Gorgon: An Alex Hunter Novel

by Greig Beck

  ‘Walked away – that doesn’t make me feel real good,’ Sam said. ‘And if that isn’t enough of a problem, now Borshov’s tracking it.’

  ‘And now Borshov’s tracking it,’ Hammerson repeated slowly. He walked over to the world map that covered one of the walls in his office. There were thousands of dots indicating locations of US bases – red for those known to the general public, black for covert. He gazed at them and shook his head slowly. ‘If it is a weapon, and if it’s still operational, you can count on the Russians trying to use it if they get hold of it.’ He turned, his face unreadable. ‘There’s a lot of tension between our countries at the moment. Not a great time for one side to be heavily tipping the scales.’

  ‘And tipping them away from us,’ Sam said.

  Hammerson nodded. ‘Still a domestic problem at the moment, though. Unless we get invited, we can only goddamn watch and wait.’

  ‘And if Russia gets hold of this thing and makes it a global problem?’ Alex asked.

  Hammerson’s face turned to granite. ‘Then it’ll be too damn late.’

  ‘Can we see the coordinates of attacks so far?’ Alex said.

  Matt sat forward, his hands hovering over the keyboard. ‘How do I …?’

  ‘Move it.’ Hammerson pushed him sideways and started typing.

  A map appeared onscreen, showing a series of red dots starting at the Basilica Cistern in Istanbul and ending at Uşak. The number of victims at each location increased progressively, as did the distance between events.

  ‘It’s taking more victims and getting stronger, moving faster,’ Alex said.

  ‘Could it be a natural phenomenon, or some sort of toxic cloud?’ Sam asked. ‘It’s certainly obscuring satellite imagery.’

  Alex shook his head. ‘Unlikely. Seems to be following a specific path – like it knows where it’s going.’

  ‘Looks like it’s heading for the coast,’ Sam said, moving a few steps toward the screen. ‘Why can’t the Turkish military see this?’

  ‘They probably can,’ Hammerson said, ‘but I think they’re doing exactly what I would do – get everyone out of the way, and watch and wait. I’d be pretty damned cautious about sending anyone else in until I knew what we were dealing with. Might just be throwing them into the meat grinder.’

  ‘I think Sam was right … about the coast, I mean.’

  The three soldiers turned to look at Matt.

  He indicated the keyboard. ‘May I?’

  Hammerson slid his chair back. ‘The bridge is yours, Professor.’

  Matt joined the dots of the affected areas with a line. ‘We might need to look at it with fresh eyes … or better yet, very old eyes. ‘About the time of the Minoans, there were several significant trading routes running through this region, and small villages sprang up beside them – a bit like settlements appearing beside rivers. This line could be one of the old Phrygian routes.’ He concentrated on typing, and brought up a much simpler map that showed just a few colored lines, and ancient cities such as Ur, Babylon, Susa, and Khalab, now long turned to dust beneath the desert sands. Matt adjusted its size and then laid it over the top of the modern map.

  Sam snorted. ‘Holy shit.’

  There was no doubt. One of the trading routes ran from Istanbul, through Izmit, Guyve, Polatli, Uşak, and continued on to the coast.

  Matt pointed to the line. ‘The Middle East was the cradle of civilization. In some of these towns, human habitation has been traced back as far as 26,000 years.’

  Hammerson frowned. ‘It seems to be veering off the route in places, then coming back.’

  ‘For the people,’ Alex said. ‘It’s veering off to areas of large population.’

  Hammerson’s frown deepened. ‘It’s goddamn seeking them out. It wants to kill.’

  ‘Based on this projection, it’ll pass close to Salihli and Sardes on its way to Izmir,’ Matt said. ‘Sardes was the capital city of Lydia about 2500 years ago, until it was captured by the Persian Empire. After that, it –’

  ‘Izmir.’ Hammerson cut Matt off, and turned to Alex and Sam. Both men nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Matt said. ‘The route ends at Izmir. Makes sense, as it was one of the oldest settlements in the Mediterranean basin. There are several graves there dating from about 3000 BC – that’s contemporary with the first city of Troy.’

  Hammerson folded his arms, his face like stone. ‘Based on speed to date, it should be there within three days.’

  ‘Yeah, looks like it.’ Matt said, then looked from Hammerson to Alex and Sam, catching their expressions. ‘Huh? What is it?’

