the other side of the table. His large-boned partner snored softly from the couch.

  From the circles under Painter’s eyes, it looked like he could also use some sleep, but something was certainly troubling him. Hank suspected it didn’t even relate to the matter at hand. The man was too slow to broach whatever subject he wanted to discuss, his manner distracted. Something else was going on. He’d been on the phone all morning. Maybe it had to do with the strange volcanic eruption, maybe another matter. All Hank knew: it had the man on edge.

  Eventually Painter cleared his throat and folded his hands on the tabletop. “I’m going to be frank with you, and I hope you’ll do the same. People have died, and more will, too, if we don’t get a better understanding about what we’re facing.”

  Hank bowed his head slightly. “Of course.”

  “I’ve spoken to our geologist, who’s monitoring the volcanic activity at the blast site. We believe we have a rudimentary understanding of what was hidden in that cave. It involves the manipulation of matter at the nano-level. We also believe those ancient people created—whether deliberately or accidentally—an unstable compound, something active and explosive, that requires heat to keep it dormant. That’s why it was hidden in a geothermal area, where it would be kept warm and safe for centuries.”

  A flare of guilt burned through Hank. “That is, until we removed it from that heat source.”

  “And it destabilized. In the wake of that explosion, it released what our geologist calls a nano-nest, a mass of nanobots, microscopic nanomachines that eat through matter, with the potential to spread outward indefinitely. But whether through luck or planning by these ancient people, the heat of the erupting volcano killed the nano-nest, stopping it.”

  Horrified, Hank closed his eyes for a moment. Maggie . . . what did we do? He spoke quietly. “That’s why the old stories about the cave warned against trespassing there.”

  “And it may not be the only cave like that.”

  Hank opened his eyes and pinched his brows. “What are you talking about?”

  “There may be another site in Iceland.”

  Iceland?

  Painter went on to explain how neutrinos from the Utah blast may have lit the fuse on a potential second cache of this substance.

  “The Iceland deposit is destabilizing as we speak,” Painter finished. “We have other people in the field investigating it, but there’s one key piece of this puzzle that we’re missing.”

  Hank stared the man in the eye, waiting.

  “We have some grasp as to what was hidden at these sites—but not who hid them. Who were these ancient people? Why did they appear Caucasian, yet wore Native American garb?”

  Hank’s mouth went dry. He had to break eye contact, staring down at his hands.

  Painter pressed on: “You know something, Hank. I heard you arguing with Dr. Denton back at his lab. Such knowledge could be vital to fully understanding the danger we face.”

  Hank knew the man was right, but such answers trod a dangerous line between his blood heritage and his faith. He was reluctant to divulge what he suspected without further proof. Though maybe now he had that proof.

  “It was just a theory,” Hank said. “Matt may have been a physicist, but he was also a devout Mormon, like myself. Our discussion—Matt’s conclusions—were fanciful, not worth mentioning at the time.”

  Painter cocked his head, fixing him with one eye. “But it is now.”

  “Your mention of Iceland does offer some support for Matt’s theory.”

  “What theory?”

  “To answer that, you have to understand a much-disputed section of the Book of Mormon. According to our scripture, Native Americans were said to be the descendants of a lost tribe of Israel, who came here after the fall of Jerusalem in roughly 600 BC.”

  “Hold on. Are you actually claiming Indians rose from a Jewish tribe who got exiled here?”

  “According to a literal reading of the Book of Mormon, yes. Specifically they are the descendants of the Manasseh clan of Israelites.”

  “But that makes no sense. There’s plenty of archaeological evidence that people were living in the Americas long before 600 BC.”

  “I am well aware of that. And while it seems contradictory, the Book of Mormon also does acknowledge those people, those early Native Americans. It even makes reference to people living here when that lost tribe of Israelites arrived out west.” Hank held up a hand. “But let me continue and perhaps I can clear up that conflict through an interpretation of Mormon scripture that’s less literal and more allegorical.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “According to a direct interpretation of the Book of Mormon, the band of Israelites who came to America consisted of two families led by a common father, Lehi. The two branches were the Nephites and Lamanites. I’ll skip over the more complicated details, but in the end, around a thousand years later, the Lamanites slaughtered the Nephites and became the Native American tribes of today.”

