With the mother tongue, the prize under the Gulf of Tunis was invaluable. How ironic that two powerful weapons had been concealed here.
Building the aquarium wall had been maddeningly difficult with no less than twenty architects telling him it was an impossible feat, and five eventually designing the thing. They were all dead now. But in the end, he had it: one of the world’s most amazing offices with an unparalleled view of one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
He had stood at that railing, lusting to control his secret find for long years, while his people scoured the globe for antiquities, secrets and power. The Hydra had blown up in his face, with the involvement of the Chess Team, first at his Peru facility, then again in the Atlantic and finally in New Hampshire. But those defeats were minor compared to the advancements in genetics he had made, and the serum he had designed to give himself regeneration. It occurred to him that he still had the formula. A smile slipped onto his face. He could make more, and ensure he could always regenerate from injury. Better yet, he would build a loyal army, unable to be killed. Visions of unkillable soldiers marching on Washington D.C., supported by living stone golems filled his imagination. The possibilities were endless.
And distracting.
The others paused where the ruins met the shoreline. Ridley walked past them, and strode into the lapping waves of the Gulf of Tunis. He knew that the shallows ran twenty feet out before the shelf dropped 80 feet. He had SCUBA dived here on several occasions, exploring the area well.
The others hung back, still unsure of why it was necessary to make haste for the shoreline.
The sun would soon be peeking over the eastern horizon across the sea. The sky grew lighter. Ridley checked his watch. 4:00 a.m. on the dot.
Showtime.
Richard Ridley raised his hands into the air, facing the sea. He began shouting commands into the air. As usual, when he used the mother tongue, his mind heard the commands in his head in English, but what came from his mouth sounded guttural, strange and distorted.
A Bible verse flitted through his mind and brought a smile to his face.
The Lord killeth, and maketh alive: he bringeth down to the grave…and bringeth up.
Up, Ridley thought. I bringeth thee up!
FORTY-THREE
Sub Level 2, Manifold Omega Facility, 2013
Queen leapt nimbly over the rubble and scrambled up Bishop’s body onto the second level, through the shattered kitchen. She checked that the hallway was clear, then helped Bishop work his massive frame — made bulkier by the impact armor — up into the hallway of Sub Level 2.
They both sat panting on the floor. Queen kept her weapon trained on the length of the hall, while Bishop focused on the nearby turn toward the north stairwell.
It had been a long hard slog, first blowing a hole through the wall into the storage room, and then again into the lounge. Then they had found the collapsed kitchen in what looked like a cave. In each room except the cave, they had needed to exchange gunfire with the mercenaries in the hall. The men seemed to be pacing them. Queen didn’t know if the mercenaries knew about the collapsed kitchen, but if they didn’t, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out that their prey had fled upward.
She keyed her throat microphone. “Deep Blue? You read?”
Still no answer.
Although Knight had gotten the internal communications working, she couldn’t reach further afield. She had tried Domenick Boucher at CIA too, but hadn’t been able to get a long distance signal.
Probably interference from the structure. We’re pretty far underground.
They’d need to get topside before she could call in reinforcements. Queen had tried Rook too, but she couldn’t raise him. She tried not to think about it. If King was gone and Rook bought it too, she didn’t know what she’d do. She still had a hard time wrapping her head around King being gone — just like that.
It seemed impossible.
King had always been there. His skills in the field and casual attitude had been the glue that held Chess Team together. Each member of the team would have willingly died a dozen times over for King. He never asked for their respect, but he had earned it just the same. He never backed down from any threat, and his maverick, hare-brained approaches to getting things done had continually impressed.
She just couldn’t believe he was gone.
“If we’re gonna go…” Bishop started.
“I know,” Queen said. “Let’s go.”
They both stood, and not a moment too soon. A door just down the corridor opened as a man stuck his head out, followed by the barrel of an MP-5.
Queen took aim, but stopped her trigger finger just in time. “Mr. Sigler?”