  ‘We got a base there,’ Hammerson said.

  ‘In Turkey? You mean a NATO base?’

  ‘Sort of. The official story is Turkey took over control of the NATO bases in 2004. But the unofficial story is they want to be part of the UN Security Council, and so we’re allowed to keep a few bits and pieces there. So do the Brits and Germans – just one big happy family.’ Hammerson smiled flatly.

  Matt leaned back in his chair. ‘What are a few bits and pieces?’

  ‘Forty-two airplanes, twelve heavy choppers, Roland and Hawk mobile missile systems, and about 300 personnel. That’s just at Izmir.’

  Matt nodded. ‘Now I see why it’s important.’

  Hammerson came around the desk and grabbed his bomber jacket. ‘Damn right it’s important. And if that’s where this thing is going, then we’re involved, whether the Turks like it or not. Time to light a fuse.’ He pulled on the jacket, its material straining at his shoulders. ‘Sam, get me some eyes on what’s going on down there. If VELA’s still blind from up top, shoot down some pipes.’

  CHAPTER 17

  Miles above the Earth a satellite bay door opened, displaying dozens of arm-thick matte-black spikes. Eight pipes vented gas and propelled themselves silently away from the large spindly craft. Their destination was set: the Middle East, Turkey, targeting the ancient trading route between Uşak and Izmir.

  There were no ignition plumes, no heat signatures or metallic flashes, to give any sort of object profile to the numerous public and military scanning devices that watched the heavens every minute of the day. More gas vented from the pipes’ side jets, each second-long burst causing minuscule adjustments to their direction in the upper atmosphere, but translating to hundreds of miles difference in where they would land.

  The pipes briefly flamed as they entered the mesosphere. Once through, their outer casings broke away, leaving a dull brown spike to travel the final few dozen miles to the Earth’s surface. The spikes readjusted their supersonic descent one last time, selecting landing spots that avoided dwellings, water, rocky outcrops, and any other micro-obstructions. Clear vision was critical.

  All the spikes struck the ground along the old trade route, many miles apart, and buried themselves halfway into the soil. Unless someone was standing right in front of them, they simply looked like metal fence spikes that had been abandoned to the elements. Immediately, their small cameras flickered to life.

  Hammerson now had his eyes on the ground.

  *

  In his office, a headset over his iron-gray crew cut, Hammerson paced as he waited to be put through to five-star General Marcus Chilton. Hammerson had known ‘Chili’ Chilton for many years; the two men weren’t close enough to be called friends, but each respected the other’s competence and ability to get the job done when others couldn’t. Many times, Chilton had used Hammerson and his team to intervene in various places in the world, usually brutally, when diplomacy had failed. In turn, Hammerson knew that if something was important enough, he could bypass the chain of command and go to the general direct … like now.

  Hammerson stopped pacing as the call went through.

  ‘Jack, been hearing your name a lot lately.’ Chilton’s voice was basement deep.

  Hammerson was immediately wary. As the senior officer running a team of ultra-elite Special Forces soldiers, maintaining a zero profile was near mandatory.


  ‘Only good things, I hope, Marcus. How’ve you been?’

  ‘Good. Just doing my best to avoid war, as always. Getting harder every day.’

  ‘Volatile times, Marcus. But we both know there’ll always be war, that’s why we’re in business,’ Hammerson responded matter-of-factly.

  Chilton grunted. ‘Volatile times indeed. And the more powerful we get, the more we should fear war. It’s my burden to fear it on behalf of over 300 million Americans.’

  ‘Glad that’s your job and not mine. We should fear war, but I’m just a soldier who does his best to make sure the other guy fears it more.’

  Hammerson knew he would never be a general; essentially, a military political animal. His problem was he’d never be able to turn the other cheek.

  Chilton gave a deep soft laugh. ‘And that’s why hardheads get to do the hard jobs. I heard you boys kicked some ass in Italy recently.’

  Hammerson’s jaw clenched; he didn’t like the fact that the mission had come onto Chilton’s radar. ‘Only enough to establish our credentials. We did our job and everyone went home in one piece – no mess.’

  ‘Not everyone. Gianfranco Monti was taken. The Italians are not happy. They knew he was a crook, but he was their crook,’ Chilton said.

  ‘The fucking Brits.’ Hammerson pressed his knuckles down on the desk. He heard the general shift in his chair.

