by Chuck Dixon
None of them could be as wild as the story that Jinhai insisted in telling, insisted until he was hoarse with the effort, about what actually happened to the missing billionaire. He was being held in a room in the basement of one of the many Taan office towers in Shanghai. Pleasanter accommodations than the rattling sweatbox of the Conex container. It had a nice bed and private bathroom, and he was fed three times a day off a menu from one of the fine restaurants that was in the building above. But a cell is a cell, and captivity wore on him. And what wore on him most of all, like a weight bearing down so heavy he felt he could not breathe, was the fact that no one would believe his story.
He was taken from his cell one morning, expecting to be brought once again to the featureless interrogation room where he had spent so many of his waking hours these past weeks. Instead, the uniformed guards bundled him into an elevator that climbed and climbed up the throat of the building and finally came to rest at the penthouse.
Jinhai was led, rather than shoved, along a carpeted hallway to an expansive conference room walled on two sides by twelve-foot window panes that offered a breathtaking view of the city. The towers below rose from a blanket of early morning mist. A very attractive young Chinese woman in a tailored business dress sat at the end of the conference table at an open laptop. So, fascinated by the finely dressed, manicured, and coiffed young woman was Jinhai that he did not even see the man standing at the window, back to the room. The man turned to gesture Jinhai to a chair.
The tall gentlemen had white hair and beard set off in dramatic fashion by a dark teak complexion. The man wore a silk suit of deep blue with the finest stripe pattern. A brilliant white shirt with the collar open at the neck. His eyes were black and lids heavy. He moved like a man apart from the world and its troubles. There was power in his every gesture, an assurance that put Jinhai at ease for reasons that the bodyguard was unable to understand. Jinhai had a sense that this man was the one who would make sense of all this, bring order from the whirl of chaos of the last few weeks. This man would believe him.
Jinhai looked at the young woman, expecting her to speak, as the well-dressed gentleman was obviously not Chinese. An Indian most likely. He was surprised when the white-haired man spoke to him in flawless Mandarin.
“I want you to tell me what you told the others and leave out not one detail, no matter how insignificant you feel it to be,” Sir Neal Harnesh said.
7
Rendezvous
Dwayne’s captors moved with great caution the following day. It was rough country, broken ground cut by dry washes gouged by violent seasonal rains and arroyos created by tectonic shifts in the past. Cacti and thorn bushes were the only vegetation, and those grew only in the shadows of deeper depressions. Dwayne surmised that whoever occupied this land had to be some tough sons of bitches. No wonder the Aztecs were being vigilant bordering on fearful.
The riders walked their mounts so as not to raise dust. They moved in a long column and kept to depressions whenever possible, never sky-lining themselves. Silhouetted against the yellow sky, a figure could be seen from miles away by anyone watching in this kind of land. They followed a definite path along the floor of shallow canyons, a familiar route. They’d moved through these lands, by this route before, many times. Perhaps a hunting and raiding trail in use for generations. Centuries, even.
Before setting off in the pre-dawn hours, Dwayne used hand gestures and mime to make the girl he named Heather understand that his sneakers needed attention. She brought him strips of tough rawhide that he used to wrap around his instep to keep the uppers bound to the soles. The step was a bit uncomfortable at first, but nothing compared to the agony he’d experience if he lost the shoes.
They moved steady and silent through the hottest part of the day. Every now and then, they would come to a halt, directed by gestures passed down the line from the point of the column. At one of these stops, Dwayne risked a turkey peek over the top of the wash that concealed their march.
The sun hammered down on the wasteland that surrounded them. All he could see was a mirror sheen off the rocks to the east and west. Whoever stopped the march was running on pure intuition. Dwayne had been downrange often enough to know to trust in that intuition; that phantom sense of dread that told you that unfriendly eyes were on you. A few of the stops had his captors ready with weapons, prepared to defend the natural trench they were following. He saw the man in the serpent helmet poised in a crouch atop the hump of his kneeling camel, match fuse smoking in his lips. His eyes were fixed from the open serpent’s mouth to stare at the emptiness beyond the edge of the trough.
