The Labyrinth Key

by Christopher Cartwright

  She took it and grinned. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  “You’ve been on a flight all day. Do you want to rest?”

  Her eyes were wide with wonder. “Are you kidding me? You found Strabo’s Labyrinth… a place that people have been debating even existed for centuries. I can sleep tonight… or tomorrow… or possibly the next day, but first I want to see this.”

  “Good. Because I really need your help.”

  Her lips twisted into a wry smile. It wasn’t very often that he needed her. “Why?”

  Sam swallowed. “Because, we need to find the Obsidian Chamber.”

  She made a half-grin. “Come again. You need to find an Obsidian Chamber?”

  Sam nodded, leading her toward the section of writing made by earlier Master Builders. He fixed his flashlight on the section regarding the Obsidian Chamber. “Look at this, Strabo wasn’t the last person to enter the labyrinth. Nostradamus was.”

  Billie’s eyes lit up in wonder, her mouth opened with awe. “Nostradamus was here!”

  “Yes. Look at this, he says that on the day we entered this room, we unintentionally triggered a global quest to locate the Obsidian Chamber.”

  “Did he leave any proof that it was really him?” she asked.

  Sam smiled. He knew exactly what she was referring to. In general, Nostradamus liked to leave clues in his secrets, that allowed the future intended recipients to know that it was really left by him. Sam said, “Nostradamus engraved the date that this deadly global quest to find the near mythical chamber…”

  She frowned. Puzzled. “And?”

  “The date was the very day that we opened that secret door and entered Strabo’s Labyrinth – and it was carved centuries before we entered.”

  Billie didn’t put up an argument. “Okay, that seems like a pretty impressive magic trick to me. It sounds like Nostradamus. Did he leave any clue about where such a chamber exists or how it can be found?”

  “No, but he does leave a drawing of a ship over here.” Sam fixed his flashlight onto a second wall, where a ship, frozen solid in ice, with a large mountain in the distance, appeared. “According to Nostradamus the last person to ever set eyes on the Obsidian Chamber was onboard this ship.”

  “Do you even know the name of the ship?”

  Sam swallowed. “Yeah, the RRS Discovery.”

  Billie met his eye. Incredulity plastered across her face. “Ernest Shackleton’s ill-fated ship?”

  “Afraid that’s the one.”

  “Ernest Shackleton was the last person on Earth to enter the Obsidian Chamber?”

  Sam shrugged. “Apparently.”

  “Well that’s great,” Billie said, licking her lips. “People have been looking for his ships for over a century. Besides, it’s meant to be buried in ice somewhere in the worst portion of the worst sea in the world.”

  Sam grinned. “That would be the one.”

  “You should leave as soon as possible.”

  “Where?”

  “Antarctica of course. Where else? You need to find the Discovery before anyone else does.”

  “There won’t be a lot of competitors, racing down there to locate it in Antarctica.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Given what Nostradamus wrote, it appears that you should go with the full might of the Tahila’s weapons system. Mark my words, you won’t be the only one down there, scouring the frozen lands for Shackleton’s damned shipwreck.”

  “It will take a few weeks to get the Tahila rigged and provisioned for the icy conditions.”

  “Then you’d better get going straight away.”

  Sam shook his head. “But why? Why do we care so much about finding the Obsidian Chamber?”

  Billie arched an eyebrow. “Do you really need to ask that?”

  “I’m serious. We’re in Strabo’s Labyrinth! One of the greatest catchments of ancient history ever found, a sacred storage place of knowledge, once thought to be nothing more than a legend… so why should I go on some wild goose chase to locate an Obsidian Chamber?”

  She grinned. “Why?”

  “Yes!” Sam said, his voice emphatic. “I’m asking you, why?”

  Billie grinned. “Because this Obsidian Chamber that Nostradamus writes about doesn’t refer to a place where the Master Builders visit, or once lived, it describes a place where the Master Builders derived their great powers.” She took a breath. Grinned. “Don’t you see, we’re talking about the birth place of the most powerful race on Earth, a place that allegedly still exists, and potentially is still capable of providing those who visit it with unimaginable powers.”