Peter came rushing out of the room with Lynn close on his heels. The two aging spies were out of breath from their quick sprint down the carpeted corridor.
“Have you seen our daughter?” Lynn asked as she turned to keep an eye on the hallway behind her.
“She’s with Knight. Let’s go. This way.” Queen started for the south stairwell.
Lynn held up a hand. “CCTV in the office. The stairwell is full of men below and above. Can’t go that way.”
Queen turned to Bishop and nodded. The big man turned toward the nearer end of the corridor, and the right angle turn that led to the north stairwell. When he got to the corner, he placed the barrel of his weapon at the edge of the wall, then darted his head around it. The others followed him without a sound when he pushed forward.
He paused at the door.
“Knight and Pawn are on the floor above us,” Queen said. “Rook’s out of touch.” Not having to mention King’s status felt wrong. She filled the gap with the obvious. “Whoever is below us is hostile.”
Bishop opened the door and threw his last grenade down the stairwell, then stepped back, allowing the door to close. A few seconds later, an explosive roar shook the stairwell. Smoke rose up past the small window in the door. “That was my last.”
“I’m out too,” Queen looked to King’s parents. She couldn’t imagine what they must be going through. “Lynn: you’re my Pawn. Peter, you’re with Bishop. Stay by our sides, and we’ll try to get you out of here alive.”
Lynn’s only response was to hand Queen two extra magazines for her MP-5.
Peter nodded.
Bishop led the way, spraying the upper stair landing with a hail of bullets as he lunged into the stairwell. His legs pistoned up and down as if he were a track star, instead a of a mountainous war machine. Queen nudged Peter to follow Bishop, then Lynn was next, and she took up the rear, keeping her eye on the lower flight of stairs. They encountered no resistance.
At the top of the stairs, Bishop lurched out of the door, throwing himself to the smooth floor of the corridor. He fought the instinct to just spray bullets into the hallway, which was what he might have done if he had one of his chain-fed machine guns. But spraying and praying was just a quick way to waste ammo with a submachine gun. Instead, he fired controlled bursts at the small group of men fifty feet away. He picked his targets one by one, dropping them with accurate gunfire. Knight would be proud.
Queen took the lead with Lynn at her side. They moved into the Microbiology Lab, and made for the janitorial closet. By the time she had the door open, Peter was with them. Bishop ducked inside the door to the lab, as gunfire ripped through the corridor again. One of the mercenaries at the end of the hall must have survived. Either that or more of them had arrived.
They’re like cockroaches, Queen thought. If we can just leapfrog our way out like this…
But the long tunnel beyond the janitor’s closet could be a killing field, the perfect place for an ambush — and this mission had already cost them too much.
“Knight, Rook, if you can hear me, Bishop and I are bugging out with Peter and Lynn, I suggest you do the same.”
There was no response.
Fuck.
“Lynn, you’re a good shot, right?”
“Prett
y good.”
“Cover our six. Bish, up front with me. Anyone in our way is hostile. Shoot until you’re out of bullets.”
Lynn gave a nod. The same kind she’d seen King give a hundred times before rushing out to face an enemy.
Queen flung the door open and crouched. Bishop took a stance next to her. No gunfire came. The tunnel was lit. There was a small pile of bodies just beyond the door. Someone had already exited through this route. She didn’t know who, but she was glad for the lucky break. “Go.”
The group sprinted down the tight tunnel, with Queen and Bishop’s armored bodies acting as a shield for King’s unprotected parents. Although the lights were on now, Queen couldn’t see to the end of the tunnel. Still, what she could see looked promising — an empty run until the curvature of the tunnel’s incline obscured her view of the stairs.
They ran until they reached the stairs. More bodies lay at the foot of the stairwell, and for the first time, Queen got the idea that the forces attacking her were not directly under Ridley’s command. They made their way up the stairs to the amphitheater door, only to find it unlocked and ajar. The outer gates were not locked either.
