Temple

by Matthew Reilly

  The caiman didn’t move a muscle.

  In fact the enormous crocodilelike creature didn’t even seem to be aware of his presence at all.

  Race could hear his heart pounding loudly inside his head.

  Kathump-kathump-kathump.

  The caiman still didn’t move.

  Race stood frozen in the corner of the pit.

  And then suddenly, without warning, the caiman moved.

  But it wasn’t a quick movement of any kind. It didn’t rush forward. Nor did it lunge or leap at Race. Rather, it just lowered itself, slowly and ominously, beneath the surface of the muddy water.

  Race’s eyes went instantly wide.

  Holy shit.

  The caiman had just submerged itself completely! He couldn’t see it. In fact in the soft blue moonlight and the flickering orange light of the Indians’ torches, he couldn’t see anything but the small waves on the surface of the water.

  More silence.

  Wavelets slapped against the earthen walls of the pit.

  Race’s entire body was tensed, waiting for the caiman to appear. He gripped the steel grappling hook in his hand like a club.

  The water’s surface was completely still.

  Total silence.

  Race could feel the fear budding up inside him.

  Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck.

  He wondered how long the reptile could stay under—

  The attack came from the left, just as Race was looking to the right.

  With a loud roar, the caiman exploded up out of the water next to him, its jaws bared wide, its enormous two-ton body rolling through the air.

  Race saw the reptile instantly and on a reflex dived side-ways, splashing into the water as the caiman shot past him and slammed down into the slime again.

  Race clambered to his feet, spun around, then dived again as the caiman made another lightning-quick pass at him, snapping its jaws in front of his face with a loud fleshy smack!

  Race was covered in mud now, but he didn’t care. He rose out of the water again—right next to the earthen wall of the pit—and turned just in time to see the caiman come rushing at his face.

  He ducked—let his body drop straight down, under the surface—and the caiman went thundering over the top of him, slamming nose-first into the muddy wall of the pit

  Race surfaced to the cheers of the Indians standing up on the rim of the pit. He waded right and found himself standing in deeper water. He began to unloop the rope attached to the grappling hook.

  He looked up at the rim of the pit.

  Fifteen feet, not far.

  He was standing waist-deep in the water now, unlooping the rope. As he did so, he quickly glanced about himself, to see where the caiman was.

  And he didn’t see it.

  The caiman was nowhere to be seen.

  The pit was completely bare.

  It must have gone under again . . .

  Race looked fearfully at the water all around himself.

  Oh, shit . . . he thought.

  And then abruptly he felt something slam into his leg at tremendous speed, felt a searing pain shoot through his ankle. Then he was yanked beneath the surface.

  Race went under, opened his eyes, and through the inky water all around him, saw that the caiman had his left foot inside its mouth!

  But it didn’t have a good grip on him and it opened its mouth for a split second to get a better one.

  That was all Race needed. No sooner had the big reptile released his foot than Race yanked it clear and the caiman’s jaws came chomping down on nothing.

  Race surfaced, with the grappling hook’s rope trailing through the water behind him, desperately gasping for air.

  The caiman came up too, surging out of the water after him, snapping wildly, catching the grappling hook’s rope in its jaws, slicing through it in an instant. As the rope was cut, Race lost his balance and fell clumsily away from the reptile into shallower water.

  He turned quickly, at exactly the same moment as he saw the caiman come rushing in at him from the side, its jaws wide, its tooth-filled mouth filling his field of vision, and with nothing else left to call on, Race just jammed the grappling hook—together with his entire right arm—into the caiman’s wide-open mouth!

  The big reptile’s jaws came crashing down on his arm——just as Race hit the release button on the grappling hook’s handle.

  At that moment, a nanosecond before the caiman’s razor-sharp teeth clamped down on his right bicep, the grappling hook’s pointed steel claws sprang outward with monumental force.

  The caiman’s head just exploded.

  Two of the pointed steel claws burst out from its eye sockets, and in that single disgusting instant both of the caiman’ s eyes were blasted out of its head—from the inside—replaced by the razor-sharp tips of the two steel claws.