  ‘And that brings us to why we’re talking now … Istanbul.’

  Hammerson waited.

  ‘Still no ideas what’s behind these strange events?’ Chilton asked.

  ‘None. Chemical, biological, elemental force – we still have no idea, and neither do the Turks. And now they’re getting into the thousands dead.’ Hammerson remembered the images of the petrified bodies and grimaced.

  ‘I’m aware of the casualties, that’s for the Turkish to deal with.’ The general’s voice became lower. ‘There’s talk it could it be a new weapon.’

  Hammerson began pacing again. ‘Unknown, Marcus. Could be. Whatever it is, it’s on a collision course with Izmir.’

  ‘Yes, Izmir, that’s different. Can’t let that chaos happen, can we, Jack?’

  ‘No, sir, we cannot. We need to be over there.’ Hammerson stopped pacing, and stared out the window.

  ‘And you should be there,’ Chilton said. ‘But Turkey isn’t Italy, and it’s a damn volatile place to kick down doors uninvited. We don’t have many people in our corner in the Middle East these days. Turkey’s one of them, and we’d prefer to keep it that way. We need a gold pass, Jack. In case things get … messy.’

  Hammerson exhaled. ‘I’m working on it. But events are moving faster than my persuasion skills right now.’

  ‘Try again. Don’t give your contact a reason to ask for your help, give him a reason to demand it. If it’s a weapon, secure it. Anything else, destroy it.’

  ‘That’s the plan, sir. One more thing: we now know the Russians are there.’

  Hammerson allowed himself a small smile. The silence told him he knew something the general didn’t.

  ‘Already?’ Chilton exhaled. ‘Goddamit, that complicates things. I’ll make a few calls, see if we can push that invitation to the top of the queue. Have you got a team together?’

  ‘Yes, sir, the best. We’re just waiting on the green light.’

  ‘Good, then I have something extra for you. Something you’re not going to like. Took a call from an old military friend of mine from over the water – Sir David Barrington.’

  Hammerson groaned. ‘Chief of Defense, British Armed Forces.’

  ‘That’s him. Seems they’ve been watching events in Turkey as well. Not surprising given they’ve got nearly eighty men and women in Izmir. They want to go in, but don’t have the contacts we do … or the ones I’ve said we do. Jack, I’m holding them back for now. There’s absolutely no value in having two separate teams falling over each other.’

  Hammerson now knew how the general had managed to be so informed. ‘I’ll keep them in the loop.’

  ‘You want to be leading this. Either we send a couple of operatives along with their team, or a few of theirs tag along with ours. Make the right call, Jack.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Marcus. With all due respect –’

  Chilton cut him off. ‘They’ve deciphered the inscriptions. They know you’re using Professor Kearns. He’s good, but they think he’s made mistakes. They’ve got Margaret Watchorn – she can read Minoan like you and I read the Sunday papers. It’s in our interest to join forces. It’s going to happen with or without you.’

  Hammerson exhaled, knowing he’d be sidelined if he pushed any harder. ‘Okay, what have they got?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough; they’re already on their way. They’re sending us three specialists – two of them SAS. Play nice, Jack.’

  Hammerson tilted his head back, shutting his eyes. ‘Always.’

  ‘Keep me informed, and be ready.’

  Chilton ended the call. Hammerson pulled the headset off his head. Could be worse, he thought. At least the SAS can handle themselves.

  *

  ‘His name is Halim.’ Doctor Layla Ayhan flipped a page in the boy’s medical chart and handed it to Kemel Baykal. She grimaced. ‘He has significant encephelon cell degeneration.’

  Baykal read quickly and handed back the chart. ‘Brain damage.’ His voice was flat.

  ‘Yes. He’s moving in and out of a catatonic state, and it’s getting worse. The cell destruction is still ongoing. Whatever happened to him is still happening.’

  ‘Did he speak at all?’ Baykal looked down at the tiny figure on the bed. Halim’s eyes were open, but his face was blank. He held one curled hand up to the side of his head. ‘He is the only person to have experienced this thing and survived.’

  ‘He won’t survive,’ Layla said quickly. ‘But yes, he did speak.’ She read through her notes and shook her head. ‘He said he saw the face of a djinn, an evil spirit. He said it was as tall as a house, and it floated by him.’

  ‘Floated?’ Baykal exhaled. ‘Why didn’t he succumb immediately, like the rest? Can you tell me anything more?’

