It took him a few moments to spot Borjin in the debris. Only his head and part of his torso were exposed from a mound of stones. Pitt walked near as Borjin's eyes fluttered open, dull and listless. A trickle of blood streamed from his mouth, and Pitt noticed the Mongol's neck seemed unnaturally distorted. His eyes gradually focused on Pitt and flashed with a glint of anger.
"Why ... why won't you die?" Borjin stammered.
But he never heard the answer. A muted choke grumbled from his throat and then his eyes glazed over.
His body crushed by his own monument to conquest, Tolgoi Borjin died quickly in the shadow of Genghis Khan.
Pitt stared at the broken body without pity, then slowly lowered the Colt still gripped in his hand. He reached down and unzipped the large pocket on the front of his jacket, then used the moonlight to peek inside. The heavy seismic array operator's manual with metal clipboard was right where Gunn had placed it. Only it was now perforated by a crossbow arrow that penetrated each and every page. The arrow had even dinged the metal clipboard, which had prevented it from ripping into Pitt's heart and killing him instantly.
Pitt walked over to Borjin and looked down at the lifeless body.
"Sometimes, I'm just lucky," he said aloud, answering Borjin's final query.
The collapse of the residence's northern wing had funneled more water into the courtyard. A heavy rush of water now flowed along the perimeter of the sanctuary and threatened to pour into the disintegrating structure. It was just a matter of time before the floodwaters would weaken the ground beneath the sanctuary and wash it down the mountainside. The tomb of Genghis Khan would be destroyed in the carnage, his bones lost for good this time.
Pitt turned to make his escape before any more walls toppled, but hesitated as he glanced through the open rear wall at the corral in back. He turned and gazed again at the tomb of Genghis, which had miraculously survived the collapsing sanctuary intact. For an instant, Pitt wondered if he would be the last man to see the tomb. Then it hit him. It was a crazy idea, he thought, and he couldn't help but grin through a cold shiver.
"All right, old boy," he muttered at the tomb. "Let's see if you've got one more conquest left in you."
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The feeling was just returning to Pitt's feet with a painful tingle as he climbed out the back of the sanctuary and into the corral. He staggered to the side and quickly yanked several timbers off the wooden fence to clear an opening. Tossing boxes and crates aside, he burrowed a wide path through the junk and debris until he reached his objective, the dust-laden old car.
It was a 1921 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost open tourer, with a custom body by the English coachmaker Park Ward. Decades of dirt and grime covered a unique eggplant purple body paint. Long since faded, the color once complemented the car's burnished aluminum hood and wheel covers. More familiar on the streets of London, Pitt wondered how such a grand auto had ended up in Mongolia. He then recalled that T. E. Lawrence had acquired a Rolls-Royce armored car built on a 1914 Silver Ghost chassis, which he used in his desert campaign against the Turks in Arabia. Pitt wondered if the car's reputation for durability in the desert had reached the Gobi years before. Or perhaps a car built before the Mongolian revolution was the only vehicle of opulence that the Communist Party would allow Borjin's family to own.
None of that mattered to Pitt. What did matter was that the Rolls had a silver-handled crank protruding from its snout. Equipped as a backup for the early electric starters, the crank gave Pitt a small hope that he could start the car, even with a long-dead battery. Provided, that is, that the engine block wasn't frozen solid.
Pitt opened the right-side driver's door and placed the gearshift in neutral, then stepped to the front of the car. Leaning down and grabbing with both hands, he pulled up on the crank, driving with his legs. The crank held firm, but Pitt grunted out a second effort and the handle inched upward. He rested for a second, then gave another heave. The crankshaft broke free with the extra push, driving the six pistons up and down in their cylinders.
With his own small collection of antique cars at home in Washington, Pitt was well versed with the intricacies of starting up a vintage vehicle. Climbing back into the driver's seat, he adjusted the throttle, spark, and governor controls, which were set by movable levers mounted on the steering wheel. He then opened the hood and primed a tiny pump on a brass canister, which he hoped contained gasoline. He then returned to the crank and proceeded to manually turn the engine over.