  The grappling hook’s other two claws exploded out from the underside of the caiman’s head, ripping through the softer skin there, puncturing it with ease.

  The two claws that had shot through the big reptile’s eye sockets must have penetrated its brain on their journey through the caiman’s skull. As such, they’d killed the massive animal in an instant—freezing its jaws in mid-chomp—and now Race sat on the floor of the pit, with an enormous eighteen-foot caiman attached to his right arm, its long tri-angular mouth poised over his exposed arm—its teeth millimeters away from his skin—its immense black body stretching out into the pit motionless.

  The crowd of natives standing on the rim of the pit just stood there aghast stunned.

  And then, slowly, they started clapping.

  Race emerged from the pit to the adulation of the Indians. They slapped him on the back, smiled at him through crooked yellow teeth.

  The cage holding Nash and the others was opened immediately and a few moments later they joined Race in the center of the village.

  Van Lewen shook his head as he came up to Race. “What the hell did you just do? We couldn’t see a thing from that cage.”

  “I just killed a great lizard,” Race said simply.

  The anthropologist Marquez, came over and smiled at Race. “Well done, sir! Well done! What did you say your name was?”

  “William Race.”

  “Rejoice, Mister Race. You just made yourself a god.”

  John-Paul Demonaco’s cellular rang.

  Demonaco and the Navy investigator, Mitchell, were still at DARPA headquarters in Virginia. Mitchell was taking an-other call himself.

  “You say it came from Bittiker . . .” Demonaco said into the phone. Suddenly his face went ashen white. “Call the Baltimore PD and get them to send the bomb squad over there right now. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Mitchell came over as Demonaco hung up.

  “That was Aaronson,” the Navy man said. “They just raided the Freedom Fighter locations. Nothing in any of them. Empty.”

  “Never mind,” Demonaco said, heading for the door.

  “What is it?” Mitchell said as he hurried after him.

  “I just got a call from one of my guys in Baltimore. He’s at the apartment of one of our Texan informants. Says he’s got something big.”

  Ninety minutes later, Demonaco and Mitchell arrived at a decrepit old warehouse in the industrial sector of Baltimore.

  Three police cruisers, a couple of nondescript beige Buicks—FBI cars—and a large navy blue van with “BOMB SQUAD” painted on its side were already parked out in front of the budding.

  Demonaco and Mitchell entered the warehouse, ascended some stairs.

  “This place belongs to a guy named Wilbur Francis James, better known as ‘Bluey,’” Demonaco said. “He used to be a radio operator in the Army, but he got discharged for stealing equipment from the office—frequency scanners, M-16s. Now he’s a small-time crook who acts as a liaison between the Texans and certain criminal elements who supply them with guns and intelligence. A couple of months ago, we caught him with three stolen canisters o
f VX nerve gas, but we decided to withhold pressing charges if he helped us with our own intelligence gathering. He’s been very reliable so far.”

  They arrived at a cramped little apartment on the top floor of the warehouse, guarded by a pair of Baltimore beat cops. They went inside. It was a crappy, disgusting apartment, with damp floorboards and peeling wallpaper.

  Demonaco was met by a young black agent named Hanson and the leader of the Baltimore Police Department’s Bomb Squad, a small squat man named Barker.

  Bluey James himself sat in the corner of the room with his arms crossed. He chugged on a cigarette defiantly. He was a small unshaven runt of a man, with dreadlocked brown hair and a filthy Hawaiian shirt. On his feet he wore sandals—with socks.

  “What have you got?” Demonaco asked Hanson.

  “When we arrived, we found nothing,” the young agent said, eyeing Bluey James scornfully. “But upon further examination we found this.”

  Hanson handed Demonaco a package about the size of a small book. It was wrapped in brown paper and was un-opened. With it was an ordinary-looking white envelope which had been opened.

  “It was hidden behind a false panel in the wall,” Hanson said.