  Painter looked unconvinced. “The story sounds more racist than historical. And I know there’s certainly no DNA support for a genetic lineage of Native Americans back to European or Middle Eastern origin.”

  “I agree. Genetic studies have resoundingly shown Native Americans to be of Asiatic origin, likely crossing the Bering Strait and descending into the continent. Believe me, over the years, Mormon scientists and historians have bent over backward trying to link Native Americans to a Jewish heritage and only succeeded in embarrassing themselves.”

  “Then I don’t understand where this is going.”

  “Today, most Mormons believe a more allegorical version of that part of our scripture. That a lost tribe of Israelites did come to America, that they encountered the indigenous clans—the Native American people.” Hank motioned to both himself and Painter. “The Israelites settled among our tribes, perhaps tried to convert them, to bring them under the Abrahamic covenant. But the Israelites kept mostly to their own clan, becoming just another tribe among the many Indian nations. That’s why there’s no lasting genetic trace.”

  “Such an explanation sounds more forced than convincing.”

  Hank felt a flash of irritation. “You asked for my help. Do you still want it?”

  Painter held up a palm. “I’m sorry. Go on. But I think I know where this is headed. You believe the mummified bodies in the cave were members of that lost Jewish tribe.”

  “Yes. In fact, I believe they were the scripture’s Nephites, who were described in the Book of Mormon as being white-skinned, blessed by God, and gifted with special abilities. Does that not sound like those poor souls we found?”

  “And what about those murderous Lamanites who wiped them out?”

  “Perhaps they were Indians who converted or made some truce with the newcomers. But eventually something changed over the passing centuries. Something frightened the Indian tribes and drove them to wipe out the Nephites.”

  “So you’re saying the history described in the Book of Mormon is a mix of legend and actual events. That the lost tribe of Israelites—the Nephites—came to America and joined the Native American tribes. Then centuries later, something scared a group of those Indians—the Lamanites—and they wiped out that lost tribe.”

  Hank nodded. “I know how that sounds, but there’s additional support, if you’ll hear me out.”

  Painter waved for him to continue, but he still looked unconvin
ced.

  “Take, for example, the amount of Hebrew sprinkled among the languages of Native American tribes. Research has shown there to be more similarities between the two languages than can be attributed to mere chance. For example, the Semitic Hebrew word for ‘lightning’ is baraq. In Uto-Aztecan, a Native American language group, the word is berok.” He touched his shoulder. “This is shekem in Hebrew, sikum in UA.” He ran a hand down the bare skin of his arm. “Hebrew geled. UA eled. The list goes on and on, well beyond coincidence.”

  “Well and good, but how does this directly relate to the mummified remains in the cave?”

  “Let me show you.” Hank stood and crossed to his backpack. He opened it, retrieved what he wanted, and returned to his seat. He placed the two gold tablets on the tabletop. “The Book of Mormon was written by Joseph Smith. It came from a series of golden plates gifted to him by the angel Moroni. It was said that the plates were written in a strange language—some say hieroglyphics, others that it was an ancient variant of Hebrew. Joseph Smith was given the ability to translate the plates and that translation became the Book of Mormon.”

  Painter pulled one of the plates closer. “And the writing on this plate?”

  “Before you arrived at the university last night, I had copied a few lines and forwarded them to a colleague of mine—an expert in ancient languages from the Middle East. I just heard back from him this morning. It intrigued him. He was able to recognize the script. It is a form of proto-Hebrew.”

  Painter shifted forward in his seat, perhaps growing more intrigued himself.

  “A scholar, Paracelsus, from the sixteenth century was the first to name this proto-Semitic script. He called it the Alphabet of the Magi. He claimed to have learned it from an angel, said it was the source of special abilities and magic. All of which makes me wonder if Joseph Smith hadn’t come upon a similar cache of such plates and translated them, learning the history of these ancient people—this lost tribe of Israelites—and recorded their story.”