  ‘What is happening to him, and what happened to all those people, is a mystery,’ Layla said. ‘Maybe the boy had some sort of temporary immunity. He said it didn’t eat him because he didn’t look at it.’

  Baykal groaned. ‘Anything else?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Not much to work with.’ Baykal looked at his watch and went to turn away. Her soft voice stopped him.

  ‘Kemel . . . the samples, the flakes you discovered. My colleagues at the university are mystified by their origin. Ankara’s top herpetologist says it is probably a reptile scale, but the keratin pattern isn’t recognizable in anything living today, or in any fossil record. It doesn’t make evolutionary sense, he said.’ She shook her head and stepped in close to the large Special Forces commander. ‘Kemel, I want you to hand this case over to someone else. Do not pursue this horror. Please, for me.’

  He reached up to touch her face with the back of his hand. ‘Layla, I must pursue it, because of you. If everyone ran from horror, then horror would be everywhere.’ He looked back at the small figure, at the curled hand beside his face. He frowned. ‘In his hand . . . he’s holding something.’

  Layla’s face fell as she too gazed at the boy. ‘Yes; the petrified finger of his mother.’

  ‘Over 2000 dead – women, children, old, young. This thing has a massive appetite.’ Baykal’s face hardened. ‘Perhaps it is time we met it with something a little more formidable.’

  ‘Then I’m definitely not letting you go.’ She smiled, taking his hand. ‘Not alone anyway.’ Baykal shook his head, but she gripped his hand harder. ‘I am an excellent field doctor, and the only one who knows what to expect from this thing. I can, and will, help.’

  He smiled at last, pulling her closer. ‘Modern women – so forceful. Where will it all end?’

  *

 
Hammerson’s phone buzzed again. ‘What is it, Margie?’ he asked.

  ‘Turkey on the secure line.’

  ‘Jesus. I’ll take it.’

  The line opened out to a scrubbed and scrambled international band, and he heard the heavy breathing of a man under pressure.

  ‘Kemel?’

  ‘Jack, it ends here – we are going in.’

  Baykal’s voice was heavy with resignation. Hammerson didn’t like it.

  ‘One word – don’t. There’s too much we don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know? What do you know?’ Baykal’s voice rose a fraction.

  ‘We know this thing is actively seeking out populations to decimate. We know you can’t look at it, physically or electronically. We know you’re in an evolving and dangerous situation. You’re not ready.’

  Hammerson stared out the window, all his focus on the call. He gripped the phone, and waited. There was only dead air.

  ‘Commander, please, wait one day,’ he said. ‘We’re working as fast as we can. We’ve got a team –’

  ‘There has been enough waiting,’ Baykal cut in, ‘and it has resulted in too many dead. The time now is for action.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Hammerson barked.

  ‘Not this time, Jack. If I am right, it is over. If I am not …’ He gave a small mirthless laugh, ‘I’m sure you will be watching. Learn from my mistakes, my friend.’

  The line went dead. Hammerson ground his teeth, gripping the phone hard.

  ‘Stupid, stupid man.’ He slammed the phone down, swore, then snorted softly. ‘Exactly what I would have done.’

  *

  Uli Borshov sat hunched over a small table, listening intently to the Russian translation of the intercepted Turkish Special Forces’ communications. Behind him, a roll of thick plastic was pushed against a wall; a boot and a bloody foot, minus four toes, were just visible at one end, evidence of the completion of their successful interview with the police informant.

  While Borshov listened, he looked at a small computer screen displaying the pictures his men had taken of the deep chamber below the Basilica Cistern. They had entered last night, killing several guards, and searched the site, photographed the writing, the bronze burial urn, and the stone fragments littering the floor, all within four minutes. Then they’d exited like smoke. The strange writing had been sent back to Russia, where it had been identified as Minoan. A linguistics expert had been found via one of their agents in Germany, and Professor Gerhard Reinhalt had translated the script at great expense. He had been told he would be held on a retainer for his services, whether he liked it or not, and warned that if he spoke to anyone about his work, he would be beheaded. Reinhart had been contracted for life … however long that turned out to be. They had tracked down the dead artifact thief, Janus Caresche, but before they could move to intercept the man’s paymaster, the Americans had intervened. They had moved quickly; Borshov knew he needed to move quicker – now more than ever.