The Messiah Secret

by James Becker

  A sudden noise from his left attracted his attention. Another helicopter, this one a small utility aircraft, was approaching. As he looked, the pilot flared and landed it about a hundred yards away, keeping the rotors turning.

  Cross stepped forward and raised both arms above his head in a clear and unequivocal gesture of surrender. He just hoped that the crew of the gunship hadn’t been instructed to sanitize the area, and that they would be prepared to take prisoners.

  Well, he reflected, as the nose of the Hind swung around towards him, he’d soon find out.

  64

  The moment the Dhruv touched down, Michael Killian released his seatbelt and fumbled for the door handle.

  ‘Wait,’ Tembla instructed. ‘We haven’t secured the area yet.’

  ‘They’ve surrendered,’ Killian retorted, pointing at the man standing outside the cave entrance. ‘It’s all over. I need to see what they found.’

  He pulled off his throat mike, stepped out of the helicopter and started walking quickly over towards the cave.

  ‘Your orders, sir?’ the pilot asked.

  ‘We’ll stay here, just in case,’ Tembla said. ‘We’re not carrying weapons, and I’m still not satisfied this situation’s under control. There were six men in the area, plus Bronson and Lewis, but all I can see are three bodies and one man who’s got his hands in the air. That still leaves four people unaccounted for. Until I know their locations, I’m not moving. And if the mercenaries are still at large, maybe one of them will do me a favour and shoot that irritating priest.’

  As Masters had hoped, when Cross walked out of the cave entrance and over to the left, the Hind moved slightly to follow his path. The pilot brought the gunship to a low hover about fifty feet off the ground and perhaps seventy yards away from the cave. He then selected the public address system and keyed the microphone.

  ‘Step forward five paces, then lie face down,’ he ordered.

  Cross obeyed, keeping his movements slow and deliberate.

  In the cave, Nick Masters took a deep breath, and concentrated on the sight picture. The Hind had swung round slightly clockwise, and he could now see most of the port side of the aircraft.

  Helicopters have several weaknesses, but the big three are those parts of the machine that keep it in the air – the main rotor, the tail rotor and the gearboxes that drive them. The gearboxes were probably hidden behind armour plate – Masters didn’t know enough about the design of the Hind even to be sure where they were – and because he was looking at the helicopter from the side, the main rotor was almost invisible. So his target of choice – in fact his only target – was the tail rotor.

  Slowly, carefully, Masters adjusted his aim, settled down until the sight picture was absolutely clear, then gently squeezed the trigger.

  The Barrett kicked into his shoulder – he’d almost forgotten how hard the weapon’s recoil was. When he’d recovered, he checked the view through his telescopic sight. There was a neat hole drilled through the rear of the fuselage about six inches forward of the tail rotor disk. Damn, he thought. The chopper had obviously moved very slightly at the moment he’d fired. But the Hind was still in the same position, so he guessed that the bullet had simply passed through a part of the fuselage without armour plating, and the crew had felt nothing and were still unaware what had happened.

  Masters settled his breathing – the weapon was semiautomatic and another round was already in the chamber – and again concentrated all his attention on the view through the telescopic sight. Moments later, he squeezed the trigger once more.

  Travelling at supersonic speed, the half-inch bullet hit almost the exact centre of the tail rotor disk. The rotors were designed to withstand the impact of rounds from small-arms fire and even bullets from assault rifle, but the Barrett M82 was in a different league.

  The bullet tore one blade completely off the hub and splintered and twisted the one next to it. That in itself would probably have been enough to cripple the helicopter, but the round hadn’t yet completed its journey. It ploughed on, smashing through the thin aluminium skin of the fuselage into the tail rotor gearbox. The bullet crumpled and deformed as its kinetic energy was spent, and the effect on the gearbox itself was catastrophic. The casing split, driving fragments of metal between the spinning gears and cogs. In a little under a tenth of a second after the bullet hit, the gearbox seized solid.