They emerged into the Tunisian pre-dawn twilight, and the smell of the nearby salt water filled her nostrils. Bishop scanned the ruins and the trees that ringed the amphitheater with a small set of night-vision goggles.
“That way,” he said.
“You see tangos?” Queen asked.
“No.”
“How could you know they went that way, then?” Peter whispered.
“Some tree branches are disturbed, bent and broken.. Also, about 2000 feet through the trees that way is the sea — and a helipad. Ridley likes helicopters.”
Queen started for the tree line. “Somebody paid attention during the briefing.”
“He’s not getting away again,” Bishop said. “This time we’ll take care of him permanently.”
Queen let that comment wash over her. Bishop had more reason to loathe Ridley than the others. He’d been turned into a monster and had nearly killed Knight as a result. While the rest of the team fought Ridley and licked their wounds afterwards, Bishop had struggled with the physical and psychological fallout of being turned into something inhuman. She clapped Bishop’s shoulder. “This time, we’ll end him.”
As they crossed the road and slipped into the trees, Queen contacted Deep Blue. Now outside the confines of the Omega facility, she had a clear link to New Hampshire.
“Queen, what the hell is going on over there?” Deep Blue’s voice was modulated only to protect his identity — the emotional stabilization program that removed all trace of his state of mind wasn’t activated. He sounded extremely worried.
“Everything’s gone tits up. I’m with Bishop and two new Pawns. Pawn Zero is with Knight. Rook is MIA…” she paused. “Blue…King and Alexander are down.” Her voice trembled slightly. She squashed the rising emotions back down and said, with more authority, “Repeat. King is down. Ridley is loose with two of the Three Amigos.”
She paused.
“I…want…you…to…bring…the…fire. You read me Deep Blue? This man does not escape us this time. The Grim Reaper is waiting for him with open arms.”
There was a pause on the line as she entered the necropolis. She saw one of the Ridley duplicates draped over a stone marker. She walked up to the body and confirmed it was dead, reverted to an inert clay form. “One of the Amigos is down. That makes Ridley plus one. Copy?”
“I copy, Queen. Stay your course.”
Queen couldn’t tell if Deep Blue had activated the emotional stabilizer or if he was bottling things for later, but he sounded cool and in control.
“I’m showing four heat blooms near the water,” Deep Blue added. “Straight ahead.”
Ridley, Queen thought, and started forward.
“Help is on the way, Queen.” Deep Blue said.
“The fucking fire, Blue. Make it happen. Out.”
She moved into the trees on the far side of the necropolis. Bishop ran beside her, Peter and Lynn following close behind.
One more try, she thought. One more. Please be there.
She keyed her microphone.
“Rook?”
“Queen!” Rook’s voice filled her ear, loud, desperate and fouled by static. “For the love… God… don’t… outside.”
“Rook! You’re coming through patchy. Say again. Say again!”
“Don’t let Ridley… tongue… For fuck’s sake! This… crazy…massive!”
She burst through the trees into a clearing — the baths.
The shoreline was just a hundred and fifty feet away And he was just beyond, wading in the shallows.
In the lightening sky, she could see Richard Ridley in a dark jumpsuit, his arms raised to the heavens. Three other men stood nearby — one of them was the last remaining duplicate, whose white linen suit glowed in the pre-dawn twilight.
The air filled with a rumbling sound like thunder, and she realized it was caused by Ridley, shouting out at the sea.
“Don’t let him use the fucking mother tongue outside! No matter what!” Rook finally came through clearly, but his warning was too late. The sea was writhing.
FORTY-FOUR
Sub Level 2, Manifold Omega Facility, 2013
“It’s already too friggin’ late, isn’t it?” Rook rubbed a hand over his blond hair and then raised it back into the air as he’d been commanded to do.
Queen didn’t respond.