  Sam swallowed. “Nostradamus said that by simply entering Strabo’s Labyrinth, we’ve set in motion a terrible quest, a race that will entrap some of the major players on the world’s globe, to hunt for the Obsidian Chamber…”

  Billie nodded. “Of course it will! And why wouldn’t it? Those who find the Obsidian Chamber might just have the chance to harness all the knowledge and power of the ancient Master Builders.”

  Sam cursed. “Which means we need to find it first… before such power falls into the wrong hands!”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Rhyolite, Nevada – Two Weeks Later

  A hawk’s scream pierced the blinding blue sky.

  The air was cloudless but hazy as the summer sun streamed through the dust kicked up by their rented jeep. The flat fields of Nevada stretched out in front of them, featureless and nondescript as Egypt and yet a world away.

  The jeep puttered to a stop at the side of the road in a scrub of saw grass and dusty sage. After a moment Ethan killed the motor.

  They’d entered the city limits of Rhyolite, Nevada, almost ten minutes ago and the tension had been building ever since.

  Ethan glanced at him but didn’t take his hands off the wheel. “Are you sure this is the place?”

  Sam looked out at the caves and the rock outcroppings he hadn’t seen in fifteen years. They looked exactly the same. “Sure as I’m sitting here,” he said. Then he wiped his brow and wiped his hands on his jeans, twisting around to the back seat and hauling out an unwieldy package. “You want to do this or not?”

  Ethan’s jaw was set firm. “I’m certain.”

  “All right.”

  The sun beat down as they removed a shovel and Sam counted out the paces. The sage bush was right where he’d left it – only bigger.

  Sam went first with the digging. The blade bit into the hard ground for a long time, the dirt as tough as old cement. When Sam tired, he passed Ethan the shovel with a grimace. “Here,” he said, breathing hard. “You do it.”

  Ethan took the shovel with skepticism, but he took it. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for. What if I miss it?”

  Sam grinned. “You won’t miss it.”

  Ethan shot him a look, and then brought the shovel down into the earth with a sharp shuck. He dug for almost five minutes, long enough for the sweat to trickle down his back and stick his shirt to his spine. When the shovel hit steel with a muted ring, he stopped in surprise.

  His eyes darted to Sam, emerging from the digging rhythm he’d lost himself in order to avoid thinking about what might be waiting for them underground.

  “Is that the old container?”

  Sam dusted his hands and crouched down to brush away the loose clods of earth and sage root pieces like thick grubs. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  The hole was as deep as his arms were long and Sam had to stretch out flat to reach the box, getting the red dry dust all up in his nose. He snorted, but it didn’t improve the situation.

  His groping fingertips hit metal and he felt himself slide.

  Ethan grabbed his legs.

  Sam grabbed the box.

  “Okay,” he said. “Got it.”

  Ethan hauled him back by the heels, the dirt scraping his skin where his shirt rode up in transit, until Sam could wrench himself up by his elbows. He did so, panting. He didn’t remember it being in so deep.
He hoped like hell this was it.

  But when he brushed the top free of dirt, streaking slightly red from his sweat, he recognized the same symbol embossed in the top. Just a circle, slightly embossed, and a line.

  It could mean a great many things.

  Or it could mean just one.

  He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  There was a lock on the front. Though rusted, it had held strong over the past decade and a half.

  Sam rummaged in the bag he’d brought and pulled out a key.

  It barely fit in the lock when he inserted it; it sure as hell didn’t turn.

  “Here.”

  He looked up barely in time to catch the can of oil Ethan threw at him.

  He placed a few drops into the lock, inserted the key, and waited. It took a frustratingly long time, but eventually the key turned, starting and stopping as necessary, all the way.

  The lock sprang open slowly. Anticlimactic, but true to life.

  Not everything was fairy tale, he thought. Even if it felt like it sometimes.

  He looked at Ethan. “Well?”