Each pull of the crank led to a series of rasps as the old motor tried to suck in air and fuel. Zapped by exposure to the cold, Pitt's strength waned on every pull. Yet he willed himself to keep trying in the face of each dying wheeze from the engine. Then on the tenth pull, the motor coughed. Several more pulls produced a sputter. With his feet frozen, yet beads of sweat on his brow, Pitt heaved again on the crank.
The crankshaft spun, the air and fuel ignited, and with a put-put-put sound, the engine labored to life.
Pitt rested briefly as the old car warmed up, spouting a thick cloud of black smoke out its rusty exhaust pipe. Rummaging around the corral, he found a small barrel filled with chains, which he tossed in the backseat. Taking his place in the driver's seat, he slipped the car into gear, released the clutch with his numb left foot, and drove the Rolls shakily out of the corral.
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It's been well over an hour," Gunn remarked, looking glumly at his watch.
He and Giordino stood on the rise, watching the scene of devastation below. The laboratory fire burned in a blazing tempest, consuming the entire building and adjacent garage. Black smoke and flames leaped high into the sky, casting a yellow glow over the entire compound. Across the landscaped grounds, a large chunk of the residence was missing, replaced by rushing water where the northern wing of the house previously stood.
"Let's take a quick drive down," Giordino said. "Maybe he's injured and can't walk out."
Gunn nodded. It had been almost an hour since they heard the automatic fire from inside. Pitt should have made it out long ago.
They started to walk toward the car when a low rumble shook from below. No earthquake this time, they knew, but rather the erosive effects of the flooding waters. They stopped and stared, dreading what they knew was next. From their vantage, it resembled a collapsing house of cards. The northern end of the structure began toppling one wall at a time. The structural failure seemed to build momentum, moving across the residence in a rippling wave of destruction. The central section of the residence simply folded in on itself with a grinding crash, then disappeared under the water. The large white spire over the entrance melted away, disintegrating into a thousand bits under the floodwaters. Gunn and Giordino could only see chunks of debris poking through the water as the bulk of the residence slid off its ledge and washed down the mountain. In just a few seconds, it was gone. Only a small section of the southern wing survived, standing next to a wide flow of water where the rest of the house had once stood.
With the destruction of the house, all hopes for finding Pitt alive had vanished. Gunn and Giordino knew that no one in and around the residence could have survived. Neither man said a word nor made a move.
Together, they stood and solemnly stared at the altered river as it glided over the foundation of the house and roared down the cliffside beyond. The rushing of the wild waters competed with the crackling from the lab fire to disrupt the otherwise quiet late-night hour. Then Gunn's ears detected another sound.
"What's that?" he asked. He pointed a finger toward a small chunk of the southern wing, which stood on dry ground and had survived the collapse of the main residence. The whirring pitch of a high-revving engine rumbled from the hillside behind. The motor sporadically coughed and stuttered but otherwise sounded like it was operating at its redline. The roar grew louder until it was matched with a pair of lights that slowly crept over the hill.
Through the smoke and flames of the burning laboratory, the object appeared like a giant primordi
al bug crawling out of a hole in the ground. Two round but dimly illuminated lamps probed the night like a pair of large yellow eyes. A shiny metallic body followed behind, clouded by dirt and dust kicked up by its clawing rear appendages. The living beast even breathed vapor, a white cloud of smoke rising from its head.
The creature, lurching with great effort, finally clamored over the hill, seeming to fight every step of the way. A sharp gust of wind suddenly blew the smoke and dust away, and, under the light of the burning fire, Gunn and Giordino could see that it was no overgrown insect but the antique Rolls-Royce from the corral.
"Only one guy I know would be driving an old crate like that at a time like this," Giordino shouted with a whoop.
Jumping into the Range Rover, Gunn charged the car down the hill and stormed back into the compound. Shining their headlights onto the Rolls, they saw that the old car was still struggling to lurch forward, and had a line of chain stretched taut off the rear bumper. The old beast was trying desperately to pull something up the side of the hill.