Three armed men stood in the doorway of the office. They wore black, but the odd assortment of accoutrements each man wore, besides the basic black BDUs, revealed them as mercenaries. One man wore a Braves cap. Another had three blue bandanas tied over one thigh. The third man was tall and slim. He wore a green jungle hat. Each was armed with an AK-47.
Rook glanced down into the gallery and saw five more black-clad mercenaries rush into the space and cover his position from below.
“Don’t even breathe fast, gob-shite,” the tall mercenary said. “Or we’ll turn you into Swiss bloody cheese.” The accent was Lancashire.
Probably ex-SAS, Rook thought. Wonderful.
Rook let his eyes wander to the illuminated glass wall holding the ocean at bay. As he looked out at the enormous submerged statue, a school of small black fish darted over its face, then abruptly changed direction and fled off to the right, past the edge of Rook’s view.
“Just so you know, the sarcastic humor, witty nicknames, and creative threats are kind of my thing,” Rook said.
“Too bloody bad,” the SAS man said, stepping closer, weapon raised. Rook made an easy target.
But Rook didn’t take his eyes off the glass wall. “Course, colorful language ain’t gonna save you from Jolly Green over here.”
“What do you—” the SAS man started, but then stopped when a grinding noise filled the gallery.
Even through the several-inch thick wall of Plexiglas, every man inside the space heard the loud crunch and rumble of grinding stone. The remaining fish lazily swimming near the statue turned and fled. The massive head outside the window slowly rotated, until the face was turned directly toward the viewing gallery wall. Seaweed was wrapped around the long tines of the statue’s crown, the elongated spikes reminding Rook of a demonic statue of liberty. But this statue was male. The face was bearded.
As the SAS man lost his voice, the gigantic head stopped turning.
Then it opened its eyes, and the screaming began.
Hardened men of war started shouting in the gallery below. They ran for the door, gripped by fear. No amount of training could prepare a soldier for such a sight, and no amount of money could provide that much courage. The enormous statue peered through the aquarium wall, raw unbridled anger filling its solid eyes. Immense eyebrows furrowed and frown lines appeared at the mouth, which was larger than the upper office in which Rook and his three captors stood.
Rook turned to look back at the men by the office door. They had e
ach let the barrels of their respective weapons droop, as they stared at the huge moving head with slack jaws.
“I’m guessing you boys weren’t in on Ridley’s plan. We’re all gonna be chopped sushi.”
Bubbles exploded from the ocean floor surrounding the statue. Silt and sand billowed in massive clouds as the statue pulled away from its long-time resting place and began to sit up. Its huge arm twisted toward the wall. Each fingernail was larger than a man. The face turned to a vicious scowl, and the tips of its stone fingers touched the Plexiglas.
“Sweet mother of God…” the man with the leg bandanas said, as his bladder let go and a puddle of acrid beer-smelling urine stained his pants.
Rook brought his raised hands together, fingers resting on his wristwatch. The remaining mercenaries still weren’t looking at him as he slipped one battle-armored leg through the metal railing of the balcony and held on tight. He took one last look at the rising stone monstrosity beyond the viewing window and then leaned toward the metal control panel on the wall. Moving slowly, he bumped the light switch with his shoulder. The office went dark, but the giant statue awakening from the sea bed remained illuminated like a Neptune-themed Christmas tree.
“What the—” the SAS man started, but never finished as Rook depressed the radio trigger on his wristwatch.
The block of C4, still hidden under the metal door on the floor of the gallery, exploded. The door spun through the gallery, but posed no real threat. That came next. The immensely thick aquarium wall shattered right up the center with a hideous shriek. The crack spider-webbed faster than a sneeze, and the wall gave way. The Gulf of Tunis — just a small portion of the mighty Mediterranean Sea — gushed through the now nearly 300-foot long open window into the subterranean base. The pressure-driven salt water instantly filled the gallery, blasting down the Sub Level 3 corridor. A tidal wave of white frothing fury swept over the balcony rail, and a second after Rook grasped the rail with both hands, it hit.
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