The sign moved down the line to move once more, and they marched south, always south.
By Dwayne’s stride count, they covered close to forty miles before they came to a fault in a bluff and entered it as late afternoon shadows fell from the rocky walls. It was cooler within the narrow cleft they entered. There were trees growing along the walls, leaves stirred by wind. The rustle of leaves mimicked the sounds of a rushing brook. Dwayne’s mouth went drier at the sound. They were running low on water as evidenced by the shrinking portions they allowed him as the day went on. He’d had not a drop for hours. He’d been sucking on a pebble most of the afternoon to keep spit flowing.
The troop relaxed some as they went deeper into the cleft. He sensed that the danger was passed. Whoever owned the region behind them would not pursue. Perhaps they had been seen, and the locals decided that it wasn’t worth the effort to take on an armed group of men. Or they were just feeling generous and forgiving. Dwayne was willing to bet it was discretion over mercy.
Night came on fast in the confines of the canyon, but his captors marched on. He had a sense that they were coming to their destination. There was enthusiasm, a pick-up in the pace, as they moved along. The Aztecs were anticipating something welcome down the trail. They were eager enough to get to it to keep moving through the dark.
The canyon walls grew farther and farther apart as the trail rose to higher ground. They were marching across a tabletop now; the way ahead silver in the moonlight. The rocky ground gave way to sandy soil dotted with patches of razor grass. Black Mask barked an order. As one, the men brought the camels to their knees and climbed atop them. With whoops and yelps, they rode off south at a gallop.
The men and women left behind watched with smiles as they broke into a trot to follow. Dwayne followed with Snaggletooth’s encouragement. He really didn’t need it. His own curiosity at what lay at the end of the trail overcame him.
He loped through the cloud of dust after the others. In the distance, he could see something obscuring the stars.
Streaks of smoke rose into the sky from campfires.
A lot of campfires.
Hundreds came from the glow of the fires to greet the newcomers. They carried lit brands over their heads. Mostly men in the same dress as his captors. A few women and fewer children. Dwayne could see the shapes of buildings here, one-storied adobe structures. Even in the shifting light of the torches, he could see that many of them were in disrepair. Walls and roofs were collapsed.
There was a remuda for camels surrounded by a stake wall that served as a fence. Dwayne was surprised to see a few ponies mixed in with the dromedaries. Chickens leapt about to escape being trampled underfoot.
A wonderful, greasy aroma hung everywhere. Dwayne’s stomach rumbled at the sight and smell of a row of goat carcasses slung on spits over a glowing cookfire.
It was a big reunion. The arrivals were greeted with calls and smiles. Women came out to speak to Heather and the others. They gabbed away easily; the silence forced on them by the dangers of the land they just passed through was over. They were safe among friends in number.
Black Mask was already off his camel and speaking to an older man with long white hair capped with a headdress fashioned to resemble an eagle’s head. The older man wore a striped woolen cape fringed with feathers. He was fit, with ropes of muscle down his arms and across his chest but
carried a sagging belly on spindly legs. A chief or shaman or maybe Black Mask’s elder judging by the nature of the conversation. Snaggletooth shoved Dwayne into the light of the largest fire at the center of the camp. There were a lot of appreciative noises made by the crowd that gathered. A child, boy, or girl with a mop of black hair, rushed up and touched his leg before running back to the shelter of a woman’s arms. Others came forward to run hands over his arms, back, and, those who could reach it, his hair and beard.
The wrinkled old guy in the eagle headdress—Dwayne dubbed him Big Bird—made clucking sounds as he came close. He poked Dwayne’s ribs with the end of a curved stick. When Dwayne responded, the old man laughed, toothless mouth wide.