  Demonaco turned to Bluey. “Inventive,” he said. “You’re getting smarter in your old age, Bluey.”

  “Blow me.”

  “X-ray?” Demonaco said to the man named Barker.

  “It’s clean,” the bomb squad man said. “Judging by the scan, it looks like a CD or something.”

  Bluey James snorted. “I didn’t know it was a fucking crime in this country for a man to buy himself a CD. Al-though it probably should he for the shit you’d listen to, Demonaco.”

  “What you don’t like ‘Achy Breaky Heart’?” Demonaco said. He looked at the white envelope, pulled a slip of paper from it. It read:

  WHEN WE HAVE THE THYRIUM, I WILL CONTACT YOU DIRECTLY. AFTER YOU RECEIVE MY CALL, E-MAIL THE CONTENTS OF THIS DISK TO EACH OF THE FOLLOWING ORGANIZATIONS.

  BITTIKER

  After that there was a list of about a dozen names and addresses, all of them relating to television networks or channels—CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX.

  Demonaco turned the brown-paper package over in his hands. What could Earl Bittiker want to e-mail to every major television network in the country?

  He ripped open the package.

  And saw a gleaming silver compact disk.

  The first thing he noticed about it, however, was that it wasn’t an ordinary CD.

  It was a V-CD—a video compact disk.

  He turned. “Bluey, what the hell is this?”

  “The Best of Billy Ray Cyrus. Just for you, asshole.”

  “Hey, Demonaco,” Mitchell said, nodding at a V-CD player over by Bluey’s Trinitron television. Next to the TV stood a black IBM computer. All three objects looked completely out of place in the otherwise dilapidated apartment.

  Demonaco slid the compact disk into the V-CD player and hit PLAY.

  The face of Earl Bittiker appeared on the television screen instantly.

  It was an ugly face—an evil face—pitted with scars and hate. Bittiker had sanguine, hollow features, with stringy blond hair and cold gray eyes that showed nothing but the world of rage that existed behind them. In the background behind the terrorist, Demonaco and Mitchell saw the Supernova.

  Bittiker spoke directly into the lens.

  “People of the world. My name is Earl Bittiker and I am the Antichrist.

  ‘If you are watching this message, then you are about to die. At exactly 12 noon today, Eastern Standard Time, you will all be killed at the hands of a weapon that was created by your own taxes. A weapon that in a few hours’ time is going to send this whole vile world to the place where it belongs.

  ‘To the people of the world—I have no quarrel with you. It is the world you inhabit that I hate, a world that no longer deserves to exist. It is a diseased dog and it must be put down.

  ‘To the governments of the world—you are to blame for this state of affairs. Communists, capitalists and fascists alike, you all grew fat while the people you governed starved. You all grew rich while they grew poor, you lived in mansions while they lived in ghettos.

  “Human nature is the desire of one man to rule over another. It comes in many guises, many forms—from office politics to ethnic cleansing—and it is performed by all of us, from the lowest foreman to the Chief Executive of the United States. But its character remains the same. It is about power and ruling. But it is a cancer on this world and that cancer must now be terminated.

  ‘To the television networks who receive this message, contact the Navy or the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency and ask them what has happened to their Supernova. Ask them about its existence and its purpose. Ask them about the seventeen security staff who died two days ago when my men raided DARPA headquarters in Virginia. I’m sure that no one has informed you of this incident, because that’s the way governments work today. After you’ve done all that ask your government if this”—he pointed at the device be-hind him—“is what they’re looking for.”

  Bittiker stared hard into the lens.

  “People of the world, I make no demands of you. I do not ask for a ransom. I do not want political prisoners re-leased from their cells. There is no way you can stop me from detonating this device. Not now. Not ever. There is nothing you can do to stop this from happening. At twelve noon today, we’ll all be going to Hell together.”

  The screen cut to hash.

  A long silence followed as everyone digested what Bittiker had just said. Even Bluey James was aghast.

  “Fuck me . . .” he breathed.

  “Very clever,” Demonaco said. “He only stated the time it’ll go off. Twelve noon. Now all he has to do is find the thyrium and get in touch with Bluey and his plan is all set.”