  As the gunship lurched sideways, Masters saw a portion of one of the tail rotor blades spin away from the fuselage. The nose of the helicopter lifted as the pilot struggled to control an aircraft that suddenly wasn’t responding the way it should. He tried to gain height, which was exactly the wrong thing to do, because it made the situation worse. As the nose pitched even higher, the gunship started to spin on its own axis.

  And then there was nothing the pilot could do. The moment the tail rotor gearbox seized, he’d lost all directional control. The spin became even more violent and suddenly the Hind was plummeting to the ground, the main rotor blades smashing into rocks, debris flying in all directions as the fuselage impacted. There was a brief moment of silence, and then the fuel in the helicopter’s ruptured tanks ignited, turning the wreckage into a massive fireball.

  Masters stepped back into the cave feeling drained. It was over. The crew inside the Hind could not have survived the impact – or the fire. There was nothing more for him to do.

  * * *

  Sitting in the rear seat of the Dhruv, Tembla watched the catastrophe unfold in front of him. He had to get out. The overwhelming tactical superiority afforded him by the presence of the Hind had gone, and he was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was sitting in a thin-skinned and extremely vulnerable helicopter, and less than a hundred yards away was a group of mercenary soldiers armed with assault rifles.

  ‘Abort! Abort!’ he yelled. ‘Get us out of here now!’

  The pilot reacted immediately, hauling up on the collective and swinging the aircraft in a tight climbing turn away from the cave, accelerating as hard as he could towards the edge of the valley.

  Killian was standing open-mouthed, staring at the scene of devastation in front of him. Then he heard an escalating engine note from behind him and glanced back to see the Dhruv taking off.

  He watched helplessly as the man who’d walked out of the cave – and then apparently surrendered – stood up and drew a pistol. Holding his weapon ready, he started to work his way across the slope towards him. Killian looked around, but there was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide, a cliché come hideously to life. He raised his arms and waited.

  But even as he watched the armed man approach, he smiled slightly. Whatever happened now, he was content. If the Lord God had not wanted him to be here, in this place and at this time, he would not be here. God clearly still had a task for him to complete. He closed his eyes. ‘Thy will be done, oh Lord,’ he prayed.

  John Cross strode over to where Killian stood. ‘On the ground, face down, arms and legs wide apart,’ he ordered.

  Killian obeyed, and Cross quickly and expertly searched him.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Nick Masters asked, walking across to them.

  ‘No idea, but he climbed out of that chopper that buggered off, so he must have something to do with whatever the hell this is all about. Maybe Donovan would like a word with him? Nice shooting, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Masters replied. He reached down, grabbed the recumbent figure by the collar and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet.

  ‘You speak English?’ Masters asked, and their captive nodded.

  ‘OK. We’re going down to the cave. You try to get away and I’ll shoot your legs from under you – you understand that?’

  The man nodded again, and the short procession started making its way across the slope towards the dark shadow that delineated the cave entrance.

  65

  ‘Masters!’ Donovan called out, as the mercenary soldier walked back into the cave. ‘Bronson’s got a gun. You’ve got to help me.�
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  Masters walked over to where Bronson was holding Donovan, the barrel of the semi-automatic pistol pressed into his neck.

  ‘Where did he get the gun?’ Donovan demanded.

  ‘I gave it to him,’ Masters said simply.

  ‘You did what? Why the hell did you do that?’

  ‘Because I’m a soldier, not a hired killer. That means I don’t shoot unarmed people whose only crime seems to be that they’re smarter than you are, Donovan.’

  There was a commotion as Cross dragged in another man and slammed him against the wall.

  ‘Who are you?’ Cross demanded roughly, pushing his gun into the captive’s chest.

  The man peered around in the gloom, his eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness, but didn’t reply.

  ‘Chris, it’s the priest,’ Angela said, standing up. Her voice carried clearly across the cave. ‘He was the one who tried to kill me.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Masters murmured. ‘Not exactly what I’d expect from a priest.’

  ‘My name is Father Michael Killian, and I am an ordained minister of the Church.’ The man’s voice was rough and hoarse. ‘Whatever I do, I am doing God’s work. I know you,’ he said, looking at Donovan, who was still being held by Bronson. ‘And if it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll stop this appalling blasphemy you’ve been planning. That’s what I’ve been sent here to do.’