“So, everyone’s glad to see me,” Dwayne said and showed his teeth. The gathering mob looked aghast at this. They shoved one another aside to get a better look at the interior of his mouth. One of them hooked a filthy thumb in his mouth to pull his lip up. Dwayne shook free.
In all his travels to different eras, it was the dental work that most astounded the natives of any given time. The fact that he still had all his teeth was a wonder to all. They would be even more astounded if they knew that most of his lowers in the front were implants. He’d lost his natural teeth there when he struck his face on a log obstacle at Fort Benning back in boot.
Bowls of corn beer were handed out all around and drunk down by Black Mask and his party. Heather brought Dwayne a bowl of his own, and he drained it dry in a second.
“Any chance of some chow?” he asked. She blinked at him; brows knitted. He mimed eating, crooked fingers motioning to his open mouth.
Snaggletooth stepped up to push Heather away. The girl fell hard on her ass. Either from hunger or seeing someone who’d been kind to him get shit on, Dwayne reached the end of his patience.
He struck Snaggletooth with a fist to the side of the head that sent the smaller man crashing to the ground and rolling across the dirt to lie motionless at the edge of a fire.
All sound stopped dead. Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned to Dwayne as he bent to take Heather’s wrist and pull her back to her feet. Her eyes were wide, whites all around the black pupils, as she stared at him. He glanced about him to see the whole damn tribe with faces frozen in masks of astonishment. Dwayne’s fists tightened at his sides. He set his feet and dropped into a crouch. He’d take as many of these fuckers with him as he could before they brought him down. Big Bird broke the moment with a high-pitched whoop that was joined by all the others. Grins and laughter all around. He was the hit of the party. The same little boy who’d touched Dwayne’s leg prodded the unconscious Snaggletooth with a toe and giggled at the groan the man made.
The white-haired old man took him by the arm in a vise grip and led him to a spot where some flat stones were piled near the fire. The crowd followed, making agreeable noises. He was urged to take a seat, and Big Bird took a perch by him and called to the gathering ring of faces. A trio of women approached with wooden bowls filled with food and more beer. These were offered to Dwayne, and he made a dent in every course. Dried corn. Peppers. Spiced yams. Strips of goat meat. And lots and lots of beer.
Other men, including Black Mask, joined them to take seats on the stones. They wore ceremonial masks of bears, hawks, and fish that they removed to share in the banquet. Drums with leather skins were produced from somewhere, and almost all the younger women joined in a ring dance, arms linked and breasts bobbing. They looked bright crimson in the firelight that rose higher as more bundled brambles were piled atop the blaze.
Dwayne relaxed. More bowls of the nasty brew than he could count took the knots out of his muscles. And some harder stuff, a kind of cactus liquor did the rest. But there was also the relief of knowing that they didn’t walk him all this way and go to all this trouble to kill him. Or eat him. He was the goddamned honored guest of the party.
His worries about human sacrifice faded to the back of his mind only to come back as the sky to the east turned pink with the dawn. Just before the last cup of mescal hooch took its toll, he recalled something he read long ago or maybe saw on the History Channel.
The Aztecs always treated their captives like gods.
Right up until the dagger fell.
8
The Spring Head
The drone found a source of fresh water farther up the riverway.
A natural spring ran out of the rockface of a long escarpment that coursed along the north bank of the river for about fifty miles. The water fell a few hundred feet in a white torrent as regular as a tap. The images the drone transmitted showed a natural tank along the foot of the escarpment. From the overflow, a swift-rushing stream coursed over rocks through the dense conifer forest toward the river.
Down in the chartroom of the Ocean Raj, the former Rangers, the former SEAL, and the former IDF sniper watched a monitor, showing them the views from the drone being piloted by Jimmy Smalls up on the weather deck. The screen was displaying live shots of a world no human eyes had ever seen. The entirely alien world of Earth’s past.
“The water’s moving too fast to pick up many bugs or algae. This is as clean as we’re gonna find,” Boats said. He leaned over Lee’s shoulder to point a finger at the monitor.