  He turned to face Mitchell. “I think we just found your Supernova, Commander.” Then to Bluey: “Am I to assume that yon haven’t got that call yet?”

  “What do you think, fucknut?”

  “What do you know about all this, Bluey?” Demonaco said, changing his tone.

  “What I always know, man. Jack shit.”

  “If you don’t tell me something right now, I’m going to have you charged with aiding and abetting in the murder of seventeen security staff at a federal—”

  “Hey, man, weren’t you fucking listening? The world is about to end. What does aiding and abetting matter now?”

  “I guess that all depends on who you think is gonna win this little contest us or Bittiker.”

  “Bittiker,” Bluey said flatly.

  “Then it looks like you’ll be spending your last few hours on this Earth in jail,” Demonaco said, nodding to the two cops at the door. “Take this little weasel away.”

  The two cops grabbed Bluey by the arms.

  “Oh, now wait just a fucking minute . . .” Bluey said.

  “Sorry, Bluey.”

  “All right listen, man, listen! I had nothing to do with no murders, okay. I’m just the go-between, all right I deal on Bittiker’s behalf. Like a lawyer. Which I might say hasn’t been so easy lately since he’s been going off the fucking deep end.”

  “He’s been going off the deep end?” Demonaco waved the two policemen away.

  “Like yeah. Where you been, man? First he lets a whole group of fucking chinks join the Texans. Japs, man. Fuckin’ Japs. You should see these little fuckers. Fucking kamikazes, man. They’re from some messed-up cult in Japan. Wanna destroy the world and all that shit. But Earl, he decides he likes what they got to say and he lets ’em in the movement. But then—fuck—then he goes and does the strangest thing of all. He goes and merges with the fucking Freedom Fighters.”

  “What?”

  ‘To get their technical know-how, like. You ask me, man, those Freedom Fighters are a bunch of cocksuckers, but they do know their technology. I mean, shit messages to the world on V-CD. You drink / went out and bought this player?”


  “The Texans merged with the Freedom Fighters . . .” Demonaco said. “Holy shit”

  Bluey was still yapping. “It’s all the Japs, you see. Ever since they got here, those slopeheads’ve been telling Earl that if he wants to fuck up the world, he’s gonna need some serious hardware. Not guns and shit, but bombs and shit. Nukes. And then when they found out about that Supernova thing, well . . .”

  But Demonaco wasn’t listening anymore.

  He turned to Mitchell. “The Texans absorbed the Freedom Fighters. That’s why your boss Aaronson didn’t find anybody at the Freedom Fighter locations. They don’t exist anymore. God, no wonder they used tungsten bullets. They bought themselves time by framing a terrorist group that no longer exists. The Texans and the Freedom Fighters weren’t fighting a turf war. They were merging . . .”

  “What are you saying?” Mitchell asked.

  “I’m saying that we have just witnessed the union of three of the most dangerous terrorist organizations in the world. One is a brilliantly organized fighting unit, the second is perhaps the most technologically advanced paramilitary group in America, and the third is a doomsday cult from Japan.

  “You add all that up,” Demonaco said, “and you got your-self one hell of a problem, because those are the guys who stole your Supernova, and judging from that video we just saw, they’re out there now trying to get themselves some thyrium.”

  In the soft pre-dawn light of the foothills, a banquet was being prepared.

  After he had defeated the caiman, Race had politely begged off the adulation of the Indians and asked to rest. A sound sleep had followed—God, he needed it it had been nearly thirty-six hours since he’d last slept—and he awoke just before the dawn.

  The platter that was laid down before him was fit for a king. It was an assortment of raw jungle food set out on wide green leaves. Grubs, berries, corn. Even some raw caiman meat. It was raining lightly but no one seemed to care.

  Race and the Army people sat in a wide circle on the section of open ground that lay in front of the upper village’s shrine, eating underneath the watchful gaze of the real idol as it sat proudly in its ornate wooden alcove.