  Sam lifted the lid, showering off bits of rust and roots.

  Inside was another box, this one military grade and water proof. No lock, just a latch, which Sam lifted as he brought it out.

  Inside nestled a Tyvek pouch. He pulled that out too with a strange jolt of déjà vu. He half expected them to come for them now, barreling down the road in those black Crown Vic Secret Service vehicles.

  Sam fought a glance at the road. He’d hear anything coming before he saw it, out here.

  He dumped the pouch into his hand. A pen drive slid out.

  Sam rolled it over in his palm. Didn’t look like much, he had to admit.

  Ethan peered over his shoulder, wide eyed and fighting it. He shrugged. “So that’s what this is all about, huh?”

  Sam held the drive up to the light. Black plastic with a red slide, 32GB. At the time it had been outrageously high tech. Now you could buy these beauties at the corner shop for less than you could buy a cheap bottle of drinkable wine. “Yup.”

  Ethan regarded it with interest. “What’s on it? What does it say that they want so bad?”

  “Say?” Sam turned to him in surprise. “It’s not what it says. It’s what it shows.” At Ethan’s raised eyebrow and skeptical gaze, Sam pushed himself to his feet with a strange sense of inevitability. The handle of the jeep burned his palm when he pulled open the door. The heat from inside the car hit him like he was opening the door to hell. Sam slid inside and pulled his laptop out of the glove compartment, the coolest place he could think of.

  He wedged it behind the steering wheel and opened the screen. It booted up with a happy chime. Before he could think twice about it, he slid the drive into the slot. He clicked on the icon when the new hardware was recognized; he was glad it had been. He hadn’t been sure about that. Fifteen years old was ancient in terms of technology. The video app opened and he turned the computer to face Ethan, who had slid into the passenger side and turned the air on full blast. “Here,” he said, as his sweat chilled immediately in the breeze. “See for yourself.”

  With an apprehensive look at Sam, Ethan set his jaw and took the computer as the video began to play.

  Chapter Seventy

  Ethan’s eyes narrowed in on the old surveillance footage.

  The video was primitive and had the same look some home movies had, but hard. This was as hard as it comes.

  It appeared to be filmed from a soldier’s bodycam.

  The unsteady video feed revealed the inside of what appeared to be a private Learjet. Probably the best maintained Learjet 23 at the time. What made it stand out even more was the unique emblem over leather seating along the fuselage.

  It was the seal of the President of the United States of America.

  “That’s President Harris’s Learjet 23!”

  Sam nodded. “That’s his bird.”

  It was no secret that President Harris, once a decorated fighter pilot during the Vietnam War, had never truly relinquished his love of flying. He kept a private jet at Andrews Air Force Base. And, if the secrets were to be believed, he took it out from time to time, with no one but his Secret Service Agents onboard. Once a pilot always a pilot. It was also said that the president liked to use the private space to host secret meetings that he didn’t want publicly recorded.

  It was also no secret what happened to President Harris on the flight that day.

  The video continued.

  A man in casual slacks and a white shirt sat straight and tense on one of the couches along the edge of the fuselage. Secret Service members in black manned the walls, arms clenched tight at the ready. A glass of clear liquid sat on the table before them, water, judging from the bottle beside it. Papers spread out between him and an aide with a rather stunned expression, scared and alert, like the thing he’d been warned about when taking this job but had never believed would ever happen had finally happened.

  Ethan looked at Sam. “That is President Harris!”

  Sam nodded. “Keep watching.”

  The President shook his head in the footage under the eyes of the servicemen. “Aimes!” he called and one of the servicemen stood at attention. “Bring the whiskey. I’m damned if I know what this is.” He ran a hand through his hair, rumpling the professional appearance. Beyond the windows, the sky was dark. The time stamp read 1:53 in digital white letters. “Where did he go?”

  “Head, sir.” The aide tried and failed to not sound curious at the images spread on the table before them. The president grinned, wryly.

  “Good man. Come at me with news like this and escapes into the toilet. Can’t say I blame him.”