Inside the Rolls, Pitt threw a thankful wave toward the approaching Range Rover, then turned back to coaxing the old auto forward. His numb right foot held the accelerator to the floor while the gearshift lever was still locked in first gear. The rear wheels spun and clawed at the ground, the worn, airless tires gamely trying to find a grip. But the weight behind was too great, and the big car seemed to be losing the battle. Under the hood, the overworked engine began to protest with loud knocks. What little coolant that existed in the block and radiator had nearly all boiled away, and Pitt knew it wouldn't be long before the engine seized.
With a surprised look, he suddenly saw Giordino appear and grab hold of the doorpost with a wink and a smile. Bandaged leg and all, he threw his weight into pushing the car forward. Gunn, Wofford, and even Theresa appeared, taking up spots around the vehicle and pushing with all their might.
The extra manpower was just enough to propel the car in its last gasp. With a sudden lunge, the big car lurched forward. Thirty feet behind, a large block of granite teetered over the edge of the hill, then skidded forward easily under the car's newfound momentum. Chugging forward to a safe, dry spot, Pitt killed the engine under a whoosh of white steam.
As the vapor cleared away, Pitt saw that he was surrounded by a dozen scientists and technicians, along with a guard or two, who had given up fighting the lab fire to investigate his appearance. He cautiously climbed out of the Rolls and walked to the rear of the car. Giordino and the others had already gathered around and confirmed that the chained item had survived Pitt's tow intact.
Fearing for their safety, Pitt gripped his .45 as the crowd surged close to them. But he need not have worried.
At seeing that the sarcophagus of Genghis Khan had been rescued from the flood, the guards and scientists broke into a cheer and applauded him.
Part Four
A Voyage to Paradise
-64-
The U.S. Navy cruiser Anzio turned north from her station off the United Arab Emirates, a hundred miles inside the Strait of Hormuz, and headed on a dissecting path across the Persian Gulf.
Though far from being the largest ship in the gulf, the Ticonderoga-class Aegis cruiser was easily the most deadly. With its phased array radar system housed in the ship's boxy superstructure, the ship could detect and target enemy craft on land, sea, and air within a two-hundred-mile radius. At the push of a button, one of one hundred twenty-one Tomahawk or Standard missiles could be dispatched from its vertical launch system housed belowdecks, obliterating the offending target within seconds.
The high-tech arsenal was managed by the Combat Information Center, a dark control room in the depths of the ship. Under its dim blue overhead lights, Captain Robert Buns studied one of several large projection screens mounted on the wall. The surrounding region of the gulf was displayed in multiple colors, overlaid with various geometric shapes and symbols that danced across the screen in slow motion. Each symbol represented a ship or aircraft tracked by the radar system. One shape, a highlighted red ball, was inching toward the Strait of Hormuz from left to right across the ship's path.
"Twelve miles to intercept, sir," reported a nearby sailor, one of several electronics experts seated at computer stations around the bay.
"Steady as she goes," Buns replied. A studious but witty line officer highly admired by the crew, Buns had enjoyed his current tour of duty in the gulf. Aside from missing his wife and two children, he found gulf duty to be an invigorating challenge, enlivened with occasional danger.
"We'll cross Iranian waters in three miles," warned a youthful tactical operations officer standing at his side. "They are clearly tracking the Iranian coast for safety."
"After Kharg Island, I don't think the Iranians are up for harboring these guys," Buns replied. "Pat, I think I'll watch the show from the bridge. You have the CIC."
"Aye, Captain. We'll be dialed in just in case."
Buns made his way out of the darkened command center and up to the bridge, which was bathed in bright sunlight reflecting off the gulf's waters. A dark-haired officer stood near the helm with a pair of binoculars to his eyes, observing a black vessel on the water ahead.
"Is that our target, commander?" the captain asked.
Commander Brad Knight, the Anzio's chief operations intelligence officer, nodded in reply.