  ‘Sent by whom?’ Bronson asked.

  ‘By God Himself,’ Killian said, pride in his voice. ‘I am His messenger, and His agent.’

  ‘Gimme a break,’ Masters muttered.

  ‘This isn’t blasphemy, you lunatic,’ Donovan shouted. ‘This could be the greatest single advance in the history of medicine since the invention of anaesthetics or the discovery of antibiotics.’

  ‘And it’ll make you a multi-billionaire in the process. But I don’t suppose that’s influenced your decision in any way,’ Killian spat.

  Masters looked from one man to the other, almost smiling at the vitriol. ‘Well, it doesn’t look to me like either of you is in any position to do much, one way or the other.’ He paused, then stepped across to the flat wall. ‘Let’s take a look at what we have here. This is the place you wanted to find, JJ?’

  Donovan nodded, while Killian struggled furiously against Cross’s iron grip. ‘This is sacrilege, blasphemy.’

  ‘Can’t be both, can it?’ Masters remarked, studying the wall carefully. ‘Not both at the same time, I mean? And it’s interesting that you and your guys were quite happy to follow us here in that goddamned Hind and try to kill us all, but when it comes to opening up a tomb you come over all Old Testament. Sounds to me like you’re sending out a mixed message there.’

  ‘Your lives are irrelevant,’ Killian shouted. ‘What you’re trying to do here could damn your immortal soul for all eternity.’

  ‘That’s the kind of thing I mean,’ Masters said mildly. ‘Definitely Old Testament.’ He turned to Cross. ‘If that idiot says anything else, put a round through his stomach then throw him outside. He’s starting to give me a headache.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ Cross murmured. He swept Killian’s legs from under him and aimed his pistol downwards. ‘Just give me a reason,’ he said.

  ‘We think it slides,’ Angela said. She gave Killian a withering glare, then walked across to stand beside Masters. ‘Chris found grooves cut in the floor and ceiling.’ She pointed towards the edge of the stone wall.

  ‘Got it,’ Masters said. ‘So we need to lever on the left-hand side, I guess, to start it moving.’

  ‘There’s a crowbar on the floor by the wall,’ Bronson said, not loosening his grip on Donovan’s collar. ‘And if you look in my rucksack, Angela, you’ll find a couple of big screwdrivers as well.’

  ‘I like a man who comes prepared,’ Masters said, as Angela handed him the bag.

  ‘We were expecting some kind of tomb,’ she said, ‘not a wall made of solid stone. I don’t know if a crowbar’s going to be enough to shift that.’

  ‘They must have mounted it on rollers,’ Bronson said. ‘Nothing else makes sense. Once it’s started moving, it should be fairly easy to shift.’

  ‘Yeah, the trick is gonna be gettin’ it started.’ Masters gestured to Cross. ‘Here, John. You’re stronger than I am. I’ll watch the priest. You wanna try gettin’ this sucker open?’

  As Cross picked up the crowbar and started tapping the stone wall, working out where to insert the end of the tool, Bronson looked at the expressions on the faces of the people in the cave. Donovan was quivering with what he guessed was a mixture of fury and anticipation, while Killian glowered with impotent anger against the far wall. Between them, Masters and Angela stood together, studying the stone wall with cool appraisal.

  ‘There’s a kind of notch just here,’ Cross said. ‘Reckon I can just about get the end of the wrecking bar into it.’

  There was a metallic scraping sound as he rammed the end of the crowbar into the narrow gap he’d found in the rock, then a deep grunt as he heaved on the end of the tool.

  ‘Nothing,’ Cross said. ‘No movement at all. You sure there’s no lock or anything, nothing jamming it?’

  ‘There were some stones wedged under the right-hand side,’ Bronson offered, ‘but I thought I’d shifted all of them.’

  Masters turned to look at Bronson. ‘Keep that pistol, but I think you might as well turn Donovan loose. He won’t cause you any trouble.’