  “If I can ask, sir… what news is this…?”

  The President looked at him. “Well, I’d love to tell you, Elliot, but then I’d have to kill you.” He gestured to the cockpit. “Run on and see what’s taking Aimes so damn long with that drink.” He laughed. “And pound on the head if you pass it. Make sure he didn’t get flushed out at thirty thousand feet.”

  Elliot smiled professionally. It’s clear this President inspires loyalty and love. “Of course, sir.”

  “And bring back a glass for you, too!” the President called after him. He turned to the servicemen. “Anything in the constitution say I can’t give liquor to my employees?”

  “Only if they’re underage, sir.” A serviceman in black – short and stiff with a ramrod up his ass, thought Ethan – nodded like the social climber he probably was.

  “It’s legal even if they are, actually.” The voice came from the man wearing the bodycam. Then, when the President looked surprised, the man said, “What? We’re in airspace. It’s above the law.”

  The president looked unsure about whether he was being had or not. “Really. Well, will you look at that. I had no idea.” He gestured magnanimously at the soldier wearing the bodycam. “I think you should be President instead of me, my man. Spare me all this bullshit.” He squinted. “What’s your name, anyway… soldier?”

  “Sam Reilly.”

  Ethan paused the video. “What the hell were you doing on that flight?”

  Sam said, “I was supposed to be debriefing the President on the strange Labyrinth Key I’d found in Afghanistan.”

  “So why the hell were you on board the President’s private jet?”

  “Bad luck, I guess… I was flown to Andrews Air Force Base straight from Afghanistan. I hadn’t slept. I was meant to debrief the President in the morning, only somewhere along the way, the President found out I was there, and a Secret Service Agent asked me to join him privately.”

  Ethan swore. “They wanted another body on that jet when it went down, someone of a similar height and build to that of the President. It would all look the same after the jet went down.”

  Sam nodded. “It would appear so. Press play, you can see how it all went down.”

  Ethan pressed play.

  Th
e next few events happened with lightning speed.

  One of the Secret Service Agents pulled out his SIG Sauer P229 and leveled it at the President.

  President Harris’ forehead furrowed in puzzlement. “What the hell are you doing with that? We’re not anywhere near the drop zone yet.”

  The Agent said, “I’m sorry Harris. Every man has a price… they had my children.”

  Sam Reilly dived forward, kicking him hard as the Agent squeezed the trigger. The bodycam footage went fuzzy and all over the shop as the soldier moved.

  The shot went wide, killing the Agent behind the President.

  Harris, once a decorated Air Force pilot, moved quickly grabbing the second Agent’s SIG Sauer.

  Sam gripped the Agents forearms, fighting to keep the barrel of the pistol away from the President. The Agent slammed his forearm against the mahogany doorframe in the fuselage, but Sam refused to relinquish his weapon arm.

  The Agent used his spare hand to reach in and retrieve a second pistol.

  He focused it toward Sam.

  A shot fired.

  But it wasn’t from the Agent. Instead, President Harris had fired it, killing the Agent.

  In the cockpit, the pilot was shot in the head, and the aircraft began to nose dive.

  Sam raced upfront, ripped the man out of his chair, and fought to regain control of the aircraft. Next to him, President Harris, who knew the aircraft better than anyone else, worked to return them from the near freefall.

  It was a challenging operation, but they came through it, leveling the aircraft steadily, and bringing it back to a cruising altitude.

  Sam glanced around the cabin.

  In total three Secret Service Agents were dead and so was the pilot.

  The President, still at the controls, glanced back at Sam and asked, “Now what?”

  Sam shrugged. “Now we go back to Andrews and get you help, sir.”

  “No. I’m afraid that won’t do, son.”

  Sam looked puzzled. “Why not?”

  “I’m being blackmailed by a Mexican Cartel.”

  The president pulled himself together with the force of personality that endeared him so much to his people. “My death was always the plan. It’s just they…” He gestured to the servicemen. “They weren’t supposed to actually do it.”