“Is that vapor coming off the water? It might mean the water’s geothermic hot,” Chaz added, leaning over Lee’s other shoulder.
“Even better, right? Boiled water right out of the tap,” Boats said.
“If you assholes would give me room, I could confirm that,” Lee said. He tapped the keyboard, and the image on the screen became a shifting pattern of psychedelic colors. The rock and surrounding trees blanched to a hazy blue color while the water cascading down the rock now looked like a stream of lava. The collection tank glowed crimson.
“Thermals.” Lee turned to the others and grinned.
“Does that work on life-forms?” Chaz said.
“Let’s see,” Lee said. He touched a tab and spoke. “Jimbo, can you do a flyover of the area? We want to look around a little.”
Jimmy Smalls’ voice came over the laptop’s speaker. “Roger that.”
Jimbo was up on the weather deck, piloting the drone through the afternoon sky. He could see what they saw through a smaller monitor mounted on the drone controller. The monitor displayed the rock-steady progress of the drone as it soared above the tops of the massive redwoods that grew up the gentle slope that led to the foot of the escarpment. The thermals picked up the movement of small critters moving on the ground. They showed up in brilliant orange and red and sparks of yellow. Smaller saurians traveled on the ground singly and in groups. Unfamiliar birds flittered through the branches, looking like sparks of light.
“Look at these motherfuckers,” Boats said. He stabbed a finger as if Lee and Chaz could possibly miss the huge shapes glowing warmly on the monitor. A herd of fat ceratopsians fed off low branches and whatever lay on the ground. A crown of bone atop their skulls and long, curved horns jutted from their brows.
“They almost look pretty in those colors. Like party pinatas,” Bat said.
“Those are vegetarians,” Chaz said.
“So are bulls. Ever been to Pamplona?” Lee said.
“Saw it on TV.” Chaz shrugged.
Jimbo’s voice came over the speaker. “You see enough? My battery’s heading for the red.”
Lee told him to bring the drone on back. On the monitor, the view climbed high into the sky. They could see the Ocean Raj in the distance, anchored in the ruddy water of the river. Lee closed the laptop.
“That tank is close to a half a mile inland. That’s a long hike through an ass-load of hungry fuckers,” he said.
“And dragging a pump and all that hose with us,” Boats said.
“We’re gonna have to use the drone to pick our way around them,” Chaz said.
“Gotta say, Charles, I don’t know whether to admire your optimism or wonder if your mama dropped you on your head a lot,” Lee said.
Jimbo heard t
he drone before he saw it. He shaded his eyes with a hand and searched the yellow sky and found the tiny speck dropping toward him. He directed it onto the deck a few feet from where a compact man with braided blonde hair leaned on the railing, looking out over the water. The Macedonian was normally fascinated by the mini-UMV and never missed a flight. Something had pulled Byrus’ attention away from the drone’s return.
Known as “Bruce” to the Rangers, the fugitive out of time was once a pit-fighter and then a slave in a quarry back in Roman Judea. He’d returned with the team to the present at the insistence of Jimbo. The pair had spent months stranded in the ancient past. Together they had defied and escaped from a cohort of Roman legionnaires. The Pima had been badly wounded in the fight. The little Macedonian nursed Jimbo back to health while hiding him from the Empire. Byrus’ reward was to be brought to the modern world where, though he was a free man for the first time in his life; he took on the role of constant companion and personal bodyguard to Jimbo.
Not for the first time, Byrus was wondering if he might not have been better off left in the past.
Just off the Raj’s port bow, a drama never before seen by human eyes was playing out.
A herd of sauropods had moved out of the marshes along the southern bank of the river to feed on a thick growth of reeds. Thick-trunked, long-necked animals with lozenge-shaped heads and dumb eyes. They ripped bundles of reeds from the muddy water to champ them in jaws lined with rows of flat, crushing teeth. A few had wandered into deeper water where the ocher water churned to cream as it coursed around their enormous bodies.