  Bronson released his grip gratefully, flexed his fingers and stood up. He tucked the pistol into the waistband of his trousers, then moved forward to stand beside Angela.

  ‘Just thinking about it from a mechanical point of view,’ he said, ‘it would make sense if they had done something else to lock the door in place. The last thing they would want would be for an earthquake to shake it open.’

  He leaned forward and spent a few minutes running the tips of his fingers over the old stone. On the right-hand side of the door he felt something, and stepped back to see it from a distance.

  ‘Yes, that could be it,’ he murmured, pointing at a roughly oval-shaped mark on the stone about six feet off the ground. ‘That could be the end of a stone wedge, driven right through the door and then trimmed off flat on this side. It seems to be made of the same stone as the door itself, but the grain, or whatever the correct term is for the marks inside rock, goes the wrong way.’

  He picked up the hammer and chisel, strode across to the stone wall, placed the end of the chisel against the oval mark and smashed the hammer on to it. Stone chips flew. He repeated the operation, and again bits of stone broke off and flew all around him. He stopped briefly and peered at the wall.

  ‘I’ve broken the end off,’ he said, ‘but now I can see that a hole was cut through the stone and this wedge driven into it.’

  Bronson repositioned the chisel in the centre of the mark and hit it again. This time, very few chips of stone flew out, but the whole lump of stone that had been driven into the hole moved slightly inwards.

  ‘That’s more like it!’ he said triumphantly. He drew back the hammer and hit it again.

  The chisel travelled almost all the way through the hole as the stone wedge vanished from sight. There was a hollow thud as it landed on the floor of the cave somewhere on the inside of the stone door.

  ‘Brilliant, Chris,’ Angela said, as he stepped back.

  ‘That looks like another one,’ Masters said, pointing at a spot about three feet off the ground and directly below the hole where Bronson had shifted the first stone wedge.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Cross said, taking the hammer and chisel.

  Bronson moved back to where Angela stood watching, when a sudden thought occurred to him.

  ‘Just a moment.’ He picked up his rucksack and pulled out a torch then walked across to the hole he’d revealed and shone the light inside the hidden chamber.

  ‘What can you see?’ Angela demanded.

  ‘Nothing very much,’ Bronson replied, ‘except maybe the sto
ne of the wall opposite. But that wasn’t what I was looking for.’

  ‘So what were you checking out?’ Masters asked.

  ‘The hole itself,’ Bronson replied, turning away from the wall. ‘It’s tapered. It’s wider on the inside than the outside of the door.’

  ‘So?’ Masters asked.

  But Angela had already grasped what he meant. ‘So you mean the stone wedges—’

  ‘Exactly,’ Bronson said. ‘The holes taper from the inside to the outside, so they must have been put in place from within the tomb itself. Unless there’s another way out of there, whoever drove those wedges into place is still in there, on the other side of that wall.’

  66

  ‘Oh, God,’ Angela muttered, and even Masters looked a little pale.

  ‘Yeah, well, he’ll just be another stiff, won’t he?’ Cross muttered, and with a massive single blow of the hammer drove the second wedge completely through the door.

  Immediately the whole stone wall shifted very slightly, a movement they heard rather than saw.

  ‘Looks like we could have lift-off,’ Cross said. He dropped the hammer and chisel and picked up the crowbar again. He slid one end into the hole he’d found before, and pulled as hard as he could on the other end. This time, the massive stone door moved perhaps half an inch to the right.

  Cross changed the position of the crowbar slightly and pulled again. Within fifteen minutes, the three of them – Cross, Masters and Bronson – had moved the door as far as it would go to the right, so that the top edge was resting against another block of stone.

  Masters glanced at Bronson and Angela. ‘Your privilege, if you want it,’ he said. ‘You’ve earned it.’

  ‘What about me?’ Donovan called out angrily from behind them.

  ‘You can wait your goddamned turn,’ Masters snapped.

  ‘Let me go first,’ Bronson said. He picked up his torch and stepped forward. But before he entered, he bent down and looked down at the channel in the stone floor that had been exposed by sliding the door over to one side.