"Yes, sir, that's the drill ship. Air recon has confirmed she's the Bayan Star, out of Kuala Lumpur. The same vessel that our satellites pegged at Ras Tanura and Kharg Island prior to the earthquakes."
Knight gazed down at the cruiser's forward deck, spotting a contingent of Marines in assault gear, prepping a pair of Zodiac boats.
"Boarding party looks to be in order, sir."
"Well, let's see if the Bayan Star will play ball."
Buns stepped to a seated radio communications officer and issued a command. The cruiser began hailing the drill ship, first in English, then in Arabic, ordering the vessel to stop and heave to for boarding and inspection. The drill ship ignored the calls in both languages.
"No change in speed," a radar operator reported.
"Can't believe those Hornets didn't get their attention," Knight said. A pair of F/A-I8s from the aircraft carrier Ronald Reagan had tracked the drill ship for the prior hour, buzzing it constantly.
"Guess we'll have to do things the old-fashioned way and fire a shot across their bow," Buns said. The cruiser had a pair of five-inch guns capable of such a shot, and much more.
The cruiser closed to within two miles of the drill ship when the radar operator barked, "She's slowing, sir."
Buns leaned over and watched the radar screen, seeing the drill ship's blip cease movement on its southwesterly course.
"Bring us alongside. Have the boarding party stand by."
The sleek gray cruiser angled to the northeast, pulling even with the drill ship with a half mile of water separating the two vessels. The Marines were quickly loaded into the Zodiacs and lowered over the side.
As they began motoring toward the drill ship, Knight suddenly alerted Buns. "Captain, I see two boats in the water off the enemy's stern. I think the crew is abandoning ship."
Buns picked up a pair of binoculars and gazed at the drill ship. Two lifeboats filled with crewmen in black fatigues were making their way from the ship. Buns swung his binoculars toward the dilapidated vessel just in time to spot several puffs of white smoke rise from the lower levels.
"They mean to scuttle her," he said. "Call back the boarding party."
As the Anzio's crew watched with surprise, the drill ship quickly began settling low in the water. In just a few minutes, the salty waters of the Persian Gulf began washing over the ship's bow. As the bow sunk lower, the stern rose higher into the air, until the flooded ship knifed to the bottom with a sudden whoosh.
Knight shook his head as he watched the trail of bubbles and foam dissipate over the ship's grave.
"Pentagon's not going to like that. They were
eager for us to capture her intact. Had some big-time intel curiosity about the technology aboard."
"We still got her crew," Buns said, nodding toward the two lifeboats, which were headed willingly toward the cruiser. "And the Pentagon can still have the ship if they want her. She's just three hundred feet deep in Iranian waters," he added with a grin.
-65-
A crisp breeze rippled across the lower slopes of Burkhan Khaldun, snapping taut the multitude of blue-and-red Mongolian state flags fluttering high overhead. The largest of the flags, a mammoth banner fifty feet wide, wavered above a large granite mausoleum whose carved facade had been hastily completed by local craftsmen just days before. The empty mausoleum was surrounded by a large crowd of dignitaries, VIPs, and news reporters, who talked quietly among themselves while waiting for the future occupant to arrive.
A rush of excited whispers swirled through the crowd, then all fell silent as the sound of marching boots drew near. A company of Mongolian Army soldiers appeared through the pines, marching up a slight incline toward the waiting assembly. They were the first in a long procession of military honor guards escorting the remains of Genghis Khan to his final resting place.
Genghis had been engaged in a battle siege near Yinchuan in northwest China when he'd fallen off his horse and died a few days later from his injuries. A secret funeral procession had brought his body back to Mongolia and the slopes of Burkhan Khaldun for burial in 1227, but history doesn't record the details of the cortege. Desiring to keep their enemies unaware of his death, as well as keep his burial spot secret for all eternity, his warrior comrades likely returned his casket in a nondescript, perhaps even covert, procession before burying him in an unmarked location. Nearly eight centuries later, there would be nothing covert about his reburial.
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